The lump of impurities would lie inside the bottle, on the curve of its wall. It would stay there unless the bottle was moved. Could one somehow scoop it out?
But what tool, what utensil could be used? Nothing would go inside and hook out the lump. Besides, whatever implement you used, it might alter the taste of the wine. No, it had to be done without harm to the wine. And the problem was, that the bottles lay on their side and the sediment collected on the lower curve of the bottle. Careful turning ensured that it collected in one small mass. But once there … so what?
Nicole and her experimental group of bottles became like antagonists. She would go to them in the dark of the night and stare. ‘You are like old men with the cough,’ she muttered to them. ‘You have phlegm in your chest but you won’t let it go! Foolish, stubborn things …! You know you would be better in every way if you spat out that lump!’
Weeks went by while she kept returning to the matter. Philippe, busy polishing his latest play, scarcely noticed her pre-occupation. When she tried to discuss this technical problem with him he shook his head. ‘Oh, darling, you know that Labaud understands all that. Leave it to him.’ But even Jean-Baptiste could think of no way to part good wine from bad without decanting. ‘It’s always been one of our chief problems, madame. It’s like the weather ‒ you have to put up with it.’
‘I don’t see why,’ she replied with a stubborn lift of her chin. ‘The Good Lord gave us brains to solve problems, not submit to them.’
‘Well, then, madame … I wish you luck.’
The idea came to her when she was taking Alys for a walk. It was a chilly day in September and Alys had a cold. Nurse had been unwilling to let her go out at all, but the toddler was fretful after being kept indoors for days. She was well wrapped up. In her little woollen coat, leather leggings, woollen bonnet and a shawl tied crossways over her chest, she was well protected from the raw weather. She trotted at Mama’s side, calling to the little terrier Toto.
At the pond, which in the great days had been a handsome lake, they stopped to feed the mallards. Nicole had brought bread for the purpose. Alys obediently threw crumbs to them, but as often happened, she munched a piece herself when she thought Mama wasn’t looking.
‘Alys! Anyone would think we starved you! Spit that out this minute!’
Alys shook her head and chewed vigorously. She had encountered a chunk of crust that, offered at home, would have been instantly refused. But stolen from the food intended for the ducks, it had a special flavour.
‘Alys!’ scolded her mother, advancing upon her.
Intending to wail in protest, Alys opened her mouth wide. The crust went down the wrong way, she began to cough, and within seconds was red in the face and gasping for breath.
‘Darling! Oh, silly child! Stop howling! Lean forward. Lean forward, Alys!’
Through her gasps and tears, Alys heard the command and obeyed. Nicole thumped her hard on the back, the chunk of bread flew out into the water, to be eagerly snatched by unfastidious ducks.
‘There, sweetheart, there, it’s all right now,’ Nicole comforted, wiping the little girl’s nose and drying her tears.
Alys clung to her mother’s serge skirt.’ Mama, Mama! The nasty bread stickted in my throat!’
‘Yes, dear, I know, but it came out, didn’t it! Whoosh!’ Nicole cried, enacting the curve of the bread as it fell into the pond. ‘Whoosh! And the duck ate it.’
‘Yes, naughty duck, eat my bread.’ Recovering, Alys was inclined to kick the duck who had got the better of the crust that had nearly choked her.
Nicole prevented her, then led her on to look for nuts in the woodland. It was as they were heading for home, and she was re-enacting the scene in her head to tell it to Philippe later, that she was struck by her inspiration.
‘That’s it!’ she cried. That’s it, Alys!’
‘What, Mama? What?’
‘The remuage, Alys! That’s how to do it!’
‘What, Mama? What we goin’ to do?’
‘Never mind, my darling. But you’re a very, very clever girl! You’ve solved a problem not even Jean-Baptiste could handle.’
‘A clever girl,’ Alys agreed with satisfaction, nodding. ‘Cleverer than Delphine.’
‘Of course, bigger and cleverer,’ said Nicole, hugging her.
But it was easier to see the solution than to bring it about in the remuage.
Like Alys’s chunk of bread, the sediment in the champagne bottle had clogged together. If it could be got to a point in the neck of the bottle, it could be ejected ‒ perhaps not by anything so violent as a thump on the back, but surely the force of the champagne itself must act, as Alys’s cough had done?
Night after night she went into the cellars to experiment. She dared not do it during the daytime when the workmen were about, for she knew they would stare, and mutter, and be disapproving. But alone in the night hours she tried placing the bottle in various positions of incline to get the lees down to the neck. And in the end she saw how to do it.
She had a table made, pierced with holes. Into the holes she inserted the necks of the bottles. She examined them each day. ‘Ha,’ muttered the cellarmen, ‘what’s the point? The sediment will only fall back when the wine has to be decanted.’
But no. She learned how, by a quick flick of the wrist, to make the lees slide down to the cork and stay there. After that, a swift removal of the cork, then a little jet of the champagne from its own effervescence rocketed the sediment out into a container. One sudden little explosion like a gunshot and then the cork was put back. Almost no wine was lost. The lees were gone. The champagne was clear.
It took months of trial and error. Her wrists ached, her fingers became hardened from the continual working of the corks and the metal clips that held them in place.
But when at last she showed the technique to Jean-Baptiste, she knew it worked. She knew that men with stronger wrists and much experience would make a better job of uncorking and recorking than she ever could. What she had done was to establish the principle ‒ that the sediment could be got down to the neck of the bottle for easy removal, in spite of everything that tradition had taught.
‘Well then, madame …’ Jean-Baptiste said when he had watched her take ten bottles from her special table and successfully eject the sediment. ‘That’s quite an invention. You ought to patent it.’
She never did so. But the table with holes, later modified, became known throughout the Champagne region as the de Tramont Table.
Chapter 7
Nicole couldn’t help being pleased by the respect from the wine-workers that followed her ‘invention’. But a greater thrill was about to befall the de Tramont family.
Philippe’s latest play was to receive a performance.
‘Oh, sweetheart, I am so pleased for you! At last, a theatrical manager with some taste! When is it to be?’
Philippe hugged his wife. ‘It won’t be until March, I expect. Verilat has a play waiting to be staged, and the one that’s playing at the moment is doing well, so mine takes third place, you see!’
‘But that’s absurd! Your play is so good ‒ it deserves preference ‒’
‘Don’t you think you’re perhaps a little bit biased, Nicci?’ he teased.
‘Not a bit! I’ve read a great many of the modern plays and I’ve actually seen ‒ how many? ‒ three, no, four ‒’
‘Well, dear, that hardly makes you an expert. All the same, I do hope Verilat will get ahead with casting the parts and having the costumes made.’
The play was set in Ancient Syria and was based on the story of Berenice, for whom Antiochus divorced his existing wife. Philippe had chosen to see Berenice as victim of a hundred plots, the whole thing ending in terrible tragedy when the king’s first wife regained power. Nicole, on hearing Philippe read it out to her, had been brought to the verge of tears.
The trip to Paris for the first performance began to be a great project. Nicole, who hadn’t seen her sister Paulet
te for almost six months, invited her to come to the capital for the event.
‘Thank you a thousand times for your suggestion, dear sister,’ wrote Paulette, ‘but things aren’t going too well with Auguste’s business just at present, so I couldn’t afford it.’
Nonsense, was Nicole’s response. Of course Paulette must come as her guest. She must first come to Calmady to visit Mama, who wasn’t too well these days, and then she could leave little Edmond with Nanny and Nicole’s two little girls while the sisters went to Paris for a shopping spree. ‘I need some new clothes, Paulette, and you know I’m never sure of my own taste. So I should really value your presence as an advisor, and besides I must have a special gown for the first night …’
So it was settled. Paulette arrived at the manor house, looking somewhat strained and thin. ‘I think that husband of hers was a bad bargain,’ Philippe confided to Nicole as they prepared for bed that night. ‘Do you think he is good to her?’
Nicole paused in the brushing of her thick chestnut hair. ‘I think August is as good as he knows how to be,’ she sighed. ‘He’s not a man of much delicacy, I fear … And Paulette has always been timid and shy. Also, darling, I don’t think his business is going too well.’
‘Good lord,’ exclaimed Philippe. ‘If a man can’t make money in the year the Emperor gets married, when can he?’
‘Oh, my love,’ Nicole said in laughing protest. ‘We’re lucky ‒ we’re in the wine business ‒ of course champagne is in demand to celebrate at banquets and great occasions. But as for buildings … I don’t know if anyone’s so quick to say, I’ll found a school in honour of the Empress as they are to say, I’ll give a banquet.’
Philippe had lost interest in the topic. He came to his wife’s side and ran his hand over the long curling tresses that shone in the candlelight. ‘Never mind about Paulette and her marriage,’ he said, ‘let’s do a little celebrating of our own.’
They all set off in good time to allow a week in Paris before the opening night. This was to give Philippe the opportunity to supervise the last few rehearsals, and so that Nicole and Paulette could have new dresses made. They went in the stage coach, The Paris Flyer, so that the journey took less than two days with an overnight stop at Meaux.
There wasn’t room enough in Madame de Tramont’s apartment near the Grand Palais, so Paulette was accommodated at a respectable hotel nearby ‒ greatly impressed by what she saw as luxury. This also served the purpose of keeping her separated from Madame, who could never forget that this young woman had been her dressmaker.
It was a time of high enjoyment. Paulette was encouraged to shop for herself and Nicole without regard to expense. ‘Are you sure, Nicci? This silk is awfully expensive …’
But Nicole knew how substantial the profits had been from this year’s sales of champagne. ‘Be brave, Paulette! If you like it, buy it!’
Philippe too was happy. He came home at odd hours of the day and night reporting that the actors were doing full justice to his ringing speeches. The actress cast as Berenice was extremely beautiful, the actor playing Antiochus had a real spade shaped beard, the scheming Laodice had a voice like velvet. ‘It will go extremely well,’ he said. ‘Certainly no fault can be found with the cast ‒ if only my lines are as good as the people who speak them …’
‘My son,’ Clothilde rebuked, ‘you are a de Tramont ‒ if you cannot express yourself with dignity and eloquence, who can?’
Philippe exchanged a secret smile with Nicole. His mother would never understand. But he was pleased that she was proud of his success as a playwright.
The two new gowns were delivered on the morning of the great day. Nicole had instructed her sister to come to the apartment so that they could dress together and help each other with the accessories ‒ fans, new gloves, flowers for the corsage and the hair. Paulette’s gown was of shot silk with a neckline decorously filled in with gauze trimmed with ruched lace. Nicole’s, which displayed her pretty shoulders, was of peach pink with flounces edged in brown-dyed Chantilly, to be covered by a brown and pink merino opera cloak.
When the two girls came out of the bedroom to join Philippe and his mother, even Madame de Tramont exclaimed in admiration. ‘My dear children, how very nice you look!’
‘Thank you, madame,’ Nicole said with a little curtsey. ‘We want to do justice to our playwright.’
Philippe had ordered orchids for the two girls. He smiled to see them pinned to the bosom of the dress and in Nicole’s case, nestling in her hair. He felt buoyant, expectant. It seemed to him that since meeting Nicole, life had been very good to him.
He had ordered an exceptionally fine meal at one of the best restaurants, with appropriate wines ending, of course, in champagne to accompany the dessert. But the only person who enjoyed the food was Paulette. She, usually so nervy, was relatively unconcerned: her role had been fulfilled, Nicole’s new clothes were being made and the gown for tonight was a triumph.
‘I propose a toast,’ said Madame de Tramont as the champagne was carefully poured by the attentive and knowledgeable waiter. ‘To Philippe de Tramont, whose varied talents have caused the triumph of our champagne in the world’s markets, and an expected triumph tonight.’
‘Oh, Mama, absit omen!’ her son cried. ‘It’s tempting Providence to speak of a triumph tonight!’
Privately Paulette, who was no fool, thought it absurd to speak of a triumph for Philippe in the world of champagne. Although she didn’t live in Calmady, she knew enough of what went on to understand that her clever young sister was to be credited with Champagne Tramont’s success. Without the dowry of her cellarage, and without the attention she paid to the work, Tramont would still be one of the respected lesser brands.
But she raised her glass with a smile, and saw that Nicole did too, without reservation. She sighed inwardly. It must be wonderful to be so in love with one’s husband, she thought. Auguste … Auguste was a good man, a suitable partner for a girl like herself. And yet … all she could give him was respect and affection. And all he could give her was a decent home and a handsome little boy. Love seemed something she must do without ‒ except the love between herself and her child.
They went to the Theatre Claudel in a four-wheeled cab. The service in the restaurant had been so leisurely and full of little extra flourishes that they were really rather late. It was the custom for the author to arrive, on the contrary, a little early, to receive the good wishes of friends among the audience. It seemed Philippe would have to forego this. The curtain might be about to go up, only awaiting his arrival for the signal to be given.
They were shown to the velvet-and-gold box. It seemed to Nicole that the usher who guided them and provided them with programmes seemed a little worried, but she thought nothing of it. The theatre was reasonably full: Parisians enjoyed first nights, where there was plenty of opportunity to display taste and discrimination by applauding good lines and booing poor performances. But an unknown author couldn’t expect the same attention as the established dramatists, so there were some empty seats.
They settled on their gilt chairs. Philippe took out his watch and consulted it. Curtain time had gone by ten minutes ago. He leaned over to wave to a group of friends in the stalls, draped his mother’s fur stole around her shoulders to shield her from the draught, fidgeted, coughed.
‘I hope nothing has gone wrong.’
‘Oh, my dear, what could go wrong?’ Nicole soothed.
‘A million things. The scenery ‒ you know, ancient Syrian temples are heavy things ‒ and then there was the problem of Berenice’s wig ‒’
‘My son, delays are frequent on theatre first nights,’ his mother intervened. ‘You know it is a time of nerves for the actors too.’
‘Yes, yes … But Verilat said this morning they were all very confident …’
The delay lengthened. The happy buzz of conversation in the stalls and gallery began to give way to a tone of annoyance. Then a slow handclap began.
‘Com
e on, Verilat! I know it’s from the Syrian era but you should have got it here by now!’ ‘Truget drunk again? Put him on, drunk or sober!’
‘Verilat, Verilat, if you’ve lost the play give us op-er-a!’ chanted one wag, pleased with his wit and eager to hear the sound of his own voice.
It was taken up good-naturedly for a while, but then irritation got the upper hand. ‘Come on, Verilat! We’ll come up and get you if you don’t start soon!’
Philippe had been on his feet for some time, edgily moving from the front of the box to its door, wondering whether to go backstage but certain that the moment he left, the curtain would go up. He was turning for the door again.
‘Philippe!’ Nicole cried, catching his jacket.
He turned back. The heavy red velvet curtains had parted. Andre Verilat stood in the gap.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began, with an agonised glance towards Philippe’s box.
‘Ahh!’ groaned the audience. They expected to hear one of the actors had been taken ill and, if it proved to be the great beauty playing Berenice, her substitute would have a hard time from them.
‘I regret to inform you ‒’
‘Get on with it! Who’s died?’
‘To inform you … that there will be no performance. The play is temporarily withdrawn.’
‘Withdrawn?’ gasped Philippe.
‘Withdrawn?’ echoed the womenfolk, in dismay and perplexity.
‘I regret ‒’
‘Tickets! We paid for our tickets!’
‘Withdrawn? Is it so bad!’
‘Down with Verilat!’
‘Those patrons who have paid for tickets,’ the manager went on, raising his sonorous voice to make himself heard, ‘will have the money refunded at the box office. I apologise for the disappointment, which is not of my making.’
‘Withdrawn?’ said Philippe, in a lost voice. ‘How can it be withdrawn? And without my consent?’
The Wine Widow Page 10