The Wine Widow

by Tessa Barclay

  ‘Go and find out, Philippe,’ urged Nicole.

  ‘No, my boy, stay with us,’ Madame de Tramont said, looking with anxiety at the turbulence breaking out below, and glimpsing a rain of small coins and sweetmeats from the gods above.

  ‘Madame, he must find out what has happened,’ said Nicole. ‘He must go. We are safe enough here. This will die down in a moment. Go, Philippe.’

  He stared at her as if he hardly knew her, then nodded. ‘Stay here until I come for you. I’ll send an usher to look after you meanwhile.’

  ‘Yes, of course ‒ we’ll be all right.’

  As soon as he had gone, Nicole turned her attention to soothing Madame de Tramont’s anxieties and comforting Paulette, who had dissolved in tears. ‘Please ‒ you must both pull yourselves together! This is a terrible blow to Philippe, we must be a help to him!’

  ‘Wh-what can have h-happened?’ sobbed Paulette. ‘It’s such a sh-shame!’

  ‘These Paris mobs,’ Clothilde said, wrapping her stole closer about her neck to hide the rather handsome pearls she was wearing. ‘They love an excuse for violence.’

  ‘We’ll be all right. Look, they’re all streaming out to reclaim their money.’

  The truth was, many of the audience had had complimentary tickets and were now on their way to see if they could make a profit by claiming they’d bought them.

  An elderly man in the uniform of the theatre’s footmen came to stand guard at their door. More, he had brought a bottle of brandy and glasses. A few sips steadied Paulette. Madame de Tramont shook her head and decided to display moral superiority. A long time went by.

  ‘These things happen,’ said the footman. ‘If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I think you’re making too much of it. Some hitch ‒ you know what it is in the theatre. It’ll be all right tomorrow night.’

  ‘But so suddenly ‒ without prior warning?’ Nicole said.

  He shrugged burly shoulders and rumbled in his throat about the government, something that she couldn’t understand.

  After half an hour Philippe returned, white and shaken. At first he seemed incapable of speech.

  ‘Tell us, tell us, Philippe,’ his mother begged.

  Nicole, more practical, poured brandy and held it out.

  He gulped some down. ‘The play has been forbidden by the censor.’

  Whatever they had expected, it wasn’t this.

  ‘By the censor?’ Madame de Tramont echoed.

  ‘Yes, exactly. By the censor.’

  ‘Who is the censor?’ Paulette whispered in her sister’s ear.

  Well might she ask. It was the proud claim of the Emperor-Consul that censorship no longer existed in France, and it was true to this extent ‒ Louis-Napoleon had no direct powers to prevent anything being published or performed.

  But an ingenious system of ‘warnings’ had been instituted. If a newspaper or journal ‘offended’, its owner received a warning. If he received three such warnings, publication of the periodical was discontinued on the grounds that it imperilled public safety.

  Warnings were given by all sorts of officials, often out of a surplus of zeal but mostly after a direct hint from a cabinet minister.

  In this year of 1853, by means of warnings and closures, Louis-Napoleon had reduced the number of political daily newspapers from nearly fifty to fourteen. Concerts at which political speeches or songs were given were few, unless it was known the songs and speeches would praise the government. The witty sketches that used to give zest to music-hall and bal-musette were watered down.

  But none of that explained how Philippe’s play came to be banned.

  ‘How can a play about a Syrian princess of two thousand years ago be in any way political?’ Nicole asked in wonder.

  ‘They say much of the dialogue reflects badly on the marriage of Louis-Napoleon to Eugenie.’

  ‘What?’

  They all sat and stared at him. It was impossible to see what relevance the mishaps of the Syrian Berenice could have to do with the marriage of a red-haired Spanish countess.

  ‘But that’s ludicrous!’ Clothilde cried.

  ‘I agree. But the censor does not.’

  ‘But surely Verilat argued ‒’

  ‘Verilat says he spent two hours arguing with the local prefect, who told him in no uncertain terms that the orders came almost direct from the palace. It seems the Emperor-Consul is very vexed with my play.’

  ‘But how did he ever come to read it?’

  ‘I’m not sure that he has read it. He’s been told of some of the things it contains, apparently. He seems to have taken exception to a theme that’s repeated several times ‒ that monarchs have responsibilities which they must remember even when in love.’

  ‘But how does that pose any threat to Louis-Napoleon?’

  ‘As far as I could gather, he thinks it’s a reflection on the speed with which he chose and married Eugenie.’

  It was true that France had been rather taken by surprise over the marriage. The Emperor had made offers for two other princesses but had been unsuccessful. The Countess de Montijo was a lady of Parisian society, well-known and well-thought-of and beautiful ‒ but she was a great deal less important than a princess from a foreign royal house. What made it all the more extraordinary was that the engagement was announced on the 23rd January and the wedding took place on the 30th ‒ scarcely the royal event that the Parisians had been looking forward to.

  Philippe had no views at all about the Emperor’s marriage. He took almost no interest in Louis-Napoleon but if he had been pressed, he’d have said he had to respect the man who had been chosen overwhelmingly by the people of France in a plebiscite. Philippe was a secret democrat, a fact which he took care to hide from his royalist mother. But democrat or royalist, his views weren’t strong enough to lead him to make political statements in his plays.

  ‘You must see the prefect yourself,’ Clothilde declared. ‘You must explain to him ‒’

  ‘Mama, what is the use of that? The play has been banned, there can be no performance tonight, and the only way it can be given permission is if I re-write extensive passages.’

  ‘Couldn’t you do that, then?’ inquired Paulette in all innocence.

  ‘Re-write …?’ Philippe looked at her. ‘It would take me another year.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Besides, if it were ever presented now, it would be the play that was banned by Louis-Napoleon. People would come to see it to detect the places where it had to be re-written.’

  ‘Darling, don’t think any more about that now,’ Nicole begged. ‘You’re too close to it at the moment. Let’s go home.’

  Grimly Philippe allowed himself to be ushered out. A cab was waiting. They dropped Paulette at her hotel before going to Clothilde’s apartment. There she began a lecture of instruction on whom to contact to have the decision reversed.

  ‘I will see Monsieur Contineau tomorrow. I will tell him a great blunder has been made ‒’

  ‘Oh, fine. Tell him the Emperor has made a mistake.’

  ‘But it is so! Of course, one could expect nothing else from a member of that upstart family. The Napoleons never had any breeding or discrimination ‒’

  ‘Madame, please don’t let’s talk about it any more tonight,’ Nicole urged, seeing the thunder clouds building up on her husband’s brow.

  ‘But we must plan a campaign. The toadies of this fool of an emperor can’t be allowed to insult a de Tramont ‒’

  ‘Mama, will you for God’s sake be quiet!’ shouted Philippe.

  She stared at him. He had never in his life spoken to her in that manner. ‘Philippe!’

  ‘Madame, please ‒ let’s all just try to be ‒’

  ‘Nicole, I don’t need instructions from you on how to handle my own son! I understand of course that this has been a great disappointment but we can make our protest tomorrow, and even if we cannot have the ban lifted, we can at least have an apology ‒’

  ‘Damn it, I don’t want a
n apology! I want a performance! Don’t you understand that I don’t care about the politics and the prestige ‒ I wanted to see my play come to life …’

  His voice died away. He went suddenly to the bedroom, returning with his cloak, hat and cane. ‘Philippe, where are you going?’ Nicole cried.

  ‘Home. Home to Calmady to find some peace and quiet!’

  ‘At this hour of night? It’s past midnight ‒’

  ‘All the better. I shall be alone.’

  ‘But how can you travel ‒’

  ‘I’m going on the railway.’

  ‘Philippe ‒ wait ‒ I’m coming with you ‒’

  ‘No, Nicole.’

  ‘Please, darling. Let me come with you. I promise not to say a word. Just let me be with you.’

  He stood in the vestibule, hand on the doorknob. For a moment she was afraid he would refuse. Then he shrugged and walked out.

  Clothilde’s maid, having overheard everything, came hurrying with Nicole’s wrap. She grabbed it and ran out, calling over her shoulder to Clothilde: ‘Please, madame, look after my sister, she doesn’t know Paris at all.’

  The concierge had already hailed a hansom when she got downstairs. Philippe climbed in without looking back for her. It was the concierge who helped her in. The journey to the station was accomplished in silence. There, an eager porter hurried to get tickets for Philippe and to conduct them to a first class compartment.

  Nicole had never travelled by train. If she hadn’t been so concerned for Philippe she might have been frightened by the snorting monster at the end of the platform, by the clouds of steam that made everything look mysterious and slightly menacing, by the muted lights, the shouts of porters placing morning papers on board.

  All through the rail journey Philippe sat in a corner with his eyes directed towards the window. The blind had been down when they boarded but he had had the porter raise it. There was nothing to see outside for the first hour or so: the countryside was impenetrably dark.

  Later, streaks of light appeared in the sky, clouds like long ostrich plumes could be seen against an oyster grey layer ‒ rain clouds and mild weather, coming from the south west. Automatically Nicole noted it. Weather was so important in the champagne business.

  Husband and wife sat side by side, unspeaking. Somewhere about four o’clock Nicole dared to put a hand over Philippe’s. His fist clenched, but he didn’t interlace his fingers with hers. He refused comfort or sympathy. She understood.

  The train pulled in to Epernay. It was a town Nicole didn’t know well. In other circumstances she would have been glad to stay an hour or two, to see the great houses of the wine merchants, great villas which lined a great street and were famous.

  But Philippe walked straight out to the courtyard, to the post-chaise office.

  ‘Where to, sir?’

  ‘Calmady.’

  ‘Post only as far as Chalons along the river route, m’sieu. Will your own carriage be waiting there?’

  ‘No, it will not. I wish to go to Calmady in the chaise.’

  ‘That will be twenty francs extra, m’sieu ‒’

  ‘For God’s sake bring the horses round and let’s get on the way!’

  ‘Yes, m’sieu, certainly, m’sieu.’ The clerk gave Nicole a glance of sympathy, as if to say, ‘Your husband’s in a bad temper, eh?’, but she turned away, taking Philippe’s arm.

  Within ten minutes the horses had been put in the shafts, the postilion had wakened himself up by putting his head under the pump, and they were off.

  On the fast road they changed horses twice. At Chalons, the postilion made a great fuss of choosing good horses ‒ for the difficult country road ahead, he wanted them to know. It was in hopes of a good tip at the end of the journey.

  But Philippe scarcely noticed. He leaned out as they took the turning for Calmady, knocking on the side of the carriage with his cane to attract the man’s attention. ‘Can’t you go any faster?’

  ‘Ha! If you want to go fast you should get the railway to run a line out here for you, sir!’

  It was a bumpy ride. Nicole had to hold fast to the leather and tapestry safety strap on her side of the carriage. But she scarcely noticed the jolting. She was watching Philippe, hoping for some word or smile now that they were nearly home.

  As they rattled through the gateway on to the gravel of the drive, the estate was already alive and at work. Nicole saw heads raised from vine rows as they went past. A soft rain was falling.

  The housekeeper saw them from the window of the drawing-room where she was supervising the re-hanging of the curtains, having had them cleaned according to orders during their absence. She ran down to the hall to throw open the door.

  ‘Pay the postilion,’ said Philippe, and stalked past her.

  ‘Monsieur Philippe!’ gasped she, astounded at his manner. He had never treated her impolitely in his life before.

  He went upstairs to the study. He had thrown himself into a chair by the time Nicole reached it.

  ‘Darling, don’t you think you ought to go to bed after a journey like ‒’

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  She shivered at his tone, and withdrew. The housekeeper was hovering in the passage. ‘Is he ill, madame?’

  ‘No, it’s something else. Go down to the kitchen, have some fresh coffee made and some croissants ‒ bring it up to me.’

  ‘Nothing for m’sieu?’

  ‘It is for him. But bring it to me. Don’t go in with it yourself.’

  ‘Oh … yes, madame.’

  Nicole hurried to their bedroom. There her maid was waiting. She was helped out of her finery and into a wrapper. She washed, and had her hair brushed. At that point the tray was brought to her. She took it and went to the study, trailed by the housekeeper who was all but wringing her hands.

  ‘Please go away. This is difficult enough without an audience.’ Without waiting for her reply, Nicole opened the study door and went in.

  Philippe was sitting in the chair by his writing table, head thrown back, eyes closed. But he wasn’t asleep. He looked round as she came in.

  ‘I don’t want that,’ he said.

  ‘Please, sweetheart, you’ve had nothing since last night ‒’

  ‘I don’t want it.’

  Nicole nodded. Then she said in a very low voice: ‘You won’t mind if I just stay here with you while I eat?’

  ‘Please yourself.’

  She sat by a little table loaded with books on which she balanced the tray. She poured coffee. Its strong, invigorating smell filled the room. She sipped, set down her cup, sipped again.

  ‘Won’t you have at least a cup of coffee, Philippe? It will refresh you.’

  He hesitated. She could see he was dying of thirst and tempted by the aroma of the fresh coffee. She poured some, added sugar just as he liked it, and brought it to him.

  There was a moment when she feared he was going to knock it out of her hand. But he took it, sighed, and drank it off almost as if it was a poison draught to end his life.

  ‘Why don’t you bathe and change into day clothes, Philippe? Then we could … go out for a stroll.’

  Perhaps it was the right moment. He had been encased in the rigid high collar of his evening shirt for over twelve hours. He nodded. She pulled the bell for his valet and went out, saying with great casualness: ‘See you downstairs in about half an hour.’

  It was clear that everyone knew something had happened. Heads turned as they went out, conversations ceased abruptly as they approached.

  Jean-Baptiste Labaud was standing in one of the yards supervising the movement of a cart with casks aboard. He turned to greet them. Philippe walked on without a word but Nicole paused.

  ‘We didn’t expect you back so soon, madame?’

  ‘No. Well, things went badly in Paris. How are things here?’

  ‘Going badly, madame,’ he sighed. ‘We’re losing an awful lot of bottles in the second fermentation.’

  ‘Oh, dear God … How much,
Jean-Baptiste?’

  He shrugged. ‘We shan’t know for a week or two but it looks as if it might amount to more than half.’

  ‘More than half!’

  ‘Well, then, madame … It’s how things go. Last year we did well, lost almost nothing.’

  ‘But we didn’t have the demand for our champagne that we have now. If we lose so much, how will we fill the orders?’

  ‘That’s in the hands of God, madame.’ As far as he was concerned, that was that. The processes of champagne-making were chancy. Man might do all he could to control them but nature, God, Fate ‒ some other force took over at certain times. All one could do was live with it.

  ‘It’s this mild weather, I suppose.’

  ‘The temperature has gone up over eight degrees since you left for Paris ‒ and still rising.’

  ‘And you’ve done all you can to keep the cellars cool?’

  ‘Of course.’ The cellars were always cool ‒ those who worked in them would have said they were downright cold. Yet the wine, sensitive as an opera-star, sensed the variations. And it protested at too much ‘warmth’ by fermenting too strongly, bursting the fragile glass of the bottles and pouring away in a rich, frothing stream into the gulleys in the floors.

  Nicole moved towards the cellar steps, pulling closer to her neck the soft lawn shawl she was wearing in preparation for the chill that would strike as she descended. She had almost forgotten Philippe. He, still preoccupied, was striking aimlessly at a frond of fern with his cane.

  ‘Come and look at the wine, Philippe,’ she called. ‘There’s a problem.’

  He followed without demur. He had nothing else to do. No matter where he went, his thoughts were always back in Paris, picturing the moment when Verilat stepped in front of the curtain to destroy the one ambition of his life.

  In the cellar the wine of last autumn was stacked in shining heaps of bottles to go through the second fermentation. Even as Nicole was coming down the steps she could hear the bang of a bottle exploding, the faint sizz of effervescing wine going free.

  Men in oiled-silk aprons were moving about the stacks of bottles, placing basins of icy water at strategic points. Their clogs were wet with wasted wine. Fragments of dark brown glass lay everywhere.