The Champagne War

by Fiona McIntosh

  ‘I could have prepared, though, Étienne. I could have . . .’ She didn’t finish her thought. Life suddenly overwhelmed her in the moment and she fell silent.

  ‘Madame, let us think on a solution and not fret on what is done.’

  ‘No sugar, no champagne – the equation is simple,’ she said, staring at the remaining sacks, which had travelled all the way from the Caribbean. ‘The last time I checked, the Cuban sugar producers were doubling, tripling their production. It didn’t occur to me it wasn’t arriving.’

  ‘I suspect they have increased production but getting their sugar out and across the seas in wartime is likely the problem.’

  ‘What about Africa? We used to buy from there.’

  He shook his head. ‘Impossible at the present time.’

  ‘When did you discover we were down to our last sacks?’

  ‘Last week, madame.’ She turned to him open-mouthed and he shrugged. ‘I tried to solve it alone . . . My thoughts too leapt to the African supplier, but sugar is not available from anywhere.’

  She knew Étienne would die for her family and changed her tone. ‘None to be had?’

  He shook his head. ‘None to be bought, bribed for . . . even stolen. I think our sacks here are a few sacks more than anyone else possesses.’

  She stared at them, helpless and impotent, feeling her throat closing. In her mind’s eye she could see walls closing in on her . . . and Louis was outside those walls, beckoning.

  ‘Is sugar beet out of the question? I mean, it’s not my preferred —’

  ‘The beet fields are now mud and trenches, madame. They don’t exist any more in France or Belgium.’

  She’d guessed as much and had just needed to hear it confirmed. They remained silent until she could bear it no longer. ‘Right!’ He looked at her, waiting for instruction. ‘We use the last of it for bottling.’

  He didn’t need to say it, but he did anyway. ‘And for the tirage, madame?’

  Sugar was even more important for that process, but they both knew that unless they could add the sugar now to create the bubbles essential to champagne, there would be no product to bottle and sell. Worse, their wine would suffer, and potentially be lost.

  ‘When tirage time comes, I’ll have a plan.’ She turned to him and, despite her rousing words, felt powerless. Without asking for permission, the short, old fellow who had worked in her family business since he was a child reached out and hugged her.

  ‘I know you will, madame,’ he soothed her as she leaned into his embrace, cried briefly for his blind faith, and then rallied herself as quickly as she’d felt overcome by despair. Sophie sniffed back her tears and let go. He had been around her all her life, and was old enough to be the grandfather she often treated him as, enjoying his wisdom.

  It came now. ‘You use the least sugar of the whole industry. If anyone can make a champagne with this little, you can.’

  She nodded her gratitude. ‘Except it’s not enough, Étienne. We both know we need more, and I’ll have to find it.’ Her mind raced and her thoughts landed unhappily on her husband’s brother, his touch still unpleasantly warm in her memory.

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘I shall use my influence where it is best spent,’ she said, and already began to think about that trip to Paris.

  Was there ever a more beautiful time in this most beautiful of cities than spring? Sophie allowed herself a private smile of pleasure because she was standing in front of one of the most spectacular buildings of the city, one she had been visiting since childhood and which held only the happiest of memories for her. An evening at the opera at the Palais Garnier, where for a short time she could set aside her sorrows both old and new, to lose herself in the spectacle but especially the music.

  Sadly, she had to share it with Louis Méa, but that was the price.

  It was Rossini tonight. Easy to listen to, amusing and about love. If Jerome was ever going to listen to an opera, this was the one she’d suggest to him because it was fun, often loud like him, and built to a frenetic pace. No one in the audience, even if they arrived in a bad mood, could leave feeling that way, but then the opera house of Paris tended to shift one’s disposition anyway. It allowed its patrons to enter a new and fantastical world of pure escape. Just walking into the bedazzling Palais Garnier, which dominated Haussmann’s grand avenues of the 9th, could quicken her pulse as it was meant to, with its glittering opulence and bold design and decoration. Flamboyant throughout: a mosaic ceiling of Murano glass, mirrors everywhere reflecting the opulence and allowing the patrons to stare at themselves and their neighbours, rivals and betters indirectly. Every chamber seemed to outdo itself with outrageous grandeur, but she could argue all day about the functionality that led eager concert-goers to the horseshoe-shaped theatre – a feast of marble, stucco, velvet and gilt. But even all of that was a mere support act to the now infamous massive bronze and crystal chandelier that lit the auditorium with its three hundred and forty glittering lights. Its counterweight had fallen one night, killing a patron. The subsequent novel by journalist Gaston Leroux, which created such fascination when it was serialised as Le Fantôme de l’Opéra, featured the magnificent chandelier falling from its hoist into the audience. She loved to look at it and think of the disfigured man of the novel who menaced the famous opera house and favoured box five. She glanced to her left to where that box overlooked the stage, just above the grand box saved for royalty.

  ‘Did you know that in days gone the men would sit in the stalls while their women sat in the boxes above, which could have red velvet curtains drawn across?’ she said to Louis.

  ‘I am happy that those rules no longer apply,’ he admitted, her arm tucked tightly around his elbow, allowing his gaze to wander down from her neck and linger just a heartbeat longer than she found comfortable. ‘You look exquisite tonight, Sophie.’

  In a gown she hadn’t worn for years, a favourite because Jerome had bought it for her, she felt strong, in control, and was able to field his compliment rather than feel cornered by it. ‘Don’t we all look rather splendid? Who would think we are fighting a war?’

  There was a distinct lack of men in the audience but still enough to surprise her. In Reims and in Épernay, no man of working age was to be spotted unless he was injured or recovering from an injury. She wondered if Louis felt conspicuous but dismissed that thought quickly.

  It had been so long since she’d attended the opera, she needed to hold her confidence and remain focused, especially as this expedition was not purely for pleasure. She intentionally recalled the moment when Jerome had given her the box containing the gown she was wearing this evening.

  ‘It echoes the colour of my vineyards’ soil at the start of summer,’ he’d said, but she had always thought that fanciful. To her its colour was more a soft version of malachite that faded to rich cream in a straight column of drapery in the empire style. The dress was fringed with silk the colour of rich parchment and the bodice was beaded with the palest of pink pearls and pink chiffon rosebuds. It was a pretty ensemble with a modest train and elbow-length sleeves dangling prettily with silver beads. With her hair swept up, Sophie knew she was perfectly groomed for her evening but the misfortune was that she looked all the more delectable to Louis.

  Sophie was pleased to find herself sharing a box with some of her parents’ wealthiest friends, one of them the wife of a merchant she intended to press for help with her sugar crisis before she leaned on Louis, to add more to her side of the balance sheet. She smiled at her companion and told him she’d just seen a friend she hadn’t spoken to in years.

  The woman suddenly spotted her too and called out across the box. ‘My dear Sophie!’ she exclaimed, waving frantically. ‘How long has it been?’

  Sophie excused herself and moved towards her mother’s friend.

  ‘Years,’ she admitted. ‘Forgive my absence, Brigitte, I —’

  ‘How could I not?’ The woman chortled, sounding like a hen. ‘The
world’s gone mad. And why would you ever want to leave beautiful Épernay?’

  Sophie wanted to explain to Madame Charpentier that Épernay was in the line of fire and not nearly as safe as this uninformed and well-protected Parisian understood, but she needed access to the woman’s husband so she bit back the response and instead smiled benignly.

  ‘Sophie, darling . . . any news of that dashing husband of yours?’

  ‘None, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well, they say no news is probably good news.’

  ‘Do they? I hope so. I had to come to Paris, Brigitte, on House Delancré business, and in fact I wanted to ask —’

  ‘Oh, my dear, no shoptalk. Let me introduce you to my new friend, Mademoiselle Guigon – she is engaged to be married to no less than . . .’

  Sophie tuned out. She couldn’t be less interested in whose ring Mademoiselle Guignon wore. She remained in the pair’s company just long enough to give the new fiancée a few congratulatory words before removing herself to the back of the box to rethink her strategy. Louis looked to be engaged in conversation, so she had some time to herself.

  Her neighbour, who seemed equally reluctant to mix with the gossipy crowd, gave her a sympathetic nod.

  ‘And what are you trying to secure while you feel ridiculous in an evening gown while men are dying all over Europe?’

  She stared into a roundish face with flattish features and a clear complexion. A soft cloud of gently coppered hair was caught up above her head. A cupid’s bow of a mouth smiled back at her. Sophie blinked, measuring whether to take offence; she looked into the calm gaze of the round-faced woman, who looked uncomfortable in her opera finery, and realised her companion hadn’t read her wrong.

  ‘I admit to loving Rossini, but if I’m honest with you, The Barber of Seville is not why I’m here, my dear. I’m here to hunt donations.’ She couldn’t help the grin and shook her head gently. ‘And what I need is sugar.’

  Her companion frowned. ‘Did I hear right?’

  ‘I make champagne. We have no sugar left.’

  ‘Ah, for your fermentation.’

  Sophie’s gaze widened. ‘You understand winemaking?’

  ‘Not like you. I’m a scientist, though. I understand the chemistry of what you do but with no knowledge of your amazing skill to turn grape juice into the magnificent drink we’re all sipping tonight.’

  ‘I’m Sophie Delancré. It’s a pleasure and a relief to meet you.’

  At this the older woman chuckled. ‘Likewise, my dear. I am Marie Curie.’

  Sophie’s mouth opened in surprise. This woman had been awarded the Nobel Prize twice. ‘I am honoured.’

  ‘No need to be, but thank you. I should warn you, you’re not the first person tonight to be angling to meet your friend’s husband.’

  Her heart felt as though it were drowning. ‘Really?’

  Madame Curie nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. I think she’s enjoying all the attention. He’s not in Paris, I gather.’ Sophie spirits deflated. ‘Unlike you, though, I don’t need him specifically. I just want a little of her money.’

  ‘For research?’

  The scientist shook her head. ‘No, I’m building mobile X-ray machines that I can take to the front line. I need urgent funding to do that.’

  The orchestra had finished warming up and the lights of the grand chandelier dipped several times.

  ‘We must talk later,’ Sophie suggested.

  During intermission, Sophie moved away from the crowded hall of mirrors that echoed Versailles. Standing in a quiet corner, sharing a flute of champagne, she introduced Madame Curie to Louis, and they made some small talk before he began scanning the crowd.

  ‘Forgive me, ladies. I know rather a lot of people here and they all want something. I must keep a sharp eye out for . . . um . . . incoming.’ He turned away.

  Sophie smiled at her companion. ‘I understand from my reading that you discovered two new chemical elements and that you used radium to treat tumours. I am humbled by your research.’

  ‘I’m delighted to meet someone so young who is familiar with my work. Thank you – it was hard-won. As a woman with a career you’ll appreciate how hard it is to pursue a vocation beyond teaching or nursing. The higher education required for research was not available to girls in Poland. I could only achieve it in France, where I was lucky enough to study chemistry, mathematics and physics.’

  ‘In French, though.’

  ‘Yes.’ Her elder gusted a brief laugh. ‘I had to learn French very quickly so I could understand the lessons.’

  Sophie shook her head in genuine awe. ‘I was fortunate to know from a young age where my future lay. And my career was given to me along with my surname.’

  Her companion gave that small smile that Sophie was beginning to understand was not easy to draw out. ‘And yet you compete in a man’s world very well, it would seem.’

  ‘I have to. My husband went off to defend France and hasn’t been seen since 1915.’ She shrugged to show she did not want pity, but it struck her that none was forthcoming. Madame Curie was likely too wise to offer hollow platitudes.

  Instead she fixed Sophie with a gimlet gaze. ‘He would be proud of you for remaining strong in his absence.’ She glanced at Louis’s back.

  Sophie sighed. ‘He is well connected,’ she whispered. ‘Have to keep him on side.’

  ‘Be careful,’ Madame Curie warned, only for Sophie’s hearing. Then speaking normally, she said, ‘I haven’t told many people this, but all the radium I have has been securely packed away in a lead-lined box and transported well away from Paris to be secretly stored.’ At Sophie’s look of surprise, she continued. ‘I didn’t want the Germans getting their hands on my radium, but I also couldn’t sit idly by and watch this war from Paris. I felt I needed to help somewhere. Do you understand X-ray . . .? I don’t mean that to sound condescending but most people do not.’

  Sophie enjoyed her directness. ‘I would appreciate learning what they can do.’

  Madame Curie sipped her champagne as she began a brief explanation. ‘X-rays are a type of electromagnetic radiation that can look through tissue to the skeleton. They can see injuries to bones and have also proven effective in hunting down foreign objects in the body, so it made sense that the machines would be valuable for finding bullets. Modern conical bullets twist to lacerate the flesh and cause bones to burst before they become lost somewhere in the body.’

  ‘I see,’ Sophie said, her understanding dawning.

  ‘And then there are the shell fragments buried so deep it’s hard for the naked eye to detect them. When this ghastly war began, only city hospitals had the capacity to perform X-rays, but I could see we desperately needed them on the battlefields for urgent medical aid. And so I invented what everyone seems to call my “radiological car”. Now, Irène – that’s my daughter – and I can drive our van right up to the field hospital where army surgeons can make use of the equipment to guide their surgeries.’

  ‘I’m in awe. How do you power this mobile machine?’

  ‘We incorporated a dynamo.’

  ‘Dynamo?’ Sophie looked lost, prompting another soft smile.

  ‘A generator,’ she explained. ‘The petroleum-powered car engine provides the electricity to drive our X-ray machine. Let me add, it was the Union of Women of France who gave me the money I needed to produce the first car. That one was rolled out in your very region, in the Battle of Marne in 1914.’

  Sophie was astounded by this news and also grateful enough to want to help. ‘How many X-ray vans do you have now?’

  ‘Mmm, I believe it’s twenty – Irène will know exactly. We’ve trained women in the physics of electricity and X-rays, given them practical lessons in anatomy and also photographic processing, and then off to the front they were sent.’

  ‘Incredible!’ Sophie breathed. ‘And how many of these marvellous volunteers do you have?’

  ‘Again, Irène will know the true number but it has to be in the order
of one hundred and fifty. The vehicles come in a variety of shapes and sizes and had to be adapted. All of them were donated by wealthy Parisian women, without whom none of this would be possible.’

  ‘Marie, I will donate a vehicle.’

  At this remark, Louis turned; he had clearly been listening to the conversation while pretending not to, and Sophie was relieved they’d been careful earlier.

  ‘That’s rather hasty,’ he said, trying to smile through his warning to her.

  ‘I didn’t mean for you to feel obliged, Madame Delancré.’

  Sophie glared his way. ‘And I don’t. I feel inspired. Let me arrange for you to receive a vehicle from the cars we have at Épernay, or better still, let me buy you a car from someone in Paris, if that’s easier.’

  ‘I’m astonished but immensely grateful.’

  ‘I look at what you and Irène are doing, and I want to do more.’

  ‘I can’t imagine you not keeping busy?’

  ‘Hardly,’ Louis sneered. ‘She’s helped set up a subterranean hospital, she’s still tending my brother’s vineyards’ – my vineyards now, Louis – ‘and she’s making champagne. She’s a very busy person.’

  ‘A hospital in the cellars? Now I feel awed. I can’t get you sugar, but how else can I help you?’

  Sophie didn’t know she was going to ask until the words forced their way out. How could she miss this opportunity? She’d come for sugar but maybe she wouldn’t return empty-handed. ‘Will you visit Reims, Marie? We have so many desperately wounded men carried into our underground hospital directly from triage at the front line, and often we’re digging around blindly for shrapnel and bullets.’ Marie winced. ‘Our surgeon is excellent, but I know he could work more magic if he knew what he was looking for. He could certainly save more lives.’

  The scientist nodded. ‘We shall come, Irène and I, I promise.’

  ‘I don’t know how to thank you.’

  ‘You have – a car! I couldn’t ask for more. Now, one more thing before we go back into the theatre and get lost in Rossini, and I don’t wish to prod at a wound, but you said your husband disappeared. No word?’