by Aubrey Flegg
‘Louise,’ Gaston asked in a whisper, ‘am I really touching you?’
‘Yes,’ she said softly, ‘it shouldn’t be possible, should it? Gaston, I’m so sorry … about the Pont de Chasse. I shouldn’t have asked.’
‘No, I’m glad you did. I feel happier now I have told someone. You see, I’m not a monster, am I, Louise?’
‘No, you’re not a monster, Gaston.’ She slid out from under his hand then, and walked across the room to her picture, the touch of his hand lingering like a memory on her hair.
From Brussels south to Paris the roads were better. They were making good time and Gaston was preoccupied with getting his troop into perfect order for a triumphant entry into Paris. News would, of course, have reached the capital, both of their coming and of their success in Amsterdam, but this was the official confirmation of the diplomatic coup, and the presentation of General Daendels’s reports. Louise kept to herself and her portrait remained in its case.
CHAPTER 8
Putting down Roots
Monsieur Morteau waited until Colette’s blistered feet had recovered from her long walk, and dark smudges of exhaustion no longer circled her eyes, before putting Jean Brouchard’s plan into action. Take her out with you into the vineyards, the miller had said, and teach her about your vines. What Colette needs is sun and air, and above all something to occupy her mind.
Colette’s eyes widened when M. Morteau presented her with a pair of sabots that were suitable for work in the fields.
‘Come, my dear,’ he said, ‘It’s time for me to introduce you to my class of ’92. They hold great promise, my little grapes. In a week or two it will be their harvest, and we will be too busy to give them the attention they deserve.’ As he spoke he watched her face closely. Was that a little flash of interest? Perhaps Brouchard was right.
Colette hurried through her few chores and then asked Madame Morteau if she could go. She anticipated objections, or lamentations about her complexion, but Madame seemed to know about the arrangement and even produced a pretty, wide brimmed hat, trimmed with forget-me-nots, to protect her from the sun. Colette was touched. She kissed her benefactor and managed to whisper, ‘Merci, Maman,’ and the words didn’t stick on her tongue.
Farm gates opened from the rear of the winery directly on to the slopes above. Colette could see M. Morteau gazing up at the geometric outlines of vineyard, each field a corduroy of lush green vines. He turned, saw her standing in the gate, and swept his arm in the direction of the fields as if inviting her to enjoy his pleasure and his pride. She felt a little guilty; she had been inclined to think of Gaston’s father as an old fuddy duddy, kind-hearted but possibly a bit odd. Now, looking at the regimented beauty of the slopes, she began to revise her opinion. This really was a creation, not just a part of the landscape. The gravelly soil crunched under her feet as she climbed towards him.
Eight men from the village worked all year in the vineyards. At six o’clock each morning they would appear in the yard, stretching and talking among themselves in low voices. Then M. Morteau would come out and give them their tasks for the day. They would disperse up the slopes, or into the cool recesses of the winery and the cellars beneath, as they had been directed. Today they were high on the slopes; she could see their heads above the vines, working in a line, talking no doubt, moving methodically towards the skyline.
‘So, you have come, my dear, and with a becoming hat too!’ His eyes sparkled. He reached out and lifted a bunch of grapes. ‘Now, let me introduce you to … how shall I say,’ he lowered his voice, ‘to some of my less able pupils.’ Colette suppressed a smile; so he really did talk to his vines! ‘Here, put your hand under them and feel them through the palm of your hand.’
Colette slid her hand under the bunch. ‘You see, even without squeezing you can tell that they are still hard. Poor dears, they are deprived of light down here, but used in moderation, they have their place in our wine. They give it life, zest if you like.’ He winked at Colette and then raised his voice: ‘Do you hear that, you dunderheads, you may not be the brightest, but life would be dull without you.’ This time Colette had to laugh as she imagined rows of brightened faces looking up. ‘That should keep them happy,’ he concluded. Colette, bemused but delighted, was inclined to agree.
As they climbed the slopes, M. Morteau continued to address her and his vines without much distinction between the two, but Colette soon realised that there were lessons hidden behind his seemingly casual talk. She learned how the angle to the sun and height of the slope determined the hours of sunlight the grapes enjoyed. He would pick up handfuls of soil so that they could compare the changing colours reflecting the strata underneath.
To begin with, all the vines looked identical to Colette. M. Morteau had nicknames for them, but for now he told her their formal names: Fromenteau, Pinot Noir, Chardonnay, words that seemed to roll in the mouth. When they approached the line of workers the men stood back respectfully, but when M. Morteau spoke with them they talked easily, pointing out damaged plants or stakes; a curled leaf absorbed them for some minutes.
‘What are they doing?’ Colette asked when they had climbed on further.
‘Oh, they are de-shading the bunches. For the last weeks before picking, every grape must get as much sun as possible, so they are removing any leaves that are shading the fruit. Now, up here we are in the scholarship class. The sweeter the fruit, the stronger the wine and the better it will last. Here, hold a bunch like you did before.’ The grapes felt warm, almost sensuous in her palm, straining to burst their skins. ‘Now we will taste. First we nip the skin with our teeth, because this is where the colour and the first flavours lie. You have heard a bell being struck?’ Colette nodded, ‘Well, this is the moment when the clapper strikes.’ Colette nipped and noticed the small explosion of tastes on her tongue. ‘Now, take in the flesh and move it around in your mouth; notice how your tongue and mouth taste different things in different parts. What you are tasting now are longer flavours; in our wine these will linger like the dying tones of our bell. We will pick a bunch and take them down to Maman.’
That evening, when the last bell rang from the church, Colette listened to the note until it faded to nothing. She thought about Gaston without rancour for the first time. Perhaps he had to go away for a while and wear his lovely uniform. But she was here, and if M. Morteau would let her, she would learn all she could about the vineyards. She would do this for Gaston. And even if he came home with a beautiful wife on his arm, she would still have a place here; it would be enough just to be near him.
Colette’s introduction to the work of the winery was to be a baptism of fire. In two weeks the pickers arrived and the vintage was upon them. How the migrant workers knew when to sweep down on Les Clos du Bois, she did not know, but quite suddenly the yard was full of men and women, tough as the vines themselves, and as black from the sun as the grapes that were waiting for them. There were demands for water, bedding, bread, oil, and all in vast quantities. Colette was overwhelmed; how could Maman, Margot and herself manage? But she hadn’t reckoned with the counter invasion that took place as the villagers poured in, pushing her politely aside and taking over the greater part of running the house. The baker’s oven never cooled. As soon as the bread was baked and stacked to cool, the butcher appeared with joints of mutton and goat that were thrust into the oven to cook in the declining heat. A huge cauldron mounted on three stones stood in the yard, simmering over a low fire, continually charged with beans, barley, onions, cloves of garlic, herbs and the chopped up smaller cuts of meat, even bones. Someone had to keep stirring with a long paddle to stop it sticking. Just to smell it made one hungry.
Colette found that she was the only person who did not have a special task, but her very idleness gave her the role she needed; she became everyone’s messenger. At one minute she would be down at the mill shouting into M. Brouchard’s ear that a sack of barley was needed. Next she would be telling M. Morteau, up with the pickers, that the l
ight winepress had broken. Then there would be a plea for water from the pickers. If she didn’t know who to go to, she found out, and if she didn’t know what the message she had been given meant, she transmitted it faithfully and asked questions later. Soon she knew the names of all the key players in the drama, and even knew intimate details of machines that she had never heard of before.
To begin with, the village workers kept an eye on her to see that she didn’t have any trouble from the migrants, who were not above making a pass at any girl if they could. They soon noticed however that she could look after herself; she could be quite like Madame Morteau if she chose.
The grapes came into the yard in purple torrents, but up on the slopes they were being treated with reverential respect. Colette was surprised to come across a pile of discarded grapes that looked to her like the pick of the crop. ‘Why throw these out?’ she asked the foreman who was supervising the work. ‘They look perfect to me.’
‘They are the aristocrats, Mademoiselle, so fat they’ve split their skins.’ He laughed. Then dropped his head in embarrassment. ‘Pardon, Mademoiselle,’ he said. ‘No offence.’
As she trudged down the hill, Colette thought about his remark and his embarrassment. So, for all the family’s efforts at concealment, the villagers knew about her aristocratic origins. What pleased her, though, was that he had forgotten it. She was becoming accepted. She was singing to herself when she reached the yard.
The frenetic activity didn’t stop at sundown. Torches and lanterns were lit, a motley of instruments: oboes, pipes, drums and stringed instruments of various shapes appeared from nowhere and were tuned. Both migrants and villagers then took off their shoes, rolled up their trousers and skirts, and climbed into the shallow foot-press, stamping down the piled grapes with their feet. The music started, and with arms linked over their shoulders, they began to tread the grapes, slowly rotating to the wild skirl of the music. The mush would get more and more liquid as the grapes were broken open by the pressure of their feet. ‘It’s a gentle way of extracting the juice,’ M. Morteau told Colette. ‘Why don’t you join them? It will be soothing for your feet.’ And Colette joined in, to the delight of the workers, and felt the grapes popping between her toes. One by one the treaders would drop out and sit, purple legged, drinking their ration of wine while others took their place in the press. Their energy seemed unbounded. When she mentioned this to one of the village workers he laughed and said that the migrants fought for the privilege of coming to Les Clos du Bois because they were better fed and looked after here than anywhere.
The kitchen was reserved primarily for the family, full-time workers and the more senior village folk who had come to help. They sat shoulder to shoulder about the great table, silently addressing the urgent matter of food. The crude plenty of the yard was augmented with roast meat and fowl and the wine was stronger than that which M. Morteau allowed to flow outside. Often the locals would sing – peasant songs with haunting melodies. Occasionally a gypsy violinist would be invited into the kitchen and Colette would feel her feet tapping involuntarily under the table. If only Gaston could have stayed, instead of rushing off before the harvest, her happiness would have been complete.
Like the vines she now tended, Colette put down roots and grew. Madame might still shake her head over her darkening complexion but M. Morteau watched her looks ripen, and he nurtured her like his vines, encouraging her to respond to the soil and the right mixture of sun and air. She was a ready pupil as, little by little, he followed Jean Brouchard’s advice and introduced her to the secrets of his trade, telling her his stories, and letting her taste his vintages until they lived for her as they lived for him.
Cadet Morteau had been gone from the winery for almost a year before he was granted home leave. During that time he had been drilled, shouted at, punished for minor misdemeanours, had shot pistols till his ears rang, slashed and thrust at both his comrades and at straw dummies, and had ridden until he was so saddle sore he could neither sit nor walk. He had had no time to think of home, and if he had thought of girls it had got no further than sideways glances at the handkerchief-waving pretties who loved all hussars as long as they were safely on horseback. There had, of course been clumsy passes at barmaids who knew how to handle cadets better than the cadets did their horses. He had been working on his moustache, shaving it so that it appeared to droop down each side of his mouth. His hair was braided into plaits fore and aft of his ears.
Now he would have a month with his family before he had to return to barracks to sit his sub-lieutenant’s exam. He was looking forward to being part of the grape harvest again; last year was the first one he had missed. Gaston reined in his horse at his favourite approach to Les Clos du Bois, a spot overlooking his father’s vineyards, and scanned the green order below. As he urged his horse down the bank to the first line of vines, he rather wished that someone could see him descending, gracefully welded to his saddle. At that moment a girl in peasant dress stood up from between the rows and watched him riding down towards her.
‘Welcome home, Gaston.’ This wasn’t quite what he expected, a village girl would not normally address him as Gaston – other than behind a haystack – but he was prepared to be gracious. Then he noticed the girl’s hat, trimmed with little blue flowers, hardly peasant wear. Seeing his puzzlement, the girl laughed and pulled the hat off. He looked down in amazement. Dark hair fell to her shoulders, her skin had the healthy bloom of outside work, black eyes danced up at him. A smile spread across his face.
‘Colette?’ he exclaimed, swinging himself down from his saddle and landing at her feet. ‘How you have changed … where is the pale little mouse that I left behind me?’
‘Probably still sitting under the mulberry tree – the one you were to wave at as you left!’
Gaston was instantly mortified. ‘Oh, that was awful of me. I did remember, you know. I actually turned back, but by then it was too late!’
‘Well it’s not too late to beg forgiveness now.’ Colette tried to look severe.
Going down on one knee on uneven ground was not a manoeuvre that Gaston had tried before. All went well until he gracefully lowered his seat on to the spur on his upturned heel. He shot to his feet with a yelp of pain, and naturally had to hold on to somebody.
‘They never taught us to do that,’ Gaston said laughing as he released Colette and dusted his knee. ‘I am truly sorry though.’
‘Ride on down. Maman has been waiting for you since dawn. I have just one more section to look at,’ Colette said, suppressing her laughter.
As Gaston rode down the hill he was in high spirits; wait until he told the boys in the barracks about his mishap! And what a difference in Colette – happy, confident, flirtatious even! This could turn out to be a very interesting home leave. He would make a formal entry for Maman’s sake, then he would cast his uniform aside, put on his civilian clothes again, and seek out Colette. He would flirt with her, and charm her and, if he was lucky, even snatch the occasional kiss. He felt like a seventeen-year-old, and resolved to behave like one. Plenty of time to be nineteen when he put on his uniform again.
And that was more or less how it turned out, even down to the stolen kisses. When the migrants arrived for the harvest Gaston found that Colette had taken his place from him. The workers remembered her from last year and she made sure that Gaston paid for the latest kiss by ordering him about until he told her that he would do nothing more until he’d had another.
The Count came during the harvest, sensibly dressed in common clothes, a modest cockade in his buttonhole. Rumours that he was now dressing as a sans-culotte seemed to have been exaggerated.
Late that night Colette and Gaston walked up through the shattered vines and sat close together, looking down onto the valley. Colette thought she had never been so happy.
All too soon it was over; Gaston’s legs were still purple from treading the grapes when he pulled on his freshly laundered trousers and struggled into his tighter-fitting
uniform. When he rode out below the mulberry tree he blew a flight of kisses to his dark eyed ‘cousin,’ and swore that he’d never touch another girl’s lips until he rode home to her again. But it was 1793 and no one in France knew what the next day might bring.
Colette had never been invited up to M. Morteau’s retreat above the fermentation rooms. No one, other than M. Brouchard the miller, went up uninvited; they would call up from below if they wanted attention. He must have seen Colette staring forlornly at the rain, which was falling like stair rods on the still purple cobbles of the yard.
‘Come, Colette. I want to show you where this year’s vintage came from.’
It was a relief to be occupied, after the emptiness that Gaston had left behind him. Colette climbed the steep loft steps and emerged into a bright attic. A long dormer window gave a sweeping view of the grey rain-soaked slopes; they were not going to see much from here today. But M. Morteau wasn’t interested in the view; he had rolled back the oiled linen cover of a map that was spread on the table. Colette was amazed to see that every field, plot, and even row, of vines was in its correct place. She looked closely at the tiny writing and saw that the grape varieties were indicated, together with other details of the plots. She was flabbergasted. There was no mention of ‘dunderheads’, or even ‘scholarship classes’ here; this was the science behind his art, and he was explaining it to her! Colette concentrated until her mind could hold no more information. Eventually the lesson was over and M. Morteau rolled down the protective cloth.