Riots in a champagne capital

Riots have damaged infrastructure in Reims despite a determined police presence during the waves of violent unrest across France. The relatively young demonstrators have different causes to defend from protesters during the Champagne riots of 1910–1911 in Épernay, Aÿ and surrounding villages—those locals were revolting against producers who imported out-of-region grapes to make ‘fake’ Champagne.

In Death in Champagne (which debuted on Amazon here this month) Voltaire and his mistress Émilie du Châtelet also differ on the merits of ‘champagne’ produced from the grape harvests around her Château de Cirey in 1734.

Émilie le Tonnelier de Breteuil, Marquise du Châtelet, was struggling over the optimal wording for a theory that Isaac Newton had expressed in Latin, when Voltaire entered her library without knocking and paused by the open door. She had heard the vigorous steps on the stairs that announced his long-legged approach, so she had time to jot a phrase on a page full of figures before looking up.

At this early hour, if she and Voltaire wanted to communicate, they did so by notes, ferried by a servant between the old part of the Château de Cirey and his apartments at the end of the new wing. Until at least eleven o’clock they could work alone as they pleased, so her hair was down and she had on a morning gown and slippers.

He examined her appreciatively, one shoulder against the door jamb. He usually bowed and greeted her formally, whether their attendants were about or not, but today he said at once,

‘Minerva. I’m hoping you can explain something mathematical for me.’

‘I thought you were working on “The Man of the World”.’

‘I was, until this arrived.’ He held up a sheet of paper. ‘A receipt, for wine that I apparently ordered a fortnight ago. I must have signed for the purchase in my sleep. The delivery has just come, from Wassy, arranged by a mysterious agent.’

‘Oh, that’s quite all right. He’s new but someone recommended him to me—I think it was the Comte de Fronzac.’

‘Ah. Herein lies your problem. Admirable though he may be, Fronzac is Polish. A Polish gentleman does not equate to a connoisseur of wine. So this agent “x” has delivered to you a dozen bottles from the hitherto unknown merchant “y”’—he squinted exaggeratedly at the receipt—‘that is, Priot, of Wassy. Were you aware that Priot stocks cheap sparkling wine vinted in this district?’

Émilie said, ‘Yes, of course. Are you aware that the wine growers here are about to make champagnes to rival those of Aÿ and Reims?’

He came further into the room, looked briefly about for a chair and chose a corner of one of her tables instead, pushing aside an open book. He was immaculately dressed as usual, as though about to step into a carriage and leave poetry behind him. ‘It won’t work. The terrain, the techniques, the misguided people trying to manufacture it’—he dropped the paper onto the book—‘all wrong. Your blacksmith with his village vineyard is going the right way about; he sticks to honest red wine that he can supply to his family and sell from his door.’

‘As a natural philosopher,’ Émilie said mildly, ‘I’d have thought you’d taste the empirical evidence before pronouncing local champagne a failure.’

He straightened at once. ‘And I’d have thought you’d do the same before ordering the stuff.’ He went to the door, reached around the jamb and picked up from the floor a wine glass and a bottle. ‘I’d better open this at the other end of the room. If it bursts, only one of us will get it in the neck.’

‘You don’t trust the glass?’

‘I don’t trust anything about it.’

The bottle was of the right shape, but had a smoky colour that did suggest inferior glass. Émilie watched with foreboding as Voltaire took a pair of scissors from her instrument table and cut the four lengths of pack thread holding the wax seal onto the top of the bottle. He then eased out the leather stopper, which was followed by a spurt of effervescence that he managed to catch in the glass.

‘Would you mind holding that away from my diagrams?’ she said.

He advanced towards her, bottle in one hand and glass in the other. ‘The colour’s not bad but the bubbles are too big. It’s all yours,’ he said, stopping before her and adding more wine to the glass. ‘I’ve had the honour of paying for it, so you have the honour of tasting it.’

Émilie sniffed it. ‘It smells … quite fresh.’

‘It’s not very old, certainly. Last year’s vintage, which has been in the bottle since May. The blacksmith informs me the ’34 harvest wasn’t abundant around here, so your little consignment must be something of a rarity. A pity it’s not extinct.’

Émilie took a bold sip and relished the tingle on her palate. Then she hesitated.

He said kindly, ‘Come on, gulp it down. It will remain our little secret.’

She swallowed, and waited to let the yeasty fumes fill her head. But they didn’t. She handed back the glass. He could see the disappointment in her eyes and kept silent. She took a breath. ‘You’re right: I don’t think he’d like it.’

‘Who?’

‘Richelieu.’

‘Good Lord. You weren’t thinking of offering him this?’

‘It’s his first visit. We’ve gone on and on at him about our rustic idyll and I thought it would be fun to have a local champagne to serve him. New champagne in the Champagne—what could be more fitting?’

Voltaire shook his head. ‘He doesn’t believe in rustic idylls, which is why it’s taken him so damned long to come and see us. He’ll be praying we’ve turned Cirey into a palace, where he can glitter away like a figurine in a jewel box. And he’s not going to admire anything we show him, Émilie; it’s not his style.’

‘Here speaks the gentleman who has been turning himself and this place inside out to prepare for him.’

‘Quite right. I want the people I love to be happy.’

‘I know,’ she said, on a wave of tenderness. ‘What shall we do about the champagne?’

‘A delivery of the genuine article comes from Reims tomorrow, sent by Bertin du Rocheret. He was my wine agent in Paris and I still deal with him direct. Do I have your permission to ditch this lot?’

She gave a little laugh. ‘Go ahead. Believe me, I didn’t want it just because it was cheap. The idea of it excited me, that’s all.’

Émilie’s dark eyes were shining with self-mockery. Voltaire looked into them and summoned his most benign smile. ‘I believe you,’ he said, knowing that the idea she found most exciting was bound to be Richelieu, who had been Émilie’s lover before their own affair began.

He had foreseen this glow of enthusiasm on her part, and had sent his libertine friend a letter on female conquest, in verse, to entertain him on his journey from Strasbourg to Cirey. Witty, somewhat vulgar and totally sincere, it ended:

But if, on your way, I may implore

A little pity for your fellow man:

Look on the beauty I adore,

Spare my heart, and stay your hand.

He suddenly wondered whether Richelieu would think it a risqué ploy to show the poem to Émilie, and then, with an instant of vertigo, he tried to guess her reaction. Would she be insulted or flattered? Or worse, would she laugh and leave neither of them any the wiser?

She said, ‘Good: the wine’s all accounted for. Are we ready for him now, do you think?’

‘I strive to be. But is he quite ready for us?’

‘Oh, I hope not.’ She leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. ‘Thank you for averting a faux pas.’

Author note: Yes, Voltaire did write those lines to Richelieu before the duke visited Cirey, and Bertin du Rocheret was his supplier of wine. The image shows a selection from my pre-Christmas purchases--absolutely necessary in this season, I'm sure you'll agree.