That was the farmer talking, not the aristocrat, just as it was the farmer who knelt now among the vines to demonstrate to Paul how each gnarled branch was pruned by hand to catch the sunlight.
‘I am sorry,’ he was saying, to Paul, ‘that I cannot spare the time today to show you how our wine is made, but I can at least show you the result. It is the most important thing, I think. The process of wine-making, the machines we use, these are things you can learn from a book, but the wine …’ He gave a pointed shrug. ‘The wine, it is like life itself. It must be tasted at the source.’
Simon perked up behind us. ‘So we’re going to see the cellar now?’
‘Yes. I have set out a few good vintages for you to taste.’
‘Terrific.’ The bounce was back in Simon’s step. Moving past us, he assumed the lead, his eyes fixed with a hunter’s single-mindedness upon the huge white house.
I wished I could share his enthusiasm. Wine cellars might be interesting places, and impressive, but underground was underground no matter how one viewed it, and the French didn’t call their cellars ‘caves’ for nothing. The only thing that cheered me was that Harry wasn’t here to announce to everyone that I was phobic. ‘She has a thing,’ he would have told them, ‘about going underground.’ He always said it just like that, as if it were some random illness, inexplicable, and though I sometimes did remind him of the day he’d locked me in the neighbour’s bomb shelter, Harry never would admit he was to blame. ‘I shot an arrow at you, too,’ he’d once retorted, ‘and you didn’t develop a phobia about that.’
He had a point, I thought. Given the choice between facing a field of archers or spending an hour in someone’s basement, I’d pick the archers every time. But now, without a single bowman in sight, I found myself with no real option but to take a deep breath and follow along with the tour.
The cellars of the Clos des Cloches lay deep within the cliffs beneath the house. They were enormous, high-arched and spacious like the soaring nave of some fantastic cathedral. The ghostly limestone caught the light and cast it back upon us, and when I let my breath go I inhaled the sweeter scent of oak and wine above the dank aroma of the stone. Along one curving wall the bottles ran in ranks, neatly stacked, awaiting labels, their glass dark green beneath the thickly sifted dust. But the barrels dwarfed them easily.
They were everywhere, those barrels – great monstrous ones that might have served Gargantua himself, and row on row of smaller ones that seemed to stretch for ever, an aisle of darkened oak illumined softly on all sides by countless burning candles whiter than the walls. The candles, set with care upon the rim of every barrel, seemed to be the main source of light in this medieval hall of wonder. Beyond their reach the shadows crept, to claim the farther corners and the dimly rising stacks of bottled wine.
In the middle of it all stood François, tall and grey and elegant, arranging polished glasses on a small table that already groaned beneath the weight of several vintages. He looked round as we came in, his inscrutable face relaxing as he noticed me beside Armand. Only a statue could have failed to be flattered by his smile. ‘Mademoiselle,’ he greeted me, in French, ‘it is indeed a pleasure to see you again.’
To my surprise he welcomed Neil with similar warmth, framing his words in halting English. There was no hint of the bitterness, the tension, that had marked Neil’s conversation with Armand. In fact, I thought, they spoke like friends.
Paul, at my shoulder, waited patiently to be introduced, gazing at the arching dome of the cave’s ceiling with eyes half-closed in rapt appreciation. I’d only known him two days, but I fancied that I recognised that look already.
‘Go on, then,’ I teased him, with a nudge. ‘Shatter me. What’s the word for this place?’
He smiled. ‘That obvious, eh?’
Armand looked sideways at the two of us. ‘The word …?’
‘Oh,’ said Simon, ‘it’s just this kind of game Paul plays, trying to find the perfect word to describe a place. He’s pretty good, most of the time, except he hasn’t got the word for Château Chinon, yet.’
‘Yes he does,’ I said. ‘It’s “tragic”.’
Armand studied Paul’s face closely, as though he hadn’t seen him properly, before. ‘That is indeed the perfect word. Tragic …’ He tasted the feel of it, on his tongue. ‘And my caves?’ he asked. ‘How would you call them?’
Paul looked a shade embarrassed, but he met the challenge squarely. ‘Clandestine,’ he said, in his quiet voice.
‘So,’ Armand said, softly. ‘So … a place for intrigue, yes? Or secret lovers.’ His eyes slid past me, smiling, and came to rest on François. ‘Well, who can say you are not right? There is much history here, and in my family there are many secrets.’ François glanced up, and Armand looked away again. ‘The making of wine,’ he said to Paul, ‘it is an art wrapped well in secrets. As in your game of words, one tries to find the essence of each vintage, removing that which complicates. Come, I will show you.’
It was more work than I’d imagined, tasting wine. With François guiding me, I sampled the estate’s great vintages, trying to follow each instruction – how to hold the glass, how to inhale the wine’s ‘nose’ – there were so many things a true wine-lover ought to notice.