The Champagne Queen (The Century Trilogy Book 2) by Petra Durst-Benning Page A

wake up from their winter dormancy. They begin to draw up water from very deep in the earth, and at the places where the vines were pruned the previous fall, they bleed part of the sap out again. It goes on for about two weeks, and it’s perfectly harmless. Les pleurs , the vintners call it. The weeping of the vines.”
    Isabelle swallowed. Les pleurs —didn’t that man out there mumble something like that?
    “So that’s . . . normal? Not sabotage?”
    “What made you think that?” With a smile, he held out his knife to her, a piece of sausage impaled on the end.
    Isabelle turned down the offer nervously. Her knees felt weak as she lowered herself onto the bench beside the overseer. He poured red wine into a heavy glass and pressed it into her hand.
    Dazed, Isabelle took a large gulp. The wine tasted slightly acidic and herbal, and she found it invigorating.
    “Just a regular house wine, good enough for me.” Claude Bertrand shrugged. “As improbable as it might sound, there are actually winemakers in Champagne who make something besides champagne.”
    “But don’t they earn far more money with champagne?” asked Isabelle, happy to change the subject. Her stomach was growling and, rather timidly, she took a slice of bread from the basket on the table. Bertrand immediately held out a small butter dish for her.
    “They do. But making champagne is a complicated and very drawn-out process. Some of the makers cellar their bottles for a year—others for six years or longer—but that means their money is tied up for that long, too. And”—he paused, as if to be sure of her fullest attention—“the competition is tremendous! You have to keep in mind that there are more than three hundred champagne producers these days. We have a good dozen here in Hautvillers; the two biggest are Moët and Trubert. And all of them want to sell, sell, sell! And come hell or high water, they make sure everyone knows about their champagne. They hire the slickest agents, men with fast mouths and fancy suits; these men have the best contacts and they don’t come cheap. And the modern machines—it’s all extremely expensive. If you want to be successful in this business, then you have to be rich before you start.”
    Expensive advertising, big-talking salesmen, and modern machines? Isabelle thought about her empty purse and her cycling husband, and her heart trembled.
    “But Feininger champagne has a very good reputation in the industry, doesn’t it?” she asked, and held her breath.
    The overseer shrugged again. “You should save those questions for Gustave Grosse. I take care of the land and buildings; the champagne isn’t my side of things.”
    Isabelle sighed inwardly. Claude Bertrand clearly did not want to intrude on the cellar master’s territory. She cleared her throat.
    “I ran into a very strange man just now, out in the vineyards. I’m wondering what he was doing out there.”
    “What did he look like, this man?”
    “In his late twenties, I’d say. Not especially tall, wiry. He was blond, with wavy hair down to his shoulders. His eyes were the color of pennies.”
    The man had been shamelessly good-looking. When he was standing in front of her, she felt a shock run through her, partly of fright . . . but there had been something thrilling in it, too. It was something she had felt only once before, and that was when Leon had swaggered into the cycling club and announced, “My name is Leonard Feininger. You might have heard of me.”
    “And he had a pair of pruners hanging from his belt,” she added.
    “Well, that is nothing special, madame. Everyone carries a pair of those; they call them secateur, by the way. It’s practically a growth on a man’s hand around here, but you’ll see that for yourself soon enough,” Claude said, and he raised his eyebrows in light mockery. “But from the rest of your description, it could only have been Daniel Lambert. He prowls through the vineyards like a lonely