Emma leaned forward eagerly. “I don’t suppose you know anyone by the family name of Legrand or Maréchal?”
“I believe I knew a Legrand at one point, but he moved away. But you know, my memory is not as good as it used to be.” Madame Bolze shook her head and gazed down at the things Blondine and Rosalyn had brought down from the attic. “These things... they really do need to be organized, don’t they?”
“They’re of great historic value, Madame Bolze,” said Emma. “Would you be willing for us to take them to the archives in Reims so they can be properly cared for and made available to others?”
The elderly woman’s hand fluttered to her chest, and she avoided their eyes. “Oh, I don’t know.... I would have to go through themfirst. I’ll go through them, and I’ll think about it. I know I need to get organized.... My memory isn’t so great sometimes.”
“You’re too modest,” said Emma, gesturing toward the display of bottles on the half wall of the living room. “Tell them the names of the bottles.”
“Mignonette and piccolo,” Madame Bolze said for the two smallest. “This is... chopine, I think? And then demi, of course, though sometimes calledfilettein the Loire Valley. Then there’s the standard-sized bottle, the magnum, the Marie-Jeanne or Dame Jeanne....” She trailed off.
“I know the Jeroboam, and the Rehoboam,” said Emma. “But that’s the extent of it for me.”
“Methuselah, Salmanazar, Balthazar,” said Madame Bolze suddenly, as though just now remembering. She smiled, pleased with herself. “I don’t have examples of the Nebuchadnezzar, Melchior, Solomon, Sovereign, or the Melchizedek. Those are too large to be moved, even when they are empty. I don’t think they’re ever used.”
“Never used, but they were invented and named?” asked Rosalyn.
Madame Bolze nodded. “They were in our catalog, but as far as I know, we never produced them. My husband always wanted people to have any bottle they wanted.”
“Nowthat’simpressive—am I right?” said Emma, switching to English: “‘Name the wine bottles’—a great party trick for wine nerds.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
That night Emma, Blondine, and Rosalyn sat around the table in theChambre Chardonnay, sorting through Émile’s letters and chatting about what they had found—and what theyhadn’tfound—in Madame Bolze’s attic. As they spoke, they kept their hands busy slipping aged papers into protective plastic jackets.
“There’s probably a lot more to be discovered in that house,” said Blondine. “If one had the time and energy to go through everything.”
“Madame Bolze just ‘needs to get organized,’” Emma said with a sigh. “But yes, I’ll bet you’re right, Blondine. I wish I had been able to talk her into letting us take the things with us. My powers of persuasion failed me just when I needed them most.”
“I can’t get over that photograph of Lucie,” said Rosalyn. “I feel almost like I know her at this point, through Émile’s letters.”
“I know the feeling,” Emma said softly.
“I wish Madame Bolze had let us have the papers and photographs, and the orphan asylum’s ledger,” said Rosalyn. “You’re right. They should be given to the archive and taken care of.”
“And besides, you want to look at them some more,” said Blondine. “I know. I feel the same. I am not sure why, but your obsession is rubbing off on me. I blame you both. I never cared about boring old history before.”
Emma chuckled.
“This upright cursive of the French...” Rosalyn’s eyes blurred as she tried to make out a paragraph of the letter in her hands. “It’s so hard to read. It’s distinctive and beautiful, done with such flair and polish, and yet at times it’s nearly indecipherable.”
“Rather like the French themselves,” Emma said.
“Calligraphie, it’s called,” said Blondine, ignoring Emma’s comment. “This is the way we are taught to write. Themaîtresin school are very strict, very rigid, and we were in for a scolding if we got it wrong. We practiced on littletableaux noirsat our desks.”
“What aretableaux noirs?” Rosalyn asked. “Black... surely not ‘tables.’”
“Chalkboards,” translated Emma. “Slates, I think we’d call them. Told you they were old-fashioned.”
“I’m still amazed theRémoiswere able to hold school in the cellars during the war,” said Rosalyn. “I can’t wait to see the Pommery caves for myself.”
“They’re not open for tourists yet,” said Blondine. “Too early in the season.”
“And the public only gets a quick tour,” said Emma. “It’s fun to go down all those steps, and to see the graffiti and imagine what life might have been like, but for what we’d like to see, such as where Lucie and her family lived, we’d have to poke around a bit. I’m working on my contacts at the vineyard to get unfettered access to the caves, but it’s slow going. The proprietors of the champagne houses tend to be a bit protective; like a lot of people here, they want to advance the image of Champagne as a glamorous wine regionrather than remind people of their painful past. But I’ll keep working on it.”
“I received an invitation to a party in the Pommery caves,” said Rosalyn. “A ‘Gathering of Vintners,’ they call it.”
Emma snorted. “Dreary, I can already tell you. I went last year, and they kept all the really interesting parts of the caves cordoned off. Also, it’s more than a hundred steps down, so I think I’ll skip it this year.”
