Perrier hesitated for a moment and chose his words with care.

  “If I’m not mistaken, Monsieur, such a banquet originates from the peculiar dining customs of the northern pirates. It has long been regarded throughout Europe—especially by the French—as something rather uncivilized.”

  André’s eyes widened, and he shouted, “Who says it’s bad? I think this style has many advantages! For the guests, there are no restrictions—each may eat as he pleases, take whatever dish he desires, as much or as little as he wants. For us, it eliminates the need for elaborate table service and saves considerable labour. We won’t need to hire too many high-paid chefs or servers, which reduces expenses. As for you calling it a pirate tradition—you’re not wrong. In the eyes of many, I, André, am a northern pirate, a robber from Paris, who has just plundered more than 8 million livres from their hands.”

  Here André seemed rather pleased with himself.

  “Still, I will find a way to compensate the poor people of Bordeaux. This city will forever remember the kindness I, André, have bestowed upon it. Remember—place the cold luncheon as near to the vineyards as possible. For the practical details, consult the retired Captain Surcouf. If I recall correctly, the old sailor roamed the northern seas for nearly ten years.

  “All right, postpone the banquet by one more day—August 15. Also, the Marquise de Fontenay returned to her estate last night. Go and pay my respects to her, and ask her to send some servants to assist with the preparations. Lastly, invite the heads of Chateau de Lur-Saluces, Chateau Latour, Chateau Margaux, and Chateau Haut-Brion to visit the Chateau Lafite estate a few hours earlier. Let Renault, the steward, guide the gentlemen and ladies—the Comtes and Comtesses—around the vineyards.”

  Since the master had already decided to play the northern pirate—or rather, to hold a northern-pirate-style banquet—Perrier no longer argued. To the well-travelled Jew, every man in power had his eccentricities. Beyond this feverish plan for a cold luncheon, Prosecutor André had, a week earlier, purchased large quantities of blue sailcloth and slaked lime. These he mixed and sprayed across the nearby vineyards, leaving the branches and roots covered in unsightly blue-white speckles.

  In the days of Louis XIV, if one spoke of France’s wealthiest family, nearly half the nobility would name the Ségur family. But time had worn away their splendour. After three decades of internal division, the once richest house in France had lost much of its might. Even so, as one of its principal heirs, the Comte de Cabanac remained the richest man in Bordeaux—and perhaps in all Gironde.

  He owned, among other assets, several great wine estates including Chateau Latour, and more than 200 hectares of prime vineyards. Nearly sixty years old, the Comte had also invested heavily in shipbuilding and finance; one-third of Bordeaux’s wine exports to England came from his estates.

  During the recent taxation storm, the Comte de Cabanac and the Ségur family met with new misfortune. The entire family was ordered to repay 2 million livres in arrears, half of which fell to the old Comte himself. Even after his name appeared on Judge Duranthon’s list of special exemptions, reducing the burden by half, the Comte still owed 500,000 livres.

  Proud and headstrong, the Comte de Cabanac ignored André’s notices entirely. Yet when three of his merchant ships and their cargoes were seized, and a cousin employed at City Hall was arrested, the rest of the Ségur family chose to yield to the Paris prosecutor. The Comte alone remained defiant—until André ordered Lieutenant Moncey and the Fifth Chasseurs Battalion to surround Chateau Latour and prepare to seize his assets. At that point, the Comte finally submitted. As punishment for late payment, the previous tax concession was revoked; he would pay the full 1 million livres, not a sou less.

  That night, after settling his dues, the usually vigorous Comte collapsed in a faint. The physician arrived promptly; after a whiff of smelling salts, the old man regained consciousness. A thorough examination confirmed that nothing serious was amiss—only rest and a few days in bed were prescribed.

  On the afternoon of August 13, the banquet invitation sent by Perrier reached Chateau Latour. The Comte’s eldest son accepted it but, without reading, instructed the butler to hide it where his father could not see it—for fear the sight might provoke another fit of rage. But the old Comte, descending the stairs at that very moment, had already seen everything.

  “Bring it here!” His imperious tone echoed through the hall.

  Father and son exchanged glances; the butler had no choice but to hand over the embossed, gilt-edged invitation.

  “Did the messenger leave any message?” asked the Comte.

  “Yes, my lord,” replied the butler. “He said that Prosecutor André hopes Your Lordship will come to the Lafite Villa three hours early. Also invited are the Comtesse de Lur-Saluces, the Comte de Lestonnac of Chateau Margaux, and the Comte de Fumel of Chateau Haut-Brion.”

  Glancing over the elegant card, the Comte sneered. “I had thought the Paris prosecutor would scrawl his summons on a scrap of paper. Instead he sends a gilt invitation worth two livres. It seems we, the wealthy Bordelais, have fattened that Champagne orphan well.”

  Seeing his father’s agitation, the son quickly helped him to a seat and said soothingly, “Then we simply won’t go. I doubt many in Bordeaux wish to curry favour with him.”

  The old Comte’s eyes flashed. “Who says we won’t go? We must go!”

  “Yes—of course—we’ll go. I shall go in your stead,” said the son hastily.

  The Comte shook his head. “He wants me—the true master of this chateau and of the Ségur family. Therefore I must go in person. If you wish to accompany me, bring your wife and my two grandsons an hour later.”

  The son was dumbfounded. A family appearance at a banquet was a gesture reserved for close friends. André hardly deserved such honour—after all, the 1 million livres of taxes had made everyone at Latour hate him bitterly. And he had now seized what was once the Ségur family’s prized jewel—Chateau Lafite itself.

  “Father, did you not agree just last night with Monsieur Savigny of the tax-farm company to co-sign a complaint to Paris against Prosecutor André’s abuses?”

  The Comte laughed. He gestured to the butler, who promptly dismissed all servants from the hall. Alone with his son, the old Comte explained slyly:

  “I only told Monsieur Savigny I would consider it; I promised nothing. Ha! A complaint to Paris—for what? That André surrounded Chateau Latour and took 1 million livres from us? It’s useless. This morning an old friend at the Customs told me André has ordered 7 million livres in cash to be exchanged, ready for transport to the Paris Treasury. That means both the Assembly and the Cabinet will turn a blind eye to his actions here. As for the tax-farm companies—they are his next target. If the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court can deliver a few more millions to Paris, even if Savigny and his associates are ruined, neither the Tuileries nor the 600,000 Parisians will shed a tear.”

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  “So we simply watch the Paris prosecutor do whatever he pleases in Bordeaux?” asked the son indignantly.

  “Patience. In at most two months he’ll leave. I hear the Marne is in turmoil—that’s why he’s forming his mixed regiment here. Oh, and tell your brother Louis to meet me in the study. He’s been spending too much time with Monsieur Savigny, which I dislike. And I’ve heard our vineyards are suffering another outbreak of mildew?”

  “Not only ours,” the son sighed. “The entire left bank of the Garonne valley is affected. Only the right bank and the mid-channel lands are spared.”

  It was indeed an ill-fated year: first a 1-million-livre tax loss, now a blight threatening millions more. Even the mighty Ségur family could hardly endure such blows.

  In the village of Margaux, the Comte de Lestonnac was equally distressed. The wealthy merchant and celebrated vintner now squatted unceremoniously in his vineyard, staring at rows of vines struck by mildew—anxious and helpless.

  It was the first week of the disease’s spread. The once-green leaves were turning yellow; within seven days they would darken and die, brown lesions spreading along the veins. When the blight reached the base, black mould would appear and the leaves would fall. The timing was disastrous—August was the prime season for grape growth. Without leaves, the fruit would shrivel and sour, unfit for wine. Worse still, entire vines aged fifteen to thirty years might perish at the roots.

  Hearing his wife Marie calling from the far end of the vineyard, the despondent Comte did not answer. He kept staring at the dying leaves.

  “Hey, my dear Comte!” cried Marie, running toward him in excitement. She waved a handful of green leaves and shouted, “Look! Our vineyard is saved!”

  Lestonnac looked up, astonished. In her hand were vines bearing lush, healthy leaves—completely untouched by mildew. That was impossible; nearly every vineyard on the left bank of the Garonne was infected.

  “From the right bank? Pity we can’t afford any,” he muttered absently.

  A century of decline had reduced the Lestonnac holdings to less than twenty hectares. Having lost most of Chateau Margaux’s shares, excluded from the profitable redistribution of Church lands, and lacking other income, the family had no spare funds to expand across the river.

  “This isn’t from the right bank,” Marie said, smiling. “I picked it myself—from the vineyards of Chateau Lafite. The Comtesse de Lur-Saluces, the Comte de Cabanac of Chateau Latour, and the Comte de Fumel of Haut-Brion all did the same—cut whole bundles of leaves for testing at their estates. Each paid the steward several louis d’or for compensation, but I only gave him a five-livre silver coin.” She blushed, nervously twisting her skirt.

  “My dear Marie, I’m proud of you!” cried Lestonnac, kissing her cheek. He took the vine, touched and examined it, even bit into a leaf, chewing thoughtfully.

  “Perfect—vivid green, flawless, with a trace of sweetness,” he said. Years of experience told him the plant was entirely healthy.

  If Chateau Lafite had indeed found a cure, then Prosecutor André would surely share it with the other estates—though not without some cost.

  Seeing his wife still standing there in a daze, Lestonnac waved his arms excitedly. “Quick, Marie, prepare the carriage for Lafite—no, for the Lafite Villa! I recall the prosecutor invited me for a morning call two hours early. Good heavens, look at me—covered in dirt! Hurry, my clothes! The Lestonnac family may have fallen, but we remain nobles, and I must appear as such. Bring my gold-embroidered waistcoat, and fetch a bottle—no, two—no, an entire case of the 1766 Margaux!”

  He chuckled to himself as he changed. “When it comes to elegance of flavour, Margaux remains supreme—ours, of course. Latour is too harsh, Lafite too soft, Haut-Brion’s so-called velvet texture is mere boasting, and the golden wine of Lur-Saluces trades only on its name!”

  There is a saying in Bordeaux: Only grapes that can see the river make good wine. A boastful phrase, perhaps, but not without truth.

  On the rolling hills of the Garonne’s left bank stood the Lafite Villa, less than a quarter-league (1 kilometre) from the Chateau Lafite winery itself. The land between them was blanketed in vines, through which a clear stream wound its way before joining the broad Garonne to the northeast. The place was tranquil, broken only by the lively murmur of running water over stones.

  The banquet at the Lafite Villa was scheduled to begin at eleven a.m. on August 15, but at the prosecutor’s request, the Comtesse de Lur-Saluces and the Comtes de Cabanac, Lestonnac, and Fumel were invited to tour the vineyards at eight.

  As the Comtesse had said, the moment they saw the verdant vines, all four abandoned decorum and rushed forward, cutting generous samples for their experts to examine. Steward Renault, though pained to watch the plundering, made no objection—André had expressly permitted these distinguished guests to do as they pleased.

  An hour later, when the belated Comte de Lestonnac arrived, the others brought joyous news:

  “The vines of the Lafite estate are blessed by Providence—perfectly healthy, without a trace of mildew!”

  God, of course, had little to do with it—or so thought the Comte de Cabanac. He understood perfectly why André had invited the heads of the five great chateaux to witness this “miracle.” After a moment’s thought, the elder Comte beckoned the steward aside, then quietly gathered the Comtesse de Lur-Saluces, the Comte de Lestonnac, and the Comte de Fumel together.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said softly, “we can all agree there is no doubt about Lafite’s miracle.”

  All nodded, waiting for his counsel.

  “Now,” continued the Comte de Cabanac, “each of us should consider what we can offer in exchange for André’s cure—cash, vineyards, estates. 50,000? 100,000? More? Remember—there’s no such thing as a free luncheon.”

  The jovial Comte de Lestonnac fell silent. His impoverished family could scarcely raise 10,000 livres unless he sold his remaining land—impossible. The others, too, frowned. After paying their taxes, they could hardly bear another levy, yet doing nothing might cost them millions.

  All were lost in troubled thought when André himself appeared; none noticed until Steward Renault cleared his throat. Startled, they turned and greeted the Paris prosecutor with profuse compliments, eagerly inquiring about purchasing the remedy.

  “2 million livres in total, for the formula!” declared the Comte de Cabanac on behalf of the four estates. The figure struck Comte de Lestonnac like a dull knife—his share alone would exceed 300,000 livres. He glanced around, hoping to bargain, but as no one else spoke, he bowed his head in reluctant consent.

  André burst into laughter, then, noticing their strained expressions, quickly clarified:

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I have no intention of selling anything. The origin of the formula I will not discuss, but since March the Paris Patent Office has accepted my patent filings. In my view, a cure such as this cannot be measured in money—it is André’s gift to Bordeaux. Not one livre is required. In fact, I have already printed brochures detailing the preparation, application, and precautions. They are on the table in the reception hall. Please, follow me—and while you’re there, enjoy a tasting of our five great wines.”

  Relieved, the four nobles followed André into the reception room, where Steward Renault poured wine and Perrier handed each guest a copy of the printed instructions. André personally answered their questions.

  Indeed, he had once again managed to astonish everyone. Though the “Bordeaux mixture” was not a complex invention, to the Comtes and vineyard owners it was a treasure worth their fortunes.

  In another time and place, the Bordeaux Mixture would be credited to Professor Millard, a French botanist who observed that roadside vines near Bordeaux remained healthy because their owners had sprayed them with a blue-white mixture—intended merely to deter passers-by from stealing grapes. The “poison,” as it turned out, was a blend of lime and copper sulfate. Millard tested it, confirmed its effectiveness against mildew, and in 1885 announced his discovery to the world, naming it Bouillie Bordelaise—the Bordeaux Mixture—thereafter used across vineyards and orchards worldwide.