“Why can the Bordeaux Mixture kill downy mildew?”—that question had already echoed in André’s ears more than fifty times, and he reckoned it would be asked five hundred times more in the future, perhaps even more than that.

  In general circumstances, when facing questions from ordinary people, the shameless plagiarist would first declare that he had discovered (or invented) this property of lime and copper sulfate solution purely by accident, during his time living and studying in the Grand Champagne region near Reims. As for any further why, only Almighty God could know. And if one truly wanted the ultimate answer, one could go up to Heaven and ask God Himself.

  When dealing with the kind of scholars who could not be easily brushed off, André provided an answer that was not entirely accurate. He explained, in reserved terms, that the Bordeaux Mixture itself did not directly kill the mildew. Rather, when sprayed upon the surface of plants, its adhesive nature allowed it to cling to the crops and form a thin layer that limited both air and nutrient exchange, thereby preventing the mildew from spreading or growing further. Combined with the plant’s own secretion of mild acidic substances that resist disease and parasites, the two effects together created the impression that the mixture “eradicated” the disease.

  Whether the scholars believed this or not, André did not care. As long as the Bordeaux Mixture worked, even if he let out a nonsensical explanation, people would still believe him. The truth was, André himself could not fully explain the process. Concepts such as basic copper sulfate, bacteria, viruses, metabolism, plant immunity, protein, and chemical enzymes would not become part of human understanding for another ten, twenty, or even a hundred years. And since André was no fool, he would never risk mentioning such terms from the future, for doing so would only bring forth more questions—and more whys.

  However, when young Lussac raised this very question, André’s instinct to play the teacher—or perhaps his fondness for cultivating “little scientific monsters”—was immediately awakened. Although he gave no elaborate explanation, he brought out a Hooke-type microscope that he had purchased at a high price from a Bordeaux merchant, placed a plant section beneath it, and instructed the future chemist and part-time physicist to observe, think, and record everything on his own.

  Back in the reception room of the Lafite Villa.

  The Comte de Lestonnac suddenly raised the booklet in his hand and blurted out, “Honourable Prosecutor, may I ask why you would give us such a precious document—worth 2 million livres, perhaps far more—free of charge? Or rather, what is it that you want from us?”

  André smiled, wagging his finger. “If you wish, you may simply call me André. What I seek is quite simple—your friendship. I hope that the legacy of Chateau Lafite, now under my stewardship, will endure for the next five centuries. Of course, I also have a small suggestion.”

  At this, André signaled Perrier to distribute another set of documents to the Comtes.

  The new proposal outlined his plan to establish a Bordeaux Wine Chamber of Commerce, built around five estates: Chateau Lafite, Chateau de Lur-Saluces, Chateau Latour, Chateau Margaux, and Chateau Haut-Brion.

  The old Bordeaux Chamber had been forcibly dissolved by decree of the National Constituent Assembly the previous October due to its feudal orientation and had not been reinstated since. When André first came to Bordeaux, his initial goal had merely been to earn a fortune in Gironde and return to Paris. But with Perrier’s persuasion—and careful reflection—especially after realising that most of his Champagne Mixed Regiment’s manpower would come from Gironde, André changed his plans. He not only kept Chateau Lafite and its nearby vineyards but now intended to rally allies and reestablish the long-suspended Bordeaux Chamber.

  It was no exaggeration to say that Bordeaux was a city built upon vineyards and wineries. Even in the twenty-first century, over sixty percent of its citizens would still serve directly or indirectly within the wine industry. Back in the eighteenth century, the proportion was even higher—around eighty to ninety percent. Without question, viticulture and winemaking formed the lifeblood of Bordeaux’s economy. At present, there were around 5,000 vineyard owners (a number that would one day rise to 8,000), over a hundred wineries, and ninety-five wine brokers operating in the region.

  To illustrate it with figures: if grape cultivation and winemaking together represented one hundred units of economic value, then related industries—bottle and barrel production, fermentation equipment procurement, warehouse and cellar construction, carriage manufacturing, domestic and overseas shipping, even the production of pesticides and fertilizers—would extend that value to 1,000.

  In short, the wine industry of Bordeaux generated tenfold economic output for the region and the whole of Gironde.

  With that in mind, André understood that by securing a seat within the Bordeaux Chamber, he could directly influence—or indirectly control—the wealthiest city of southwestern France. The resulting power and prestige would far outweigh any 2-million-livre profit.

  There was, however, another, darker layer to André’s intent. He knew that among the four Comtes before him, one would die under the guillotine; one would live in exile abroad, dying in a foreign land before Louis XVIII’s restoration; the Comtesse would languish for eight months in a revolutionary prison, losing much of her fortune and recovering only decades later; and the fortunate Comte de Lestonnac, though surviving the Terror, would succumb to illness in 1795, leaving his family in ruin.

  By André’s own design, when fate—or revolution—struck and the other estates fell into disarray, control of the Chamber would naturally fall into his hands.

  Once the Comtes nodded their agreement to his proposal, André unveiled another plan—one even grander in scope: a classification system for Bordeaux wine estates under the Chamber’s authority.

  “Gentlemen,” André began, “what is the most profitable thing in this world?” He did not wait for a reply. “Monopoly, of course. Unfortunately, neither our combined wealth nor the current political climate allows us to monopolize the 150,000 bonniers of vineyards in Bordeaux. Even if we could, Gironde still has between 800,000 and 1,000,000 bonniers, not to mention Burgundy and Champagne. But that does not matter—we can monopolize quality. High-end wine. The meaning of my proposal lies precisely in that: to define, by our own authority, what constitutes a First Growth vineyard, leaving all future competitors powerless.”

  In the 1730s, a bottle of common Bordeaux wine cost one-third the price of a Premier Cru; by 1790, the ratio had become 1:20; by the time of the Second Empire, it would reach 1:50. From the same soil, with the same grapes and skill, a bottle stamped Lafite or Latour could sell for fifty times more.

  If the idea of a Bordeaux Chamber had met with cautious approval, André’s proposal for a wine classification was greeted with unanimous enthusiasm. The five estate owners agreed that once the Chamber was formally established, they would commence grading.

  Thus, with the prosecutor’s guidance, the Comtes completed the covert arrangement: the wine estates of Gironde would be divided into five classes—fifty-nine notable estates ranked as follows: five First Growths, twelve Second, fourteen Third, eleven Fourth, and seventeen Fifth.

  The five First Growths were Lur-Saluces, Lafite, Latour, Margaux, and Haut-Brion—all from the Médoc region, except for Haut-Brion from Graves.

  For reasons known only to himself, André insisted on placing the Chateau Cheval Blanc of Comte de Ducasse in the Fourth Growth category. In truth, its reputation and flavour rivalled those of Lafite or Latour, and even a Second Growth classification would have been modest. Yet the others wisely chose to yield, for the Comte de Ducasse had long been allied with Ouvrard’s elder brother—both of whom had harmed the interests of the Bordeaux United Industries Company.

  Two hours later, as the crystal goblets filled with red wine were raised once more, the four Comtes and the prosecutor understood clearly that their fates—and fortunes—were now bound together.

  It was past eleven when, at the steward’s urging, André led his partners from the reception room to the banquet lawn.

  The cold luncheon was set upon the hillside vineyard beside the Lafite Villa, overlooking the shining Garonne. More than twenty well-decorated open tents dotted the vast lawn in the shape of a great semicircle, each sheltering long tables laden with delicacies and wine. Servants hurried back and forth between the villa’s kitchens and the field, their movements brisk and disciplined.

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  By the time the first guests arrived, over thirty tables were covered with food: cold dishes, soups, hot meats, pastries, desserts, fruits, and beverages. There were salads, sausages, hams, beef, shrimp paste, caviar, and duck eggs; soups of beetroot, oxtail, corn, spicy broth, and assorted seafood; hot dishes of fried chicken, roasted meats and fish, potatoes, and pies; breads and cakes of all kinds; desserts of puddings, ice creams, and tarts; fruits—bananas, pineapples, watermelons, apples, papayas, figs—sliced and arranged in abundance; and drinks of milk, coffee, tea, cocoa, and red and white wine.

  By a little after eleven, several hundred guests had gathered. At first, many looked uneasy—this open, self-service arrangement seemed foreign and unrefined. To leave early would have been an affront to the host, especially when that host happened to be the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court himself. So, with polite reluctance, they began to eat. Within moments, hesitation turned to delight. The freedom of the format won them over entirely.

  Women dined and chatted about fabrics, perfumes, and lovers. Men clustered in groups, exchanging stories of trade and politics. Children, full and happy, raced among the trees and grass.

  “Vergniaud, Bordeaux wine truly is remarkable,” said Barbaroux, handing his empty glass to a servant and taking another full one in its place.

  “That’s genuine Lafite,” replied Vergniaud, half amused, half pained. “A single bottle is worth thirty-five of ordinary wine.” He could not help but wince at the Marseillais’ carefree gulping. Perhaps there was also a hint of jealousy—Barbaroux, tall and handsome like a Greek god, had already drawn several ladies close with idle smiles.

  Just as Barbaroux prepared to follow one of those alluring women toward a small grove one hundred yards away, Guadet suddenly appeared and seized his arm.

  “Don’t,” the lawyer warned. “That’s the daughter of Prosecutor Luchon.”

  Barbaroux sighed and turned back for another glass of wine. “Politics again. I prefer a life of freedom and ease.”

  Vergniaud and Guadet exchanged knowing smiles. They remembered their friend’s nature well—from their student days together at the University of Aix. The son of a shipping magnate, Barbaroux had been forced into law, where his reckless charm had caused repeated scandals—he was even suspended from the bar for six months after being caught in a compromising affair with a client.

  Yet when the radiant Marquise de Fontenay passed by, he merely removed his hat and bowed politely. He was not foolish: since arriving in Bordeaux, he had learned that the Marquise had spent the last two nights at the Lafite Villa and was, in all but name, co-host of the banquet.

  Vergniaud shared a piece of news from his father.

  “In Paris, a number of deputies are urging the Ministry of Finance to send Prosecutor André to Marseille.”

  “Why?” Barbaroux asked—and then instantly exclaimed, “I oppose it!”

  Indeed, if the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court could raise nearly 9 million livres in Bordeaux, then in France’s largest port, Marseille, the total would exceed 10 million—perhaps 15 or even 20 million. For Marseille’s merchants, it would be ruinous.

  Seeing his friend’s dismay, Vergniaud and Guadet burst out laughing.

  Many deputies had made similar suggestions, but all were swiftly blocked by the delegates of other port cities. A tax collector may be a patriot when assigned elsewhere—but never when sent home. From Nantes to Rouen, from Caen to Lyon or Marseille, no trading city wished to welcome a man known for scraping the land bare.

  Nor would André ever be foolish enough to repeat such a campaign. In Bordeaux, he held the key to control—the Bordeaux Mixture—and could wield influence through it. In Marseille or Lyon, he would have none of that, and likely would not live long enough to regret it. In history, both cities had seen uprisings where enraged mobs, stirred by merchants and nobles alike, had torn tax officers to pieces in public squares.

  “Hey, friends! Big news!” cried Grangeneuve, the journalist, rushing over, waving a bright green vine leaf. “Prosecutor André has invented a miraculous chemical solution said to cure mildew on grape leaves. Over two hundred people—including myself—have paid two livres each to buy a leaf from that rascal Lussac. And this morning, the Comtesse de Lur-Saluces, and the Comtes of Latour, Margaux, and Haut-Brion were invited to the Lafite Villa—they’re meeting with the prosecutor right now!”

  The vineyards of Lafite were open to the great estates, but for everyone else, proof of the miracle could only be bought—from Lussac. André had promised that all proceeds would go to the boy as pocket money for his future studies in Paris.

  Vergniaud laughed heartily. “Now I see why our Paris prosecutor dared to tax Bordeaux so fiercely—he already knew the city’s 150,000 bonniers of vineyards could not live without his invention. Even if the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court enriches the Treasury by millions and quietly pockets the same, the sixty-five thousand citizens of Bordeaux will still sing his praises.”

  “Oh? And you still want him to leave Bordeaux?” asked Barbaroux innocently.

  This time the answer came in unison:

  “Of course! Let him go to Marseille!”

  Grangeneuve added, “If he ever leaves his office, I’ll propose before the Commune that a statue of André Franck be raised in the Harvest Square!”

  Guadet and Vergniaud both nodded in approval.

  Moments later, a cheer erupted from the far side of the vineyard. The journalist darted away and returned within minutes.

  “I take back what I said,” he announced breathlessly. “Because now I’ll call for the statue the very day André leaves Bordeaux! Renault, the steward, just confirmed it—Prosecutor André will publish the Bordeaux Mixture formula and its instructions free of charge. Yes, free! And it will bear the glorious name of Bordeaux itself!”

  As the news spread, the hundreds of guests burst into applause and jubilation.

  At eleven thirty-five, under the gaze of the entire crowd, Prosecutor André, surrounded by the four Comtes and by Perrier, stepped onto the lawn like a star among constellations. The audience surged closer, whispering in eager anticipation.

  “Please, everyone, silence!” cried Perrier, André’s ever-diligent secretary. When the field grew quiet, he cleared his throat and continued: “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the master of Chateau Lafite—the prosecutor of the Special Fiscal Court, Monsieur André—to speak!”

  Dressed simply in his lawyer’s coat, André smiled warmly as he surveyed the crowd.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I am honoured by your presence at the Lafite luncheon. I have two announcements. First, I have asked the Comte de Cabanac to make public the formula and usage of the Bordeaux Mixture. You all know by now that it can effectively cure mildew—”

  He had to pause as thunderous cheers erupted around him. After a while, he raised a hand, waiting for calm.

  God had indeed been partial: not only had He granted André a fine physique and striking features, but also a voice of deep resonance. Under the tutelage of Mirabeau, André’s tone had grown more commanding—rich, full, and melodious, each phrase carrying magnetic force. Whether it was Madame Roland, the Marquise, or the Comtesse standing behind him, all listened in fascination.

  He continued:

  “Second, together with the Comte de Cabanac, the Comtesse de Lur-Saluces, the Comte de Lestonnac, and the Comte de Fumel, we have reached an agreement to establish the Bordeaux Wine Union. This Chamber will have a great mission: first, to promote Bordeaux wine throughout France and the world; second, to increase its reputation and exports; and third, to establish a clear classification and an appellation system to protect the legitimate interests of Bordeaux estates.”

  The audience, already aware of the Chamber’s coming creation, greeted the news with enthusiastic approval.

  It was well known that the Comtes of Lur-Saluces, Cabanac, Lestonnac, Fumel, and Prosecutor André of Lafite would serve as its five permanent directors. Together, their estates accounted for less than five percent of Bordeaux’s volume but forty-five percent of its profits.

  Still, when André mentioned the classification system, murmurs rippled through the crowd—some winemakers worried that a low rank could cripple their market. Soon the noise drowned his voice. André did not mind; it was precisely what he expected.

  Disagreement among the estates meant bargaining, not rebellion—and that was the balance he wanted. A united Bordeaux could one day unite against him; divided, they remained in his grasp.

  As the noise swelled, André noticed Lieutenant Senarmont gesturing urgently from the balcony. Summoning Perrier, he appointed him—before the watching Comtes—as permanent inspector of the Bordeaux Chamber, authorizing him to handle all forthcoming negotiations with the four estates.

  Within ten minutes of André’s departure, the Chamber’s provisional council reached a preliminary agreement: an official notice would be issued within the week, summoning all Bordeaux estates to the Lafite Villa to discuss the classification system.

  Before long, glasses were raised high, and voices rang out together:

  “For Bordeaux—cheers!”

  “For wine—cheers!”

  “For the Chamber—cheers!”

  Notes:

  Downy mildew (grapevine): a fungal-like disease (caused by an oomycete) that attacks grape leaves and shoots, producing pale “oil spots” on the upper leaf surface and a whitish down on the underside; severe infections can defoliate vines and ruin the harvest.

  Basic copper sulfate: a family of insoluble copper compounds that can form when copper sulfate is mixed with lime; these deposits leave copper on the plant surface, and copper ions are broadly toxic to many microbes, which is why copper-based sprays can suppress mildew and other fungal diseases.

  Bonnier: an old regional land-area unit used in parts of France and the Low Countries; its exact size varied by place and period, so it is best read here as a large measure of vineyard acreage rather than a fixed modern number.

  First Growth: the highest tier in Bordeaux’s famous wine classification, reserved for the most prestigious estates; being ranked a “First Growth” greatly increases reputation and price.

  Premier Cru: a French term meaning “First Growth/First-rated vintage,” used as a top-quality designation; depending on the region and system, it can refer either to the very top rank or one of the top ranks.

  Second Empire: a period of French history from 1852 to 1870, when France was ruled by Napoleon III; the term is often used as a time marker for mid-19th-century France.