One by one the little white lights along the Seine were coming on, and from the first-floor windows you could see the brightly lit
bateaux-mouches passing through the arches of the Pont du Carrousel. The party moved on to a dish of game served with a more
vigorous claret.
"Can you imagine," asked de Gruse, as the claret was poured, "that there are people who actually serve wines they know nothing
about?"
"Really?" said one of the guests, a German politician.
"Personally, before I uncork a bottle I like to know what's in it."
"But how? How can anyone be sure?"
"I like to hunt around the vineyards. Take this place I used to visit in Bordeaux. I got to know the winegrower there personally. That's
the way to know what you're drinking."
"A matter of pedigree, Charles," said the other politician.
"This fellow," continued de Gruse as though the Dutchman had not spoken, "always gave you the story behind his wines. One of
them was the most extraordinary story I ever heard. We were tasting, in his winery, and we came to a cask that made him frown.
He asked if I agreed with him that red Bordeaux was the best wine in the world. Of course, I agreed. Then he made the strangest
statement.
"'The wine in this cask,' he said, and there were tears in his eyes, 'is the best vintage in the world. But it started its life far from the
country where it was grown.'"
De Gruse paused to check that his guests were being served.
"Well?" said the Dutchman.
De Gruse and his wife exchanged glances.
"Do tell them, mon chéri," she said.
De Gruse leaned forwards, took another sip of wine, and dabbed his lips with the corner of his napkin. This is the story he told
them.
