The guests shuddered visibly and de Gruse paused in his story.
"Well, I won't go into the details at table," he said. "Pierre fed the rest of the body into the press and tidied up. Then he went up to
the house, had a bath, ate a meal, and went to bed. The next day, he told everyone Faniry had finally left him and gone back to
Madagascar. No-one was surprised."
He paused again. His guests sat motionless, their eyes turned towards him.
"Of course," he continued, "Sixty-five was a bad year for red Bordeaux. Except for Pierre's. That was the extraordinary thing. It won
award after award, and nobody could understand why."
The general's wife cleared her throat.
"But, surely," she said, "you didn't taste it?"
"No, I didn't taste it, though Pierre did assure me his wife had lent the wine an incomparable aroma."
"And you didn't, er, buy any?" asked the general.
"How could I refuse? It isn't every day that one finds such a pedigree."
There was a long silence. The Dutchman shifted awkwardly in his seat, his glass poised midway between the table and his open
lips. The other guests looked around uneasily at each other. They did not understand.
"But look here, Gruse," said the general at last, "you don't mean to tell me we're drinking this damned woman now, d'you?"
De Gruse gazed impassively at the Englishman.
"Heaven forbid, General," he said slowly. "Everyone knows that the best vintage should always come first."
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Yeay! Its the end of the story. I know. Its bored. I'll try to do more interesting story soon. Bye!
