Free The Beast of the Camargue by Xavier-Marie Bonnot Page A

glanced at de Palma before he grimaced and bent back over his glass.
    â€œWe taste each variety so as to decide which one we’re going to send to the miller, and which ones we’re going to dilute and flavor, such as Salonenque, Lucques or Grossane, and then sell in bottles. A lot of it goes abroad, especially to the U.K. and Germany.”
    Bartel suddenly came alive. He wriggled on his seat, his eyes flashing.
    â€œThis one is more mature,” he said, raising his glass in front of his animated eyes. “It has notes of toast and hints of rosemary. Just enough, no more. It’s extremely fine … And beautiful, just beautiful.”
    He twisted his glass, while the other tasters adopted serious expressions and confirmed the chief expert’s diagnosis.
    â€œWe’re aiming to get an
appellation d’origine controlée
,” Ingrid said. “That would bring us some sizeable business opportunities.”
    De Palma felt about as relaxed as a young actor struck by amnesia.Madame Steinert went over to him, laid a hand on his forearm and said softly:
    â€œI think that we have a lot of things to talk about. If you have the time, of course. As a matter of fact, I was expecting you.”
    She turned back toward the tasters, delivered a few remarks, cutting the air with a swipe of her right hand, and arranged to meet them later that afternoon to continue their deliberations. She then beckoned discreetly to de Palma to follow her indoors.
    The farmhouse living room was huge and worn by time. Four narrow windows looked out over the terrace and, in the distance, rows of olive trees.
    â€œMy husband never altered anything,” she said, with a sweeping gesture. “At least, not in this part of the house. He was rather mystical … He used to say that we shouldn’t change the old ways. Hence the lack of luxury. Simplicity, always more simplicity. Practically the whole place is the same, apart from the few rooms I dealt with myself and decorated as I wanted.”
    The whitewashed walls were hung with a hunting rifle, a set of battered copper saucepans and a few paintings, presumably by Provençal artists, which slumbered in the darkness alongside a couple of abstract canvases. These were the only touches of wealth in this decidedly peasant décor.
    â€œWilliam finally agreed to putting up these pictures, after years of arguing … As you might imagine, there were no works of art here originally. People just worked and had no leisure time at all.”
    â€œBut you also have a tennis court, horses and a swimming pool!”
    â€œOh, you noticed?” she said with a broad smile. “But it was I who wanted them, not my husband. Although he did take a dip sometimes, when it was really hot.”
    The entire place created an odd impression. Why had Steinert left everything as it was? Why hadn’t he wanted to leave his stamp on it?
    De Palma could not help thinking about the former owners. How long had the same family lived in this farmhouse? There were probably still some descendants.
    She disappeared for a moment, then came back with a massivephotograph album, which she put down on the table before inviting him to sit down beside her.
    â€œI’d like to show you some pictures of my husband. I think it might help you to get to know him better.”
    She opened the first page of the album delicately, as though it were an ancient grimoire. De Palma leaned forward and saw a typical marriage photograph: William Steinert, wearing a pearl gray morning jacket, stood to the left, a top hat in the crook of his right arm, and a rather carnivorous grin on his face; to the right, Ingrid, wearing a diadem set with diamonds, and holding a bouquet in her left hand, was pouting at the photographer. The whole thing looked highly conventional.
    The second shot she lingered over was a portrait of a young Steinert, with a John Lennon haircut from before the hippy era. He looked like a