Free Mayhem in Margaux by Jean-Pierre Alaux, Noël Balen Page A

the plantings, the château, the outbuildings, one well, two springs, and forested areas. At the end of a short trail along the river, there was a rectangular building near a woods. Benjamin put his finger on the map and turned to Virgile.
    “Here it is—the sheepfold. We just have to find the sheep.”

11
    They hid the Peugeot behind a mulberry hedge and slipped down a narrow path lined with weeds and yellowed nettles. A deafening concert of crickets drowned out the cries of seagulls soaring slowly above the river. Making sure that no one was watching, they jumped over a low wall and climbed up the slope where the last vines of the Gayraud-Valrose were standing.
    “It never ceases to amaze me,” Virgile said quietly. “It’s just a miracle to see all these grapes growing in the middle of the scree. Who would believe it?”
    “I must say that this soil is among the poorest for grapevines. Very little loam and an abundance of gravel. But look at all these beautiful stones! Centuries and centuries of Garonne floods that have carted, rolled, and polished rocks torn from the Pyrenees. Some of them are magnificent.”
    Squatting among the vines, they picked up and inspected the sun-warmed stones. Hyaline quartz—blond, purple, and occasionally white if no metallic oxide had tinted them—Jurassic chert, green sandstone, pink and light gray quartzite, shimmering agate, and golden and anthracite flint.
    Benjamin watched Virgile’s excitement grow as he looked for the most enticing specimens. He gathered them one by one, plunging his hands with delight into the precious piles of stones that smelled of the earth. He filled the pockets of his trousers with the finest examples. Benjamin explained that artisans had once fashioned costume jewelry out of these volcanic and sedimentary stones. In fact, the rocks of the Médoc rivaled those of Bristol, Cayenne, Alençon, and the Rhine.
    Virgile listened attentively while continuing his treasure hunt.
    “They say that under the reign of King Louis XVI—I think it was shortly before the storming of the Bastille—Count Hargicourt, who was lord of Margaux at the time, made a big impression at Versailles. He arrived wearing a powered wig, silk stockings, beribboned shoes, and a lace jabot. His coat was adorned with dozens of buttons that sparkled like diamonds. People marveled as he passed by. Women whispered. The petty nobles were envious, and finally this sparkling coat came to the king’s attention. Imagine the scene: the corpulent Louis XVI approached the count, looked him up and down—from his feet to the last hair on his wig—and before all his courtiers, said, ‘Sir, you look like the wealthiest man in the kingdom!’ Imagine Hargicourt’s embarrassment. He must have been red in the face. But then, with great wit, he gave the monarch a simple and provincial response. He looked at his king with humility and said, ‘Sire, I am merely wearing the diamonds of my land.’”
    “That’s a great story, boss.”
    “Legend has it that other aristocrats asked local children to gather diamond-like rocks for them. It seems they paid a high price for the times. I don’t know if this story is true, but it’s fun.”
    They whispered as they remained crouched in the foliage and tried to go undetected. But this plot at the edge of the property was deserted. No workers. No sounds of agricultural equipment. The way seemed clear, so they carefully stood up and searched the horizon, which was quivering in the heat. Behind a copse of trees, a stone building with a crumbling roof was hidden under ivy and other growth. Benjamin and Virgile approached cautiously, still wary of being spotted.
    The door of the abandoned sheepfold was hanging by one rusty hinge. Benjamin and Virgile stepped through a curtain of nervous little flies and entered the building. A pestilential odor immediately assailed them. The heat was dreadful, intensified by the sheet metal workers had used in failed attempts to