He displayed to Racksole’s bewildered gaze, in their due order, all the wines of three continents—nay, of four, for the superb and luscious Constantia wine of Cape Colony was not wanting in that most catholic collection of vintages. Beginning with the unsurpassed products of Burgundy, he continued with the clarets of Médoc, Bordeaux, and Sauterne; then to the champagnes of Ay, Hautvilliers, and Pierry; then to the hocks and moselles of Germany, and the brilliant imitation champagnes of Main, Neckar, and Naumburg; then to the famous and adorable Tokay of Hungary, and all the Austrian varieties of French wines, including Carlowitz and Somlauer; then to the dry sherries of Spain, including purest Manzanilla, and Amontillado, and Vino de Pasto; then to the wines of Malaga, both sweet and dry, and all the ‘Spanish reds’ from Catalonia, including the dark ‘Tent’ so often used sacramentally; then to the renowned port of Oporto. Then he proceeded to the Italian cellar, and descanted upon the excellence of Barolo from Piedmont, of Chianti from Tuscany, of Orvieto from the Roman States, of the ‘Tears of Christ’ from Naples, and the commoner Marsala from Sicily. And so on, to an extent and with a fullness of detail which cannot be rendered here.
At the end of the suite of cellars there was a glazed door, which, as could be seen, gave access to a supplemental and smaller cellar, an apartment about fifteen or sixteen feet square.
‘Anything special in there?’ asked Racksole curiously, as they stood before the door, and looked within at the seined ends of bottles.
‘Ah!’ exclaimed Babylon, almost smacking his lips, ‘therein lies the cream of all.’
‘The best champagne, I suppose?’ said Racksole.
‘Yes,’ said Babylon, ‘the best champagne is there—a very special Sillery, as exquisite as you will find anywhere. But I see, my friend, that you fall into the common error of putting champagne first among wines. That distinction belongs to Burgundy. You have old Burgundy in that cellar, Mr Racksole, which cost me—how much do you think?—eighty pounds a bottle.
Probably it will never be drunk,’ he added with a sigh. ‘It is too expensive even for princes and plutocrats.’
‘Yes, it will,’ said Racksole quickly. ‘You and I will have a bottle up to-morrow.’
‘Then,’ continued Babylon, still riding his hobby-horse, ‘there is a sample of the Rhine wine dated 1706 which caused such a sensation at the Vienna Exhibition of 1873. There is also a singularly glorious Persian wine from Shiraz, the like of which I have never seen elsewhere. Also there is an unrivalled vintage of Romanée-Conti, greatest of all modern Burgundies. If I remember right Prince Eugen invariably has a bottle when he comes to stay here. It is not on the hotel wine list, of course, and only a few customers know of it. We do not precisely hawk it about the dining-room.’
‘Indeed!’ said Racksole. ‘Let us go inside.’