Other storehouses, built over the ground-floor so as to form a second story, are tastefully surrounded with terraces, on which you are strictly forbidden to smoke. These upper magazins are approached from the streets by inclined planes of road-way for the use of vehicles; pedestrians, by stepping up light iron staircases, may more readily breathe the air of the terrace, while sounds of tapping and wine-coopering mingle with the hum of the adjacent city, with the passing music of some military band, or with the roar and the scream of the captive creatures which are stared at by the crowd in the Jardin des Plantes. Vinous and spirituous smells float in the atmosphere from the full casks which lie about, in spite of the coating of plaster with which their ends are covered; and we draw nigh to the vaulted magazins of eau de vie, where every brandy-seller has his own proper numbered store, lighted from above by little square skylights, and where roam groups of inquisitive tasters, or spirit-rappers, anxious to pry into secrets that are closely veiled from the vulgar herd. The sanctum of the shrine is the Depotoir Public, or public gauging and mixing apparatus of cylindrical receivers, and glass-graduated brandyometers, and cranes for raising the barrels to the top of the cylinders. In this presence-chamber of alcoholic majesty, etiquette is strictly observed. Conformably with the rules and regulations of the Entrepôt, the conservator apprises Messieurs the merchants that they are required to mind their P’s and Q’s. It is no more allowable to meddle with the machinery, or to intrude behind the mystic cylinders, than it is to make playthings of the furniture which adorns the altar of a cathedral.
There are paradoxical facts connected with the Halle-aux-Vins which none but the thoroughly initiated can solve. Perhaps it may afford a clue to know that there are two emporia of wine and spirit at Paris; one, the Halle within the barrière, and, therefore subject to the octroi tax, and more immediately connected with the supply of the city itself—the other, Bercy, close by, but outside the barrière, and consequently filled with the goods yet untouched by the troublesome impost. Large as it is, the Entrepôt is not large enough; were it twice as big, it would all be hired. For, of all trades in Paris, the wine-trade is the most considerable. There are now nearly seven hundred wholesale merchants, and about three thousand five hundred retail dealers, without reckoning the épiciers, or grocers, who usually sell wines, spirits, and liqueurs in bottle; taking no account of the innumerable houses where they give to eat, and also give to drink. Not only is it the mission of Parisian commerce to moisten the throats of the metropolis, but it is the natural intermediary of the alcoholic beverages that are consumed in the vineyardless districts of France. The twentieth part of the produce of the empire travels to Paris. But, as the imposts on their arrival are very heavy and moreover press only on the local consumption, means have been taken to store the merchandise in such a way as not to pay the duty till the moment of its sale to the consumer. Hence, there is established on the bank of the Seine where Bercy stands, an assemblage of a thousand or twelve hundred cellars and warehouses—a sort of inland bonding-place—outside the limits of the octroi tax. These are hired by the merchants of the city as receptacles for their stock in hand.
The buildings of the Halle-aux-Vins, within the fiscal boundary, cost altogether thirty millions of francs, estimating the value of the site at one third of that sum. The speculation, however, has not hitherto responded to the hopes that were entertained at the time when it was founded. Whether the rentals (which vary from two francs and a half to five francs the superficial mètre), are fixed at too low a figure, or whether the wine-merchants, disliking to be watched and hindered in the performance of their trade manipulations, prefer their private magazins at Bercy, the Entrepôt brings in to the city of Paris no more than three hundred thousand francs clear a year, that is, about one per cent for the capital employed. That Jean Raisin is somewhere made the subject of certain mystic rites which are scrupulously screened from public observation may be proved by the simple rules of addition and subtraction.
The wine-trade of Paris amounts to two million two hundred thousand hectolitres; four hundred thousand are consumed in the banlieue, outside the barrière, and seven hundred thousand are sent away, to supply the northern departments. What then becomes of the one million one hundred thousand which are left at Paris? It is made into one million four hundred thousand hectolitres! It may be calculated from the price at the vineyard, the carriage, the taxes, and other etceteras, that unadulterated wine, of however inferior a quality, cannot be sold in Paris for less than half a franc, or fifty centimes, the litre. Now, for considerable quantities retailed in cabarets, the price is as low as forty centimes. The equilibrium is reestablished by clandestine and fraudulent manufacture. On ordinary common wines it is practised to the extent of increasing them on the average as much as three-tenths. Various sweet ingredients are fermented in water. A farmer travelling from Orleans in the same railway carriage with myself, showed me without the slightest hesitation, or concealment, a sample of dried pears which he was taking to Paris to sell to the Bercy wine-brewers. Very inferior raisins, dried fruits in general, and coarse brown sugar, enter into the magic broth. To complete the charm, an addition is made of some high-coloured wine from the south, a little alcohol, and a dash of vinegar and tartaric acid. Such preparations as these are harmless enough; they become grateful to the palate that is habituated to them; and certain adroit manipulators succeed in producing a beverage which attains considerable reputation amongst a wide circle of amateurs. Certainly the so-called petit Macon you get at Paris is a most agreeable drink, when good of its kind. At respectable restaurants, drinking it from a sealed bottle, you may reckon with tolerable safety on its genuineness. In wine shops, where wine is drunk from the cask, its purity is not so certain. The great test is, that manufactured and even light wines will not keep; they must be consumed, like a glass of soda water, as soon as they are ready for the lip. It is said that the lamented Fum the Fourth had a bin of choice wine which he would allow no one to taste, except on special occasions when he chose to call for it himself. But a king, however low he may descend, can hardly go down the cellar-steps with a bunch of keys in one hand and a tallow candle in the other, to decant his own favourite port and sherry. One morning, his Majesty decided that the evening’s feast should be graced by the appearance of some of the treasured nectar. Of course, the underlings had drunk it all themselves, except a single bottle, which they had the marvellous modesty to leave. What was to be done? A panting cupbearer was sent with the final remnant to procure from a confidential purveyor to the palace something as nearly like it as possible. “You shall have it by dinner-time,” said the friend in need; “and by letting me know any morning, you may have more to any extent you want. But,” said the benevolent wizard, in tones of warning—“but, remember, it must be all consumed the same night. It will not keep till next day.”
I hope the impromptu wine-maker was duly careful of the royal health. But in Paris there are said to be a number of cabaretiers, who, from the lees of wine mixed with a decoction of prunes doctored with logwood, sugar of lead, sugar, and eau-de-vie, metamorphose wholesome fountain-water into an infamous potion, which they shamelessly sell as the juice of the grape. The French Encyclopédie, in its article “Vin,” gives a large number of serviceable receipts, which may or may not have been tested at Bercy. If effectual, their value is beyond all price. An elixir to improve instantly the most common wine; A mode of giving to the wine of the worst soil the best quality and the most agreeable taste; A mode of giving to ordinary wines the flavour of Malmsey, Muscat, Alicant, and sherry; The manner of knowing whether there be water in the wine; The means of restoring wine that is changed; Remarks on bottles which spoil the wine; and, The method of improving and clarifying all sorts of wines, whether new or old; would alone be quite sufficient to make the fortune of any man who could scrape a hundred francs together, and with that immense capital start as Parisian wine-merchant. The particulars of these prescriptions are unnecessary for the reader, especially, seeing that I have given him the reference; but I cannot resist transferring for his edification, from L’Editeur, an Oran (Algerian) newspaper for the eighth of November last, an advertisement, giving real names relative to the Liqueur Trasforest, of Bordeaux:—
“This precious composition, very advantageously known for a long time past, and recently brought to perfection by its author, gives to wine of the most inferior crûs a delicious richness, which is easily confounded with the true richness of the Médoc; consequently, it is well appreciated by connoisseurs, who give it the preference over all preparations of this nature. Messieurs the proprietors, merchants, and consumers, who have not yet employed it, are invited to make a trial of it; there is no doubt as to their being convinced of its excellent properties by the advantages they will derive from it, especially to consignments to beyond the seas. [Much obliged to the philanthropic House of Trasforest.] A great number of retail dealers owe the preference which they enjoy, to this aromatic liquor, which is an agent proper for the preservation of wine, at the same time that it imparts to it a very superior quality and value by the delicate bouquet which it communicates.
“To employ the Liqueur Trasforest properly, you ought in the first place to whip up the wine; let it remain about fifteen days; and not add the Liqueur until the wine is drawn off, so that its mixture with the wine may be perfect. After several days of rest it may be put in bottle; the aroma keeps indefinitely. [That may mean for an indefinitely short period.] Twenty years’ experience and success prove that the high reputation of this excellent production is incontestably merited. A flask suffices to perfume, bonify, and age, a hogshead (barrique) of wine. Price one franc fifty centimes. An allowance of twenty per cent. to wholesale dealers. Orders attended to for ready-money payment. Beware of imitations.
“General entrepôt and special manufacture: Maison Trasforest, Rue Dauphine, 35, and Rue Saint-Martin, 56, opposite the Cours d’Albrest, Bordeaux. (Prepay orders and their answers.) Sole depôt in Oran at the office of the journal L’Editeur. At the same depôt may be had the Gelatinous Powder, for the complete, absolute, and instantaneous clarification of white and red wines, vinegars, eaux-de-vie, and liqueurs.”
THREE WIVES.
I have besides my town residence in Cecil Street—which is confined to a suite of two apartments on the second-floor—a very pleasant country-house belonging to a friend of mine in Devonshire; this latter is my favourite seat, and the abode which I prefer to call my home. I like it well when its encircling glens are loud with rooks, and their great nests are being set up high in the rocking branches; I like it when the butterflies, those courtly ushers of the summer, are doing their noiseless mission in its southern garden, or on the shaven lawn before its front; I like it when its balustraded roof looks down upon a sea of golden corn and islands of green orchards flushed with fruit; but most it pleases me when logs are roaring in its mighty chimneys, and Christmas time is come. Six abreast the witches might ride up them, let their broomsticks prance and curvet as they would. If you entered the hall by the great doors while Robert Chetwood and myself were at our game of billiards at its further end, you could not recognise our features. The galleries are studies of perspective, and the bare, shining staircases as broad as carriage ways. The library, set round from the thick carpet to the sculptured ceiling with ancient books, with brazen clasps, and old-world types, and worm-drilled bindings. The chapel, with its blazoned saints on the dim windows, and the mighty corridors with floors of oak and sides of tapestry, are pictures of the past, and teach whole chapters of the book of history: Red Rose and White Rose, Cavalier and Roundhead, Papist and Protestant, Orangeman and Jacobite have each had their day in Old Tremadyn House. When the great doors slam together, as they sometimes will, to the inexpressible terror of the London butler, they awake a series of thunderclaps which roll from basement to garret: many a warning have they given, in the good old times, to Tremadyns hiding for their lives, and many an arras has been raised and mirror slipped to right or left at that menacing sound. To this day, Robert Chetwood often comes anew upon some hold in which, those who ruled before him have skulked—sometimes in his own reception-rooms, but more commonly in the great chambers where he puts his guests. These chambers are colossal, with huge carved pillars bearing up a firmament of needlework, and dressing-closets large enough for dining-rooms. Every person of note who could or could not by possibility of date or circumstance have slept therein have had the credit of passing a night within Tremadyn House, from the Wandering Jew, Shakespeare, Queen Elizabeth, down to Charles the First, Peter the Great, and the late Emperor Nicholas. There has been more than one murder in the Red room, several suicides in the Blue, and one ghost still haunts those spots in expiation. Tremadyns in lace cuffs and wigs; in scarlet and ermine; in armour from top to toe, line both the galleries—sold by the last Charles Surface of a dissolute race for ten pounds ten shillings a head. One great Tremadyn dynasty has passed away; Robert Chetwood, late banker in the City of London, not so long ago banker’s clerk, now reigneth in their stead. The Tremadyns came in at the time of the siege of Jericho, or thereabouts, and the Chetwoods about ten years before the siege of Sebastopol; but there the advantage ceases. There is no man kinder to the poor, no man more courteous to all men, no man, whatever his quarterings, in all Devonshire with a better heart than Robert Chetwood. Tremadyn House is open to the county, as it ever was, and his old London friends are not forgotten; a hale and hearty gentleman indeed he is, but he has had many troubles; he is as happy as any man bereaved of children can be, and it was the loss of them that made him buy the house and give up his old haunts and busy way—