A History of Champagne, with Notes on the Other Sparkling Wines of France

by Henry Vizetelly

THE Champagne does not merely comprise vineyards producing some of the finest wine in the world. In parts it is covered by vast and luxuriant forests, where the pleasures of the chase are not lacking to the Champenois, who as a rule are eager in the pursuit of sport. In winter these forests are the resort of wild-boar, who haunt by preference the woods around Reims, journeying thither, it is said, by night from the famous forest of the Ardennes—the scene of Rosalind’s wanderings and Touchstone’s eccentricities, as set forth in As You Like It; and whose gloomy depths and tangled glens shelter not merely boars, but wolves as well.

In the villages of the Champagne on a cold winter’s morning, with it snowing or blowing, you are frequently awake before daylight by the noise of barking dogs, of horns sounding the departure, and of some vehicle rolling heavily over the stones. A party of sportsmen is proceeding to the meet. Jokes and laughter enliven the journey, but every one becomes silent and serious upon reaching the place of rendezvous, for the object of the gathering is the excitable and perilous boar-hunt.

In the Champagne it is no longer the fashion, as in Burgundy,

‘With javelin’s point a churlish swine to gore.’

The more certain rifle is the weapon usually employed, and these arms are now examined and carefully loaded. Meanwhile the reports of the keepers are attentively listened to. They have beaten the wood, each on his own side, accompanied by a bloodhound, and they inform the hunters what they have seen or found. Great experience is necessary to accomplish the rembuchement, as this tour of inspection is termed, in a satisfactory manner; and with some it is a veritable science. Eventually, after a discussion among the more experienced ones, it is decided to follow the scent which appears to be freshest; whereupon the dogs are brought up coupled, and let loose upon the trail. The attack now begins. There are always two or three piqueurs who follow the dogs, exciting them with their voices, and making all the noise possible, as long as the game has not been roused from its lair. Meanwhile the marksmen place themselves at the posts indicated by the president of the hunt, the most experienced being assigned the best spots, whilst those whose habit it is never to harm the boar go of their own accord ‘up wind’—that is, to bad places—thus causing the animal to ‘refuse,’ and to pass within range of guns that rarely let him escape unhurt.

At first the dogs raise a somewhat distant cry—perhaps one has followed a wrong scent—and some of the huntsmen remark in a low tone to themselves that after all they would have done better to have stopped at home, and turned out of their beds at a less unseasonable hour; then, at least, they would not be standing with frozen feet in the snow, and with colds in the head in perspective. But suddenly there comes a cry of ‘Vlô!’—the Champenois expression for designating the boar—‘Attention!’ ‘Look out!’ Then the report of a couple of shots, and finally the howling of the pack of dogs. Snow and cold are at once forgotten. Each man grasps his rifle and waits for the boar to pass by. The branches of the underwood creak and break; there is a noise as of a squadron of cavalry dashing into a wood; then, all of a sudden, a black mass is caught sight of approaching. But the boar is a cunning fellow; he has seen the sportsman who is in wait for him, or has scented his presence, and will pass out of range. Now that luck has betrayed the latter, he has to content himself with the rôle of a spectator.

So far as one can judge by the barking of the dogs, the boar is directing his course to where an experienced marksman is posted—one who is not about to fire his first difficult shot. Observe him: he is perfectly motionless, for the least movement might betray his presence; his eyes alone dart right and left in quest of the foe. Here comes the boar, passing like a cannon-ball along the line, and there is scarcely time to catch a glimpse of him between the reports of two shots, which succeed each other with the rapidity of lightning. The boar is by no means an animal easy to knock over. The forest roads are never more than ten to fifteen paces broad; and as there are marksmen both on the right and left, it is necessary to reserve your fire until the animal has crossed the road and is plunging again into cover. In addition to this, there are only two spots where a mortal wound can be inflicted upon the boar—either behind the shoulder or in the neck. Hit elsewhere, he will lose but little blood, and the only effect of the wound will be to render him more savage. He will rip up a dog or two, perhaps, and then rush off far away, without showing any further sign of injury. Boars carrying several bullets in their bodies, but rejoicing in capital health, as well as others covered with cicatrices, are frequently killed. Firing too high is a common fault with many marksmen, arising from the fact that in winter the boar’s bristles are very long and thick, and that each one stands on end at the sight of an enemy, thus making the animal look much higher on his legs than he really is.

But to return to our description of the hunt. The boar has just been hit by one of those rare marksmen, every bullet of whose rifle goes straight to its intended billet. Although struck, the animal continues his onward course, a couple of drops of blood which have tinged the snow with red showing unmistakably that he has not been missed. The dogs who follow him closely hesitate for a minute as they reach the roadway, but the leader has espied the spot where the boar was wounded; he sniffs the blood, and darts off again, followed by the pack, who have full confidence in his discernment. The dogs are torn and wounded by the thorns and briers which continually obstruct their path, for the boar rushes through the thickest and most inaccessible cover, in hopes of retarding the progress of his pursuers; but the hounds divine that their prey is near, and the most tired among them recover all their energy. Suddenly a great silence succeeds the furious yelping and baying of a short time ago. The boar is about to turn at bay. His strength is becoming exhausted, and feeling that he is doomed to die, he has faced round, with his back towards some inaccessible thicket, so as not to be taken in the rear, and confronts his pursuers, determined to die bravely and to sell his life dearly. It is no longer the baying of a pack in full cry that now rends the air, but isolated yelpings and plaintive howlings, such as watch-dogs give vent to when strangers are wandering round the house they protect.

Then comes the crowning feat of the hunt, and the most difficult to accomplish. The most intrepid marksman advances towards the dogs, his hunting-knife and rifle alike ready, the former to be made use of should the latter not suffice. He has need of great prudence and great coolness to accomplish his task, for directly the boar hears his approach he will unhesitatingly dash upon him. He must await the animal’s onslaught with a firm heart and steady hand, and only fire when sure of his aim. Often, however, the hunter is bothered by the dogs, which surround the boar on all sides, hang on to him from behind, and excite his fury. The position may become critical, and many a sportsman who has counted too much upon his nerve has found himself compelled to climb a tree, whence he has been able to ‘bowl over’ the enemy, without incurring any danger. It is needless to add that when discovered in this position he has felt very much ashamed at having resorted to such an expedient.