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Updated: June 16, 2025
The Clos de Vougeot which, to the educated palate, is art, literature and song combined, meant nothing more to her than if it had been Médoc. She drank it because it was there at her hand, as she would have drunk water, without savouring it, without any realisation of the enormity of the crime. Yet though it meant nothing, nothing at least of which she was aware, the royal crû was affecting her.
Besides the washerwomen in the Clos, she always saw the same poor, ragged little children playing or sleeping in the grass. The spring this year was unusually mild. She was just sixteen years of age, and until now she had been glad to welcome with her eyes alone the growing green again of the Clos-Marie under the April sunshine.
It seemed a pity that somewhere about the inn, deep in some long disused cellar, there were not a few just a few bottles of old wine, a half-dozen port of 1815, one or two squat bottles of Madeira brought over by men who knew Washington, an Yquem of '48, a Margaux of '58, a Johannisberger Cabinet not forgetting the "Auslese" of '61, with a few bottles of Romani Conti and Clos de Vougeot of '69 or '70, not to exceed two or three dozen all told; not a plebeian among them, each the chosen of its race, and all so well understood that the very serving would carry one back to colonial days, when to offer a guest a glass of Madeira was a subtle tribute to his capacity and appreciation.
Why should we not spend some space in endeavouring to discover which of us hath the wrong side in this important matter?" "Nay," said Queen Mary, "I never alleged my force was strong enough to accept of a combat en champ clos, with a scholar and a polemic. Besides, the match is not equal.
Richelieu was in truth the most eminent of that race of seducers by profession, who furnished Crébillon the younger and La Clos with models for their heroes. In his earlier days the royal house itself had not been secure from his presumptuous love.
"I've seen him worse, many times, and no harm come to him." "Well, get on!" He told how Mrs. Tom woke him up in the morning, and how they had all gone in search of the missing man. "Was it you that found him?" "No, it was Charles Guille of Clos Bourel. But I found something too." "What was it?"
Dat sho' did scatter dat lot ob Masons and frum dat time on de spirits ob dese men roamed dis chu'ch. Sometime in de dead ob night, dat bell wud ring loud an' clear, wakin' all de folks. Down dey wud come, clos' like, to de chu'ch, but scared to go closer. Mr. Bill Crabtree, a rich man an' a man whut wuz scared too, offered anybody $100.00 to go inside dat chu'ch an' stay one hour.
A wild scream that shrilled along the night and woke Plaisance and Clos Bourel and Vauroque, and the great white devil reared to his fullest with wildly beating forefeet, toppled over backwards, and disappeared with one hideous thud and a final crash on the shingle of Coupée Bay. It was worse than they had ever dreamed as bad almost as some of Gard's own nightmares. "Good God! Good God!
"We all woah jeans clos', jes pants an' jacket. In de summah we chilluns all went barefoot, but in de wintah we all woah shoes." "Ol' Marse John an' his family liv in a big fine brick hous'. Marse John had des chilluns, Miss Betty an' Miss Ann an' der wuz Marse Mike an' Marse John. Marse John, he wuz sorta spiled lik.
James's; could talk to Monsieur Barbeau, in Monsieur B.'s native language, much more fluently than most other folks, discovered a very elegant and decided taste in wines, and could distinguish between Clos Vougeot and Romande with remarkable skill.
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