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Updated: June 25, 2025
This character of the soil explains the peculiar flavor of the Soulanges wine, a white wine, dry and spirituous, very like Madeira or the Vouvray wine, or Johannisberger, three vintages which resemble one another. The powerful effect produced by the Socquard ball upon the imaginations of the whole country-side made the inhabitants thereof very proud of their Tivoli.
"Ha! there's no chance of grabbing that secret," replied Fourchon, "Socquard always locks himself in when he boils his wine; he never told how he does it to his late wife. He sends to Paris for his materials." "Don't plague your father," cried Tonsard; "doesn't he know? well, then, he doesn't know! People can't know everything!"
Nothing better than wine could be got at Tonsard's and the other taverns in the valley; from Conches to Ville-aux-Fayes, in a circumference of twenty miles, the Cafe Socquard was the only place where the guests could play billiards and drink the punch so admirably concocted by the proprietor. There alone could be found a display of foreign wines, fine liqueurs, and brandied fruits.
Gentle as a marriageable girl, Socquard, who was a stout, short man, with a placid face, broad shoulders, and a deep chest, where his lungs played like the bellows of a forge, possessed a flute-like voice, the limpid tones of which surprised all those who heard them for the first time.
The wall decoration of the cafe, relieved by mirrors in gilt frames and brackets on which the hats were hung, had not been changed since the days when all Soulanges came to admire the romantic paper, also a counter painted like mahogany with a Saint-Anne marble top, on which shone vessels of plated metal and lamps with double-burners, which were, rumor said, given to the beautiful Madame Socquard by Gaubertin.
The fellow had been hired by Socquard at the last annual fair; for in this valley, as throughout Burgundy, servants are hired in the market-place by the year, exactly as one buys horses. "What's your name?" said Rigou. "Michel, at your service," replied the waiter. "Doesn't old Fourchon come here sometimes?"
The beautiful Madame Socquard, whose gallant adventures surpassed those of the mistress of the Grand-I-Vert, sat there, enthroned, dressed in the last fashion. She affected the style of a sultana, and wore a turban. Sultanas, under the Empire, enjoyed a vogue equal to that of the "angel" of to-day.
"Two or three times a week, with Monsieur Vermichel, who gives me a couple of sous to warn him if his wife's after them." "He's a fine old fellow, Pere Fourchon; knows a great deal and is full of good sense," said Rigou, paying for his lemonade and leaving the evil-smelling place when he saw Pere Socquard leading his horse round.
"Now, Marie," said Socquard, standing before her, "people don't come here to fling stools; if you were to break one of my mirrors, the milk of your cows wouldn't pay for the damage." "Pere Socquard, your daughter is a reptile; I'm worth a dozen of her, I'd have you know.
To be struck before a rival by the man she loves is one of those humiliations that no woman can endure, no matter what her place on the social ladder may be; and the lower that place is, the more violent is the expression of her wrath. The Tonsard girl took no notice of Rigou or of Socquard; she flung herself on a bench, in gloomy and sullen silence, which the ex-monk carefully watched.
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