1
They did not make wine in this other Landricourt, nor rosewater either.
It seemed a waste to Oriane, for the house was as full of abundant blooms as the Landricourt she knew. And what vivid hues, and such fragrance! She felt sure they would produce a wine of exceptional flavour, and lamented to see them left ungathered.
She had raised the matter, once, with the gentleman in the plum-coloured coat, but he had given it short shrift. ‘It is useless,’ he had said in his cool way, and refused to be further drawn on the subject.
‘What matter that?’ Oriane had replied. ‘Of what use is wine ever supposed to be?’ But this question had gone unanswered.
She was more tolerated than welcomed. Her appearance there had been greeted with no surprise at all, to her puzzlement, but she could interest
