Indeed it was. Fitzgerald’s thoughts were already turning to the silver Lamborghini he had coveted for many years.

“Shall we meet here again at ten o’clock tomorrow morning?” said Charlie. Putting on his sunglasses, he stopped on his way to the door. “Oh, there is one small service you could do for me.”

By this point, Fitzgerald would happily have stood on his head stark naked and whistled the “Marseillaise” if that had been required. “If it is in my power, I should be delighted.”

“Do you think I might take that opened bottle of the 2000 with me? I’d like to have the taste fresh in my mouth when I make the call tonight. It would give an extra je ne sais qui to my recommendation.”

“Quoi,” said Fitzgerald, unable to resist correcting the foreigner adrift in his language. “By all means. Let me find you a cork.”

Closing the front door behind Charlie, Fitzgerald went back to the tasting room, poured himself a glass of wine, and sat down to better enjoy the prospect of tomorrow’s million-dollar check. Maybe he should start thinking about a bigger apartment in New York, and a bigger boat in the Bahamas. He took a sip of wine. It really was very good; almost as good as he said it was.

Charlie collapsed in the first bar he came to and ordered a large brandy, high and lightheaded with elation. Even though he’d been acting the part, he had the giddy feeling that he had indeed just committed a million dollars of someone else’s money to buy one hundred and twenty bottles of wine. Superb wine, without any question; but was it Roussel’s wine? He gazed at the bottle Fitzgerald had given to him, worked out its approximate price, and marveled that anyone would pay so much for it. The emperor’s new clothes came to mind again.

The others were waiting for him in the lobby of the hotel: Max pacing up and down, Christie trying to concentrate on a copy of the Herald Tribune, Roussel idly turning the pages of L’Equipe. As Charlie came across to join them, their eyes went at once to the bottle in his hand.

“There you go,” he said, putting it on a low table in front of them. “At current prices, that bottle will cost you about eight thousand dollars. I’m giving you a discount because I’ve had a couple of mouthfuls. Very nice too.” He sat down and pulled off his bow tie as he fielded a barrage of questions from Christie and Max, while Roussel took out the cork and applied a thoughtful nose to the neck of the bottle.

Max interrupted his reflections. “Claude,” he said, “put the bottle down, because I think you might faint. Fitzgerald is asking a hundred thousand dollars per case for this wine. Your wine.”

Roussel’s eyes opened wide in astonishment, and he shook his head slowly from side to side. The world had gone mad. A hundred thousand dollars was more than he had been getting for an entire vintage. Anger would come later, but for the moment he was in a state of shock. “Tu rigoles, non?”

“No, I’m not joking. Now, what we need to know is whether or not it really is your wine, and you’re the only one who can tell for certain. You did bring that other bottle, didn’t you? To compare the two?” Max looked into his face and was relieved to see a confident nod. “Good. Why don’t you get it, and we’ll meet you in the bar.”

The bar was just off the hotel lobby, dedicated to the local beverage, dégustations encouraged. It was still too early for the daily invasion by parched businessmen who had not had a drop to drink since lunch, and the barman was happy for a little distraction. By the time Roussel had returned with the second bottle, tasting glasses, paper napkins, and an empty ice bucket for anyone who chose to spit had been arranged on the table in front of them.

They sat silent and expectant, all eyes fixed on Roussel as he poured the wine, held it to the light, swirled, sniffed, and tasted; swallowed, tasted again, considered.

“Bon.” He sucked his teeth and nodded several times. “This is my wine.”

Max leaned forward and put his hand on Roussel’s arm. “You’re sure, Claude? Really, really sure?”

Roussel stiffened, his face indignant. “Beh oui. I have known this wine since he was a grape. It is my wine.” He poured wine from the second bottle, tasted, and nodded again. “My wine.”

There was a collective sigh of relief, audible even to the barman, who had been watching and listening with avid attention. It took only the briefest of signals from Max to bring him over to the table; and seeing their smiling faces, he came with an expectant air. Happy customers, in his experience, drank and tipped much more lavishly than those who came to his bar simply to drown their miseries. “Je vous écoute, cher monsieur.”

“I think my friends deserve some champagne. A bottle of Krug, if you have one chilled.”

Krug would certainly be possible. Was there a special cause for celebration? The barman hovered, his eye fixed on the two unmarked bottles of Roussel’s wine. This being Bordeaux, unmarked bottles were of particular interest.

“A very promising vintage,” Max told him. “We’re going to drink to its success.”

Christie waited until the barman had gone in search of champagne before speaking. “No disrespect to Claude’s nose,” she said, “but don’t you think it would be smart to have an analysis done, just to be totally sure?” She looked at the faces around the table. “You know, like a wine DNA? There must be dozens of places here in town where they do that.”

According to the barman, indeed there were. What’s more, his brother worked at one of them, and, following a quick phone call, he agreed to send a messenger over to pick up the wine so he could do the analysis that evening.

With that settled, the toasts were proposed: to Roussel for making the wine, to Charlie for his virtuoso impersonation, to a giggling Christie for reasons that Charlie preferred not to disclose, to a prosperous future. By the time they went up to their rooms to change for dinner, the mood of the group was as effervescent as the champagne bubbling through their veins.

That mood was to be dampened, but only slightly, and not for long. Their new best friend the barman had recommended a bistro in the rue Saint-Remi-posters from the 1920s and long silvered mirrors on the walls, dark red moleskin banquettes, traditional good solid food-and they were deliberating over the menus when Max noticed that Roussel had fallen quiet.

“What is it, Claude? Something wrong? You’re not worried about the wine?”

Roussel tugged at his ear and pushed his menu aside. “I spoke to Ludivine before we left the hotel-you know, to tell her-and she said that Nathalie Auzet had called this morning.”

“What did she want?”

“She didn’t say. Ludivine told her I was away, and she said she’d call again tomorrow. Perhaps something about the contract for the métayage. I don’t know.”

Max waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t let it spoil your dinner. We’ll deal with her when we get back. Come on-what’s it to be?”

Dinner was long and increasingly convivial, followed by one last glass in the hotel bar to celebrate the results of the analysis. This confirmed the findings of Roussel’s nose, much to everyone’s relief.

It was well past midnight by the time Max got back to his room, where he found the little red eye of the message light blinking on his phone. Madame Passepartout had called: to remind him, no doubt, that he’d promised to bring her back a box of canelés, the small caramelized cakes-a Bordeaux speciality-that she loved with a guilty passion. He made a note on his pad before undressing, then took a bottle of Evian with him into the bathroom; a long shower and a liter of water last thing at night was a more effective cure for a hangover than any number of aspirin in the morning. The moment his damp head touched the pillow, he was asleep.