Letter from Chablis in the Month of Vendémiaire
To Monsieur Louis du Falentin:
Please forgive me for writing to you during this busy grape harvest and winemaking season, but the matter is urgent. Arlette has fallen gravely ill. As a father, I earnestly hope that the friendship you and my son formed over eleven years at the Saint-Étienne boarding school can help him through this crisis. If possible, please come to Granville Manor in Chablis as soon as possible. I look forward to your arrival.
Count Fernand de Granville
September 25, 1823
To the Honorable Count Fernand de Granville:
I was deeply shocked to receive your letter and will depart for Chablis as soon as possible.
Please take care of your health, and convey my regards to Arlette.
Louis du Falentin
Main Text: Vendémiaire · The Out-of-Towner
On October 8, 1823, as the grape harvest drew to a close, an ordinary yet bustling day in Chablis—a town renowned for its fine wines—was disrupted by the arrival of a simple, light "Coup" touring carriage. The sight piqued the intense curiosity of the small provincial town's residents.
The good horses pulling the carriage snorted restlessly from the fatigue of their long journey. The wheels rumbled over the uneven pavement, threading through narrow streets. Due to the poor planning of the old town, two carriages could never pass each other; one would have to yield. Fortunately, this carriage encountered no such obstruction. The houses lining the streets looked as ancient as the weathered cobblestones, making one wonder if they were even inhabited—though occasionally, a curtain would be subtly twitched, allowing curious eyes inside to observe the onlookers passing by.
In the quiet, solemn provincial town, rumors spread faster than any postman. When the carriage with a family crest entered Chablis, some guessed it belonged to a wine merchant. But this was quickly refuted—after all, the wine festival wasn't until November. Why would a merchant arrive now? New speculations arose immediately. Before long—even before 3 PM—it was already common knowledge among the well-informed gossips that a handsome young out-of-town squire had come to visit the declining Granville family.
Louis du Falentin, at the center of these rumors, was entirely unaware. In fact, he faced a bizarre situation he'd never imagined before departing from Mâcon.
"Wait—you're saying my friend Arlette isn't here at all, but has been in Paris this whole time?"
Louis du Falentin confirmed the strange truth twice with the Granville family's old butler. The butler swore that Master Arlette was indeed not at Granville Manor, adding that he believed the young master was in good health—at least, Count Fernand had never mentioned any illness. As for why the Count had invited Monsieur Falentin, that would have to wait until the Count returned from inspecting the vineyards outside town, which he would do shortly.
Learning that Arlette might not be ill, Louis—despite his long journey—felt immense relief.
"If Arlette is safe, that's the best news I could hope for! When I received the Count's letter, my heart nearly stopped from fear."
The distance from Mâcon to Chablis wasn't far for a young man, but travel was still tiring. While the butler prepared hot water for the guest's bath and asked the cook to ready dinner, Louis observed the ancestral home of his friend.
The old noble mansion, Granville Manor, featured a tall arched lintel. Above it, a long bas-relief of hard stone displayed the family crest—intertwined G and H—meticulously restored, signaling the current master's efforts to uphold past glory. The exterior walls, covered in heavy bluestone slabs, still bore traces of the master craftsmanship of bygone days. Yet, like the fine carvings on the obviously repaired windowsills, now partly obscured by gray stains, time had eroded them, leaving an air of inevitable decline. Inside the parlor, the floor had been renovated, but the paneling on the walls showed a dull, aged hue, clashing with the floor's shine. The fireplace, the parlor's centerpiece, once boasted exquisite white marble carvings, but neglect had yellowed it. The armchairs beside it, upholstered in fading velvet, all subtly reflected the current master's struggles to reclaim former glory—and the many obstacles he still faced.
Since Louis and Arlette parted at the Saint-Étienne boarding school at age 19, the two friends had only met twice: once before Arlette left for Paris to study law, and once at the death of Louis's father, Lucien du Falentin. Both meetings took place on Falentin family land. Arlette had once written to Louis, complaining that when he'd invited his friend to visit Chablis, Count Fernand had unhappily refused. Now, seeing the manor—something of a relic of a bygone era—Louis understood why the Count had been reluctant to extend an invitation.
Most old nobles of the past held such pride. Before the storm of 1789, no one expected it to strike so violently. In an instant, nobles lost their fiefs, manors, estates, and annuities, while the commoners they'd once disdained seized their properties. Even Louis's father had only been able to purchase his land afterward. When Napoleon was driven from France and the king was restored, old nobles regained a sliver of royal favor, but the power and wealth they'd lost were not easily recovered. Everywhere, in Paris and the provinces, there were old nobles like Count Granville, struggling to uphold their family's remaining honor and hoping to rise again.
At 5 PM, Count Fernand de Granville's carriage rolled into the manor's courtyard, stopping before the steps. It was a two-seater Coup carriage—ordinarily used by small landowners, an unusual choice for a count. Louis saw no other carriages on the premises.
The Count was tall, with the same black hair as Arlette. His face bore clear marks of both past nobility and the trials of time. When he saw Louis, he examined the young man with a stern gaze.
"You must be Monsieur Louis du Falentin of Mâcon?"
"Yes, Your Honor. Louis du Falentin offers you his greetings."
"Arlette has spoken of you often and conveyed your regards. He says you're a friend worthy of absolute trust." Perhaps the title "Your Honor" softened the Count's demeanor. "I didn't expect such a handsome young man."
"Your praise flatters me, Your Honor. It's my great honor to have your permission to visit."
As the Count exchanged pleasantries with his guest and entered the parlor, Louis walked half a step behind—a small detail of old noble etiquette that clearly pleased Count Fernand.
"You've traveled far. You must be exhausted." Count Fernand handed his coat to the butler. "Dinner should be ready. Please don't think me rude if it's simple. I know of the eleven-year friendship you and Arlette shared at Saint-Étienne. In my heart, I treat you like Arlette himself. I'd expected you to come after Vendémiaire, but you arrived so quickly."
"When I received your letter saying Arlette was gravely ill, I entrusted my affairs to my steward and set out immediately." Louis said, looking confused. "But Your Honor, your butler told me Arlette isn't in Chablis—he's been in Paris. Then why did you write that he was ill?"
Count Fernand glanced at Louis but didn't answer. Instead, he told the butler, "Bring in dinner."
The Count sat in the large velvet-upholstered armchair at the dining table—the parlor served as a living room, dining room, and storage space, showing the family could no longer maintain separate,體面 rooms, forced to live like commoners. Across from him was a matching velvet-upholstered spring-back chair. The Count looked at the standing young guest, a faint smile on his lips, quickly suppressed. He pointed to the chair opposite. "Please sit! Ah, I'm sure Arlette has complained to you—at home, he can't sit without my permission. But you're a guest; don't be拘束."
The young guest flushed, looking as if caught gossiping about an elder.
"Not at all, Your Honor. In your presence, I wouldn't presume to sit without your leave."
"You are indeed a polite young man. I'm happy for Monsieur Lucien du Falentin. He has a worthy heir who's managed the estate well, even after his passing. I hear you've run the land prudently, increasing the Falentin family's net income from 2,000 francs in Monsieur Lucien's time to 3,500 francs. Is that true?"
"You flatter me, Your Honor. It's merely due to good grape harvests these past two years. Compared to your family's wealth, the Falentins' income is trivial." Sensing the oddity of the word "indeed" in the Count's remark, Louis took his seat by the backrest chair and asked, "You seem well-informed about the Falentins' finances. Did Arlette tell you?"
The fire in the fireplace burned brightly, casting dancing light on the dim parlor and a huge, leaping shadow of the Count onto the wall.
Leaning back in his chair, perhaps exhausted from the day, the Count stretched slightly.
To the young squire's question, he replied: "Not Arlette—my boy, the Granville family still has a modicum of dignity, though little remains. For Arlette's sake, before writing to you, I wrote to your parish bishop to inquire about you."