The Patriarch: A Bruno, Chief of Police Novel by Martin Walker Page B

woman,” Madeleine said. “You ought to stick up for your fellow hunters.”
    “I don’t think there’s much hope of raising the funds for a refuge, but any form of amicable agreement is usually better than going to court,” he replied. “And I don’t think she’s crazy, just obsessed with saving her deer. I went to see her, and she obviously loves animals and has taken some very impressive photos of them. I was thinking we might try to mount an exhibition of them for her and see if we can raise some money that way.”
    “A lot of us are getting very fed up with the way these animal rights people and the Greens and vegetarians are getting more and more powerful,” Madeleine said firmly. “This is the Périgord, hunting is in our blood; we’re carnivores, just like our ancestors. Any ecology needs predators to stay in balance, and that’s the problem with this stupid woman. You may say she loves animals, but those deer of hers are starving to death. The population has to be controlled. I often think we hunters are the real protectors of the environment because we know that.”
    Bruno nodded politely. It was an argument he’d heard before, usually at election times when the Pêche-Chasse Party fielded a candidate, but the attempt to build a political alliance of hunters and anglers had faltered. They had once gotten 15 percent of the vote in the
département
of the Dordogne, but now they had just a few scattered councillors in rural communes.
    “I think the most likely outcome will be a cull,” he said amiably. “But it’s my job to try to find an acceptable compromise.”
    “Good for you,” said Raquelle. “I know Imogène a bit, both of us being members of the Green Party, and I used some of her photos when we were putting the computer models together. I like her and respect her commitment. But she can be infuriating, not the kind of person who’d ever want to compromise.”
    Raquelle poured out the rest of the wine and asked Bruno to open the next bottle. It carried the label Domaine du Patriarche, the vineyard run by Victor and Madeleine. Bruno knew it as a decent everyday wine with few pretensions. It was not a wine he bought himself, despite his reverence for the man for whom it was named. A drawing of the Patriarch, wearing an old-fashioned flying helmet, dominated the label. The reds were a competent blend of cabernet sauvignon and merlot; the whites an equally orthodox blend of sauvignon blanc and
sémillon
grapes. The vineyard prospered mainly through sales to local supermarket chains, where margins were very tight, but did better by selling direct to campsites and tourist restaurants in the summer.
    “You’re being diplomatic, Bruno,” said Madeleine, smiling at him but with a challenging look in her eye. “Tell me what you think of our wine.”
    “Very agreeable,” he said politely. “I’m only sorry that having to drive back means I can only drink half a glass.”
    She studied him coolly for a moment and then looked around at the others at the table before addressing him and smiling again. “We all know this wine is nothing special, but perhaps all of you ought to come out to the vineyard and taste the surprise we’re preparing.”
    “A special cuvée?” Clothilde inquired. “I love it when our local vineyards strive for something better.”
    “Very special,” Madeleine replied. “We’ve assigned a separate part of the vineyard, brought in a new winemaker from St. Émilion, bought new oak barrels to age it and to the white wine we’re adding about eight percent
muscadelle
grapes that we planted five years ago.”
    She leaned across the table and tapped the back of Bruno’s hand with elegant fingers that looked as though they had never worked in a garden, far less wielded grape scissors in a vineyard. “We’ve been planning this for years. And it will be a completely organic wine, fully certified. We’re going for a different market entirely, a real quality wine with a