But as much as he desired the wine, he would not allow auction fever to seduce him into an absurd bid. He had set himself a firm $2,000-per-bottle limit before arriving—extravagant, perhaps, but not absurd. Not for Petrus ‘47.

His eyes snapped open at the sound of a delighted “Ah!” from somewhere in front of him and some scattered applause. That could mean only one thing. Dismay settled on his shoulders like a weight.

“The bid is now at twelve thousand for lot twenty-two,” the auctioneer said, directing his gaze at Luc. “Will the gentleman bid twelve-five?”

Hiding his fury, Luc looked down at his bidding paddle, no longer needed now that the bidders had been reduced to two. Who was on the other end of that cell phone? Some billionaire Japanese philistine, no doubt, with Renoirs on the wall and Lafite-Rothchilds in his cellar, a Hun pillaging Luc’s culture, whose appreciation of his spoils stopped at their price tags, reducing art and heritage to status symbols.

Luc wanted to grab the phone and scream You’ve got your own culture—keep to it! This is mine, and I want it back!

But he said nothing as he assessed the situation. What if the other bidder had set his own limit at $2,000 per bottle? That was a nice round figure. So if Luc went to twelve-five, that would exceed his own preset limit, but not by much. The price per bottle would be less than twenty-one hundred—exorbitant, but still shy of absurdity.

Luc nodded to the auctioneer and was rewarded by his own chorus of “Ahs” and appreciative clapping.

“And you, sir?” the auctioneer said, looking beyond Luc. “Will you go to thirteen?”

Another pause as his competitor, his foe, his mortal enemy, conferred with the mystery bidder. Luc continued to stare straight ahead.

A loud clearing of the throat and then a voice two rows back said, “Time to separate the men from the boys: fifteen thousand.”

Gasps, then applause. Luc could feel his face turning red.

“Sir?” the auctioneer said, looking at Luc with raised eyebrows.

Crushed and embarrassed, Luc could only shake his head. Twenty-five hundred dollars a bottle? The vintage had never gone for that price and he refused to be suckered into topping such an outrageous bid. May the corks be dry and crumbling and leaking air, may the wine have oxidized to vinegar, and may the swine on the other end of the line drown in it.

But Luc knew the wine would be perfect. He’d studied the bottles, how the wine rode high in the necks, how one capsule had been cut to reveal the firm, tight, branded cork.

He rose, placed the paddle on his seat, adjusted the cuffs of his charcoal gray suit jacket, and walked down the center aisle. The weight of the combined gazes against his back from the audience propelled him toward the door.

Time to separate the men from the boys…

Indeed… and at the moment he felt as if he were back wearing knickers.