Free Flambé in Armagnac by Jean-Pierre Alaux, Noël Balen

between the Castayrac father and son. There will be blood.”
    “Why do you say that?” Virgile asked.
    “You’ll see. I have a hunch.”
    “That’s a clever notion, sonny!” said old Cantarel.
    Benjamin observed this exchange with interest. He was feeling so cozy in the warmth of this household, he could almost make coffee his exclusive morning drink.
    “I see all the coffee’s gone,” Evelyne said. “I’ll make some more.”
    “That’s very nice of you, but please don’t go to the trouble,” Virgile said. He had already left the table with Joachim, who was checking his watch.
    “I’m outta here,” Joachim said. “Will I see you later, Virgile?”
    Virgile agreed to accompany his new friend to rugby practice later in the day, as long as his employer didn’t object.
    “On one condition,” Benjamin said. “That you don’t spend the whole match on the bench, and no celebrating afterward. You know what I mean!”
    A wink between the two young men and a smile from the winemaker sealed the deal.
    The winemaker would have gladly prolonged the breakfast conversation, but Joachim was gone, and Cantarel was busy getting ready for the hunt. The woodcocks would not wait. Cantarel put on his winter coat, took down his Browning rifle from the gun rack, clipped on his cartridge belt, and headed to the door.
    “Anyway, when it comes to those two, one is as bad as the other,” the old man concluded. He whistled to his hunting dog, who turned out to be none other than the spaniel Benjamin had seen foraging in the village street.
    When the winemaker and his assistant left the Cantarel house for Château Blanzac, the weathervane on the church was spinning. The wind was blowing from Landes, and the dark sky in the west was confirming Philippe de Bouglon’s prediction.
    § § §
    The rest of the day brought little new information. Virgile sifted through the debris of the charred wine cellar, counting and recounting the cask hoops, as well as the necks of the broken demijohns, but his conclusions were unchanged. The estimates and calculations were significantly lower than what the baron had submitted on his insurance claim.
    After a heavy lunch at an inn in Mauvezin-d’Armagnac, Benjamin slipped into his room at Château Prada, determined to work on his report. This could only be accomplished, of course, if his friend didn’t try to distract him with an on-the-spot tasting of the robust and fiery eau-de-vie straight from the still. He would never be able to resist temptation if Philippe appeared at his door with vials wafting fragrances of pear, plum, and lime.
    In fact, Benjamin Cooker didn’t write more than two lines of his report that afternoon, as the call of the mouthwatering Blanche d’Armagnac, with its finesse and irresistible aromas, was too powerful. It got the better of both Benjamin and Philippe. The two ended the evening slouched in their armchairs. Feeling bawdy, they took turns recalling the women they had romanced in their youth. On occasion, they had even gone after the same girl.
    “Those were the days,” Philippe said, his eyes glassy.
    “Yes, but these days are better, my friend,” Benjamin responded. He smiled and closed his eyes. “Who would have thought we’d end up with such fine wives? ‘There is only one happiness in life, to love and be loved.’”
    “George Sand.”
    “Correct you are,” Benjamin said. Then the look of bliss left his face and he sat up. “But the goings on in Labastide bring to mind Jean-Paul Sartre: ‘Commitment is an act, not a word.’ That is a lesson lost on some.”
    § § §
    The strong smell of camphor floated through the Cazaubon stadium locker room. Several players had suffered bumps and bruises, and the trainer, a puny loud-mouthed guy with agile fingers, was busy massaging calves and shoulders that ached from the blows. Joachim and Virgile had emerged unscathed from the practice match against the Villeneuve-de-Marsan team. Despite the minor