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

injuries, the Cazaubon players were said to be invincible.
    “Shit, you guys play like animals!” the former wing of the Bergerac rugby team teased his friend as he came out of the shower.
    “Friendly game or championship match, it makes no difference. Show no mercy! But you play awfully well for someone who hasn’t touched a ball in a few years,” Joachim replied.
    Virgile grinned.
    The Cazaubon coach appraised Virgile with the eye of a horse trader. “Is your pal from around here?” he said, looking at Joachim. “Think he’d like to play for us?”
    “Ask him yourself, but I don’t think we could afford him,” the striker said, sounding mysterious.
    Virgile, with a towel around his waist, pretended not to hear. The man in the sweat suit put a hand on his shoulder and made the offer in a tone meant to be polite.
    “Too bad, but I just signed with Toulouse,” Virgile answered without blinking.
    “Oh, really?” the coach said, taken aback. “And what’s your name?”
    “Galthié. Virgile Galthié. The cousin of the one you’ve heard of. Yes, that one, the former captain of the national rugby team.”
    The Cazaubon coach looked stunned and turned to Joachim. “When you have friends like that, let me know,” he said in a hushed voice. “And don’t waste any time.”
    As soon as the coach had turned his back, the two accomplices grinned at each other, trying hard to suppress their laughter.
    In keeping with his agreement, Virgile didn’t engage in any post-game celebrating. He settled for a bock beer at the Café de la Poste. This gave Joachim the opportunity to introduce his teammate for a day to his heartthrob, a slender brunet beauty. Her name was Constance.
    As soon as he saw her green eyes and graceful figure, Virgile knew he was in trouble. Obviously, he couldn’t compromise his new friendship. So he decided to call it a night and go back to Labastide. He was tired from the match, anyway. But he had a hard time banishing the vision of Joachim’s girlfriend from his brain, and he slept fitfully.

9
    The Estang church was too small to accommodate the crowd at Aymeric de Nadaillac’s funeral service. But Father Péchaudoux, addressing the confined assembly in coats reeking of mothballs and dried lavender, was clearly in his element, and the Mass went on and on. The priest’s voice rose to the rafters as he swept from one part of the liturgy to the next.
    “Receive, oh Lord, into your kingdom your servant Aymeric, who, during his life on earth, never ceased working with determination, devotion, and selflessness for the good of the vineyards.”
    Behind a dark veil, the Nadaillac widow stared at the coffin through the entire service. Looking dignified in black, her daughter and son-in-law worshipped at her right.
    When the pipe organ started playing the majestic recessional hymn, the pallbearers picked up the oak coffin and began walking down the center aisle. The family followed. As the casket passed each pew, the men lifted their berets and bowed before the remains of the last of the great figures of the farmers trade union.
    Once the mourners were outside the church, though, the gossip started. Everyone was speculating on Nadaillac’s successor as head of the Armagnac Promotion Committee, and there was hardly any agreement.
    “The son-in-law will definitely make a run for it,” some said.
    “Don’t be stupid. Old Castayrac has the election wrapped up,” others predicted.
    From a distance, Benjamin watched Jean-Charles de Castayrac. He was wearing an appropriately solemn expression. But privately, Castayrac had to be gloating. With Nadaillac out of the way, his election as committee chairman was in the bag.
    Benjamin stood beside Philippe and Beatrice de Bouglon at the cemetery. As was the tradition in Gascony, everyone threw a handful of earth on the coffin before making the sign of the cross. The winemaker followed suit and extended his condolences to the family at the cemetery gate. He was