Free Cognac Conspiracies by Jean-Pierre Alaux, Noël Balen Page B

well as I that there is a fine art to finding the right blend,” Benjamin said, looking directly at Marie-France.
    The winemaker and his assistant finally accepted just a few drops of cognac in their coffee. Benjamin sniffed the old eau-de-vie and admired the scents of sandalwood, lychee, and passion fruit.
    “Mr. Cooker, let’s give time the time it needs,” Solmihlac said.
    Marie-France offered more cognac.
    Benjamin and Virgile politely declined. Fauret de Solmilhac held out his glass. He was staying at the château, after all, and didn’t need to worry about driving. Benjamin was dying to get back to the hotel without any more incidents involving the keystone cops. The previous week’s ticket and fine were sufficient reasons to decline any more alcohol.
    Benjamin watched his assistant as Marie-France, the seductress, slipped away in favor of national and family interest. She had luxuriated in having two lovers at her table. In this area, as in so many others, she excelled. Benjamin didn’t know if his young assistant, vulnerable despite all his worldliness, would ever forgive her.

9
    The next day, Benjamin meandered through the beds of Gallica rosebushes with the curiosity of a botanist ready to delight in each and every specimen. Over there was the Belle de Crécy, with its thorns, alongside the Duchess of Angoulême and the Belle Éveque dressed in purple. He admired the perfect Ombre and the exquisite Tricolore de Flandres and then, farther on, over the little Japanese bridge, the Alba roses, vigorous and rustic and never more beautiful than in June. On this spring morning, the rosebuds were giving off a musky scent under black clouds racing across the sky and squadrons of swallows excited by the ocean winds.
    Benjamin focused on each flower as Sheila dazzled him with her ability to name the varieties planted over the years since her writer companion, Styron, had ended his life for reasons never clearly understood.
    Sheila Scott was already talking about the flowers to come, the ones that would take root there, in the shade of the linden tree, and those that would soon climb the trellises, not to mention the tea roses, the ones from China, their double flowers so lovely in shape and color. Here was a King of Siam, there a Triomphe du Luxembourg. The Englishwoman talked and talked. She seemed to be trying to keep her visitor at any price. Sheila dreaded saying good-bye. Although Benjamin was showing no eagerness to leave, the idea that her friend, her first love, might soon run off was unbearable.
    “May I offer you a cup of tea? I bought some Grand Yunnan. Don’t tell me you don’t have time!”
    “How could I refuse?”
    “So? Where are you with your assignment?”
    “Finished.”
    “Already?”
    “Not that it ever really began.”
    “What do you mean? You have a way of being so secretive, and I found it exasperating at the École des Beaux-Arts. Why can’t you simply say what’s on your mind?”
    “Because with the Lavoisiers, nothing is simple, and the Chinese are not exactly extroverts. Under those conditions, how can anything be clear?”
    For the occasion, Sheila had taken out her porcelain English teapot with a fanciful motif. She delicately lifted the lid and announced that the tea was not ready.
    “She’s going to be devoured by them before you know it,” Sheila said as she set out a small dish of chocolate cookies.
    “Maybe not.”
    “Are you really so naïve, Benjamin?”
    “One of Marie-France’s friends purportedly has convinced the Judas brother to sell him the shares he inherited when Pierre died.”
    “Oh, they found him?”
    “Evidently. He is living in Montreal, and he’s been investing in real estate.”
    “But the Asians will double their offer, and since that guy lives only for money, he won’t be able to resist very long.”
    Sheila’s English accent was more pronounced in the company of her compatriot. Benjamin thought it created a certain intimacy between