Cognac Conspiracies by Jean-Pierre Alaux, Noël Balen Page A

need to do that,” Benjamin said.
    “Let me take care of it, boss. I’ve been feeling indebted to you lately.”
    The winemaker cracked a smile and emptied his glass of Louvière, uncapped his Havana, and watched his assistant beat a path between the tables and escape into the Allées de Tourny, where a beautiful brunette with a turned-up nose was waiting for him.
    Benjamin picked up the Le Figaro again and started to go through the leisure section. He spotted a review of the most recent issue of the Cooker Guide . The critics were being particularly nitpicky this year. No one would ever admit it openly, but he suspected it was because he had doubled the chapters on North American wines.
    § § §
    That night, Marie-France did not forego her moon bath. The light was warm and caressing. She stretched out on the sofa, thought of Virgile, imagined him in her brother’s arms, and could not fall asleep. The following day, she had a meeting in Cognac with a lawyer named Jolliet. He had been in charge of the estate since her brother’s death.
    “We need to meet very quickly,” the lawyer had said in a hushed voice. “Tomorrow at nine thirty will be perfect.”
    The lawyer’s office overlooked the Charente River. From the waiting room, Marie-France could see boats with the Hennessy flag carrying sightseers across the river, where gray wine warehouses rose up like cathedrals without steeples. Marie-France watched the spectacle with the pride of a company owner who had, until now, refused any touristy compromises. Lavoisier Cognacs didn’t have to go chasing after customers. Lavoisier customers, whether they were in New York, Hong Kong, Singapore, or Dubaï, were practically handpicked. But for how much longer?
    Marie-France was thinking about all this when she heard the refined voice of Mr. Jolliet.
    “My dear Ms. Lavoisier, always on time.”
    The lawyer’s dark and ostentatious office was as dusty as its occupant. With his snowy hair, badly trimmed beard, and waxy complexion, the Lavoisier attorney was from another era. His bowtie almost brightened the appearance of this man, bent with age or perhaps the weight of secrets in his charge. From among the files cluttering his Napoleon III-style office, he reached for the thickest one, cinched in a purple cardboard folder.
    “As you know, you and your older brother are, in fact, the only heirs. The absence of any will simplifies the procedure. Lavoisier Cognacs shares held by your deceased brother, or a little over thirty-three percent of the company, will be split between your brother, Claude-Henri, and you. Half will go to you, and half will go to him.”
    Mr. Jolliet paused, as if his explanation was not plain enough. He cleared his throat and added, “Do you follow me?”
    “Perfectly, Mr. Jolliet.”
    “Your brother informed me yesterday of his intentions.”
    “Everyone knows his plans. I read the paper just as you do, Mr. Jolliet.”
    “Yes, but the paper did not say that your brother refused the offer made by a certain Maurice Fauret de Solmilhac. Furthermore, your brother rejected the Cheng group’s offer to buy the shares at 2.3 million euros. Mr. Lavoisier has informed me that he does not wish to sell his shares but will henceforth sit on the board of directors of the company you manage.”
    Marie-France waited for an explanation of this turn of events but received none. She showed no reaction. Against all odds, the Lavoisier company, which had been up for grabs just a few days earlier, was finally safe.
    “Good, good,” she said simply, as though this wise decision was part of the natural order of things.
    Who had convinced Claude-Henri that he shouldn’t allow himself to be bought? It had to be the prime minister’s envoy. Marie-France felt like a pawn in the chess game of her life.
    Standing before the decrepit lawyer, she pretended that she had arranged the whole thing. With a shaky hand, she signed the documents.

12
    “Will you stop by the mill for