French establishment accused of closing ranks around hero who shot his wife in drunken rage.

Buzzle.com

August 14, 2004

Last Sunday morning, Marc Cécillon, 45, woke up in a police cell, with an aching head and a mind full of questions. He called for his wife, 'Chantal, Chantal', but gendarmes came instead. 'I want my wife,' said the rugby star. 'You can't have her,' said the officers. 'She is dead. You shot her last night.'

Gendarmerie Lieutenant Luc Vanaud says that when 6ft 4in Cécillon was told that, at a party the previous night, he had killed his 44-year-old wife, he refused to believe it. 'But I love her. She means everything to me, I owe her everything,' he said repeatedly, then crumbled. Since then, Vanaud said, the 'Quiet Man' of French rugby has been monosyllabic.

Whatever the domestic details that led one of France's toughest, most dependable rugby figures to kill his wife with four shots from a .357 magnum, it seems Cécillon's mental disintegration began years ago and came to head after his retirement last year.

If Chantal was the victim of male brutality, Marc fell prey to fame, alcohol, shyness and, it seems, a terrible need to be loved.

That Saturday night, at least 60 people were enjoying the end-of-season party at the Flosailles villa of Christian and Babeth Beguy, near Bourgoin. A marquee had been erected in the garden and spirits were high in the best traditions of rugby parties among the players of top-16 club Bourgoin and local sides Pont-de-Chéruy and Saint Savin. The host's oldest friend, Marc Cécillon - 46 times capped for France, five of them as national captain - was guest of honour.

Chantal, a medical secretary who had married Cécillon when she was 17 and had two daughters by him, arrived on time but without her husband.

That was not unusual; he had spent the afternoon riding his Harley-Davidson and would be along later. The couple were known to have their differences and, among the rugby wives, there were rumours of a mistress and a son born out of wedlock.

When he arrived, at about 11pm, Cécillon was drunk. Almost immediately, he flew into a rage against his hosts and, according to some accounts, he slapped Madame Beguy before leaving the party. A few moments later, just before midnight, the Beguys' teenage son, Alexandre, was in the bathroom of the family house.

Through the window, he saw Cécillon returning down the driveway to the house, which is lined by a maize field on one side and a vineyard on the other. He saw him tuck a gun into his shorts. The teenager ran to warn as many guests as possible that Cécillon was armed, and suggested they move further into the garden.

But Cécillon, a terrifying colossus when drunk, headed straight towards Chantal, who was sitting at a table with friends. He shot her four times, in the arm, chest and head. As guests tried to overpower him, Alexandre threw a breezeblock which hit Cécillon on the back but, according to witnesses, made no impression. Several of the guests finally managed to tackle Cécillon to the ground. Gendarmes say that when they arrived, he had been tied to a chair with electrical cord and was asking for Chantal.

The humiliating scene of the disabled, incoherent giant was in stark contrast to the image of Cécillon in France and the rest of the rugby-playing world. The former back-row forward and number eight, was first capped in 1988 against Ireland after entering first division rugby with Bourgoin at the age of 17. His 22nd cap, in 1992, was marked by him being named captain, though he said he felt uncomfortable with the responsibilities of the role.

He continued to be selected for France and played his last international in 1995 at the Five Nations in Dublin. In 1989, he was named as the number eight in an all-star line-up to mark the centenary of the South Africa Rugby Football Union.

Cécillon's friend of 15 years, retired rugby player Jean-François Tordo, saw him on the fateful Saturday afternoon. 'Marco was on his Harley. He dropped by for a coffee and stayed about two-and-a-half hours,' said Tordo, 40, who runs the Insolite lakeside restaurant near Flosailles. 'We had played boules the night before and he had won. He wanted to stay on and play again. He did not want to go to the party.

'Marc was always being invited for drinks, to parties - people looked good if they had him as a guest and they bragged if they had spent an afternoon drinking with him. He couldn't say no but he found it a burden to be in such demand.

'He was a man with no limits. He did everything with passion. In a way, I think there was love in what he did - in killing her, I mean. At least there wasn't evil. I think what happened was the result of an accumulation of years of unexpressed emotions. He needed affection, he needed his friends but, equally, he did not show his emotions. He was this giant iceberg and we only saw the tip of him. As his friend, I feel I should have been more sensitive to the pain under the surface.'

Tordo's wife, Pascale, in common with other women who knew the couple, gives a harsher view of Cécillon.

'He was a drunk. He drank, he screwed, and he always got away with it because he was Marc Cécillon. That's what 20 years of alcohol does to you - little by little it destroys you. Marc could not cope with his life. When you kill your wife, you are killing your life,' she said.

Further up the road, at the L'Aventure Café in Chantal's home village, Vénérieu, the Cécillon drama is the central focus of conversation. But that doesn't mean everyone is siding with Chantal. Rather, it's a men/women thing, with villagers refusing to demote Cécillon from the hero status he earned in 27 years of rugby. One man even suggests 'it takes guts to shoot your wife'.

The women, on the other hand, suggest the heavy-drinking, macho rugby fraternity has closed ranks. 'Cécillon was a madman,' says one woman. 'If he came anywhere near you, there would be trouble.'

At the rugby stadium in Bourgoin, where a stand was named after Cécillon last year, club chairman Pierre Martinet said the 'Quiet Man' appeared to have had trouble adapting to ordinary life - and a job as a salesman of artificial sports turf - when his professional career ended last year. 'I have known Marc for 12 years. I often saw him with Chantal, who was very proud of him. I never noticed problems between them and I never personally saw him drunk. But it is clear that his recent lack of activity tended to incite him to drink.' Earlier this year, sensing Cécillon was struggling with life as a ex-player, Martinet appointed him honorary manager of Bourgoin and put him in charge selling corpo rate VIP suites at the club's stadium.

It was a role which aimed to keep him on the inside of the game - which he finally left last year after a season with Fédérale 2 team Beaurepaire. No one can save another man,' said Martinet. 'If those of us who knew Marc put our hands to our hearts, we have to admit there were problems with alcohol and giving up playing. But no one had the full story. No one really knew what went on at home. It is too easy to be wise after the event.'

Cecillon 'depressed when he shot wife'