When Jules Le Grand dressed this morning, he dressed for business. He chose a lightweight navy suit, a silk shirt in sky blue and fine leather loafers which he wore sockless. Though he would be driving the team car along the route and his clothing would become creased and crumpled, he has enough suits in pristine condition to last until Paris. During the first two weeks of the Tour, Jules’s presence in the village each morning had a public relations function for Système Vipère; he had made himself readily available and consistently charming to journalists, officials and VIPs alike. This final week, Jules will go to the village as directeur sportif to the world’s number-one professional road racing team. He has no interest in journalists, officials and VIPs; in fact, he is all but blind to their presence, even contemptuous of their overtures. His sole mission, the raison d’être for his presence, is to seduce riders, to lure them into his fold. Other directeur sportifs will see him at work, stalking, talking, schmoozing, perusing. Short of keeping their entire teams tethered, they will be unable to prevent Le Grand’s inveiglement. They might avert their riders defecting providing they outdo Jules in the wage packets and flattery stakes. Jules is well aware that other directeurs will approach his Viper Boys, but he is confident that his team will remain loyal; apart from one domestique whose contract he has not renewed, and Jesper Lomers whose contract still needs signing.

Luca Jones visited the barber’s stall in the village for a haircut. Pleased with the result and buoyed by the glances from many a bella signorina (and signora too), he went to the Maison du Café stand for a cup of sweet coffee.

‘Allow me,’ said Jules Le Grand, suddenly at Luca’s side, fanning three sachets of sugar, adding the contents to the rider’s plastic cup without relinquishing eye contact or saying anything else. ‘I know what you like,’ Jules continued once he was stirring the cup which Luca held, ‘coffee with three sugars – right?’

‘Yes,’ said Luca, off his guard and self-kickingly dumbstruck.

‘Come,’ said Jules, walking well ahead, knowing, without turning, that the young rider would follow. They walked past the giant omelette stand, past the Coeur de Lion cheese extravaganza, to a small, open marquee to one side where there was a table with two chairs free towards the back, the others having been taken by local dignitaries and VIPs. Jules held back a chair for Luca and sat down himself once the rider was seated.

‘Yesterday,’ Jules started, ‘I witnessed something extraordinary. Something which once again filled my heart with passion for this great sport of cycling.’

Luca nodded earnestly. ‘Fabian,’ the rider interjected, ‘is an awesome rider. To suffer so much, to lose the maillot jaune and then to come back the very next day and win the Stage – incredible.’

‘I am not talking of Fabian Ducasse,’ Jules said surprisingly derisively, ‘I am talking of a young rider on his first Tour de France who suffered to the depths of his being on the heights of L’Alpe D’Huez.’