Letter from Paris/Lara Marlowe: There was much to envy about Marc Cécillon. The French athlete reached the top of his profession, playing 46 rugby matches with the French team and five times serving as captain.
In 1996, at the height of his career, Cécillon was decorated with the French Order of Merit. There were other honours: a biography entitled, The Quiet Man of French Rugby and a line of sports clothes called MC8, after his key number 8 position on the team. Bourgoin-Jallieu, his home town in the foothills of the Alps, renamed part of its sports stadium for him.
Two of Cécillon's most important matches were played against Ireland, and when his life descended into hell on earth this month, Le Monde reported that he was "considered by the Irish as one of the best players in the world".
At the Parc des Princes in Paris on 20 February 1988, Cécillon played for the first time in a Five Nations Championship. France beat Ireland 25 to 6. France won again at Cécillon's last Five Nations match at Lansdowne Road in 1995.
"He went on playing top-flight rugby until he was 40, which is very, very unusual," says Gerry Thornley, this newspaper's rugby correspondent.
"He has the looks of a Roman warrior; a real hard, tough, mean player, a grizzled French number 8, a very strong ball carrier, a big tackler."
None of which explains why Cécillon is now in prison, charged with murdering his wife Chantal, a medical secretary, on August 7th, a week after his 45th birthday. If convicted, he could face a life sentence.
The couple restored an old farm in the hamlet of Sablons, near Bourgoin-Jallieu. They raised two daughters, now aged 22 and 24. After the crime, a French gendarme told AFP that the Cécillons had "a difficult marriage" marked by frequent rows.
This was disputed by Pierre Martinet, the president of the Bourgoin-Jallieu rugby club: "I've known Marc for 12 years. I often saw him with Chantal, and she was very proud of him. I never noticed any problems between them."
Most of the 60 guests at the barbecue at Cécillon's best friend's home were members of the rugby club at Point de Cheruy, a neighbouring village. For some reason, this corner of the Isère department produces an inordinate number of rugby players.
Lise Alarcon, 20, is a rugby fan, and she arrived at the barbecue about 10 pm on the fateful Saturday night. "Marc was already there, at the bar," she told AFP. "He was pretty drunk, so we didn't say hello to him. Normally he's very shy and reserved. But everyone knows to stay away from him when he's drunk."
Chantal Cécillon arrived before her husband, and sat at a table talking with female friends. "They didn't speak to each other all evening; anyway, they haven't got along for a long time," Alarcon continued.
About 11 pm the hostess tried to persuade Cécillon to eat something. He grumbled, then allegedly hit her so hard she had a black eye.
Cécillon was thrown out, but returned a half hour later. One of his friend's sons said he noticed Cécillon had tucked a revolver into his shorts, a Taurus Brazil 357 Magnum that he'd purchased during a tournament in South Africa in 1992, the year he became captain of the French team.
The teenager was afraid to say anything about the revolver. Moments later, Cécillon allegedly walked up to his wife and fired five bullets into her head and chest. Guests managed to overpower the 1.92 metre, 110 kilo giant until the gendarmes arrived.
"He kept trying to fight them," Alarcon recalled. "He was looking for his wife, and they told him, 'You killed her' and he answered, 'That's not possible. I love her'."
Cécillon allegedly had 2.35 grams per litre - nearly five times the legal limit - of alcohol in his blood and did not grasp what had happened until he sobered up in custody the following day.
Only last year, the former rugby champion joined in a CD recording to raise money to fight violence against children. Cécillon was such a shy man that he hesitated to accept when the French coach made him captain, a job that entails pre and post-match press conferences. He wore the captain's armband only five times before resigning. "The pressure from the press was hard to take," he said. "I was afraid of spending all my energy before the kick-off, of not being the same man on the field. I couldn't stand making speeches at banquets..."
How, one wonders, will Cécillon feel when photographers mob him outside his trial? Such tragedies are almost unheard of in the sports world. The inconclusive O.J. Simpson trial is the only thing comparable. Simpson was cleared by a criminal court, but condemned to pay damages to his dead wife's family by a civil court.
French rugby has not known such shock since a prop from Béziers called Arnaud Vaquerin killed himself playing Russian roulette in a bar several years ago. There is now an annual Arnaud Vaquerin Trophy match, played with an English club in his honour.
The story of Cécillon, like the murder last year of the actress Marie Trintignant by her drunk and drugged lover, the rock singer Bertrand Cantat, made headlines here.
But most people forget the 400 French women - more than a day - who are killed every year by their partners.