The rings of Saturn are disappearing!

Like the mountains, oceans and continents on Earth, the rings of Saturn would be ephemeral and should disappear within 300 million years. The icy particles that compose them fall indeed on the giant under the effect of its gravity and its magnetic field.

Galileo was the first to observe Saturn with a telescope. He discovered that it had a strange form whose nature was only understood in 1655 by the mathematician, astronomer and physicist, Huygens: the giant was surrounded by a ring, and several even, as Giovanni Domenico Cassini shows a few years later. In 1859, the physicist James Clerk Maxwell, to whom we owe the theory of the
electromagnetic field, shatters the theory proposed by Laplace in 1787, according to which the rings of Saturn are solid. Based ingeniously on the laws of mechanics, Maxwell deduces that they are probably made of a set of small bodies in orbit. It will then be necessary to wait for the work of the Russian mathematician, Sofia Kovalevskaya (1850-1891) to have the proof that the rings of Saturn can not be liquid. It was finally in 1895 that the observations of the American astronomer, James Edward Keeler, definitively confirm the version of Maxwell.

Astrophysicists and mathematicians interested in cosmogony will then try to explain the formation of these rings. Some explained that they would come from the destruction of a small celestial body that would have come too close to Saturn. In doing so, it would have fallen below the limit defined by the mathematician and astronomer Edouard Roche, that is to say the minimum distance below which a small body, approaching a big one, is destroyed by the forces tide. But if so, when did this event occur? Billions of years? At the very beginning of the birth of the solar system or more recently?

The development of space exploration with the Voyager and Cassini probes, and of course the ground instruments, provided us with information that Galileo and Laplace could not have dreamed of. This research allows us to feed theoretical models and numerical computer simulations that can answer all these questions. A group of Anglo-Saxon planetologists has just published in the famous newspaper Icarus an article leading to an astonishing conclusion: the rings of Saturn are ephemeral, they would have formed 100 million years ago, at most, and in 300 million years, they will disappear.

Everything is evolving in the Universe and nothing, except perhaps some basic laws of physics, remains from all eternity. It suffices to refer to the discovery of plate tectonics or the Big Bang theory. It is in the framework of this other representation of the World, this new paradigm of which the Terrians became aware for more than 50 years, that is inscribed the stupendous conclusion of the researchers. They relied on several works and, in particular, observations made in the infrared with the Keck instruments in Hawaii.

A shower of icy and charged particles on Saturn

These observations, dating from the early 2010s, specified the characteristics of the presence of many trihydrogen cations in the ionosphere of Saturn. That it can be found is not surprising since it is H3 +, the most abundant ion in the interstellar medium, where it remains stable, given the very low temperature and the extreme tenuity of this environment. The simplest triatomic molecule, in which three protons share two electrons, had already been detected in giant atmospheres for some time (1989, with Jupiter).

But what proved to be instructive, this time around, is that H3 + ions are particularly present in bands in the northern and southern hemispheres where we know that dip and emerge lines of fields from the magnetosphere of Saturn. These bands are particularly bright but, on the contrary, they appeared dark on images taken by the Voyager 1 and 2 probes when they visited Saturn in the early 1980s.
Already in 1986, the planetologist John EP Connerney, better known as Jack Connerney, had interpreted these bands as the result of the influx of charged ice particles leading to "disperse" a fog present in these regions. the ionosphere; these bands becoming less brilliant, less contrasting and therefore darker.

Jack Connerney is back on the subject today, in the article by Icarus, written under the direction of his colleague NASA James O'Donoghue, which allows to fit the pieces of a puzzle.
It now appears that trihydrogen ions, in the bands under consideration, are the final product of chemical reactions from charged ice particles that have vaporized in the ionosphere. These particles come from the rings of Saturn where they acquired their charges, either under the effect of the ultraviolet ionizing radiation coming from the Sun, or in contact with the plasma produced by the collisions between the micrometeorites and the ice particles of these rings. By becoming charged, these particles then become sensitive to the magnetic fields of Saturn which guide them under the influence of the gravity of the planet along the lines of fields which will lead them in the dark bands of Voyager.

The amount of icy particles that can be removed from the rings can be evaluated over time. This is how we end up with the figure of 300 million years for the time that should remain to live to these rings. The phenomenon also constrains estimates of the age of the rings which should not exceed 100 million years, a figure whose order of magnitude is consistent with another estimate already advanced but, on another basis, there are some years.
James O'Donoghue explains: "We are fortunate enough to be there to see the ring system of Saturn, which seems to be in the middle of his life. But if the rings are temporary then we may have missed those of Jupiter, Uranus and Neptune when they were giants.

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There is a weird smell

The downpour had finally turned into a small fine rain, scattered. Through the gap in the doorway, she could see in the distance the faint light of a ray of sunshine. An incentive to get out of his hole. She was still indecisive about venturing outside.
Yet she had to go out. She could not remain cloistered in this room. It had been too long since she had taken refuge between these damp, inhospitable wooden walls. Two days, three days, maybe a week she had fled the disaster? She did not know anymore. She kept only the memory of cries, explosions, her chaotic race through rubbish, bodies burnt or slaughtered, homes destroyed.

And then, the fury of the carnage had given way to a deluge of dirty rain, as if soot fell from the sky. Thick, dark gray clouds had darkened the horizon and she had run straight ahead, without turning around, taking the time to orient herself despite pain, shortness of breath, panic. She struggled against the torrents of water that gave her the impression of drowning each time she breathed.
It was a pungent, thick rain that made him nauseous. Around her rose a fetid, indefinable odor, at once sweet, disgusting, and rancid, violent. She did not understand where the smell came from, which made her cough, hugged her, suffocated her. The more she sucked in the air, the more she choked on that nauseating smell.

Out of breath and strength, she had collapsed by stumbling on a log of wood. Her race had thrown her against the wall of a rather dilapidated hut, which would certainly offer her a momentary hiding place. In any case, she no longer had the courage to go further. Once barricaded in this summary shelter, she had curled up in a corner and had not moved, as if her immobility could erase the existence of the threat outside.

But the smell was still there, even stronger than outside. A weird smell that enveloped her, cut her off from any other sensation. Her nostrils dilated as if they were looking for their origin. She sniffed, swallowing her tears and snot at the same time. She breathed in fits and starts, between two sobs, two hiccups, trying to forget the violence, the broken bodies, the black blood, the flies; to silence the groans of the dying, the pounding of the footsteps of those who fled like her, the furious cries of the aggressors. But each memory was accompanied by this pestilential stench and the images she could not repress seemed to increase the intensity.

Overwhelmed by the putrid odor that squeezed her throat more surely than a hand strangling her, she screamed and collapsed, her nose on the dirt floor. Rain dripped under the door and soaked the ground. The damp, sticky earth was smearing his face. She wiped herself with the bottom of her shirt, spitting out the dirt that crept into her nostrils and mouth. The earth exhaled a sweet aroma of humus, wood, leaves ...

The downpour had finally turned into a small fine rain, scattered. Through the gap in the doorway, she could see in the distance the faint light of a ray of sunshine. An incentive to get out of his hole. She was still indecisive about venturing outside, but a little courage had returned to her. Outside, the light began to chase the shadows. She smelled the perfume of the earth, filled her lungs with fresh air, sketched a smile and realized that the smell that had assaulted her so far was only ... the smell of her fear. With an assured step, she crossed the threshold of the door ... And the smell lifted her heart, just as she saw the man lift the ax over his head.
It was no longer raining, and moist soil exhaled the hot and spicy fragrances of the earth after the storm. A small channel of blood mixed with a slight, indefinable odor. But, lying on the ground, her nose against the ground, she felt nothing.

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Ryan Murphy, the creator of American Horror Story, gets his star on Hollywood Boulevard

Ryan Murphy, creator of cult series like Nip / Tuck, Glee, American Horror Story and more recently Pose, can add a new trophy to his impressive list of achievements. This Tuesday, December 4, the American showrunner was honored with a star on the prestigious Walk of Fame in Los Angeles. He becomes the 2,653st Hollywood star immortalized on this sidewalk, which recently welcomed rapper Snoop Dogg and actor Lin-Manuel Miranda.

"Ryan Murphy is one of the most creative and brilliant minds on television," said Ana Martinez, a member of the City of Angels Chamber of Commerce to nominate the stars. before and invite viewers into his intoxicating universe. " His muse actresses, including Jessica Lange and Sarah Paulson, were there to pay tribute to him at the ceremony. "It's about time," said the latter, who played a dozen characters in the horror anthology, "it's amazing, people should have been walking around this star for at least ten years."

The scriptwriter, producer and director was also accompanied by his faithful acolyte Brad Falchuk and her husband David Miller. Several personalities have also made the trip to greet him or make a small speech: Gwyneth Paltrow, Emma Roberts, John Landgraf, the boss of the FX channel, Alexis Martin Woodall, its producer of always ... In addition to this star literally engraved in the And let's not forget that Ryan Murphy holds six Emmy Awards (out of 28 nominations) and a Golden Globe received for Nip / Tuck in 2005.

Along with his competitors Shonda Rhimes and Greg Berlanti, Ryan Murphy is certainly the most influential and famous showrunner of the small screen. And his rise will not stop there: he signed a $ 300 million contract with Netflix to produce original content for the streaming platform. The first project announced is a satirical comedy called The Politician and carried by ... Jessica Lange, of course.

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Improving batteries for electric vehicles and planes: the mission of Loïc Boulon

UQTR professor Loïc Boulon spent a year at the University of Bordeaux to acquire skills that will help Trois-Rivières. Photo: CBC / Josée Duchame

Loïc Boulon's work focuses on a topic that is of great interest in the research and industry community: how to make batteries more reliable and more efficient. For a year, the professor from the University of Quebec at Trois-Rivières works in a laboratory in Bordeaux highly recognized in the field, with the aim of deepening his knowledge and benefiting UQTR.

A text by Marilyn Marceau

In what looks like big freezers, researchers at the National Polytechnic Institute (INP) in Bordeaux have stored batteries. Some will stay there for 10,000 hours.

Batteries are subject to different conditions in this laboratory, especially cold. The evolution of their condition is monitored and analyzed very closely.

The laboratory is also closely watched. It is forbidden to cut electricity, which would jeopardize months of research.

And do not go in there who wants. The expertise developed here is valuable and is of interest to many giants in the automotive and aerospace industries.

The Canada Research Chair in Energy Sources for Vehicles of the Future Loïc Boulon is studying the performance and reliability of batteries at the Institut national polytechnique de Bordeaux. Photo: CBC / Josée Duchame

Get to know the batteries better to use them

The Laboratory of Material Integration System (IMS) is recognized for its research on battery reliability, as researcher Jean-Michel Vinassa explains.

"Modeling the aging of batteries, [the] prediction of their lifetime, [the] determination of the state of health of the batteries: that's what we finally look for. It is to know in which state of health is a battery to know if one can count on it or not, in the transport, in particular. It's one of the things that's very difficult to know precisely", he says.

"We are working so that batteries are cheaper and their environmental cost is lower", says Jean-Michel Vinassa, responsible for welcoming Loïc Boulon during his year at the National Polytechnic Institute of Bordeaux.

Loïc Boulon, who holds the Canada Research Chair in Energy Sources for Vehicles of the Future at UQTR, is already immersed in the world of energy storage and battery aging, but integrates Bordeaux a team with knowledge and protocols that will benefit UQTR.

• "Typically, my work aims to improve the energy performance of clean vehicles, thus including the battery electric vehicle. This means that, for a given autonomy, there will be, thanks to my works, less batteries needed and therefore the environmental impact will be reduced." Loïc Boulon, Canada Research Chair in Energy Sources for Future Vehicles at UQTR

Loïc Boulon will also take the opportunity to develop its expertise in aeronautics.

"One of our big industrial players in Quebec is Bombardier, and come looking for information on the constraints and objectives of energy storage in the aerospace application, for me, that makes a lot of sense, because it's an extension of my current work."

It is not uncommon for companies to use academics to solve some of their problems. For educational institutions, it's a way to get subsidies.

IMS, a recognized laboratory

• The Laboratory of Material Integration System (IMS) is affiliated to the National Center for Scientific Research (CNRS) and the University of Bordeaux. It is recognized on a European scale.
• IMS collaborates with major players in the industry, such as Renaud, Peugot, Valeo and Airbus.

"Extra strike force"

Whether it is to save money, reduce dependence on gas or reduce greenhouse gas emissions, many companies are interested in this issue. The laboratory does not lack work.

"There is no lack of funding, indeed, says Jean-Michel Vinassa. What we miss most are arms, so having someone come to help is good. When we say arms in search, we also say brains, he says."

Jean-Michel Vinassa, researcher at the IMS laboratory and professor at the Institut national polytechnique de Bordeaux (left), is responsible for welcoming Loïc Boulon (right). Photo: CBC / Josée Duchame

Although he is French by origin, Loïc Boulon lugges with him, in Bordeaux, his Quebec baggage.

Jean-Michel Vinassa appreciates his knowledge of the Quebec winter.

"Much work is being done on transport programs, particularly [in] aeronautics where we "address" very important temperature ranges; therefore, cold is one of the concerns we can have in energy storage. So we had common scientific interests at the research level", he said.

For him, the Trifluvian is an "additional strike force".

What Loïc Boulon is happy to find in France?

"What I like here in Bordeaux and what I'm happy to finally find when I come back to live in France is all this gastronomy. With bread and bakery neighborhood close to home, and for example have cheese more affordable than Quebec. "

What is missing from Quebec?

"Something that pleases me particularly in Quebec and I'm starting to miss it today is a quality of life that is not necessarily in France. In the sense that there is a lot of space, people live much less on each other and tight, and there is a quality of life in the daily schedule and family life that loses a little in France where finally everything goes faster all the time, even in Bordeaux. "

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The chapel

I had never noticed this chapel. You had to dare to take that narrow path that climbed to the cliff. It was necessary to cross the hawthorn barriers and aggressive mulberry trees. Force yourself to face the sea wind stronger and stronger. Fight.
The sea was not far, one could feel his salt breath, his breath iodine, one could hear his throaty roar, his hoarse call.
Frightened seagulls circled the short gray arrow. A fine drizzle began to invade the sad moor. The little church was not very far, I hastened to take shelter under his porch. Ugly gargoyles spit me their venom. I leaned against the heavy door to escape their acid jets. It was then that I felt the door swing hard on the rust of its hinges. A grim grinding sounded and a smell of old wax caught me in the dark, icy nave. I stood petrified for a moment. The chapel was empty and seemed abandoned. Some of the messy priests seemed to receive only heavy, sticky dust. A single dark-colored stained glass window represented, it seemed to me, a frightful scene of medieval torture.
I was cautiously advancing towards the altar, which I could hardly see in the darkness. As I approached, I saw that he was covered with a thick black cloth. I could not repress a thrill.
Outside, the rain had turned into a roaring shower. The water was beating the walls and the roof of the building with so much force that one might have said it had been plunged like a wreck into the bottom of an unleashed ocean.
The night had arrived in advance. I bumped into an upturned chair that I struggled to put back. The clatter of feet squeaking on the slabs echoed in a thousand broken echoes on the vault. I felt guilty of making so much noise in a place that normally called for serenity. I held my breath to listen to the noise that had been multiplied gradually. At last, the silence returned, but it brought me more anguish than the noise.
Nothing. A complete and disturbing absence of life. Only the warrior song of the water of the sky that ravaged the neighborhood was screaming with truth. Everything else seemed a nightmare.
Yet from the bottom of a dark corner, I received a kind of complaint ...
The suffering of wood?
What was behind the enormous pillar?
I remained a forbidden moment, listening more attentively. A groan ? An exhortation?
In the thick shadow I could see the squat mass of a sculpted confessional. I approached cautiously, trying to pierce the disturbing darkness. It seemed to me that the groan was coming out of there. A bitter priest was to murmur his litanies ... The access to the confessional was closed by a wooden door. The voice had to come from the grid. A roar of thunder tapped in my heart, jostling him with the strength of a bull. This storm made me feel uncomfortable. I felt like I heard a chuckle from the bowels of the booth. Had I been startled? Was I observed?
I was attracted to the black lair, mysterious and scary, as one is drawn to the emptiness that scares us. The temptation to enter it was the same as that which impels us to sin. Resist only amplifies the desire to succumb.
I did not even have time to reason my fear, I was already bent on the used kneeling. An infamous odor was emerging from the central lodge. A monstrous plague of musty and dead animal rose to my nostrils. Something or someone scratched the wire mesh that separated me from the priest's cabin. What did I have to confess? I realized that my throat was nailed, my larynx paralyzed. It was then that a pale gleam emerged on the other side of the gate. Too weak to see but clear enough to emphasize, shriveled on itself, a human form ...
Or almost...
I did not have time to question what I foresaw. The shape had jumped on the grate, and long claws grabbed me by the hair. A strident howl escaped from an atrocious mouth and I felt myself die.
At that moment when I thought I was going to disappear, caught up in the black mystery of the chapel, devoured by a savage curse, an excessive chime echoed, piercing my eardrums with cruelty. At the same time, the being had sprung from his hiding place, standing before me in a blood-red halo! The deafening bells amplified their din, the walls of the chapel began to tremble. I was down. The monster dominated me with all its fury. I saw him with terror tear down his mouth wide open on me ...

My clock radio was right for my sleep at 7:15. I woke up swimming, breathless, ravaged. I watched with horror all around me: I was in my cozy little room. My programmed coffee maker was whistling, sending out jets of boiling steam. A delicious smell of coffee filled the room. A good breakfast and this horrible nightmare would be forgotten.
I rejected the blanket at the foot of the bed. I got up and sat down to find my slippers. My foot scoured the carpet.
As usual, I could not find my slippers. Sighing, I leaned over. Where my foot had touched the floor, the carpet was torn, slashed. Four long scars.
I looked with dismay.
What I saw tore my heart: going beyond the leg of my pajamas, this hairy horror was NOT MY foot!

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Retrouvailles

Black gnarled thorns grow visibly around the bed. The face hidden under the covers, motionless, I observe, with fright, the brambles wrap around the white metal bars of the headboard and rise above me, until forming a kind of cathedral monstrous, with thick stalks inextricably interwoven into each other. At the back of the room, moving shadows. Only the illumination of my bedside lamp allows me to escape the darkness and to watch the advance of the shadows. In my arms, the rag doll offered by mom for my six years reassures me. Fingertips, I feel the padded body and hair wool. My fingers are wriggling on the soft body of the doll and I feel, in the palm of my hand, a tenuous pulsation. The shadows are getting closer, that's for sure. Above me, from the cathedral of brambles flows a black and tarry substance that falls, in fine nets, on my sheets. Under my fingers, the palpitation is racing. I lift the sheet. Eyes sewn in wool, now flows a thick dark matter. I scream and wake up sweaty. The room is empty. I do not dare to get up, put a foot on the ground. Mom comes running, she heard me scream. She sits on the edge of the bed, comforts me, surrounds me while I lie down in my cozy bed. She promises to stay with me until I go back to sleep. She knows me customary nightmares.

I feel my eyelids heavy and, even if I struggle, while my mother caresses my blond curls, I end up sinking into a deep sleep. Mom is still there, on the edge of my bed, eyes of intense black. Behind her, I can see shadows with fuzzy outlines, barely visible, so light that they look like smoke. They stand just behind mom who remains impassive, her big black eyes turned to me. Other shadows arrive, rank behind the first and give them more thickness, material. Mom is now surrounded by a black and moving mass that melts on her without her moving or showing any emotion. The mass becomes opaque and I do not see the face of mom anymore. I scream with all my might, open my eyes. Mom jumps. She had stayed close to me and had finally fallen asleep. She sees my terror and reassures me, again. I observe it, scrutinize it from every angle. His eyes are of their usual hazel color. Her features are drawn, she is tired, but smiles tenderly. She caresses my cheek and invites me to lie down. I must sleep soon because sleep taraude. I beg her to let me sleep with her, in her bed.

She refuses because she knows full well that my father will oppose it. I explain that there are shadows under my bed that scare me and patiently wait for the right moment to catch us. She smiles and assures me that these are children's terrors of the most common and that there is nothing real in all this. Growing is also for each of us, overcome his own terrors night. She offers me to look under the bed if it can reassure me. I tell him I do not care. She sees that I am worried and want to persuade me of the baseness of my fear. She leans. I beg him to stop. She lies down on the floor, puts her head under the bed and does not move for a few seconds that seem very long. I call him. She does not answer. His body is frozen. Slowly, his body disappears under the bed. Unable to move, I can only see the horror of the situation. Mom's whole body is under the bed. Petrified, I sit, eyes wide open, all night. In the early morning, dad finds me like that. He takes me in his arms. I am mute and will remain so ever since. For a long time, Dad will look for mom in every corner of the house, in the garden, in the neighborhood, without success. The police officers, the psychologists that I met afterwards all agree that I attended a traumatic event, that I had to see my mother being kidnapped, perhaps killed, and that I am in a bad state. shock. Of course, they found no track, no footprint. I refuse to speak, to draw the scene as they ask me. Papa is infinitely sad, his big blue eyes are surrounded by black. He stays with me late into the night and often falls asleep beside me. After the intense dread lived the night of the disappearance of mom and the immense pain of his absence, my emotions dried up. I only feel the need to be in my room, where it all began, and the almost organic need to join Mom, as if I felt it still close, in a way.

In my bed, curled up under the sheets, I read tales by the light of the bedside lamp. My eyes are blinking. I rest the book and rub my eyelids. On the floor, in the luminous halo formed by the lamp, a shadow emerges from the space under the bed. She moves with great gentleness, stops for a moment, then resumes her graceful movement. I look at her without apprehension and ask her if it's her, if it's her. The shadow advances even more. I push back sheets and blanket, put my feet on the floor, kneel next to the shadow that grazes me. The shadow is nestling in the hollow of my small arms, caress my cheek. Miffed, I recognize mom. I lie on the floor, eyes closed with happiness, entwined by the shadow that covers me now and both we disappear, as if sucked by the floor, leaving behind us a faint glow in the dark room.

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The witch and the angels

Wild Cevennes. 1400. A middle-aged woman living alone. You can only go home after a long walk through the forest. We respect it, but we fear it. "Witch" is heard muttering. When we mention it, the villagers sign themselves. Maria. Nothing but his name seems to them a sacrilege. His very physique is inspired by the Devil. Busty, with long hair of fire. But the men pay her to sleep with her. Women pay for it to extract strange ointments for the skin. The children are fascinated by its beauty and its landmark filled with heterogeneous and odd objects. She welcomes all this little world with a flawless sweetness. Some people walk several days to meet her.
Indeed, she is also recognized for her "talents" and her discretion as an angel maker. Even the richest and most middle-class women use her services. Everyone knows it, everyone is silent. The older ones whisper the place of his hut to the younger ones. She had appeared one day, a few years ago, nobody knew where she came from, no one wanted to know.

Autumn, hide and seek the sun through the branches. Silence, except the steady sound of footsteps crunching on the thick carpet of dead leaves. An old lady holding hands, or rather trailing, a very young girl, even a little girl. The latter has a prominent belly. She cries noiselessly, she seems terrified. Maria is waiting outside, indecipherable look.
She guessed that a child would arrive today. She waited and was not mistaken. She knows the Old Woman. She has already brought her patients. Girls of joy most often. But here it's different, she knows it. Clotilde releases an aura of unbearable suffering. She became pregnant after a rape. That of his father. It is he who ordered the "thing" to be thrown away, or it would be the little one who would disappear. A father who is a rapist, but does not wish to have a job on his name. While the girl is only a few meters away, Maria frowns. The pregnancy is advanced; the operation is going to be tricky. Especially as the youth, and the narrowness of the child's pelvis are all factors of danger for his life. When the woman is newly pregnant, it is enough that it makes him absorb a light poison and that it inserts a thin pointed stick into the hole to trigger the bleeding. Except that the fetus must be at least six months, maybe seven. Maria will have to start delivery with a very strong infusion, and probably kill the viable infant right out of her mother's hot, bloody belly. She is furious that the Old Woman has not come before with the girl. She hates doing that.
She brings the two women back into her cottage and stretches out Clotilde. She takes her pulse, breathes her breath, observes the color of her eyes. She deftly feels the tense belly in order to take a mental note of the size and position of the fetus. He is not quite well placed yet and moves in an incredible way. Maria grunts outright, the operation seems more and more difficult. None of the other two women dare to talk to him, let alone question him about the reason for his grunts. To tell the truth, they are even afraid of her. But the touching hand is soft, and when the witch speaks to explain to the girl what she is going to do, it is in a calm and gentle voice. Clotilde relaxes and stops sniffing. All she understood was that this red-haired woman was going to get rid of the thing that stirred in her belly. And that is rather good news.

Maria gets up abruptly and spins into a tiny, dark, remote room, where her entire pharmacopoeia stands. In a few minutes, she selected what she wanted. She puts water to boil over the fire in a strange skin hide as she reduces the dried plants into a fine powder. She throws it into the bottle as soon as big bubbles blister the surface. The mixture gives off a strong and unpleasant odor. As soon as she has cooled down, she orders the child to drink it in one gulp. Clotilde succeeds not without repressing a gag. While waiting for the potion to take effect and start not only to cause contractions, but also to dilate the cervix, Maria makes the girl talk to relax her to the maximum. And probably to hide his own anguish. It is very rare that she is so anxious before operating. She trusts her gifts and most of the time makes fun of her patients. But this child touches her, she can not explain why, and it seems to her essential that she live. The little girl finally begins to shake, and grimaces of pain to twist her thin face. Maria examines her at regular intervals, measuring with her fingers the progress of the work. After several hours, it's time. The witch pierces the water pocket and asks La Vieille to press her entire weight on the girl's abdomen during the outbreaks. Time passes, the contractions are eroding, they are all glistening with sweat and Clotilde grows with excruciating cries of pain. We finally see the baby. But it's his shoulder that shows up, not his head. Maria spits her fingers into the gaping mouth of the vagina to try to turn the baby a little. In vain. She catches a wrought dagger, burns the blade quickly and incises. Blood flows. Clotilde screams. The old woman slaps her. Clotilde fainted, her belly twitching. The old woman shakes her like a plum tree to wake her up. Maria shouts to leave her alone, while she takes advantage of the looseness of the flesh to catch the fetus and pull it to her. A little blue being
finally appears in its entirety. She quickly breaks the umbilical cord with her teeth, smearing her face with blood, and pulls it to expel the placenta, which she drops to the ground before placing the baby motionless on it. The old woman takes it and undertakes to empty his mouth to make him breathe. The fire-haired woman loses patience and rebuffs her saying that it is useless to revive him because she will have to kill him, and that she should rather help him to bring back Clotilde. She washes it summarily before stitching it with a tendon filament that has been broken up beforehand. The girl moans without getting out of her fainting. She is white, emptied of too much blood. The old woman cradles a tiny and silent boy who has never shouted. Maria is almost as livid as the little one. She takes the pulse of the latter, which is extremely weak. The night has long since fallen. She did everything she could to save the child. Must wait.

In the morning Maria falls asleep on the ground holding the hand of a cadaver of a ten-year-old girl, as for the Old Woman and the baby, they are gone. A hunter will discover them both at the edge of a path a few days later, tight against each other. The infant's eyes were wide open. It seems that it means that his soul rode without having found peace.

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confidences

I have never had a lot of luck in my life. An alcoholic father, a schizophrenic mother, a tyrannical big brother. My father was beating me, my mother laughed for anything and did not care about my mouth all day long. She also had the phobia of my hair and always a pair of scissors on hand. My brother was constantly trying to scare me as soon as my back was turned or when I slept. And then, whenever he had the opportunity, he hit me with his big muscles big ass.

My dad was not better. With his fists he stroked my head as softly as a boxer and his punching bag. With his feet, he used it as a football. And he was a good penalty shooter. My mother had her favorite caress: scratch my skull with the tips of her pointed nails.

One day, I told my father that he drank too much. I almost died of an ethyl coma, because this bastard had stuck a neck in the back of my throat and had poured his liter of whiskey daily. One day, I had the misfortune to refuse that my mother cuts me the five millimeters of hair that had grown on my head during his psychiatric detention. She pulled them out with my teeth. One day, I refused to play with my brother. He forced me to play the ossicles. With my fingers.

And inevitably, all that, it leaves traces, sequels. Finally, at first I thought no, I thought I was out, because after my graduation I had the idea to set up a travel agency at discount prices. I must admit that after a difficult start, business took off.

Until I meet my girlfriend, Stephanie. Sculptural body, sharp intelligence, fusional love. We never did anything without each other. She loved traveling and for the holidays, sometimes for a single weekend, it was flying all over the world. The only thing that bothered me at home was her fucking craze. I did not like boxes, I never liked that. I ended up letting her go alone. She began to return at impossible times, drunk more, with the smell of alcohol and horny males. And every time I remonstrated with her, she laughed like a little fool. It ended up annoying me. To really annoy me. I think she took for all the crap that my damn family gave me. After another silly smile, I put all her passions together in one and sent her to boxes on the other side of the world.
It was a few months before I fell in love again. In the meantime I went to see a psychiatrist and was prescribed powerful sleeping pills to stop nightmares and hallucinations. I saw my mother, my father, my brother everywhere. It was horrible to see their charred bodies again. Fortunately that day I slept in college and I was not charged. I'm still wondering who was able to set their shit on fire.

I stayed a little shorter with my new girlfriend. Six months, I believe. I also met her at my travel agency. As in all love stories, at first it was going well. But she began to become strange: she was inventing all kinds of manias like being allowed to grow the nails of the hands, feet and varnish them in red like my mother. I do not like red. She was doing too much makeup, it looked like a whore. And then every week, she went to the hairdresser. I hate hairdressers. In addition, when she came back from these hair pullers, she laughed like an idiot. Yes, a real idiot. It ended up annoying me. To really annoy me. By extremely annoying me. I gagged her and put her still alive in a big box. In a magazine, I read that one could die laughing by brushing the feet of honey then licking them by a goat. I could not see myself buying a goat. But there were swarms of red ants in my cellar. And rats. Good fat rats. I do not remember how long she screamed, but I found it long, too long, and I was afraid the neighbors would hear it even though the nearest house is two or three hundred meters from the house. mine. I do not know why, I strangled her thinking about my mother. But the ants and rats had already had a good puff in the neck and his head remained in my hands. I immediately thought of my father and I shot in as in a football. Goal ! I did the Ola in my honor. Then I took her head and hit her so hard with my fists that her pretty face was nothing more than a mixture of skin, hair and brains mixed with clay. To relax, I played the ossicles with his fingers. It's funny, I took a monstrous pleasure.

I am choosing their destinations. Yes, I made several boxes with her body because I could still hear my mother's laughter inside, and I ended up cutting it with an ax and a saw.

Ah, I always hesitate: Borneo for his back, Cuba for his ass, Switzerland for his thighs. It should be over again, I have a lot of relations in the customs and from friends of the East who will buy me the organs.
To remove the genetic traces, I still have to contact my childhood friend Didier, a firefighter. It is really good to make believe that a fire is accidental. As before.

I can not wait for everything to be over, I can not wait to go back to the agency. In addition, I think I have the ticket with a beautiful little chick, single plus. A certain Stéphanie Duval. She looks a little like my mother, she has the same name as her, but I think this time I will manage to keep calm. Well, if she laughs a little bit too much, I'll just pull her tooth out, it'll calm her down and she'll understand that I do not like people to fool me.

I stopped seeing the shrink, but as he advised me I continue to write my journal. It helps me, it really helps me extract my dirty past from my soul. As the psychiatrist has often told me, I'm not responsible for anything ...

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Open me your door

It's been six months now that Alex could not sleep, or only a few hours here and there. And again, it was due to exhaustion or sleeping pills that he drank every night. Six months that he still did not understand why his wife had left without saying anything, leaving them alone, he and Lucas. Their son. He too lived it badly, very badly. The incessant nightmares punctuated her nights, their nights.
This night was no exception to the rule.
- Dad ! Dad !
That shrill voice screaming in terror, Alex heard it every day, every night, whenever night fell. The first few nights, Alex did not pay attention, but it became recurrent, he had finally found that Lucas howled at the same time. Not in the same time slot, no. At the same time ! To the minute. This could in no way be a coincidence. One night, in anger, Alex had destroyed his radio-alarm clock with his fist. He could not stand to see that hour that was showing off those big bright red numbers. In the shadows of his room, he had the impression that only these three figures existed.
Three, three, two.
Since then, even if he happened to see the time sometimes, he waited in the shadows that his son calls for help. A half-light to which he had not got used. She scared him. He had never realized how scary the night could be. The grinding of a door at the neighbors, a cracking wall, the roar of the refrigerator, no sound escaped him, not even the meowing of a stray cat and even less the howls of Lucas. Alex dreaded closing his eyes. Even one second. He did not want to see his son, the rest of his life, fly away. So that each night, he hastened to reassure his son of his presence.
- Dad ! Dad !
- Hush! Dad is here, champion. Alex whispered.
Lucas clung to his father, as if he was going to fall into the void. Alex could feel the terror his son was feeling. He was sweating profusely and his little heart was beating so hard it felt like it was ringing all over the house.
- He was still here, dad. At the window, I swear. Crying boy.
- It's still a nightmare, my boy. Look, the shutters are closed.
- No, I do not want to watch, dad.
- Okay that's good. Do not look. But I'm here now.
It was the same ritual every night. Lucas saw a shadow through his window. He could not perfectly distinguish the features of this individual, but he could see his eyes perfectly. Big yellow eyes and very white skin. This is how he represented it on these drawings that he sketched every day. Two big yellow eyes on a white face without lines and a black shadow, imposing, like wrapped in a big hooded parka. She was standing in front of her window, an observer, staring at him with that look to make a dead man pale. According to the child psychiatrist who followed him, this was how his son pictured his mother's abandonment: a threatening shadow. As the sessions progressed, the doctor explained to Alex that his son was imagining a kind of evil creature watching him and waiting for Lucas to look at him to make him disappear like his mother. He lived in utter denial and in his world it was impossible for his mother to abandon him.
- I love you, my dear. Hold on, we'll be fine. Alex whispered, a tear rolling on his cheek.
Lucas had fallen asleep, as always, huddled in his father's arms and waking up only in the early morning. Alex would have liked to take him to his bed and hug him tightly, but according to the doctor it would not help him overcome his fear. Then, with a tight heart, he did as every night. He put it back in his bed, bordered it and kissed him on the forehead. Then he left, still in the dim light, to return to his room. He persisted in not putting the light on, because he wanted at all costs to remember that it was night. He was trying to cope with his depression, to hold the dragee high so as not to abandon his child. He had become insomniac and not to sink into the abyss of dementia, he imposed complete darkness during the night so as not to compromise his circadian cycle.
Alex came into his room and pretended that he did not see those three luminous numbers that took up the whole surface of his wall and blinked like after a power failure.
Three, three, two.
He lay down and wrapped himself in his duvet. He tried to close his eyes, but he could not. Always this fear of losing his child. Then he looked in spite of himself at this blinking hour, reminding him of that famous night at three thirty-two minutes. That night when, waking up, thinking that he had heard screaming, he had discovered his empty bed. He had not worried too much, but not seeing his wife return to the room after half an hour, he had risen and thought he was dying when he found out that she was not in any room in the apartment. He had tried to reach her on his mobile phone, but he had stayed at home. Like all his stuff, by the way. His world had collapsed like a house of cards in a draft and now only held a thread ... Lucas. If he was not there, he would have already surrendered. Finally, the man was only strong with a woman by his side. Without her, Alex had the feeling of being useless and not being able to face fate. How long would he be able to stand up? How long can he protect his child? He was doing his best, but every day that passed, Alex was just rehearsing all their arguments. He had always thought that they were indispensable in a couple and that they allowed love to continue over time, as long as they were not too frequent. But this certainty was shaken that famous night at three thirty-two minutes. Since then he had been desperately searching for what could have caused her to flee in the middle of the night, without bringing anything with her and even giving up her child. He did not recognize the woman he had married the year before and who had shared his life for ten years.
Alex was out of his dreams and his heart racing as he heard those little feet drumming on the floor.
- Dad ! Dad ! Lucas shouted again.
This time, he was running fast in Alex's room, frightened as if he was being hunted down. He was suffocating, he had never seen his son so frightened. Alex got up and intercepted the little boy who jumped instantly into his arms.
- It's over, darling. It's finish. Do you want to sleep with dad?
- Yes Dad. Cried the little boy.
Alex lay down delicately in the bed, hugging his son tightly against him.
- Oh no, daddy! I left comforter alone! Lucas shouted.
- Calm down. It does not matter, we'll get it back tomorrow.
- No. No. No. Excited his son. We can not leave him alone! He will take a blankie with him.
- Nobody is going to take anyone, okay? Alex answered calmly.
- If dad, he'll take her away. Please, go get it. I think I made a mistake. Pleura Lucas.
- What? What do you mean ? Nonsense ?
- I think I opened the window.
- Do you think so, or are you sure?
- I do not know dad any more. Please, go get blankie.
- OKAY. I'll go see, but calm down. Do you know that windows or doors should not be opened in the middle of the night?
- Yes, I'm sorry, dad. I do not know why I did that.
- It does not matter, but you have to promise me not to do it again.
- It's promised, dad.
Alex had not yet cleared the door when his son called.
- Dad ! You can close the door when you leave.
- Good, Lucas. Stop Please.
- Please, dad.
- That's enough, I have it for thirty seconds. I come again.
Alex crossed the hallway between the two rooms, and when he entered Lucas's, he felt a shiver through his body. He had the impression that he was being watched. He turned his head in all directions, but saw nothing, not even those yellow eyes that opened behind him and disappeared immediately. The window was indeed open and he hastened to close it. He then fumbled with his son's bed and grabbed his comforter, a little blue bear with one eye missing and a nose that looked like an old fabric that would have gone through several centuries. Even in the dark, he knew it was him, because he had the smell that only his son seemed not to feel.
- Dad ! Help ! Let go of me ! Let go of me !
Alex's blood spun and he strode to his room. He banged against the wall in the hallway and found himself on the buttocks. A pain radiated his coccyx. Alex got up, put aside his obsession and looked for the switch, then turned it on.
The light burned his eyes, and his son's absence broke his heart.
- Dad !
The cry came from the living room. Alex turned around, fear intermingling with anger made his heart beat into his temples. He arrived in the living room and turned on the light, but his son was still not there.
- Lucas! Lucas! Alex shouted.
Like rising from the far end of a cave. Darkness, perhaps? His son's voice answered him like an echo.
- Dad ! Dad !
There was only the kitchen left, so he opened the door with a big shoulder, but saw nothing. He was nevertheless convinced of it. It was from there that he had heard the last cries of his son. His eyes were attracted by the door of the buffet, left open. Then, just ahead, he saw the little blue bear. It was impossible, unthinkable, he could not be there. He approached slowly, fear in his stomach. He felt his heart beating in his throat now.
- Lucas? Alex asked in an uncertain voice.
He stepped forward and crouched in front of the door, he put his head down.
- Dad ! shouted the little boy who popped out of the buffet.
Alex was surprised, but with a reflex, he clung to his son and was caught inside. It was suddenly cold and the silence that reigned here was deafening. He was plunged back into darkness, a darkness even darker than those he had known so far. He must have been in a nightmare. It could only be that, he thought.
- Lucas? Are you there, champion?
Alex could not see anything, he was groping his way. He did not recognize where he was. All his senses were on the alert in search of the least noise, the least smell. He was cautiously advancing in the maze of these paths, blind, guided by a kind of invisible aura. Instinct ? The sixth sense? In the distance, a ray of light appeared on the floor. There was surely a door. He hurried and started running.
- Lucas? Lucas?
After, what seemed like an eternity, he finally arrived at a door he did not wait to open. His mind failed to crack. He had trouble accepting what he saw.
- Dad ! You found us.
- Lucas, but ... I do not understand.
- Hi Alex. I missed you so much.
- Julie? It's not true ? Julie, it's really you? Oh my dear.
Alex ran to hug his wife and son. Then he kissed Julie passionately. She had missed him so much. At the touch of his lips, the breath that came out of his nose and seemed to run all over his body, he could not stop his tears from running.
- Where are we? He finally asks.
- I do not know, Alex. I'm stuck here since earlier. When Lucas started screaming.
- Since earlier ? It's been six months since you disappeared, darling.
- Six months ? Oh my God.
Julie put a hand to her mouth and repressed a sob, imagining her husband and son, alone, without news of her.
- Hush ... it's over, we're here now. Explain to me what happened. How did you get there? Alex asked.
Lucas started screaming. He looked scared, so I got up and went to see him. As the nights are hot this summer, he sleeps the open window. I closed it, because strangely, it was cool in his room. There I noticed that at the end of his room the door of his wardrobe was open. I approached to close it and when I arrived in front, I saw ...
- A white face with big yellow eyes? Alex asked, seeing his wife hesitate to describe what she had seen.
- How do you know ? Did you see it too?
- Not me.
- Oh no. Lucas. Julie cried, looking at her sleeping child on her lap.
She continued her story in pain, every word seemed to tear her flesh away. That sudden darkness, that thing, that monster, that creature that had paralyzed her with fear, her paws resting on her and caressing her entire body. Then, his flight. Long and endless. She had run, without stopping and turning when she was out of breath, she had landed there. In this light room. There was nothing here. Only light and a door leading into those dark corridors.
- Do not blame me Alex, but ...
- But what ?
- I knew that these corridors could lead me to you, but every time I tried to go ... I saw ... those eyes ... this ...
- It's good, I do not blame you. Do not blame yourself either, okay?
- I tried Alex ... I tried, but with every attempt ... I could not find a way out ... and ... and ... oh, my god. Julie cried, shuddering.
Julie began to cry unceasingly, her eyes closed. She winced in terror as she touched her body. Alex grabbed her hands and hugged her tightly. On his neck he saw what looked like scars. For having traveled his body with his eyes and hands for so many years, he knew she had none before he disappeared. He was so intrigued that he slowly cleared Julie's sweater collar and shuddered at the sight of her back.
- Julie. What happened, darling? Alex cried.
- She's ... this ... this thing. Every time I walked through this door to try to find you ... I always found myself in the dark ... in endless corridors ... no way ... no. I never found you ...
- We're here now. She tried to reassure her Alex.
- I was running as fast as possible ... I saw her in the distance ... her eyes Alex, they terrify me. They appear without warning and there, you feel her posing ...
Julie closed her eyes again, she began to tremble, as if she was hypothermic.
- Its paws. She continued. Then she tries to draw you to her. I resisted him and I was able to run away every time. But it was always the same pain, I felt that she lacerated my back with scalpels. I do not have the strength Alex anymore. Do something, please. Get out of this nightmare.
- I'll get out of here, darling. I promise you. But I'm going to ask you one last effort. We have to go back to these corridors.
- No Alex, I'm so scared. There is no way out here. I already tried.
- Yes, there is one. Believe me. I just got it. The night you disappeared, I remember that the door of Lucas's wardrobe was open. I closed it, that's probably why you did not find a way out. I closed it. I'm sorry, sweetheart.
- You could not have known. Julie kissed him.
- If my reasoning is the right one, then at the other end of these corridors there is a way out, because nobody at us has closed the door of the buffet.
Alex stood up and extended his hand to his wife to help him get back on his feet. He then woke up his son, who, from the height of his six years, seemed to be armed with unshakable courage. He told them that they had to hold hands as hard as they could and run without stopping until they saw light. It would look like a tiny window and they'll have to jump in without thinking when they see it.
They looked at each other in the eye and crossed the door towards the darkness. They did not wait and ran. Alex opened the march and with one hand extended forward he tried to guide his family to the exit, the rescue, and with his other hand, he felt that of his son, she seemed so thin and fragile. Julie, meanwhile, closed the march despite this fear of being lacerated back again. It was so cold, the air was humid. It smelled like mildew. They ran all three, losing breath, without turning around. Alex called his wife every ten seconds to make sure he was there. Lucas was starting to let go, he was exhausted. When they finally saw the light, a tiny window - as he had imagined - seemed to be drawing in the distance. Suddenly, halfway, a shadow slipped down the hall. They stopped breathless and frightened at seeing this pale face. Two big yellow eyes opened and the shadow went towards them, slowly, then faster and faster. The atmosphere gets colder again, so much so that they see condensation coming out of their mouths. Alex felt the little hand of his son clinging to his.
- Alex! We turn around! What are you waiting for ?
- No baby. We go for it.
- Have you gone mad? Julie worried.
- Trust me. We go for it and when we are up to it, Julie, you do not stop. You take Lucas in your arms and you go to the light.
- And you ?
- Do not worry about me. Do not think, he comes here. DARK! DARK!
They ran off, Julie stared at the exit and nothing else. She ran at a brisk pace. The exit approached more and more and this small window became bigger and bigger. She was now so big that she could throw herself inside and land with her son in her kitchen, in the light, at home, at last. Then she turned suddenly and stared at the door of the buffet. It was as if she was in apnea. Eyes wide open, she looked at this door hoping to see Alex come out. The seconds were slowly fading and the weather seemed suspended. Alex would not want her to take the risk of putting them in danger, he was probably telling him to close the door, but Julie could not do it. It was stronger than her. His gaze rested successively on this door, open on the darkness, and on his son. This gift of life that brings you joy and happiness. Then, Alex appeared, bloody, she helped him out of there.
- Close this door! Alex shouted.

One year later...
Several hundred kilometers away, Alex, Julie and Lucas had returned to normal life, or almost. They had left their apartment immediately after closing the door of the buffet. They would not have been able to stay in this place for another minute and decided to go far to rebuild their lives. There, where no one would judge them. There, where no one would stare at Julie wondering what had happened to her when she decided to leave in the middle of the night, abandoning her child. There, where no one would look at Alex with pity, wondering if it was his crazy woman who had slashed her face. There, where no one would speculate on Lucas's chances of escaping unhurt in this life, in this world. Nevertheless, they managed to lead an ordinary life ... the day only. For when night fell, before going to bed, they could not help remembering these horrible memories.
Lucas was brushing his teeth, and when he finished, he went to bed. The only piece of furniture in his room. There was no wardrobe or closet and not even a dresser. There was nothing that could open to darkness. The whole house was so, there was not a single piece of furniture with doors. It was simpler and more reassuring. Easier, because every night, Alex checked that all the doors of the house were closed. He had just gone around, and then every evening, he went to check a second time. Always in the same order, the front door first. He checked that it was tightly closed on all three locks. Then the door to the bathroom, then the bathroom and it would end up in the rooms after going through the kitchen. In the kitchen, he checked that the padlock on the refrigerator was securely closed and that the cooker door lock was in place, as well as the door of the microwave oven. Always the same ritual, an obsession. Then Alex joined Julie for the rest of the night.
3:32 ...
Like every night, even when he was sleeping, Alex could not help but wake up and get up at the same time. He made sure that his wife and child were still there, then went to check one last time that no door was open. Always in the same order. When he was in the living room, he felt a shudder that made him shiver with fear. The curtain of the French window waved slightly as when a summer breeze was coming to you. Only at home, that was impossible, because never again could they feel this pleasant sensation. Unless he forgot to close that door.
- No ! It's impossible ! thought Alex.
He walked to the French window slowly, his heart resonating in his throat. He had a bad feeling. He slowly put his hand down, then, relieved, he found that it was closed. Night had fallen quickly last night and he had not had time to shut the shutter. He had resolved to close only the curtains, not wanting to risk opening the window. Alex was sweating, he swallowed hard and caught himself smiling.
- You're stupid. He thought aloud.
He looked one last time through the window, as if to convince himself that there was absolutely nothing. That all this was playing out in his imagination forever perverted by this thing. He jumped suddenly and fear made him lose his balance. In front of him, standing against the window, stood the shadow and the face without features, without soul. She stared at him with her big yellow eyes and seemed to have interfered in her head. Alex could even hear him whisper.
- Open me your door !

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The Flouc

Obelix's corpulence, Bérurier's banter, Colombo's raincoat and Maigret's pipe had never helped make Hyppolite Durieux a renowned cop, but today his abilities would be put to the test. . Indeed, a crime had just been committed in Noirmoutier in full departure of the Tour de France and its reputation could cross the borders of the island. He should not miss the opportunity.
His first concern was to go to the scene of the crime: a technical truck of a team in sight in this one hundred and fifth Tour de France cyclist, the "Great Loop". His divisional had made more recommendations than usual. It was not to tarnish the reputation of teams, the Tour and its sports organizers and especially, especially, those of local officials.
Arriving at the car park that housed the technical staff, he immediately recognized the logo of the team he was looking for. Anyway, an impressive cordon of police and gendarmes was already present. He could not have been wrong. His "nose" immediately told him that something was wrong.
Seeing the policeman arrive from his heavy gait dodeling on both sides of his prominent belly, the colleagues present discreetly moved away. He passed worthily in front of them, the basques of his open raincoat floating in the light wind, and entered the bus-workshop by returning his belly.
- Name of name, it is who who fucked me doors so p'tites. Do you think there are only wasps that cycle?
The interior of the truck was tidy. Everything seemed in its place and only a large blood stain was a mess in the middle of the vehicle. A policeman in white dress seemed to be picking up items from the storage shelves.
- And where is the stiffness? the policeman wondered.
- There is no corpse.
- No ?
- No. Shut up the guy.
- Name of name! I knew ben that would me shit this cunt!
- Inspector, let's see!
- Well, whatever happened?
And it was explained to him that the corpse had been discovered by a technician, about six-thirty in the morning. He had rushed to the team manager's office to warn him. He had to go to the brewery "La Terrasse" at Herbaudiere, at the end of the island, to find him and explain the matter at length, the director seeming not to understand and realize. When they came back, the body was gone, leaving only a trace of blood.
Durieux Hyppolite scratched vigorously with her tousled red hair. He went to settle in front of a café at "P'tit Noirmout" where he lit his first pipe of the day despite the early hour. He summoned the director of the team immediately. As usual, he immediately saw a possible solution with a procedure to follow to conduct his investigation.
- Hello Headmaster. I'm in charge of investigating this weird murder. I'm going to need your help to understand how your cycling world works since I do not know anything about it.
- Hello inspector. I understand your concern, but the Tour is leaving in four hours and my team needs me. I'm afraid you have to go without me.
- I will disturb you as little as possible, but must what is said here.
He decided to call all the members of the included riders team to question them. He began with the cyclists to release them very quickly, because he thought they were for nothing and that the start of the Tour would be despite everything.
The interrogations were brief and very succinct. Lieutenant Durieux absolutely wanted to keep with him the team director for possible translations, because he only spoke the purest French, according to him, the popular French that his uncle Herbert Defaitte, a donkey farmer, had taught him. job. Her (it was his nickname) Defait had raised him since his father had died at sea aboard the lobster "The Hardi". The ten riders on the team did not know anything, did not see anything, did not hear anything.
The inspector, however, heard comments outside him calling him soft-whipped cop and chuckles. He kept this for himself. For the moment, he told himself, for the moment.
- Bou diou de bou diou! There's no talking to your pedal guys, Hyppolite told the team director.
- You know, in our job, we are stingy with words. We need all our energy to pedal and it is not always easy, the director answered.
"Well, bring me the technicians," he said to his assistants, looking through the pockets of his dubious beige raincoat, his tobacco pouch to light a new pipe.
They passed one after the other, except for a certain Pierre Bennotte, a native of the island, who had to leave hurriedly this morning for an unforeseen family, "with the authorization of the team director" had declared with a pinch the technical manager. Technicians also nobody had seen anything, heard nothing. They were all busy preparing bicycles for their cyclists and did not waste time looking at what others were doing. The one who had discovered the corpse stated that the body was lying on his stomach and that he had not seen who it was. Inspector Durieux freed the technicians.
- I would like to go now too, inspector, asked the director of the team.
- Yes OK. I have to check, go ahead.
- Thank you, he said, getting up to leave.
- Ah, but by the way, one last thing. You told me that your cyclists needed all their energy. And if they do not have enough, what's going on?
- Well we lose the stage, we lose the premium, we lose prestige, we risk losing everything and that is inconceivable for a team of our fame.
- Ah ... Inconceivable ... Thank you very much.
The team director was about to cross the threshold of the coffee shop door when the policeman called again.
- And this guy Pierre Bennotte, you allowed him to leave for what motive?
- A problem in his family. His dying father, I believe.
- Thank you. See you soon.
As these interrogations unfolded, time passed and the hour of the great departure of the first leg was approaching at a crazy speed. The advertising caravan made a hell of a stir with its horns, the shouts of its mountebanks and those of the spectators who fought over the generously distributed giveaways. The speakers installed by the municipality for the occasion poured their flood of local advertising.
People were running everywhere, the gendarmes were trying to channel the many curious who were hailing from one sidewalk to another to greet each other. The journalists sneaked up, holding out their pickups and shouting their questions in the middle of this jolly mess. The sellers of French fries and sandwiches were already enjoying themselves, sweet smells of pancakes scented the atmosphere and the seagulls disturbed by all this upheaval shouted their offuscation.
The festive atmosphere contrasted with the wrinkled forehead of our inspector whose brain was looking for a way to understand what had happened this morning in this technical truck. While thinking, Inspector Hyppolite Durieux rubbed his prognathous chin and half closed his right eye.
The preliminary interrogations had given nothing. The only point of attachment was the technician supposedly left that morning. The audit was under way to control the information. Hyppolite Durieux then expanded his research and the police quickly questioned all the teams and all the staff present on the site. Time was pressing. The hour of departure was approaching and the tide was beginning to descend, which would allow the advertising caravan and the runners to pass through the goï, this road flooded at each high tide, to reach the continent.
That's when someone approached the inspector.
- Hi Hyppolite. I think I found a corpse.
- Bou diou! Albert, do you have me?
- Come see. I found it just now in a carnation, under a meter of salt. I slowly brought the salt to the edge of the eyelet with my and all of a sudden I saw a piece of hand that exceeded the mule.
The inspector noticed on the spot that his school friend was telling the truth. The murderer must have hidden the body to be discovered as late as possible, eaten away by salt. However, the corpse had been hidden there rather quickly and the pile of salt had been reconstituted by an amateur, in a hurry.
- That's why I wanted to raise the salt. The mulon was not compliant and I do not like when the job is badly done.
Hyppolite returned to the camp of the Tour. He thought that the traveler was Pierre Bennotte, a guy from Gueriniere, a few miles away, who apparently had not gone home, contrary to what had been said to the policeman. He began to orient his research towards this track when the UCI controller's manager came to see him.
- Hello Inspector. Is it you who is conducting the investigation? he said with a strong English accent.
- Yes my lord. Who are you?
- I lead the team of controllers of the International Cycling Union. Our job is to control the riders to avoid doping, and also to control the equipment, the bicycles, to see if they weigh the good weight, etc ...
- Ah yes. Those who have never seen that ... well let's move on. I had forgotten you. So what ?
- Then one of my controllers has disappeared. I had assigned him to take care of the team where the murder was committed.
- Oh, shit! Come with me. I'm leaving with the director of the team to see a corpse. I need to know who it is.
Once there, it was clear. The director said:
- It's not Pierre.
- My God, it's my controller exclaimed the Englishman.
The problem was getting worse. The policeman started pacing up and down, puffing at his pipe. His red hair was floating in the breeze of the sea charged with the smell of iodine and some sea spray torn from the tide came to whip his old formless rain. He hummed, imitating in this his idol Berrurier, a song of his own: "The walk of salt workers" ("Saunions, saunions, because we are salt-workers, my brothers." Let's sing about our muloons, because we are roosters with salt ... ").
An idea made its way into his head. He mumbled incoherent sentences between two stanzas and his assistants watched him walk, his head bent to his right, his pipe in his left hand raised over his shoulder. From time to time he stopped for a few seconds and then started again, pushing his big belly forward from left to right.
The sun was already high in the blue sky of the island, only troubled by little fluffy white clouds. The seagulls were yawning over the harbor, and were still circling near the Museum of Shipbuilding, above the Town Hall Square.
- Inspector, the advertising caravan will leave in a quarter of an hour. We let them leave the island?
- Yes Yes. They can leave. But not the controllers or the technicians. And not the team directors either.
- But it is inadmissible regimba the team director. My men need me. Finally, Mr. Inspector, it's not our fault if you do not move forward!
- And who tells you that I'm not moving forward? Hyppolite Durieux said looking at him in a funny way. But you are right. Let everyone go except the head of the UCI, this gentleman and his technical manager he said to his deputies while the team director exploded with rage.
The police inspector returned to town and settled in the brewery "Le P'tit Noirmout" near the Town Hall. The warm room, with its exposed stonework, its red painted beams and its wooden floor, helped it to reflect. He ordered a beer from the country, beer brewed in the neighboring commune of La Gueriniere.
- An N'O please Gaston. And a little dish of mogettes to the fressure.
- At this inspector's hour?
- Well what, we could right to fill his belly when it is empty?
He summoned again the protagonists of the affair. It had been almost four hours since he had received the instructions of the commissary. He felt confusedly that he was close to solving the riddle. He was pretty sure of what he was thinking. He had two things checked on the Internet and then he received the chief controller of the UCI first.
"Sit down, mister the Lord. And tell me everything.
- Tell you what, Sir Durdoyl? Or should I call you Sherlock? replied the sitting Briton who played his accent to maliciously misrepresent the name of the French policeman who teased him about his nationality.
- Well, tell me whatever you're looking for in this truck, for example.
- My colleague was responsible for checking the conformity of the equipment with the rules of the race. He had inherited this team in control by simple administrative designation. Nothing more.
- You mean that this team was not suspected.
- No team is suspected a priori. We are more focused on what controls are ... how do you say "deterent effect", oh yes, dissuasive.
- So your controller was doing a routine job.
- Yes, that's it.
- And this routine work led him into the truck.
- Uh, there, I would not say that like that.
- What would you say ? And, addressing the waiter while wiping drops of hair on his chin and his napkin hung by a corner between his neck and his shirt, Gaston, another ration of fat with a N'O, is pleased. You want a beer, Sir? One of us.
- No thanks. I would say that if he got into the truck, there was something that intrigued him, probably.
- Tell me, apart from the weight of the bike, what is it that might not be in accordance with the rules?
"Well, we have been looking for some time for electric frauds.
- Electric frauds! On bikes? Thank you, Gaston. Are you sure you do not want a N'O beer?
- No. Finally, no N'O beer. Or, an Ok.
- It's no ? It's OK ? Is it yes or no?
- Yes for an Okells brand English, we say an Ok, home.
- They are crazy, these English !! Hein, Gaston. Okay, so what are these electric bike stories?
The Brit sighed. He was beaten at this little game. He understood that the inspector had already inquired between interrogations and played with him in the cat and the mouse.
- These are small electric motors hidden in the tubes of the bike and help to turn the wheels when against the clock or in the mountains. This allows to go a little faster and especially to tire less. We win stages and therefore money thanks to this subterfuge.
- Is it really true? With this system, it is no longer necessary to use drugs.
"Well, yes, Mr. Inspector. It exists.
- So your controller could have gotten into the truck to look for rigged bike frames.
- Yes, or something else. We recently found a pedal with a mini electric motor hidden in the axis itself.
- In the axis? And how to discover this thing?
- We have electronic tablets that detect electrical waves when we pass them within a centimeter of the tube or the axis.
- Less than a centimeter! And if we go a little further, or so quickly ...
- We do not detect anything.
- And we have to go and control that in the truck.
- No, it must be checked at the start or on the road during the race to see the criminal use.
- So what made your controller in the truck?
"I do not know, sir, I do not know.
The interview stopped there. Hyppolite thinks for a moment before giving very precise instructions to one of his deputies. Then he brought in the chief technician of the team involved in the murder. The man looked sickly. His eyes seemed to look everywhere for something. He sat down and began to wring his hands feverishly.
- You are the technical manager of the team. How far is your responsibility? He said his mouth full of shreds.
- I must guarantee the proper functioning of the bicycles assigned to the riders. Every champion has his bikes. I mean every bike is tuned for one athlete and not another. And they all have three custom bikes based on their size, weight, how they pedal, etc.
- And you guarantee also the respect of the rules of the Tour?
- What are you talking about ? he replied, embarrassed.
- The weight of the bike, lenticular wheels ... Or to check that the bike does not include a little hidden thing ...
- Ah, it's the doctor who takes care of the possible drugs.
- The doctor also takes care of electric motors?
"I do not know what you mean," he replied, fidgeting in his seat.
- Boudiou! Is not it strange that a technician of your level does not see what I'm talking about? Who gives orders in your team?
- He's the team director. I do not know anything. It's not me who buys the bikes at the base.
- Why are you defending yourself? Are you hiding something or are you scared? And then I talked about electric motors, not buying bikes. There are electric bikes in your very famous team?
- I tell you it's not me. And worse this morning, I was not up at five.
So it was five o'clock. And the guy Pierre, he was at the truck at five o'clock. You confirm ?
- But I said nothing, me. It's not true. I do not know anything ! It's the team director who allowed him to leave, it's not me. The man was sweating heavily now.
The inspector did not insist more. He had understood everything. He pulled the techie out of the back of the brewery between two policemen. He took another pause and gave new instructions to his deputy after hearing the report he gave him about the deceased controller and Pierre Bennotte the missing technician. Then he brought in the director of the team.
The Tour had been gone for half an hour now. The director stepped into the chairs as he passed, apparently drunk with rage.
- It is unacceptable ! he shouted. Who do you think, little cop of a lost hole! A species of redneck! A little "flouc" is what you are. You will hear about me, I tell you!
- I notice an insult to a police officer in his role of representative of the police force. I order you to stay up and not move if you do not want to end up with handcuffs on your wrist.
The director seemed to be clubbed on the head. His fulminating gaze turned into a questioning gaze, then a shadow of fear passed in his eyes. He calmed down immediately. How could this redneck, this little cop, this "flouc", allow himself to speak to him like this?
- Tell me what you were doing in the truck this morning at five o'clock with the UCI controller and Pierre Bennotte.
"But, but, I was not there," he said, destabilized by this frontal and direct attack. I do not know what to talk to you about
- Well, I'll tell you: you were buying the controller's silence.
- No, I do not understand.
- Did you give Peter the money before or after the murder?
- But I'm innocent. I do not know what you're talking about.
- I'm talking about electric motors hidden in the axes of the pedals. I'm telling you that the controller was blackmailing you and that you had had enough. I'm talking about the murder that you committed to end this. I'm telling you about the corpse you asked Pierre, the local guy, to hide in the salt shakers. We have all the evidence.
Seeing that the pot with the roses was discovered, the director literally collapsed on a chair while exclaiming:
- I did not kill him. It's Pierre.
- Well then. My services have just discovered Pierre, hidden in the attic of his house in Guérinière. Not end the stone. In fact, he gave us the envelope that contained five hundred thousand euros on which we will surely find your fingerprints. He has already confessed almost everything, the inspector lied.
Then the director told the whole story. Engines hidden for two years in the frames then in the axis of bottom bracket. The day before, the controller of the UCI had discovered by chance the new system of cheating invented this year with electromagnets scattered all around the rim of the rear wheel. By controlling the frame, his tablet was close to the tire and reacted.
The controller had offered them a financial arrangement and the team director had accepted after consulting the main sponsor.
- It will be enough for me to pass the tablet to more than one centimeter of the frame or the tire and to pass it quickly so that nothing is detected, had promised them the controller of the UCI.
But at the time of the delivery of the envelope, in the truck, he had asked for a second for the following week. The director of the team had gone out of his way, he had jostled him and the controller had fallen, hitting his head on a shelf edge.
Pierre was in the corner, the director had asked him to remove the body in exchange for the envelope, and disappear for a day or two. It had been necessary to invent a story for the chief technician who only later understood the real reason for Peter's absence.
The truth was known to all before the arrival of the stage. The boss of the sponsoring company was stopped in the paddocks in La Roche-sur-Yon at the moment when the winner of the stage, a rider of the team concerned, crossed the finishing line with a little too much ease. Hyppolite taste.
Inspector Durieux was sitting in front of P'tit Noirmout's TV, a good N'O and a big cock in salt crust in front of him when the Divisional Commissioner called him on the phone to congratulate him.
- A case well conducted, inspector. Bravo. The results of this survey will be global. It's a real scandal. You will become famous. What is your feeling at the moment?
"Boudiou, commissioner, we should not take ourselves for nonsense! he answered his superior, sputtering everywhere. That's scandalous, is not it?
- Yes, Durieux, yes. This is what is scandalous.

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The dead man who was still walking

The dead man who was still walking

To live without looking, to live by excluding from its field of vision a whole portion of the world, the inhabitants of the villages which surrounded the accursed place had become accustomed to it. It happened, however, that their eyes betrayed them and went, in spite of themselves, towards the furnace, towards that frankness of hell that the invader had opened on their land. At night, the flames rose to the sky to lick the foolish clouds of this sad plain. They could still be seen, thrilling, thirty kilometers away, those flames. They never looked at them, or at least never to many. This common look would have called a comment, an exchange to which all refused. But when you were alone, urinating in a farmyard at nightfall, you could not help but take a look at this conflagration, as if to make sure that the sinister curse on the country was still effective. . In the morning, in the air frozen by the cold, the column of smoke rose straight, like a waving tube, to go to smoke up to the throne of God and show him that the devil, here, had taken control. Then the wind rose. That day, he came from the East and Karol Grzegorczyk understood that he had designated them as a target. This day would be theirs.
He hitched the mare under the black snow that had been falling on the region for several months without stopping. But you had to live, you had to breathe that air, you had to never look in the direction of the cursed place. Maja, the heavy mare, set to work with her habitual placidity. Behind the little plow, the land of Poland turned on its sinister fertilizer which, at once, began to cover it again. Here, fed by the ultimate crime of men, potatoes came out of the ground that his wife and daughter were eager to pick up and put in baskets. Three years earlier, this work was done by telling jokes, singing songs and even laughing, sometimes, while passing a jar of clear water. Three years earlier, it was not rushed, just back to the farm, to clean the precious tubers from their stain. Three years ago, and still today, it was hard to imagine for a moment that this lost, untrammeled corner of Treblinka would become such a sad day.
This morning of August 2nd, 1943, the sun shines on the horizon and the earth, watered the day before of a short shower, already smokes. The ashes are so thick that Karol put his handkerchief in front of his mouth. For two hours now, noises have been coming from the camp and have come to strike the surrounding countryside as one knocks on a door behind which all the consciences of men have been hidden. These are shots slamming in this early morning. These shots, even if they are not exceptional, seem today more numerous, different also. They look like a battle, but a battle is the most unlikely thing that can happen in hell. Over there, everyone knows, even if nobody talks about it, we decided to exhume and burn tens of thousands of corpses, bodies massively buried under Polish soil for more than one year. It seems that the wind of history is itself spinning and that the devil of Berlin, caught in a sudden fear or modesty, has decided to erase the traces of his unspeakable crime.
The sun rises in the sky and Karol removes her wool. The heat will not delay to overwhelm them as already overwhelms the darkness that flies all around them. His wife and daughter wave to him and call him. He stops Maja with a click of his tongue and she immediately submits. Hanna points to the direction of the camp. The detonations are less numerous, but it seems that this time, it is the whole complex that flames. But there is something else.
Karol puts his hand in visor. As pushed by the sun, a column of men comes to them. Hanna joined him and stuck to his side with Agnieszka, their daughter. His wife's hand squeezes his forearm. A few words, which fear has repainted in the same black as rain, come out of his mouth with difficulty.
- Let's go back quickly Karol! Let's go in ... something is happening. Something we should not see. Something that ...
- Yes, let's go home!

But they stay there, all three. Frozen by the spectacle that is offered to them.
They may be a thousand and they are moving right in their direction. They flee as if some force had banished them from hell. Karol, his wife and daughter, have now all three carried their hands in visor. All three, side by side, right leg forward, stand in slight imbalance on their ground broken by the plow. All three seem to pose for a photo that, if it had been taken, would have gone around the world for centuries. Agnieszka still holds a potato in his hand. She suddenly looks at her and seems to be wondering what to do with it. The basket is too far for her to throw it in. The column is approaching. Karol sees them better now. They are not men, but dead who walk towards them driven by the rising sun. They have no face, those who are bare-bones have only a thin cover of skin resting on their skeletal frames.
They are always moving forward. Agnieszka cries softly and Hanna shudders as if an icy wind had just risen. Karol now sees that some of these dead are carrying weapons. There is nothing scary about these weapons, they seem terrible burdens to all those bodies without muscles. They are almost on them now. The sun is still so low on the horizon, that it seems that this strange and frightful troop is preceded by another. This one lies on the ground and undulates on the plowed land. These shadows, Karol thinks, seem to want to tear themselves away from the control of their masters and flee faster than they do.
They are now all around them. They looted, like a flight of starlings plundering the sky, all the apples from the baskets. Some, almost without stopping, lean in a furrow on this earth, black ashes of their brothers. They then pick up one of these tubers forgotten by the Grzegorczyk, rub it on their legs and munch it raw. One of them, almost a child, suddenly crashes in front of Agnieszka that the stupor froze on an ultimate tear. Without a word, she gives him his potato that he puts in his pocket. He looks at her for a long time. He is only a look, his eyes have devoured his head. He stares at her as if it were her, not him, who seemed to come from another world. Finally, as if pushed by the collective consciousness of these beings, he leaves and loses himself among them.
All have passed and without ever having asked their bodies, the three have rotated and now look away. Maja herself turned around, before burning violently, as if to drive away this nightmare vision from her big animal head. This little army does not know where it is going, if it is not far from the flames. Tonight, almost everyone will have been caught and killed.
Agnieszka will die sixty-two years later, day to day, and even, almost, hour to hour. She will shake between her eyelids, just before the rocking, this image of a little dead man who was still alive.

On August 2nd, 1943, the deportees of the Treblinka camp revolt. They seize weapons and fight. A thousand of them escape and fifty will survive. To tell...

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