CHAPTER ELEVENTH: GREAT LITERARY MANEUVERS
A beautiful afternoon before spring time. In this March 1, Thierry Leray came full of hope, the go that it gave the Jean-Pierre Mourlon, bar The Curlew.
The publisher is the only customer of the tavern. Seated near a window open, he momentarily abandons his glass of Spaten to observe river. Navigation is rather rare: two canoes go off, a Dutch barge, moored opposite the pub, smoking and creaking in anticipation of a departure for other banks, the pilot, a bearded redhead wearing a cap filthy gives orders to his throat stew, a mestizo whose detailed forms swell in shorts and a shirt of Feyenoord Rotterdam.
The waitress, an army bomb HG cleaning fluid and a rag, polishing glass, muttering: "I, I wipe the cover glasses, the derrrièrre comptoirr ..." The boss, He actually washes glasses, smiling under his mustache, thinking no doubt to the next tax return it will greatly underestimate.
- Hey, Blowin 'in the barge! exclaimed suddenly the window washer in the direction of Thierry Leray. You will not know how she impressed with her mainsail. It m'rappelle the country.
- You Breton?
- No, Vendee. Each year, my parents took me to the Sands for the start of the Vendée Globe. I saw all the great skippers, Alain Gautier, Lamazou Van Heede, Philou, Jacky, Marco ... Since I'm crazy about sailing. Moreover, once j'pourrai, j'mettrai sails. There's a gabarre who promised me ...
- But the barge is smaller than the catamarans. I admit she is beautiful, nonetheless.
- And you see at the bar, Titisee! A real hacker, Cui there. Not that i know you are ...
zalla Zà Nantes - Montagues And, no doubt, moved editor eye ribald.
- Ch'sais not, and also in Paris the following year. And all that sail ... or pulled by haulers ... Maybe bin anyway with an engine, I reckon ...
- And the other, the small, there. What's this? A mini-barge?
- That's the Triodiau a futreaux belongs to Yvonne, a great guy very cute. He promised me ...
The confidences of the waitress are interrupted by the arrival in the bar of an individual hair, unshaven, a little paunchy. He approaches Thierry Leray, face illuminated, radiant. In his beard, the son of the money to compete multicolored hair and the remains of his breakfast.
- Jean-Pierre Mourlon, freelance journalist, or if you prefer between two stoppages. Executor of the late Agnan Fumerol, our scholar regretted. Hello friend!
- Hello. I only knew your voice. It seems to me that we do business. You take a beer?
- Banco colleague!
journalist launches the boss: "Asma, if Kader, Aten Zoudj birra, fissa! "
- You speak Arabic? Leray inquires.
- Shuya, I spent two winters in the Djebel.
- You did the war?
- No Peace. I was in high school teacher of Medea in 1973. I taught English in the future GIA fighters and their future perpetrators. However, Medea was nice at the time: forested mountains, a small-bodied white wine, fruit at will, a placid population, winter skiing, the beach was an hour and a half drive. Agnan Fumerol him, he had another period. He baroud towards the Tunisian border, he tells his campaigns in one of his unpublished, you'll see. And then he played a key role in the information and barbouzage against the OAS, but it is still a military secret, I just found a notebook in his sanctimonious. But I think first things first ...
The skipper, who has five minutes fiddling his chain stereo, managed to seize a local radio station heard. The two men stopped their discussion to religiously listen to the song Fever, starring Elvis Presley, followed by the French adaptation of Boris Vian.
- A bit cheesy, this fever. Just last night I was 39 5. Without doubt, this change in time. I took two good grog. To sleep under the covers. A good sweat, good night. And here is a brand new man this morning. So if you looked at
... Two hours and five bocks of Spaten later, Thierry and Jean-Pierre Leray Mourlon affix their signatures at the bottom of a contract in quadruplicate. The publisher agrees to achieve in the next three years a new edition full of countless writings of deceased Agnan Fumerol, a subscription will be launched shortly, and the heirs of the author will receive 8% of profits, Mourlon 5%. Several additional provisions are approved by both sides. Thierry Leray
is struck by the distrust of his vis-à-vis and his penchant for cunning:
- You seem very suspicious. In publishing, you've had disappointing experiences?
- I sold eight months of the complete works of Lenin, the benefit of the Editions Sociales. It was just after May 68. There were quite a few requests. For intellectuals, gauchos, but the most destitute. They settled the first two or three monthly payments, and then they flew with a volume or two overdue. And had to return to recover their money and flog the 187 following volumes. I climbed thousands of stairs in the suburbs claims, with my cargo on the shoulder. A job slave. All for a handful of peanuts, because publishers coconuts, there was no worse as capitalist exploiters! So, since I'm wary of purchases. Finally, with Fumerol, we should get away. It is you who bear the main risk ...
- Not so sure! I got a guarantee from the municipality.
- They can make an effort. Fumerol has worked a volunteer for them for years ... In addition to the fortunes they engulf in operations of prestige ... Just think: two thirds of municipal grants are part of the spendthrift SNID!
The Angel.
The bar owner, a fervent supporter of SNIDER, tipped to a position in the new board of directors of the club, muttering curses in the language of his ancestors. To avoid possible dispute, Thierry Leray believes the time comes to address two other projects that are dear to his heart.
- Lenoir, Lenoir you know Joel, I presume?
- Who does not know Joel Lenoir Decize? I had the honor to visit his mansion just after the disappearance of Fumerol. A guy I do not feel myself. It always looks mysterious, enigmatic. He has not said its last word ...
- It does not say, perhaps, but he writes like a madman. Balzac, Simenon, the two Dumas, Stephen King fought, distanced, crushed. Stakhanov the keyboard. Imagine that brought me a CD and quarantine as I can promise until one per quarter 2015, or maybe more, as they say.
- surprise me. It is the king of the new thriller.
- The King of Plagiarism. I had the proof with a text on Odile Garnier. But you never know who is Odile Garnier? Another client perspective, but the problem with her is that she has disappeared. She promised, however. And I'll have to find it. A bit like your Leninist dishonest, your customers ... fugitive
Thierry Leray summarizes his interlocutor for Murder at the Priory, Our dearly departed Jeff Heller and our dearly departed Joel Lenoir.
- Oh, the plagiarism is an old tradition, adds Mourlon. Look, last week, I started reading the complete works of Ducis ...
- Ducis? Never heard of it ... But I read books ...
- Sure. You were not an editor in the eighteenth or the nineteenth century, and Jean-François Ducis has never been reprinted since. It was a popular playwright before the Revolution. Well, he wrote two pieces, twenty years later, Oedipus Admetus in 1778, great success of esteem, and Oedipus at Colonus in 1797, and the second a whole act is copied word for word on the first ... with different characters.
- It self-plagiarism. Ducis merely reiterated his drafts. At that time, the notion of copyright was unclear. In the case that interests me, Lenoir is not Jeff Heller.
- Right. I would even say that Heller is not Lenoir! Because Heller in German, it means "more clear" and Lenoir ... It's black humor ...!
- I'll put a few CDs with your immense culture ...
- Do not exaggerate, I read a little in my life. As you, too.
- If you find something fishy, be nice to call me. In any case, I edit, Lenoir until I have proof of its originality, I do not want to get me a trial. And I am especially concerned by Odile Garnier. I have to leave two or three days for another case in Paris, we'll see you when I return.
- You go to Paris? Coincidentally, I have to go to the capital to meet an old friend. In fact this is my last boss before Fumerol.
- Let's go together. Go to the station tomorrow morning.
- 6 am 54, it is a bit early but it's the fastest train.
CHAPTER TWELFTH: PARIS IS A BLOND!
The new train Téoz Clermont-Paris line through the countryside. Leaning against the glass, Jean-Pierre Mourlon sleeps, hair in eyes, belly stuck under the shelf and a slight hum mingles with indistinct murmur came from the following rows.
Thierry Leray fails to become absorbed in his newspaper. He looks up intermittently, the time to see the distance, smoke from power plants, the time to read a wall of the station Nemours testimony of the last valentine: "Magali, I love you. Damien. "The time to discover between Melun and Fontainebleau of old military trucks cemetery. He thought back to the happy years where he was hiking in the forest with Marie-Claude and children.
is the controller's voice awakens Mourlon Leray jump while lost in reverie. At the other end of the row, a traveler takes placidly at his pipe for a good quarter of an hour and fills the surroundings of a pungent perfume wholesale gray. Exceeded a neighbor went to get the controller.
- Sir, I am sorry to say this, but since last month it is forbidden to smoke! If you do not turn your pipe, I'll have to verbalize. And you know the price ...
- I have nothing to do with your threats! On my ticket it is written up No. 21, Class 2, 06 smokers car. You can check out.
- Where did you establish this post?
- At the station of Vichy last week. It is well written 06 smokers car, yes or no?
- I agree with you, but the law is applied since February 1. In Vichy, they had to use old tickets, or their software was not updated. I ask you to turn off your pipe.
- No way. 'll Make you see below in the non-smoking car for example!
- Be polite, sir. No more smoking car. You can check them on the door down. I'm going to make a report and you should explain to the station.
few kilometers before arriving at the Gare de Lyon, the smoker is running short of arguments and tobacco.
The station is overrun with tourists, vacationers departing or returning, of kids who hang bags heavier than them, commuters hurry, bewildered countrymen, busy businessmen, families separated and reunited with Again, pending the singles soulmate, couples legitimate or not, vagrants slumped on the rare available seats, curious prying along the docks, drivers Carts fulminating against the crowd that the discomfort, restless agents, employees without jobs, vendors and rubber sandwiches pickpockets.
No worries about security. Terrorists will never dare to repeat their crimes Atocha (the newsstand is full of headlines as the trial unfolds in Madrid): three Alpine meek, the tip of the left joining the nose cap, the other eye to watch, chest encased in bullet-proof vest, heavily armed with assault rifles, moving beyond short, like the ... everyone knows the result.
Thierry Jean-Pierre Leray and Mourlon separate. Everyone should go about their business during the day. They will gather at 18 am at the home of a friend of Mourlon.
- You see, his houseboat is easy to find. Quai Saint-Bernard in front of the Science Fac. Just before the bridge Sully. The Mary Rose is moored between a boat-restaurant, the rot-gut, and featured the river police. And shore side, no way to be wrong, there is a homeless encampment Not bad at all, but a little dirty. Beware, nonetheless, their dogs are aggressive!
Six o'clock sounded from the belfry of Saint-Louis-en-l'Ile when Thierry Leray reaches the dock above-mentioned. His arms are loaded with a pile of books gleaned from the booksellers. The Mary Rose is embedded below. Can not miss it. On its rusty hull, his name is tagged with red lead.
What is more difficult is boarding. Indeed, the small staircase was moved by the flood and the publisher is forced to climb down a rotten plank, a slope of 50 ° and literally dive down a ladder. Jean-Pierre Mourlon is there, sitting cross-legged in the center of a sofa in front of a couple embracing.
- Ah, there you are! Spot is perfect. Let me introduce you to our host. Thierry Leray, publisher province. Bernard Diaz, former editor of a magazine that has allowed us to come to Decize is fairly complicated, I'll tell you. And her friend Paris ... Paris.
At these words, the pretty blonde blinked both eyes and luscious lips launches toward the newcomer.
- You seem puzzled, the friend said the former editorial chief. An American billionaire you probably know well is called Paris Hilton. Well, this little girl, who works all day at the reception of Paris Hilton was modeled on his mistress. She is known as the Paris Paris. You see, it's as easy as ...
- Hello, whispers the young girl.
CHAPTER THIRTEENTH: PARIS BY NIGHT
Thierry Leray sits heavily on his suitcase. He is exhausted, winnowed, exhausted, tired, exhausted, flaps, stiff.
The night was short. Very short. And eventful.
Only six five he was able to return to his hotel room, up Aligre. And barely a quarter of an hour later, the vans were parked under the window and unpacked their kit peddlers of clothes, dishes, knick-knacks unnecessary market traders were covered grind metal shutters of their stands. Thierry Leray was able to doze until seven o'clock when the alarm on his watch was called to order. Quick wash, dress quickly, quickly drink a little black Charolais, the bar on the ground floor, quickly piling up his duds and his purchases in his suitcase, and go on the run to the Gare de Lyon.
But let's back. At half past two, leaving the barge Thierry Leray Marie-Rose. He staggers for a moment on the bridge, sliding down the first stones of the dock and makes up barely wading in a puddle - since flooding of the Seine has yet won a few centimeters.
Editor lists all the profanity he knows, in five languages and two dialects. He snorts, shakes his right trouser leg and started climbing a ramp full of greasy paper, empty cans and turds to win the Bridge Tournelle.
The hour is too late to take the subway, of course. And taxis are invisible. Traffic is almost non-existent elsewhere. Thierry Leray is convinced, after a quarter of an hour wait at the taxi rank, it is best to win his hotel walking bus cum leg (near the Latin Quarter has an obvious influence ...)
Along the St. Bernard Port, to give himself an occupation, it counts the last boxes of booksellers placed on the parapet. A little later, he enumerates the tents of homeless people camped on the lawns. Three dogs growl as he passed, a huge German shepherd comes and just sniff her calves, recalled just in time for its owner, an old tramp busy boozing on a bench.
front of the Jardin des Plantes, a mob of Hell's Angels did backfire on big cars. One of these fanatics can find nothing better to do than to come taunt the solitary pedestrian and describes several concentric circles around the publisher of a hand wielding a chain, a second biker on the side of the bridge approach of Tolbiac.
- What trap I'm stuffed? Thierry Leray concerned. We must react, I will still not make me kick the shit. Come on, I still have a little breath ...
It takes her legs around his neck, abandons with regret the bundle of old books he had purchased the previous afternoon at the booksellers, and fled towards the other side. His two assailants rushed on the package, dissect and disappointed their discovery, take over the prosecution.
- I understand their anger, said the fugitive. What morons like these two may well be an edition of the tragedies of Crebillon Father, Udolfo Mysteries, the Universal History of Bossuet and five American thrillers?
Suddenly, he hears the sound of motorcycles decrease. Across the Pont d'Austerlitz, a police car flashes.
- Stop! Where are you going so fast? An officer appeared and took the left arm of Thierry Leray. Your papers, please!
A second policeman, hidden behind a lamppost, brandishing a gun. In front, three other pandores steered their weapons toward the runner.
- But it haunts me. Rather stop the bikers, on the other side of the bridge! They wanted me to skin ...
Agents do not listen. They seem excited and talking all at once:
- They say that! What are you doing in the neighborhood that hour?
- So here it comes, these papers?
- Head, it is. J'lai seen earlier, he threw a packet. Thierry Leray
is stripped of his portfolio, that prevails in the police vehicle. Then He is handcuffed and, despite his protests, loaded in the van who parks a little further. The siren prevents him from continuing his explanation.
According to the police station in the Rue du Petit Musc than five o'clock in the morning. He had to answer a hundred questions, telling in detail her pedigree, her occupations, activities of the two previous days, give the address of the host of the evening, justify its non-membership in terrorist groups the most diverse .
Why was he arrested? When the Hells Angels threatened, attempted burglary had been reported to police by a night watchman at the Jardin des Plantes, the door of a cage of flamingos had been broken and the guard had seen someone running away with an animal under his arm. This report sent a patrol of the 5th District was passed to patrols from both sides.
the policemen of the Rue du Petit Musc, ashamed of their mistake, have agreed to lead Thierry Leray until the Place de la Bastille ... That
tribulations that allow us to understand the extreme fatigue of the editor. Sitting on his suitcase, other bags under his eyes, he watches a side panel of train schedules, on the other subway which will emerge from one moment to the other his friend Jean-Pierre Mourlon.
CHAPTER FOURTEENTH: THE BLOGGER Joker
The discerning reader - as it is among the few who find this strange story - the discerning reader asks: but what happened between eighteen hours ( the day before) and half past two (morning)? The narrator would he not missed a chapter?
The narrator has forgotten nothing. For if the reader is perceptive, the author is subtle. Why should it follow a chronology banal ? The story will come out in the critical musings Thierry Leray, still sitting on his suitcase.
If the night was short, the evening was long. QED
Long, busy and exciting.
The four occupants of the barge Mary Rose have worked their languages, their ears, their brain and thoughts. The sweet little Paris Paris fueled the conversation, except by a leitmotif languorous sent at regular intervals to a Bernard Diaz huddled against her breasts: "You're right, sweetie! "
Around a coffee table cluttered with sushi, gourmet preparations Oriental colors and strange bottles of sake, beer Tsingtao and wine from Australia, the three other guests have begun a broad review of their concerns past, present and future.
Bernard Diaz, former editor of a literary magazine of high quality, "thrown like a lemon peel" by ignoble financial explained at length his new professional activities:
- The paper's worth nothing. Hardly useful to wipe ... when the paper is not too rough. The free, local newspapers, magazines, in almost all cases, have nothing to teach us. It is in com era of electronics, a snapshot of the world village, gossip, gossip. No further decline. More than a minute to analyze, to reflect, to compare. The old McLuhan was right, he was ahead of its time. The worst part is that the com 'it has become the catch-all is no more than print. Do you agree? TV, radio, the vast majority of messages on the Internet is shit! Conformity, mediocrity, nonsense kilometer, Patrick Sebastian, Arthur, Delarue, Stéphane Bern, PPDA, Drucker and others take the helm. Serving of Lelay, Carolis, Dassault, Bollore, the big investors and politicos careerists. You see the damage with the irresistible ascent of Petit Nicolas ... You've heard A Hungarian among the Gauls, I hope? Thierry Leray
think his turn came to put his two cents in the debates:
- About Hungarian Attila was arrested by St. Genevieve, St. Sego will not stop the new Attila
... - You know why? Sainte Genevieve was ugly as a louse. Go see the monument on the bridge, right next door. Segolene will never succeed, even with its ségosphère ...
- Although pessimistic tone in mind, timidly dares Mourlon, the lower jaw and beard brushed with avocado cream shrimp.
- J't'le do not say. Yet nothing is lost save honor ... as said another.
- What else? Queries the ingenue of the Hilton Hotel.
- Francis the First, ignoramus!
Diaz landed a big Poutou him on the mouth, eats a bite of eel with horseradish foam, and resumed his speech:
- Then, in the midst of this maelstrom of pseudo-communication that the little Bernard Diaz Licensee Môssieu Kapital Ltd. He realizes quickly than the hallowed com 'lack of regulation. Oh, no question of wanting to dictate the billions of blogs, SMS and e-mail that zigzag across the world. The maxi-servers carers, Google, Yahoo, Wanadoo and other mailbox names pukes. Yuck! Google, I puke. It makes me go up the shark fin sauce gribiche. They use it, they use in our accounts, our subscriptions. To make money only. Or to supply the files of the CIA or other Big Brothers.
- So, what are you doing? You will break the Net?
- No, I'm undercover. Like a fish in water, like a sushi into the esophagus. I learned the lessons of the great Mao. So that there is more gun, take the gun.
- Not very original. So you blog, I understand. What's the point?
- I have two hats. I started a box of study and archiving of political blogs. That's my legal name, Spider-politique.com. I chose net-politics, but it was already taken, media-blog too. I provide scholars, commentators, analysts ... I have a dozen employees, including our lovely Paris, which makes me valuable services, is not my jewel?
- Oh, yes ... Stites, the charming little sigh, causing a new wave of kisses from her protector and an envious glance at the other two guests.
The discussion is interrupted to allow the ingestion of a few trinkets tossed with waves of alcoholic liquids needed to calm digestion.
- And your second hat? Mourlon application, whose beard is now studded with multicolored crumbs.
- humor, my dear. The humor. I blog and I'm just kidding ... tobacco. I created hundreds of fake blogs full of derision. I pump the title and the setting pages of a serious thing and I divert to the absurd. If you have time, surf a bit on the blogs of the world, you will find my track. This is not to say, You Tube you tube you, My glass eye, a blog for the latest road-legged Blog, Diary of a jerk, and so on of the best. Obviously, I am discreet, I avoid prosecution. As soon as I sowed discord ... the Aziza, sang as the poor ...
Balla - Balla ... hard or soft?
- No, Voinea! Not Voynet Ballavoine. Well, my tactic is not fake: when the worm in the fruit, the insect will lay clown elsewhere.
Thierry Leray was somewhat disappointed at this display of nearly-to tips and muddy. Would it not fallen, unknowingly, in the midst of a preparatory meeting of the Big Heads or the drafting of the Almanach Vermot? No, Jean-Pierre Mourlon had seemed sensible for the trip. At least, when he deigned to wake up.
- And you, my dear friend - for you are also in the edition I think if Jean-Pierre - Are you also a net addict?
- Not really. I use my computer to store documents, invoices, business letters.
- And the phone ?
- Actually, I sold my laptop two months ago. I was persecuted by a guy who was investigating the sexual habits of Europeans, he called me every day at the same time with his questions to the nuts. And how many times a month? And with whom? Jean-Pierre
Mourlon, between bites of manta ray fin adds his two cents:
- I knew it, too. It was an old lady who called me Albert and pushing me ten times a day.
- You do not know that the laptop is a plague in Muslim countries. It seems that in the mosques, no one but Allah said hello. Joking. Jean-Pierre briefly exposed me your projects. The edition of a type that I would have liked to know. Moreover, it was I who sent Jean-Pierre Decize. Mission impossible as the black bird had flown. You see who I mean.
Naturally, Thierry Leray perceive the scent of jealousy. Diaz would have made known to the world Agnan Fumerol and Joel Lenoir, both literary glories of the Loire small city. Now it was he, Thierry Leray, and anyone who had inherited the jackpot. It diverts the conversation to his third project, the edition of Murder at the Priory, the strange disappearance of the novelist, coincidences criminal mysteries Nivernais forests, the hatred between the clergy, the settling of scores between resistant and a thousand news items that have troubled amused, intrigued or disturbed people in the verdant province where he set up shop.
how pass the hours. Sully and under the bridge flows the Seine. For
Bernard Diaz, scrutinizing the progress of the flood, concludes that the Mirabeau bridge has no monopoly of the course, nor is the Pont de l'Alma has a monopoly of the Zouaves. On this
, Thierry Leray embraces Paris, thanked Diaz welcomes Mourlon, climbs the ladder and is committed to the rickety bridge. You already know the result. But it's not over ...
FIFTH CHAPTER: THE SOURCES OF ARON
"Nevers! Nevers! Terminus! All passengers get a car. Make sure not to have forgotten the train! "
advantage of the twenty minute wait before their connecting flight to Decize, Thierry and Jean-Pierre Leray Mourlon go drinking at the station buffet. The two-hour trip did not allow them to make up for the sleepless night, a group of supporters of the team Rugby in France has continued to move from one car to another, screaming. Leray was still wrinkled eyelids, the hair bristling Mourlon. While the publisher
drowns his bad mood in a very cool Goodale, his companion traveled the Journal of the Centre. He said the latest local news in a sarcastic tone:
- Look, the SNID bought by a multimillionaire. "New in the crisis rocking the fans imphyco-decizois for nearly two months. A Russian oligarch, Vladimir Samovolkine magnate caviar originating in Crimea offers to buy the club Nivernais. He has already signed a check for $ 500,000 and bought a pied-à-terre in Beard. Mayors and Decize Imphy have assured our reporter that this unexpected rescue their sacred fires a pin of the foot. Page Cosne, nothing interesting, a Venetian masked ball in Chateau-Chinon, Rural Elders are testing the andouillette Clamecy factor Rémilly retires ... Well, the everyday. Decize page: "A new website for lovers of local history." Ah, that's a good idea! I will note the reference perso.orange.fr / histoiresdedecize. I'll try tonight. If the two guys who dreamed up the site are serious, I should find good news about a friend ... Fumerol
- And in fact different, what's new? Leray intervenes.
- peanuts. A cow gives birth to a calf with six legs. The CEO of a textile company convicted pinched the buttocks of a student. Wikipedia has more than a penny, director launches collection. Ah, well, an article that should interest you:
"Macabre discovery in the pond Aron, near St. Révérien. A fisherman bleak, Didier Gounot launched his line under a willow; feeling a strong resistance, he thought at first that the hook was stuck in a root. After firing more strongly, he was surprised to find his line after a piece of cloth and a piece of flesh (which will be revealed shortly after human flesh). Firefighters in St. Saulge, alerted by a fisherman, came in the afternoon and have yielded a tangle of roots and reeds a human corpse, already decomposed. This is a woman. Dr. Minet, medical examiner, is responsible for dissection. The criminal police will check if the corpse is, as we feared, that of Madame Odile G ..., professor in the Cher, who disappeared mysteriously for fifteen days and whose vehicle was found in a canal lock Nivernais. According to investigators, the trace of G ... Odile was spotted in the hamlets surrounding San Saulge and St. Révérien.
- Let me see! Ah, well shit, then! That's what I did not dare ... And when I think that animal Lenoir also recounted his death in advance ...
- Because he has dared! I'm not surprised. That guy there, I think it takes a strange game to death already Agnan Fumerol was not really understood. I wonder if we do should not complain against him.
- Slowly, one should not confuse the author of thrillers and crime!
- Sometimes we see authors who live crimes they say. Classical phenomenon of identification of the narrator to his hero. Here, I'll put a book I have at home, The Plagieur. This is a book written by a Tunisian, Taoufik Ben Brik. You know?
- Ben Brik? No, I'm eating briks Tunisian is not bad. But read anything by this author.
- He rose to fame in 2004. Political prisoner in hunger strike, he managed to be evicted from his home. I think he lives in France now. In his book, he imagines an author who is so obsessed with the literature he unwittingly plagiarizes the best writers and filmmakers, Dostoevsky, Flaubert, Woody Allen, Kurosawa, Bulgakov ... A crazy story. The narrator no longer knows what he does, he has only one obsession, to be published. Is your Lenoir Joel would not have been achieved by the same madness?
- This is not "my Lenoir," I beg you. I have not yet signed anything with him. And now, with this new body, not about me cram into such a mess. If Lenoir is guilty and if I publish his book, I'm getting too suspicious, accomplice to murder. No, what I absolutely have to do is understand how and why Odile Garnier is dead - if that is it.
- You think transmitted his manuscript to the police? Murder at the Priory, it might confuse the investigation. It is also necessary that his murder was linked to two other ...
- It seems highly unlikely. But I do not have all the documents. Her investigation led her into the ranks of former combatants, former resistance fighters. There must be a track. Unless this zigoto Lenoir pulling the strings, which would be even more unlikely.
- And if Lenoir wrote Murder at the Priory? And if Odile Garnier was a nickname?
- We swim in the irrational. The safest is to return all pages that she calmly passed me and, perhaps, to contact her husband. We'll see.
CHAPTER SIXTEENTH: impure blood ...
"Scrooge emits a low whistle. Following a click. Floret differs markedly from the Sten gun sticking out of the shadow zone. The truck appears at the top of the street, two young guys in caps are installed on the plateau, they wave flags lights. Fernando is driving, Jacky on his right. But where is Marcelot?
The fly has taken off and swirls in the hair of Floret, enters one of his ears. Jinxed. This bug will make him miss his shot. Unable to concentrate.
That's it. The truck is in sight. Floret means the first burst, led by Scrooge. The two rear passengers collapsed on to the sides. They have not had time to understand, much less time to respond. A shot has starred windshield, probably Jacky. Inside, the driver slumped, hit? May be stashed.
Floret still fails to fire. His hand trembles, an excruciating spasm spurring his wrist. The metal Luger is icy. The nervousness, anxiety, hatred Marcelot, and this fly!
Two minutes later, Floret and his men safely out of hiding. There is no risk. None of their opponents has replied. Scrooge opens the door and gave the coup de grace to the two occupants of the cabin one last burst of machine gun.
Floret, which has not yet fired a single bullet, wants to show that he is the chief: he puts the barrel of his gun to the head of Marcelot. That's
Marcelot, that he wanted, he could not see it before, sitting on the shelf between the two teenagers wounded in the chest, Marcelot rattle, and advance a hand tried to grab his weapon ... Floret stares at him, spit on and press the trigger. Spillage of blood and brains coming stain his shirt and glasses.
It is time to leave. Scrooge takes a few bullets in the direction of the windows of an inn and Floret threw an incendiary grenade into the truck.
Cardinal arrives first in the garden where they stashed the bikes. He and Jackie Terrot straddle the old and starting out in a cloud of smoke, Floret and Scrooge push the German side-car whose engine is reluctant to engage. Finally, after few violent kicks on the kick, the machine hums. Direction: the woods of St. Franchy.
The inhabitants of the village were hiding in their house early in the shooting and the explosion of the truck. Although there have been few direct witnesses. However, Blaise Mérigot, the butcher of St. Révérien, had spotted the preparations for the ambush. Jules Bernard himself was busy weeding a patch of salad when the four men had parked their motorcycles along the path of viburnum; to their return, he crouched down behind the tank irrigation, fearing a return of militia or punitive action of the last Germans.
last week, it was unclear who held the campaign. Queues of Germans were retreating towards Chateau-Chinon, or later, some sad and bedraggled, the other aggressive. The FFI marched through the towns, ragged troops lined up for a sunrise colors in front of our town halls. Leaders in caps and uniforms rubbed almost new veterans of 14-18 medals and clad youngsters Cuffs with lights, some communist activists wore the same red flag. More worrisome: small groups roaming the roads and felled Citroen Traction random "traitors." Resistant or militia? It was not unlike that under the corpses of their victims.
Jules Bernard Blaise Mérigot Norbert Duchamp, Gilbert Cochot are the first on the scene. Other residents joined them, little by little, and they organize a fetching water to extinguish the fire that ravaged the truck. Mayor Simon Landreau phone to the police of St. Saulge then the number given to him by Lieutenant Robert, he announced to the villagers that a detachment of FFI is coming to secure the village and another party is to continue Brinon bastards. "Thierry Leray
abandons page 52, cuts the sound of his string. A food writer painstakingly explains the changes that the architect has made to Portzamparc Decorations Tour d'Argent.
- is not everything, but the Tour d'Argent and Tour de Cochon, I have a little hollow. Must j'mette the shepherd's pie in the microwave.
Since early morning, he began a new reading of Murder at the Priory. He did not learn anything he did not know already. Dom Vignault was killed by order of Michel Chery and Adjutant Marcelot Raymond, former chief of the colonial and FFI was shot by Gaby Doutray, aka Floret pseudo-resistant.
In watching the ringer the furnace, the publisher uncapped a bottle of Henniger, excellent beer which he reported three cases of the last Frankfurt show. He launched a vigorous "Prosit! "Toward the ceiling and its approach mug of his face. Howling
the startles. Its incisors facing the mug of sandstone. A few ounces of his favorite beverage is knocked onto his new shirt. At the same time, the oven door microwave oven opens and lets out a smell of hot potatoes.
- But what is this ...?
- Hou hou! That we meet in stereo voices of the two brothers Miquet. Without the slightest embarrassment, they came in the vestibule. The most florid
two oddballs says:
- We had forgotten a box the other day. You know, the manuscripts of the great Fumerol. Well, here it is. If I cried, because this goofy Raymond escaped his grip just arriving. Z'auriez not some mercurochrome, notSurpise has scratched a little leg? In fact
scratchy, the aforementioned Raymond trousers torn knee right ankle, tibia and squashed a rush of blood flooded his basketball (for the two delivery men are shod with yellow sneakers, a whim as a good business deal ...)
- gonna have to call a doctor or an ambulance. M'al'air ailing your brother ...
- Do you! Raymond is a strong man. And he has seen others. When he fell from the bridge, the day a truck missed the turn ... And when he came under the dredge because he leaned over to see if that glittered in the depths of the Loire was not a gold nugget ... And when he crossed the avenue from the station in the middle of Paris-Nice riders what were launched at a premium for Sprint ...
Finally, when the ambulance driver closes the front door, Thierry Leray may sit down at his plate of shepherd's pie. Mechanically, he swallows a spoonful cold, it has not even had the presence of mind to make the dish warm.
CHAPTER SEVENTEENTH: SOME COLLEGE THAT DEVIL!
- He's right, Nicolas. We need order, discipline. It's me that you say the French need to march in step. They are sick of the shambles!
- Yeah, but it's not your Sarko we need. It's Jean-Marie. Him, he has no tokens. He says what he thinks. He not change his mind at each interview. It's been fifty years he defends the order.
- And it's been fifty years he Braille slogans without exerting any responsibility. It's easy when you live in a castle ...
- Because you think your boyfriend he lives in a suburban housing estate? Here, he dares not even set foot there. It looks smart with its kärcher!
- You'll see when he is in power ...
- It has been in power for years ... And what he did with his buddies? Cars burned, gooks in the streets, niggaz squat gyms, kids who taunt the police, the brothel, I say to myself! The UMP is blah and company! Chirac in the worst!
- Shut up! Your rambling old fascist, not even win the damn election! It is more critical in his cushy perpetual. We, at least, here we go ...
coal - Jacky, do be silent or crazy it out before J'lui put my hand through ...
boss St. Private poured another glass of Chablis to each of two fellows, and thus succeeds, peacefully, to silence them.
Thierry Jean-Pierre Leray and Mourlon, seated in the back room, would have liked to talk but the quarrel between the two drinkers was so noisy that they have resorted to drink in silence their Chimay and browse all the latest album from GastonLagaffe, Fifty years of blunders, on sale since the morning in all good bookstores.
The controversy between Stephen and Jeremy Poitrinard Duchemin began about toads-ringers, the critters found in the forest of La Machine and protected by environmentalists of all stripes, to the chagrin of hikers, hunters and mountain bikers who n longer have any access to the undergrowth. Toads, our two opponents have gone to the carnival parade, which this year will not borrow the alley where Jérôme Duchemin remains an intolerable scandal. The tone is mounted steadily, fueled by new rounds of white wine. Both sides then discussed the sorry state of streets and sidewalks of a neighborhood resident, however, several city councilors, but not least! Through the inevitable crisis SNID, Jeremy and Stephen Poitrinard Duchemin, more and more excited, have come to politics, the most explosive issue in these times of pre-election campaign.
- Let's go! This is the bear garden in your neighborhood, thundered a Thierry Leray more indignant.
- My neighborhood, you go hard, you! reply Mourlon. I camp a few days with friends Fumerol's all. Me, my neighborhood is the wide world. Come see the shores of the Old Loire. It should be quiet.
Indeed, except for two anglers comfortably seated on camp stools, and a couple of misfits engaged in monitoring their pack of dogs-dogs, the vast green expanse Decizois all know as the Verdial is deserted. The natural grass is embellished with clumps of daisies and wild daffodils. A small path winds a few yards from the shore and the two professional literature of other enter into a dialogue far more serious than the quarrel bistro which they escaped. Jean-Pierre
Mourlon, who Leray told two days before the manuscript of Murder at the Priory, dissects, in analysts confirmed the two stories by Odile Garnier embedded in his novel. He advises on all the effects of style, narrative construction, the psychology of characters, historical allusions, dialogue, points of view adopted successively by the narrator, etc. ... can not believe Thierry Leray:
- This guys hid well his game Beneath bonasses and look a bit silly, this is a literary critic as I have rarely met. Too bad he did not a most brilliant career at the university or the literary collections. Probably because of its chronic instability, I dunno if I made him take the book. It's going to demolish my project. Listen more.
- Warning! You will get your foot in ...
- Too late! Ah, the bastards, with their mutt ...
- Returning to the Odette ...
- No, Odile!
- Right. Excuse me, I was madly in love with a Marie-Odette, in other times and other places. So, your writer would have died ... murdered ... drowned?
- Hard to say. I hardly any news in the article the other day. The identification was not made formally. And now, the newspaper is on strike.
- You should call the husband!
- Delicate, old man. And if it does not it? I mean, if the body was not hers? I thin air.
- Yes, but until we have identified the dead or the disappeared found, you can not edit the book. Especially as this story of double murder in a priory, a few miles from where his lock Clio went swimming, and more near the pond Aron, it would make a bad impression. Do you have alerted ...
- Police? You're joking! Either they'll wrap myself in thinking I'm in on it, or they will send me to the dingoes. Did you know that Lenoir has argued that he was the director?
- Lenoir, I've already said is a manipulator. In any case, the novel does not lack of breath or stylistic qualities. And if you publish in posthumous novel, you have additional publicity ...
Thierry Leray not listen. It sets the last arch of the bridge.
CHAPTER EIGHTEENTH : DOWN BY THE RIVERSIDE
Along the stairs leading to the river, a strange procession takes place. A small band descends, singing religious hymns. Almost all are naked as worms, with the exception of a few old women dressed in gowns in the colors faded. The emcee the first plunge into the water black, he stands up and chants towards his followers: "Water the Old-Loire / serve your glory / New Jordan / East in our garden / O Lord / Come rename your bathers! / Come and save them / From their sins! " Some daring plunge catechumens and in turn receive on the forehead dirty water but sanctified.
- But it is the Reverend Mironton! He phoned me to offer to edit his oremus in rap. I recognize the style.
- Mironton, Mironton! It gives me purpose ox Mironton dares Mourlon without much conviction.
- An illuminated. You can check for myself. I did well to drop his collection. These evangelists, they do not know how to get noticed. I read in a newspaper that this new mode of baptism, which comes from the United States invades us insidiously. The re-born. Rather re-bounded ! But they'll all catch a congestion. Brrr!
- Not at all, their faith protects them from cold. Me, what I fear is the response of chickens. Look, there is already a mob Maousse on the parapet of the bridge.
Indeed, passersby, merchants quay, their clients, some idle gossips and professionals returning from market coalesce over the faithful. Funny launch of service incentives, whistling between their fingers and a wise guy takes pictures with his mobile phone. The two municipal police officers
tumble on the stairs, gesticulating, resulting in a sudden panic the neo-Baptists: the most skilled and fully immerse themselves disperse offshore, in the manner of ducks, others are hiding in the reeds where they are greeted by the sharp teeth of fierce coypu.
Authority police managed to seize two of the reverend and his disciples. Despite her protests and a final song rapping, Eric Mironton is driven forcibly to the top levels where a police van was waiting. A blushing gendarmette handcuffed and discreetly place a cap to the flanges of the preacher pendants. More quietly, the two climb faithful arrested the back of the van. The siren roars, the flashing light spark and the vehicle surged towards the police.
Rescue of neo-Baptists scattered, and almost drowned transistor is given to firefighters who put water inflatable boat. After a chase that led to the Stade Nautique rescuers pull waves all the faithful of Reverend Mironton, waved, chilled, exhausted but blessed. Ambulance to hospital where they spin waiting blankets, herbal and syringes filled with liquid sedative.
- You did not give me your opinion on this history of resistance. Me is what seems most bizarre in the book of Odile Garnier. Floret why he committed such a hatred Marcelot?
- The narrator is not very eloquent. Humiliation revenge, jealousy, or simply hate all authority? It casts doubt. We should know all types of life that inspired these characters, if the author has provided a helpful historical elements. Quite difficult, in my humble opinion.
- Exactly, she left notes on a dozen real resistance fighters who are in their second story. And she cites several archival documents. The real Floret, it was some Doutray Gaby, a petty criminal who had a criminal record before the war. And Raymond Marcelot is a copy of NCO Mauricet George, a faithful copy of a little less ...
- You know what you should do? So take a look at the Archives Departmental and try to contact alumni Resistance. There should be many more in life, but the last of the Mohicans certainly have memories to share with you. And then, there are still descendants, although the sincerity in this area is rare. Wait ... Doutray cons versus Marcelot Mauricet Floret ... ... It's all well and good but it explains nor the disappearance of the author, much less his death ...
- I am sure she is not dead. The body pulled from the pond must be autopsied now. I'll go to the agency's journal earlier. Little Miss Stella, the intern, she assured me she would have my intelligence info.
- Do not panic. We will eventually find the truth. So meditate on this proverb Poitevin: "In the countryside, is at the end of the show that has the dung," as Ségolène.
- You too, you get into politics?
- Of course! Everything is politics. Mironton and nonsense, both of St. Private Welcome, Guest fanatical discipline, Tear strength, Lenoir and thrillers, and his research Fumerol, Odile Garnier and his fantasies, and even the monks of St. Révérien. We are the monks of St. Révérien, we go to bed late and get up in morning! Of these males
words, Jean-Pierre Mourlon vigorously press the right hand Thierry Leray and away whistling. The editor, dropped to his questions, plunges a sore wrist in the right pocket of his jacket. He then observed the contents of your pocket. Keys, a handkerchief, a small pebble two buttons, a € 2 coin, a cinema ticket and a sheet folded into eight ...
NINETEENTH CHAPTER: WHY SO MUCH HATE?
"This novel can be read simply as a story in which you can skip ahead if you wish, but you benefit more if you do not miss anything. It can be regarded as a kind of symphony, opera or even a movie cowboy. I wanted to make a hot music, song, tragedy, comedy, a farce and so on. It is superficial, deep, entertaining, boring, to taste. And for the case you'd think I did anything other than a novel, I'll answer that ultimately it is a true story that I intended to write, and even a serious novel devilishly . "Malcolm Lowry
letter to his publisher.
- But who could have me shove the paper in your pocket? Definitely a farce Mourlon. Or, I picked it in the folder Murder at the Priory, I can not remember. Strange still ...
Thierry Leray does not linger longer on the banks of the Old-Loire. He goes to the local office of the Journal of the Centre. By luck, the student has just left for a "Ultra-rapid survey among high school students use drugs," explains the secretary with an air of mystery, "because we have just dismantled a network, do not repeat the above, the cops requiring confidentiality, I dunno why I you speak, besides ... "No news of the autopsy, or forensic identification. "But you can always call the prosecutor is my maternal great-uncle, he will tell you. Tell her it's from Jocelyn! "
Back home, the editor of his chain poses a CD drawn at random from his collection. Accompanied by the organ triumphant Mass for the Port-Royal Marc-Antoine Charpentier, he reads again the manuscript sent to her Odile Garnier.
The evening of his arrival with the maquis, Floret suggests its atavistic indiscipline. In sub-officer who appointed him to fetch water, he replied insolently
- Because we have no running water to sinks? Ah well, I thought you had installed a real camp ...
- Here, my little sir, we are not here for fun. If you want to stay, will have to show obedience to leaders. Or you gonna draw. 'll Talk to Lieutenant Magnien to c't'heure.
summoned to report Floret do not lead off. The lieutenant is flanked by two armed men. He listens with negligence on the record that makes him the adjutant Marcelot. Suddenly adopting a surly tone, the officer made it clear that the new commitment in the FFI is not a holiday camp, the fight against the Huns and the collaborators is ruthless, the alignment in extremis own anything does not please him, that cheeky zazous will initially occupied with chores before having proved themselves in practice and that the warrant will now Marcelot carte blanche to draw strong heads, "because the Warrant, you hear my little guy! He has five years of war, he Narvik, Dunkirk, the fall in England, the Army of armistice, and from Toulon and Algiers, he joined the Army of Africa, not queer, and hard to blédards cook, real soldiers! and we came back reinforcements from the month of April is not a shirker, or worker of the last hour. Break! "
The following days are a sad repetition of humiliation. Strenuous exercise for the former pimp who is definitely no match to compete with these young guys coming from farms or workshops. Marcelot never misses an opportunity to remind him a job to do: dump the dirty water away from the huts, pour lime on old foliage, polishing parts for machine guns that he has no right to use, Cross of Lorraine paint on linen, in anticipation of the approaching liberation.
Floret is no patrol, no help. On the evening of September 4, he witnessed the triumphant return of buddies who hung a squad of Germans in retreat and return with six prisoners. The next day, he helped unload a truck confiscated The machine of mine and filled with crates of dynamite.
the night of 5 to 6, he finally got a weapon. Ten minutes of handling should suffice for him to understand how an old Lebel. At dawn, we leave it to Floret and five other "broken arm", and under the control of two gendarmes Prémery, custody of a dozen German prisoners, old Landwehrmänner. During that time, the FFI most experienced left Nevers free!
"Domine fac regem salvum! "The angelic voices of the young ladies of St. Cyr sing the old royal anthem. Unconsciously, Thierry Leray combines these ladies to old hands who framed the Resistance in recent days, Lieutenant Magnien, the services of former Army Signal Corap, the adjutant Marcelot. Of course, there was water in the gas between and Floret Marcelot. Odile Garnier but gives no details on preparations for revenge.
Between September 6, 1944 at noon eighteen, the precise moment when the prisoners are hired cops and September 12 at 5:20 p.m., when the shooting broke out in front of the Priory of St. Révérien, no Floret knows nothing, nor any of his cronies. Moreover, Cardinal, Scrooge and Jacky, they have joined Floret in treason, they also acted out of revenge against the NCO? Where have they stolen motorcycles that led to St. Révérien? What was their background? The next chapter leaves Floret and prison guard to monitor and glorious Marcelot guerrillas through the villages, Saint-Saulge, St. Benin, and in the streets of Nevers, the last battle at the bridge of the Loire and the closure of Saincaize.
- Some beautiful feats she has borrowed from the historian of the Resistance, how he called that? Martineau, Martinez? There is still a bone in the story. Now that I read these chapters four times, I see that the ellipse Floret is incomprehensible. Simple stupidity? Hoax? Stroke of genius? Difficult to pronounce. If I could meet Odile Garnier ... She really has chosen the moment to disappear ...
Thierry Leray seen on the sheet on which the office Mourlon - or a prankster - copied the letter from Malcolm Lowry. He crumples, tears and threw the pieces into the wastebasket.
- It's really not the time for me swell with "novels damn seriously." I think I'll drop the Priory Murders and devote all my energy to editing Agnan Fumerol. At least I'll rely on solid ground.
Dring! Dring! Drang! Drong!
The new telephone rang in complete discord with the notes of the Magnificat.
- Yes! Thierry Leray here, I listen ...
- It's me again, yes me, Joel Lenoir. You do not like our dearly departed. That offends me. Yes, it offends me, I'd say it straightens me, I'm uptight, it bites me, I'm piercing the heart, I'm spinning the cerebellum. Because the loss of your Odile Garnier, it's not blank. This is the real truth. And the abductor of the beautiful read Jeff Heller. If there is a plagiarist is the kidnapper, not me ...
Exasperated, wrinkled, shriveled, straightened, stung, pierced, annoyed as much if not more, than his interlocutor, the editor hangs up. CHAPTER TWENTIETH
: Dies Irae
- My country going wrong! My country is evil, evil evil! My country is wrong! He is right, if its not going well, mine does not get better and it might not work out ...
Thierry Leray listening to the song by Tiken Jah and he can not help but take up the refrain in chorus with the Ivorian and Rasta singers. The morning began
allegro ma non troppo. Breakfast invigorating based on a wholesale jesus Morteau, boiled eggs and cake to griaude freshly baked, all washed down with a good gun-powder tea. Then, the publisher, playful mood, were laminated an old book at random on the fifth shelf of his library: The Romance of inner shell, a satirical play written by Molière against one of its players, a certain Jean Simonin completely forgotten, except by the curious bibliophile.
- "You estes pressed
Madam, come, but, although we are ... here follows
- If we are made to languish, what will we do here?
Righteous Gods! What a pain ! "
- What a pain! I thought I read something funny, and there is already a neurasthenic woman, from the first scene. 'll See later ... Well, there is a Baron Dirt who dislikes actors:
- "Plague the rabble,
Autheuric, Comedians, are true nothing worthwhile. "
- Reminds me of another baron who does not like the entertainment, Baron ... The Brain. Well, it's not all, I must go fetch the newspaper ... and a good olive focaccia for lunch.
Half an hour later, Thierry Leray is overwhelmed. The focaccia is done, the fragrant stew, radio purrs. No, this is neither the food nor the music that we must seek the origin of the terrible blues hitting the publisher.
He still holds in his hand the Journal of the Centre, page two, crumpled, announces the identity of the disappeared found in the pond Aron. That's Odile Garnier, professor at The Guerche, whose family, colleagues, students and friends come together in grief and compassion.
- Knock, knock! Post it! Open quickly, you have a telegram!
- A telegram? Ah, good morning, John Paul.
- The telegram, a message rare in our time. Me, it m'rappelle my debut in Paris: i had to wear blue p'tits the fifth or sixth free lift and a customer we r'filait pourliche. Sometimes it was a client. I even brought in the big hotels ... it does not seem to go today ... Not a bad news anyway?
- If a confirmation of what I knew from the duck. My novelist, I told you about already, Odile Garnier ... Well, she's dead ...
the pond - one that was in high school with you ...
- How do you know?
- It is you who m'l'avez said. So sincere condolizza, no, wrong j'me, condo ... condolences, basket ...
- baskets, why?
- Anse basket. It is stronger than Roquefort, puns ugly, it escapes me ... lead.
- Not you keep?
- If, when I sleep. Excuse me, it was a good friend?
- Who?
- This Odile. I think you look like Dizzy.
- I had completely forgotten, and then she sent me a book to edit. I was almost convinced. And his book is weird, it's a case of double murder unsolved. Or inexplicable. And then she disappears. Upon meeting me. We found a dead body. It's his. Third murder unexplained, perhaps inexplicable. New thriller. It is for me to unravel all these nodes.
- If you go ask for help in Lenoir?
- No way. He too is on the case. It even made me believe that everything was planned in one of his thrillers. Plagiarized from an American novel, actually.
- Then try to think of something else. I dunno, I think what ? In an hour, I'm done, come and drink a pint with me in La Marina. They received a shipment of Asahi. A Japanese beer extra. Meanwhile, I finished my tour. I have three packages to be deposited in the street Marguerite Monnot.
- Tell me, ye ... Decizois
- Pure juice. Born, baptized, raised, fed, fed, educated, trained, resident, installed in his furniture and even married to Decize.
- Marguerite Monnot This is the musician you see in the film La Vie en Rose?
- Correct! She worked with Piaf. And with many other Artiss ...
- It was therefore Decizoise?
- Re-correct! It is even born close to home. Yet there was a plaque on the wall. Or rather, we saw before, because the ivy cover plate ...
- It is she who has made my Lord?
- Absolutely, Thierry! "Come, do not cry my lord! "
LOOK ...
