Translated from French to English - www.onlinedoctranslator.

com
 For Tristan, Louis and Elvire
from the fourth Dalton
 1
THE HISTORY TEACHER

—…since on the coffin is represented the journey of the dead

towards the Underworldcomma, uh… no, period…
— Period or comma? Catherine asked me, with an air of
great weariness.
- Semicolon.The Etruscan religion...Here, let's ring the bell.
— The Etruscan religion here we ring,repeated Catherine
continuing to type on the keyboard.
— But go and open!
— Am I your secretary or your maid?
— I pay you dearly for the number of mistakes you
manage to fit it into a single sentence.
“Install me with a spell checker,” my mother replied.
secretary.
Dring, dring.
— ...and hurry up and open it, Mr. Hazard. Your
visitor gets impatient. You will miss the sale ofThe whole Universein one hundred
and fifteen volumes.
“I'll end up stabbing you savagely,” I said thoughtfully.
— I put your letter opener back in its case and the case in the
drawer. The jurors will see that there was premeditation.
Driiing. The visitor threw away his all before abandoning the
game. I rushed into the entrance.
— Oh, Inspector Berthier!
The inspector was already turning on his heel. He walked back up the two
steps heavily.
— Oh good, you're here. Were you busy or something?
Laughing heartily, he threw his hat on my chair and winked at
Catherine.
“I’m going to make some tea,” announced my secretary.
“I thought you weren’t my maid,” I remarked between
my teeth.
Catherine swayed away.
 “Pretty girl,” Berthier said to me. Before knowing you, sir
Hazard, I thought that university professors spent their lives with
their noses in books... Ah, ah!
- Everyone can make mistakes. Before knowing you, I
thought police inspectors had normal IQs. But sit down...

A little gloomy, Berthier took a place on my sofa. He was silent for

a moment, perhaps hoping that I would help him.
— Do you still like playing amateur detectives? decided-
he suddenly said.
“WE love it,” my secretary replied for me.
She had just placed the tea tray on a coffee table and knelt down,
her buttocks on her sneakers, to serve.
“I have a little riddle for you,” murmured the inspector. As I still
didn't react, he turned to Catherine.
— Imagine that strange things are happening in Queutilly-
under-gifted.
— Queutilly-sous-Doué, I repeated, emphasizing the “sub-
gifted". Is that where the police inspector training center is located?

Berthier ignored my joke.

— This is where the Saint-Prix college is located, and it is the director
of this establishment who called on the services of one of my
colleagues.
Berthier opened his little leather bag and took out what my long
practice as a teacher allowed me to immediately identify as student
copies.
“History homework, Mr. Hazard,” continued the inspector.
All noted.
He spread four of them on the coffee table. Each copy bore the
only indication of 0/20 in big, clunky red numbers.
— The teacher of this fourth grade class has found his
forced locker in the teachers' room. The correction of the copies had
been made, as you see.
“A schoolboy joke,” I said, without otherwise being moved.
— The unfortunate teacher is indeed very rowdy, admitted
the inspector. He complains that the leads go off every time he tries
to use the VCR, that the lock on his classroom is
systematically blocked by plaster, that his desk is stained with crushed
chalk…
"I don't see any enigma in all this," Catherine protested.
Berthier smiled. He handed me one of the copies.
— Really, professor, would you have given this student a zero? I
took the assignment and looked over it. Written in poor French, it
was also riddled with mistakes.
“Two or three,” I said, putting the copy down. But I am not
specialist in French history. I only know the Etruscans well and the
Egyptians a little less well…
“We’ll know,” Catherine grumbled.
Berthier smiled at me, looking more and more stupidly satisfied.
— Well, aren't you intrigued? I thought you had an intuition
supernormal... You don't notice anything?
A little annoyed, I took the copy back in hand. There was no
correction. Only this note in red ink.
I shook my head regretfully.
— My tongue to the cat...
“It’s not ink,” said the inspector in a whisper, “it’s
human blood.
Catherine, who was holding the teapot, gave an unhappy start and
poured the tea on the table.
- Some blood ?
— Our laboratories are formal, continued Berthier, flourishing
in the macabre. This reddish color that tends to flake off is blood. All
copies have been corrected with human blood. What do you think of
this... joke, Mr. Hazard?
— It seems to me difficult to achieve by students of
fourth. Isn't the professor a little crazy?
“He just had a nervous breakdown,” the inspector admitted. He
is in a rest home.
Catherine burst out laughing:
— Well, that's it! He tripped. He himself corrected…
— Allow me to interrupt you, Miss Roque. The inspector reached
into the leather bag and removed a new copy.

— This is a French homework carried out, since the departure of this

history teacher, by a sixth grade student.
A note was written in red on the copy: 20/20.
 — The French teacher, Madame Zagulon, found this
copy in his own binder, slipped among the others and already
corrected.
— Were any fingerprints found on the copy? I questioned,
suddenly impressed.
— Those of the student and the teacher.
— Wouldn’t it be this Madame Zagulon who would have had fun
has…
I didn't finish my sentence. Why would anyone in their right mind
start marking papers with blood?
— The director of this private establishment, Mr. Agnelle,
I hope that this matter will be clarified, Berthier continued, but that
the investigation will be carried out discreetly. Parents might not find
the joke very funny...
— Do you suspect anyone? asked Catherine who did not
stopped fidgeting as this affair fascinated her so much.
“I would go for a third grader,” replied
the inspector. They have some really bad guys in Saint-Prix. But I don't have
proof. We should establish ourselves in the place and catch the prankster in the
act.
He looked at me insistently.
— Someone who would come and replace the history teacher, with
example... We wouldn't be suspicious of him. Do you teach history
well at the Sorbonne, professor?
— The Etruscans, essentially the Etruscans!
“And a little bit about the Egyptians,” Catherine added mechanically.
I would like to join as a pawn at Saint-Prix.
— Catherine, I said sternly, please stay out
of this story. A young girl should not take reckless risks…

Catherine batted her eyelashes, her hands on her chest, affecting an

air of loving admiration.
— Machismo makes you so sexy, Nils!
Having knocked me out, she turned to the inspector: — It's OK.
Monsieur Hazard will ignite all the hearts of Saint-Prix... for
Etruscology and during that time, I will find the culprit.
I accompanied the inspector once the tea had been shipped.
On the threshold, Berthier waddled for a moment, his hat in his
hand.
 “Between us,” he suddenly blurted out, “it’s your secretary or your
girlfriend ?
A hint of jealous envy appeared in his voice. I had a movement of
indignant denial.
— Catherine? But she is much too young for me.
“That’s what I was telling myself,” Berthier muttered, in a tone of
console.
He went down two steps, while adjusting his hat.
— Oh, inspector!
He turned around. I winked:
— She's still my girlfriend.
— What were you telling the inspector? Catherine asked me.
— Nothing, nothing... What are you holding in your hand?
— Berthier forgot the French copy.
She put it on my desk, near the computer, then started clearing
the cups. I watched her, sullenly. What story had she gotten me into
again?
— I have no desire to teach kids,
I grumbled.
— You will fascinate them with your Etruscan contraptions. They You
will take for Indiana Jones.
— I don't like kids.
— You always speak to them very kindly.
“Behind a hygiaphone,” I replied with a disgusted pout.
They are alive, these little animals. I'm sure it's contagious.
Catherine burst out laughing and threw me a cushion.
— You are stupid! I escape.
— Where to get lost?
Catherine wrinkled her nose. This is his grimace to taunt me:
— Ah, mystery, mystery.
She grabbed her jacket:
— See you tomorrow, Mr. Hazard!
…The door slams. Catherine rushes down the stairs. She's on the street
now. I approach the window and lean my forehead against it. She runs on
the sidewalk opposite, without even thinking about avoiding the puddles.
She's going to the café.
So. She turned. The day falls. I don't like this hour between dog
and wolf. Memories come back to me from the depths of
childhood, memories that are neither happy nor childish1.
 I opened the drawer and took the letter opener out of its case.
Spicy and sharp: it's a gift from Catherine. We should get married. But
if we don't tolerate living apart for more than two days, we find it
even harder to stay together for more than twenty-four hours. I sat at
my desk with a sigh and rested my forehead on my fists. Twilight
capsizes uncertain minds...

My eyes then fell on the French copy, near the computer. A

phrase had just stuck with me: “We’re going to play assassin.” I took
the homework and started reading:

Tuesday November 12, 1991

Claire Delmas
6e2
Writing

Subject: “You have already felt a strong emotion. Say under what
circumstances (one page maximum). »

Martine invited me to her birthday. After the musical chairs,

Madame Maréchal, Martine's mother, told us to go to the bedroom.
Martine closed the door
— Now we're going to play assassin.
It's a very good game. We distribute papers folded in four on
which it says “inspector”, “assassin” or nothing.
Everyone takes a paper and the inspector leaves the room. Then
we turn off the lights. In the dark, the assassin advances and when he
has someone at hand, he stabs them. The victim lets out a hair-raising
scream.
The assassin moves aside and the inspector enters shouting:
— Police ! No one comes out!
We turn it back on. The inspector questions everyone and he has
to guess who the culprit is. It's a very scary game because you wait in
the dark. We hear a creaking, breathing. Someone brushes against
you and then it's the fatal blow. I was killed three times. I really
thought I was going to die, so much
heart was beating hard. As I left, I thanked Madame Maréchal. I told
him :
— I love playing assassin. My
girlfriend laughed and said to me:
—You always get murdered.

“Strange,” I muttered, putting the paper down.

She had gotten 20/20 in blood counts. Who was Claire Delmas?
When I let my head fall on the pillow that evening, a sentence twisted
through my brain: “You always get murdered” and I couldn't dislodge
it.

*
**

A current of icy air cuts right through the Queutilly plateau like a
dagger. Through the Saint-Prix window, we can see the Doué flowing
below between two rows of poplars. The sun that morning crackled
the frost on the bare branches of the trees.

— The winter will be harsh, commented Mr. Agnelle in my

back.
I turned around.
“Didn’t I make you wait too long, Mr. Hazard?”
Sit down… Were you admiring the view?
Once behind his desk, the director of Saint-Prix stared at me
intently.
— I didn't understand very well, he said to me. You are from the police
or are you from the faculty?
— Let's say I'm like you.
- That's to say ?
— A private one.
A sort of smile twisted the director's mouth. The reliefs of his face
were so tormented that one almost expected to see the bones move,
under the push of obscure tectonic forces.
“Of course,” he continued, “no one knows.” For all
world, you are the replacement for Mr. Copa, our unfortunate
history teacher. By the way, will you be able to provide lessons?
I didn't even know the content of the programs.
“Exactly,” I said.
Monsieur Agnelle then raised his eyes to the ceiling, looking for the
sermon he was going to serve to me.
— Goodness, Mr. Hazard, is not the dominant trait of
youth. Whether or not they come from wealthy families, most young
people in Saint-Prix lack guidelines and values. The latest events
saddened me, but not really surprised me. This and worse is to be
expected.
He looked at me to savor the effect of his preamble. I gave him a
small nod encouragingly. Go for it, Alphonse, I'm interested in you.

— I would not have resigned myself to using your services,

he continued, if this... trash hadn't been slipped under my door.
At arm's length, he handed me a paper on which was written in
capital letters:

AGNELLE, YOU DON’T CARE.

YOUR DAYS ARE NUMBERED.
TAKE CARE OF YOUR ACCOUNT.

“It’s anonymous,” Agnelle continued. But somehow,

it's signed. This is the “style” of third 1s.
He crumpled the paper in his fist.
— We have a third grade class where we collect all
students that the region's colleges no longer tolerate. You can
imagine what rubbish this is.
He talked about it with a disgusted lip.
— The parents ask us to drive these young people to the
patent…
He sneered:
— Until the patent! How many of them are actually
recoverable? If out of twenty students, we save ten, I believe that we
will have done our duty. For the other ten… the devil must have his
share. Is not it ?
“Fifty fifty,” I said quietly.
A commotion was then heard in the corridor.
 — Mr. Director! Mr. Director!
The office door opened. It was Lucien, the somewhat simple
concierge, followed by a supervisor.
- An accident ! cried Lucien.
We stood up as one movement.
“She jumped out of the window,” the concierge stammered. It's a
chance. She didn't kill herself.
A crowd had formed in the courtyard, which the director brutally
broke up, grabbing the kids by the collar and throwing them aside.

— Well, what’s going on, Mr. Rémy?

A tall guy with a relaxed smile was helping a student get back on
her feet. She let out a cry of pain.
“It’s the ankle,” said Monsieur Rémy. Sprain or fracture. I
I'm going to take her to the infirmary.
He effortlessly lifted the little girl, a blonde with almost white
eyelashes.
— But anyway, are they going to explain to me... began Agnelle, in a tone
angry.
It emerged from the janitor's confused explanations that the child had
deliberately jumped into the courtyard from the lavatory window on the
first floor.
— What am I going to tell the parents? muttered the
director.
He remembered my presence and added:
— Excuse me, Mr. Hazard, I have to go make a phone call. At
fact, this little one will be one of your students. Claire Delmas, 6e2.
He left me in the middle of the courtyard, caught in a whirlwind of
thoughts. Claire Delmas, 20/20, “we’re going to play assassin”.
— The infirmary, please?
Following the still unclear instructions from the concierge, I
climbed the marble staircase to the first floor then took the right
corridor towards the glass door. She was ajar.
- Why did you do that ? said a little fluted voice.
“Because he was behind me, I’m sure,” replied a voice.
more hoarse.
— But still, you're crazy to jump out of the window!
— I didn't think about it. I had too much... There is someone.
 I was spotted. Both voices fell silent. I knocked on the door and pushed it
open.
- Good morning ! You are doing better ?
Claire was sitting on a couch, her right ankle bandaged and placed on a
cushion. She stared at me, looking suspicious.
“I’m your new history teacher,” I introduced myself.
“Hello, sir,” said the young ladies politely.
I then guessed that both of them would rather be cut into slices
by the Boston Ripper than trust me.
“I hope it’s not serious,” I added pitifully.
— The gym teacher told me it was a sprain.
—Why did you jump out of the window?
Claire looked at me like I was asking the most inane question
she'd ever heard.
“I don’t know,” she replied through her teeth.
The detour via the infirmary having delayed me, I found the 6e2 who
was stomping and heckling in a corridor. My voice clicked:
- Silence !
Taken aback, the kids looked at me. The arm wrestling match
began.
- Come in…
As they settled into their seats, the students resumed their usual
hum, dragging a chair, dropping a book, or pushing each other in the
back. I had infants in front of me. What was I going to do with “that”?
A young boy with round glasses placed the text book and the call
book on my desk.

— Are you the delegate?

— No, he replied, the delegate is in the infirmary.
— Ah… Claire Delmas.
- No. Martine Maréchal.
- And you you are ?
— Baron Von Gluck.
The swell of laughter that greeted his response made a wave of
anger rise within me. Even if my Sorbonne students consider me a
redneck from the other world, they never show any disrespect. This
kid with the sparkling eyes behind his tiles was openly messing with
me. My first move
would have been to slap him, but I remembered in time that I was a
professor — and therefore powerless.
— Go to your place.
I sat on my desk, legs dangling.
Behind the high windows of the room, the sun was rising towards
the zenith. Attaching my gaze to him, I began my lesson:
— From the time he lived on Earth, in his castle
of Heliopolis, Lord Ra, every morning, opened his eyes and it was
dawn. At noon, he was the golden hawk hovering at the zenith. In the
evening, back in his castle, Lord Ra closed his eyes and it was night.

Dazzled by the light, I returned to look at my students. Maybe

they were silent? I was in the other world, on the boat of the Sun God.

— In one day, Ra traveled through all the provinces of the Earth,

rendering justice to men, relieving their misery and distributing to
everyone magic formulas or talismans to scare away snakes, wild
beasts, disease and evil people.
The silence of the class finally reached me, a golden silence in
which my words rang. Mouths, eyes, hearts wide open, my infants
drank from the source of History.
— By giving to everyone, Lord Ra did not keep
more for himself than a single talisman to protect him. It was the
name that his father and mother had given him at the time of his
birth, this secret name that only he knew and that he kept hidden in
his chest, for fear that a sorcerer would took hold of it. We cannot
harm a living being until we know its secret name, its true name, this
name which is deep within us and which must never be said.

When the ringtone crackled, the boy with glasses raised his hand:
— Sir, it's over.
- Finished ? I repeated, half dazed.
— Well, the course. He is done.
All faces were turned towards me, captive. History teacher… why
not?
“Until next time,” I said simply.
— Goodbye, sir! they called out to me, their voices
light. The boy with glasses stood in front of my desk:
— What’s your name?
 —Nils Hazard.
The students started laughing. “Nils Hazard” doesn’t sound right.
— Do you keep your real name? the kid asked me.
“That’s it, baron.
— My name is Térence but I don't like it.
He walked away, the notebooks under his arm. My gaze returned to the
window. The sun winked at me through the clouds.
“Until next time,” I whispered to him.
I wanted to take possession of my locker in the teachers' room. It
was already labeled with my name. I put some books there.

— So, what do you think of our little sixth graders? fit

a sweet voice behind me. But first, let me introduce myself: Mrs.
Zagulon. I am the French teacher.
In surprise, I remained silent.
— Are you the new history teacher? insisted
Mrs. Zagulon.
I had never seen such a picture before: two centimeters of
foundation on the face to fill in the gaps, the palette of a rainbow
iridescent the eyelids and a ghoul's mouth drawing a greasy heart.

“You won’t have any trouble with the sixth grade,” she continued without question.
be alarmed by my silence. At that age, we stare at them. The fourth
grades are hard this year, especially the fourth grades. Smacking heads,
snickering people. And girls are the worst. It's so stupid, as a teenager,
always giggling behind your back. They demolished your colleague, poor
Mr. Paco… Coca… I don’t remember his name.
All words passing through that oily mouth inevitably came out
dirty.
“You will have to defend yourself,” she whispered, “or they will devour you.
— Do you find me so edible? I worried. She herself was in no
danger, being three times my weight. I greeted her with a bow of
the head:
- Excuse me. I have class…
My schedule said: Geo room 104.
I love history with a passion, but between geography and me, it's
only a marriage of convenience. This woman bores me with her
climatology, her hydrography, her geomorphology and all her tedious
illnesses.
 “Come in,” I called absently to my students, like a
doctor would do with his patients.
A few snickers brought me back to myself. They were the fourth.
Looking sideways for the flaw in my armor, they were already
inventing a grotesque nickname for me.
“The door is closed,” a redhead trumpeted.
I had the key to room 104 which was to be my main room. The
students moved aside as I passed. I moved the key towards the lock. A
chuckle warned me that I was going to make a fool of myself. I felt my
jacket and took Catherine's thin letter opener out of the inside pocket.
Thanks to him, I was able to remove the plaster that was obstructing it
from the lock. I looked at the redhead:
— 15-0.
And I turned the key. I quickly imagined myself having impressed
them.
— Where are you in the geography program?
I asked a young girl in the front row.
She was very dark in complexion and hair. I later learned that she
was Iranian and her name was Naéma.
She looked down, muttering:
- I don't know.
The instruction must have been given: no contact with the
enemy. The good students, including her, complied for fear of being
called a bootlicker.
— Well, we are going to study the demographics of the countries
from Western Europe, I said, sighing despite myself.
It was almost dark in the classroom as the sky had darkened. The
gusty wind shook the windows.
“Turn on the neon lights,” I asked the redhead.
Jules Sampan — that was his name — assumed an air of offended
dignity and dragged himself to the switch. I began my lesson with as much
enthusiasm as if I had just been condemned to the galleys. The students in
the front row looked at me with calf-like eyes, those in the back were
already getting agitated.
— You never take notes? I asked Naéma.
- We do not know.
“So you're going to copy from my dictation,” I said, choking myself.
fury.
 The class snorted at the sound of “Do you have a pen? Do you
have a copy? Give me a cartridge! » Five minutes later, I was dictating
my lesson, sometimes turning to the board to write down numbers.
Behind me, I suddenly heard a “banzai!” clearly trumpeted, then the
neon lights went out and a few girls squealed.

— There's more light, sir!

- THANKS. I realized.
I finished my class in the dark and in the middle of the hubbub.
Hatred, like a hot iron, burned the back of my neck.
I wanted to grab a student, any student, and smash their head
against Sampan's. The ringing came to deliver me. Without a glance,
without a greeting, the fourth 1s rushed towards the exit. Jules
passing in front of me called out to everyone:
— 15-30!
Through the window of room 104, I watched my students wander
off into the playground, the boys stuffing each other with punches, the
girls stuffing themselves with candy. The director's words came back to
me:
“Goodness is not the dominant trait of youth…” Was a boy like
Sampan capable of dipping his pen in human blood?

We knocked at the door.

- Am I disturbing you ? Alban Rémy. I'm a gym teacher... Finally a
smiling face! We shook hands. It was the boy who had taken little
Delmas to the infirmary.

— We do not welcome newcomers to Saint-Prix very well,

he told me.
— I'm only temporary. I will only last a few hours
classes on Thursday and Friday.
I wanted to reveal to him the real reason for my presence at the
school, but he continued on his own:
— Did you go to see little Claire in the infirmary? Does she
gave you an explanation for…
- None.
Alban Rémy frownedSOUKThey but forced themselves to take a
carefree tone:
 —Some heartbreak...or a stupid bet. The kids have
their little secrets.
I was about to say to him: “And I am a riddle hunter” when he
held out his hand to me:
I had decided to stay for the night from Thursday to Friday at the Hôtel
du Lion d'or in Queutilly. From my room, I telephoned Catherine who had
wisely remained in Paris.
- SO ?
— So, there will soon be a crime in Saint-Prix and it will be me
the murderer.
I was finally able to rehash all my disappointments of the day, talk
about the ogress Zagulon, Dopey the janitor, Mephisto the director, the
odious redhead, the inscrutable Claire.
— All that's missing is you to finish putting me out
of me, I say in conclusion.
Catherine's voice reached me, warm and disturbing:
— Return quickly to Paris, my darling assassin.
“You’ve won,” I grumbled, “I’m not going to sleep anymore.
the night.
Ten minutes later, I was asleep.
My first thought of the morning was for Baron Von Gluck and the
class of 6e2. Was I going to succeed at being a snake charmer once
again?
“It’s geo today,” Térence said to me, putting down the notebook.
texts on my desktop.
— We won't do geography anymore.
Since I have put up with this woman, it has been decided: we are
divorcing. The kids opened their eyes wide.
I owed them an explanation:
— I don't like geography.
This confession did me less harm than I feared.
“We don’t like him either,” the sixth graders told me in unison.
î.
Terence presented me with the notebook on today's page, then
he slipped away, leaving me alone to face my discovery. Lots of little
papers folded into four had just spilled out on my desk. I opened one.
In capital letters, it was written:
 MY SECRET NAME IS
PROFESSOR ARTHUR LEROY.

I took another one:

MY SECRET NAME IS
PHILIPPINE DE Méricourt.

All the children had given themselves a new identity and they were
waiting, feverishly, for my reaction.
“Let this stay between us,” I said, closing the notebook. Then I sat
on the desk with my legs dangling. The sun through the window
shed its light on me.
— That day, I began, Lord Ra learned of the birth
of his great-grandson and he brought him to his palace to raise him
as his heir. Osiris was his name and misfortune his destiny.
Philippine de Méricourt, Arthur Leroy and Baron Von Gluck
followed the boat of Lord Râ for an hour.
Then with bright eyes, they greeted me, brushing against my desk, my
schoolbag or my knee. In the deserted classroom, I unfolded the little
papers one by one.

MY SECRET NAME IS
DESIRED SAINT-PHALLE.

MY SECRET NAME IS
BILLY MAC FARLANE.

Impatience was gaining on me. There were as many tickets as there were
students but the name of Baron Von Gluck did not appear on any of them. At
the last paper, my smile froze:

MY SECRET NAME IS CRIME

MANIAC.
 I returned my eyes to the window. Pulling back a curtain of clouds with
a sudden gesture, Lord Ra had veiled himself.
 2
THE LORD OF SAINT-PRIX

I had an hour gap in my schedule. I decided to use him to visit the

college down to its nooks and crannies. The Saint-Prix plan is very
simple. The monumental entrance portal, over which the concierge
watches from his lodge, opens onto a cold hall cluttered with panels.

This is where we learn that “Axel 3e1 yields guitar — price to be

discussed” and that “The theater club will operate from January;
register with Mr. Faure. The hall opens onto the arcaded gallery which
runs all the way around the main courtyard, giving Saint-Prix the false
air of a monastery.
The cut stone buildings have only two floors. On the ground floor,
we find the courtyard, the refectory, a duty room and the CDI. Above,
there are the classrooms, the language laboratory, the infirmary, the
teachers' room and, on the second floor, the interns' rooms, the
administration offices and the director's apartments. The sports field
is located in the middle of the fields, not far from La Doué, and the
students go there accompanied. All entrances and exits are screened
by the concierge who has limited intellectual abilities but otherwise
excellent eyesight. Taking all these considerations into account, the
prankster who had broken open the history teacher's locker and
graded the papers with blood could only be someone from the
college - which still put me at about two hundred and eighty suspects.
on the arms, much more than what my colleague, Hercule Poirot,
usually admits.

I forgot in my description this crossroads of destinies, this nerve

center that the toilets represent in an establishment. As I was about
to reach the second floor, after a brief glance at all the classrooms, I
heard a terrible scream which seemed to come from the toilets. I ran
there, I pushed the half-open door. Two children were washing their
hands. I recognized Térence and Martine Maréchal.
 — Were you the one who shouted? I asked.
They looked at each other, mimicking total surprise.
— Did you hear a scream? Terence turned
to the little Maréchal:
— Did you hear something?
- Nope…
But they had an air of dull excitement that spoke more than
themselves. I looked at them... without any noticeable effect. Looking
up at the mirror above the sinks, I saw my thin figure and my pale
face. I might as well admit it once and for all: I'm not impressive. I
shrugged one shoulder.

“Too bad,” I said as I left. If you changed your mind,

you know you can talk to me.
- Yes sir ! they exclaimed warmly. I looked around
one last time. Person.
So I went up to the second floor. I had learned that the residents'
rooms were not locked. There were about ten of them, all similar, with
two or three metal beds, bedside tables, straw chairs and, on top of
all that, a draft of bleached air which further depressed me.
Mechanically, I opened a drawer at the bedside. A thousand little
treasures had taken refuge there, a deck of cards, chewing gum and
pines. A little ashamed, I pushed him away. However, if I wanted to
know the hidden side of college, I did not have to show so many
scruples.

I opened another drawer. Its content seemed more original to

me: a Swiss army knife, a small Playmobil,The forest's callby Jack
London and… I flinched. Behind some Bakelite cubes, there was a
glass bottle full of red liquid. I grab it. On the label, childish writing
had written: “Curare”. A sound of footsteps in the corridor hastened
my decision. I buried the bottle in my jacket pocket and looked
around for a way out. There was only one: the bathroom.

“Come on, there’s no one,” said a youthful voice.

- Are you sure ? a young girl asked timidly.
— The sixth grades 2 are in progress. We won't be disturbed. So this
date, is that okay?
 Behind the bathroom door, I felt like I was from the Vice Squad.
Who were these two young illegal immigrants?
—If my father knows, he will kill me...
— But you told me that you could go away at night without him
know!
The girl begged:
— Yes, but not for long.
— At 10 a.m., next Thursday, in front of the sand yacht. You can
still do this for me. I take risks, too.
Something told me that I knew this young rooster.
Curiosity prevailing over caution, I pushed open the office door
slightly. Banzai! The odious redhead held the hand of the little Iranian
girl and I… I held my revenge.
But for the moment, I preferred not to intervene. Jules sat on a
bed, next to Naéma. They would probably stare into each other's eyes
for an hour.
I examined the bathroom. The half-open window invited me to
take off. You could go from this window to another, also ajar.

I mentally assessed the journey: one step, two…

“Doable,” I muttered.
I climbed onto the radiator and then, standing on the windowsill,
looked out into the courtyard. If a student had the idea of looking
up, he would see me performing as an acrobat. By the grace of God!…
I move my foot forward, one hand riveted to the window frame. Then,
holding on to the boss of the facade, I move my foot. A brief moment
of imbalance and presto, there I am on the thin sill of the other
window. I slip my hand through the crack. Ouch, I can't reach the
handle. I have to break the window to get there. Quick, I'm going to
fall. Cling.
The window is broken, I turn the handle. I jump on the tiles of the
bathroom. Safe.
“But you’re stupid,” I stammered, compressing my hands with both hands.
beating of my heart. You never do that again!
As Catherine would say, I need my adrenaline rush from time to
time. But there, I had exceeded the prescribed dose. I staggered out
of the room.
I decided to recover from my emotions by going to take a look at
the students' home, a very ambitious name for a premises in
basement, including a table, two benches and a broken armchair.
Someone was casually strumming a guitar there, half drowning out
the voices of the others.
— Death to the bourgeoisie and death to the idiots!suddenly shouted one of the
types.
The others laughed. I crashed against the wall and held my
breath.
— Very good, said a boy,their money, leaves concrete, death to
bourges and death to idiots!
—And we continue, said another,who steals an egg, steals an ox, you
You'll get caught by the bosses. Dirty money, leave it concrete, or you will
be put in prison...
“Your rap stinks of morality,” said a nasal voice. We would think
hear Agnelle.
The name of the director of the establishment caused a
tremendous hullabaloo:
— Ass, ass, Agnelle has nothing in her panties! Ass, ass, Agnelle has no
penis!
Everyone was tapping the table rhythmically.
— Your mouths, seagulls, we're not moving forward! said one of
boys. For the first lyric, I propose:The die is cast and you will be
ejected from the musical chairs of social selection...
— Wow… That’s intellectual!
— But rap is intellectual, little head. Suddenly, the
hullabaloo broke out unexpectedly:
— Ass, ass, he has nothing in…
Unfortunately, there was a reason for this new uproar. I understood
it too late. The electric light from the hallway cast my shadow in front of
me. It was she who betrayed me. One of the young guys had slipped up
to the door of the room and had just grabbed me by the collar. He threw
me among the others.
— They're paying snitches in Saint-Prix now! yelp
the nasal voice.
I was in the middle of six young people from the 3e1 flanked by their muse,
Marie Lemercier, known as Marie Baston.
— The pawns who are following us, they don't stay here long,
this charming person explained to me.
“Be careful, he might complain,” a voice intervened.
pleading.
 A seventh boy, masked by the others, was sitting in the armchair,
a notebook on his knees, pen in hand.
“Shut up, Alcatraz!” commanded the boy with the guitar.
Work.
Then turning to me:
— Well, and you, you were passing by, you saw the light, you said to yourself...
Exasperated by this informality, I interrupted him:
— …I said to myself: “These are undoubtedly my future students of
third… what if I went to greet them?”
A bucket of cold water fell on the heads of the eight schoolchildren.
- What ? Are you... are you the new teacher? stammered the guitarist.
- Must believe.
We looked at each other, all quite confused. What authority I might
have had over these young people seemed to me to be definitively
compromised. As for them, they must have feared reprisals.
— This is the students' territory, the guitarist explained to me.
“Our territory,” Marie Baston clarified. The others come
not.
— I hope you won't say anything to the director, begged the boy
who worked.
“Shut up, Alcatraz!”
The tall man with his nasal voice rained down a hail of slaps on
the head of Alcatraz, chanting:
—And work, work, work.
Then, his voice full of cold irony, he added for my edification:

— His mother told me to watch him.

I nodded, not knowing how to retreat.
- Well, I... I'll see you later in class. I made a brief
attempt at seduction:
— My name is Nils. Nils Hazard.
My dark blue eyes, my borrowed smile, nothing helped.
None flinched.
One last look at Marie Baston finally discouraged me. She was
obviously thinking: “More gogol than that, you die. »
At 10 a.m., I found them in room 104. By making the call, I
discovered that the nasal person was called Antoine Boussicot, the
guitarist Axel Rémy and “Alcatraz” Juan Rodriguez. In principle, I was
supposed to give them a geography lesson, but I didn't even have the
time to open a third grade book. So I finished scuttling myself by
sitting on my desk, my legs dangling:
—At that time, I began, Isis, the servant of the Lord
Râ, resolved to extort his secret name from him to have all power
over him. And this is how she did it…
- What is this bullshit ? the nasal voice cut me off.
I cast a desperate look towards the window. Alas, Lord Ra had
abandoned me. Boussicot was the Lord of Saint-Prix.
— Listen, I said to Antoine, you leave me alone or I'll
report what you sing about Agnelle…
- Blackmailing ? squeaked Boussicot.
- An agreement.
All the ugliness of the world seemed for a moment to take refuge in
this thin face with blood-rimmed eyes.
- Well, go with your servant, let Boussicot fall, I hope
that it's a dirty story.
The students opened their eyes, stunned and a little fearful. No
professor, even the one they had driven into depression, had ever
suffered such a devastation. Their shock was such that they let me tell
my story without heckling me too much.
“Great,” Boussicot concluded. And that of Little Red Riding Hood, you
know ?
I jumped from my perch:
— And my fist in the face, do you want to know? A
voice warns us:
— 22, the Zagulon.
Boussicot handed me his geography book:
— Take the course. She's coming to smack you.
I opened the book to page 47 and began to comment on a map.
Knock Knock knock.
— Yes, come in.
The Zagulon stuck her illuminated head through the half-open
door:
— Excuse me, Mr. Hazard, would you have a green chalk to
lend me ?
— Um... Yes, there you go...
His greedy eyes looked over me from head to toe.
- How are you ? she whispered to me.
- Perfectly.
 — If things didn't go well, I'm next door. Room
106. She closed the door.
I went to put the book back on Boussicot's table. He was staring at me,
arms crossed, leaning back in his chair.
— But why don't you take the course? he asked me.
“I don’t like geography,” I replied, looking sorry. A thrill
of laughter ran through the classroom.
We are the dirtiest students in Creation, Boussicot told me with
satisfaction. We are stuck with the worst teacher on Earth. Normal.

I nodded. No need to admit to him that I was loaded with diplomas and a
distinguished Etruscologist.
“So, little teacher,” replied the Lord of Saint-Prix with authority, “
We're going to hit the box very nicely. Don't make too much noise, you
guys! Marie Baston, watch the corridor. What happens here is nobody's
business. And you, Alcatraz, work!
Juan obediently uncorked his fountain pen and went back to
work.
— Why do you call it “Alcatraz”? I asked. It's the
name of a penitentiary…
“It’s because he was sentenced to forced labor,” sneered
Boussicot. He does everyone's work, math homework and essays.

My eyes widened in amazement:

— The teachers don’t suspect anything?
- No. Alcatraz does not do two duties alike and it changes
writing at will.
“That’s strong,” I murmured, amazed.
Juan looked modest. He took a skullcap on his head:
- Work.
Axel, the guitarist, kindly provided me with some additional
explanations while the others took out Walkmans and tarot decks.

— For the exams, Alcatraz prepares cheat sheets for us and

Marie Baston makes us miniaturized photocopies of her father's
books at work.
In the schools where I was before, we tinkered. Here, it's industrial
garbage.
Suddenly, sadness took hold of me:
 — But what are you hoping for with this system?
— It’s been a while since we stopped hoping for anything, Axel answered me.
as if the thing were self-evident.
He opened his spiral notebook and, in front of me, wrote:

Rap head, blistered heart, The life of

already has landed on you. You smoke,
you tax, you show off. You've lost
everything except the rhyme.

— It's from you ? I whispered, slowly overcome by despair.

— We want to form a rap group with my friends, Axel told me. And
we'll get out of this shitty place, out of this shitty life, and we'll spend
our shitty money under the Bermuda sun.
— A shitty sun? I suggested.
- Likely.
How long had I been in Saint-Prix? Twenty-four hours or six
months? Had I once been a university professor, had I in another
existence written books, given lectures?

“That’s not the teachers’ refectory,” Axel warned me.

I followed suit at the end of the course.
— U-turn, right! Boussicot asked me.
In front of me, with his hands in his pockets, all angry and
boastful, stood the Lord of Saint-Prix, a seventeen-year-old beast
fighting his sides behind the bars of his prison. “The devil will have his
share,” Agnelle told me. And he won't have to get too tired, I thought
as I walked away, he'll just have to wait at the exit... What was Axel,
the rapper, saying?

The die is cast And you

will be ejected Musical
chairs
Of social selection.

— Mr. Hazard! Zagulon, the nymph of these places, called out to me.
I saved a place for you.
 The teachers were already seated. Alban, the gym teacher, gave
me a friendly nod. The refectory was tiled with sound tiles on which
the guests' metal chairs creaked. Large aluminum dishes were placed
on the Formica tables.
“Grated carrots, black olives,” a little man announced to me.
brick complexion, brushed with iron gray hair. And you will see, tomorrow, it
will be celery remoulade, green olives!
He held out his hand to me over the plate:
— Mr. Faure.How do you do?
— It’s our joke, Madame Zagulon explained to me, to
the case where I would not have immediately noticed that Faure was playing the role of
the joker.
— I don't know how you manage to always be in
form, complimented the young Miss Kilikini, mathematics teacher.

- And again, laughed the joker, you don't know me at all

bed !
- Oh ! exclaimed the Zagulon, pretending to disapprove
the allusion.
“I’m like the Italians,” insisted the hilarious gentleman.
Faure. Especially delighted in bed.
We smile politely.
— “He” forgot the carrot seasoning again, pesta
suddenly a teacher throwing away his fork.
“It’s not enough vinegar,” Miss Kilikini conceded.
— It lacks salt, pepper, everything! the irascible one got carried away
professor as if he was angry with the unfortunate young lady.
— Do you know the story of the gentleman who surrendered
in a restaurant in Italy? the joker began. Exactly, he wants salt and
pepper...
“I'm going to go to the kitchen and ask for it,” said the choleric man, getting up.
— Bring us back the mayonnaise! the Zagulon threw at him.
“So,” continued the comedian that no one was listening to, “he wants
salt and pepper but he doesn't know how to say it in Italian.
—Is it going the way you want? Zagulon asked me
point blank.
—Very well, thank you.
— …and he thinks that in Italian, it’s very easy, you add a’s and
o's everywhere.
 “The third graders are working properly this year,” continued
Zagulon speaking to Miss Kilikini. You can not find ?

— So, he calls the restaurant waiter, shouting to him: “Ho,

boyo, salo, pepper!”
“They have good grades,” replied the mathematics teacher.
— “Salo, poivro,” ah, ah, the entertainer laughed to himself. The irascible
person returned with oil, vinegar, salt and pepper. He was acclaimed like
Caesar loaded with the trophies of a tough battle.
“You forgot the mayonnaise,” the Zagulon grumbled.
— There is smoke in this kitchen! the choleric raged. We
going to eat sole again!
— It's better than swallowing rat poison,hummed
Monsieur Faure in a last effort to cheer up the assembly.
My gaze swept across the table: Zagulon, Faure, Kilikini, the angry
one... Did they know? Did they know that they actually only had one
one and the same student in 3e1, a certain “Alcatraz”, a genius forger,
and could they have suspected that I had in my jacket pocket a red
bottle labeled “Curare”, which a sixth-grade child took for the “crime
maniac ", that there were horrifying screams in the toilets on the first
floor, that Claire Delmas feared "always being murdered", that Jules
Sampan had romantic dates in front of a sand yacht and that Axel
rapped his despair to the student hostel?

Coffee was ritually taken in the teachers' room, standing around

the coffee machine. Quite by chance, I found myself next to the young
mathematics teacher. She looked charming in profile, with her
turned-up nose.
— Do you like Saint-Prix, Miss Kilikini?
“You can call me Juliette,” she replied. She blushed
and added hastily:
— My name is so awful!
- Oh no, I stammered in turn, it's... it's lovely. But
go for Juliette!
I blushed too. The young ladies impress me too much. I'll have to
watch myself.
— So, “Juliette”, what do you think of…
I interrupted myself: Monsieur Agnelle had just entered the
room. He regularly joined his teaching team at the café, and
his arrival gave us the refreshing effect of an opening refrigerator
door. A few minutes later, everyone was shivering inside while,
through a system of communicating vessels, the director seemed to
be warming up. He finally took off his coat and placed it on a chair,
neatly folded. Then, in a tone of painful stridency, he gave us a speech
in which he discussed the “level of sixth grade students”. So I learned
that it was “low, very low, lower this year than ever” and everyone
agreed: “low, very low”. In short, fallen so far into the depths that the
teaching of French and mathematics would soon be akin to caving.

*
**

— I won't set foot there again, I declared to Catherine, on Saturday

Morning.
My secretary was sitting with her buttocks on her heels, and she was wiping the tears
that were rolling down her cheeks because she had laughed so much at the story of my
misadventures.
“I have no authority over the kids,” I observed. As to
other teachers, they treat me like a young kid with no experience! At
thirty-five, it hurts!
I still had in my ear the advice that had been heaped upon me at
dessert: “Keep a certain distance, Mr. Hazard, no cronyism. You are on
the other side of the barrier, never forget that! » — I have no problem
with my students, though, I said to Catherine, my tone sullen.

— And even less with your students... When you talk about
Egypt, you “are” Egyptian. You'd swear that Lord Ra was one of your
regimental buddies.
I smile, reassured:
— Well, I will return to my Egyptian friends. You are not going
Don't call me "slow" if I give up, Catherine?
- No it does not matter…
I was a little taken aback that Catherine didn't protest more.
Perhaps with age she was taking lead in her brain? The hunt for
enigmas only lasts for a while.
 “It’s all the less serious,” she added, “since I made myself
hired as a cook in Saint-Prix.
I jump out of my seat:
“You didn’t do that!” I had forbidden you...
—How beautiful you are when you roar! cried Catherine
throwing himself at my neck. You are my superb and generous pharaoh.
And incidentally the king of fools when Catherine melts in my
arms.
 3
YOU ALWAYS GET MURDERED!

— I will have the skin of Jules Sampan!

—What did this unfortunate kid do to you? me
asked Catherine, wiping her hands on her apron.
I had found refuge in the kitchens of Saint-Prix with the new
cook.
— He made me think I was going to gut him. I wanted to spend
slides earlier to occupy those pesky fourth 1s and, of course, when I
plugged in the viewer, “banzaï!” », the pellets blew.

— You are not going to accuse Jules of what the installation

electrical is defective.
I chuckled, my eyes dark.
— I like your candor, Catherine. And do you believe that the tables
from room 104 levitate on their own? Every time I turned to the board
to write something down, they moved twenty centimeters.

Catherine shrugged her shoulders:

—Childishness! You exaggerate about everything. It's like
your description of Madame Zagulon. I was expecting a monster...
- ... and he's a monster, I said, in a tone of obviousness.
— She's a somewhat strong woman who wears too much makeup. Other than that,
she is not unpleasant.
I jumped up on my stool:
- What ! This ogress? Catherine tapped her
forehead with her index finger:
“There's nothing wrong with that, old man. You must
cure.
I went on the counterattack:
— I suppose you find Monsieur Faure irresistible?
How do you say it again? Oh yes ! “Sexy.”
“He’s nice,” Catherine said half-heartedly.
 — He circles around you. This afternoon, he spent his time going
get bread and water from the kitchen.
— He is helpful. And then don't annoy me, my little old man, or
I'm talking to you about your Juliette.
— Miss Kilikini? I cried, with an air of innocence.
more absolute.
— You give him Juliette every two sentences. "YOU
want the bread, Juliette?” “Do you want water, Juliette?”
— That’s because I’m helpful, my little darling.
— Oh no, don’t call me “my little darling”. It's corny
mortal, my little old man.
I screamed:
—In that case, stop pushing me into the grave with your
“little old man” every ten seconds!
Catherine wrinkled her nose and noted calmly:
— It lets off steam, a bit of psychodrama... I don’t know why,
but since I've been at this damn college, my nerves have been on edge.
Catherine was right: there was an inexplicable something in the
air that was disturbing people, perhaps it was simply the snow that
was exasperating us by falling like this in soft flakes since the day
before. ?
— Char à sand, Nils, it’s a café in the city center,
Catherine told me as she hung up her apron. It is the rallying point for
young people and the only place in Queutilly to keep a semblance of
activity after 9 p.m.
— What I don't see, I said, is how Jules could
join Naéma this evening. Lucien has a good eye, he won't let an intern
slip away. And after 6 p.m. the gate is closed.
To find out the answer to the enigma, Catherine and I agreed to
share the roles. My secretary would go to the Sand Yacht to have a
herbal tea…
— What if I want a cognac? Catherine interrupted me, with an air of
of challenge.

— But burn your face with schnapps if you like, ma

little old lady...
So, while my secretary, sipping brandy, kept watch at the sand
yacht, I would monitor the comings and goings of the interns.
— After your lessons, Catherine concluded, you will come and hide
in my kitchen until the fateful hour strikes.
 — Perfect, comrade.
We hit the spot.
— Catherine, I only love you.
— Confidence for confidence, me neither.
I wouldn't recommend anyone spending the evening in a dark
kitchen, leaning against a dishwasher as a vibrator. I had to wait until
the interns had gone to bed and the pawn had made his surveillance
rounds. The purring of the machine finally had a happy hypnotic
effect. When I woke up suddenly, it was after 9 p.m. I had heard a
metal chair creak on the paving stones. There was someone in the
dining hall. In the fog of waking up, a sentence pierced my brain: “You
always get murdered.” Sure, it was absurd, but it was still unpleasant.
I stood up slowly. Had I really heard the squeak or was I dreaming?
Perhaps Jules Sampan was behind the kitchen door? But again,
without asking my opinion, a sentence crossed my mind: “It’s not Jules
Sampan.” Slowly, I approached the door and listened. Two minutes
passed in complete silence. I must have been dreaming or I had
heard a cat, the pawn or a ghost, nothing that justified these frantic
heartbeats. Snow is no good to me, I thought. “Nor the assassins,”
added the little voice within me that spoke without my consent.

I waited another five minutes before turning the doorknob.

The dining hall was deserted. I crossed it and, in my haste,

snagged a chair leg, producing exactly the metallic squeak I had
heard. I quickened my pace again and went up to the first floor. As I
passed my room 104, I thought I saw a ray of light under the door. It
only lasted a second. I had locked my classroom when I left. If I had
been the victim of some optical illusion, reflection of the moon or
otherwise, the door was still locked. Verification was easy. Slowly, I
placed my hand on the handle and was about to turn it when a small
sharp click coming from the second floor made me jump in fright. I
definitely had no vocation as a burglar. I was right to choose teaching.
I went to the bathroom and hid there. A few moments later, Jules
Sampan appeared, walking away down the corridor, his electric lamp
lowered to the ground.
It was finally the planned scenario and I came to my senses. Leaving
my shelter, I passed room 104 again, still plunged in darkness, then I
went down the stairs. I saw the redhead continuing his way towards
the basement. Was he going to the student hostel? To avoid alerting
him, I had to let him get some space and then I went down to the
basement. It was completely dark there and I guided myself by
placing my hand on the wall. The home was closed. Where had Jules
Sampan gone? I risked lighting my lighter. At the end of the hallway, a
door with “Staff Only” written was ajar. A padlock was placed on the
ground. it was the road to follow, but where would it take me? The
smell of stillage and mold informed me. I entered the cellars of Saint-
Prix, abandoned.

On either side of a dirt corridor, there were numbered doors,

each closed with a latch.

Jules Sampan seemed to have vanished. By the light of my lighter,

I finally saw what I was looking for: a closed door but with the latch
up. I entered cellar no. 7. It was empty but two balanced boxes
allowed me to climb up to a vent. The bars which would normally
obstruct it had been unsealed and thrown ashore. I had found the key
to the fields! Behind the ventilator was the Queutilly plateau, the
Doué, the road to the town and to Naéma. As soon as I got on my
sneakers, on the other side of the walls of Saint-Prix, the cold and the
love gave me wings. To each their own: I ran to warm up with
Catherine. I soon arrived at the first houses. Not a single light apart
from the few street lamps tossed by whirlwinds of snow. My stride
was longer than Sampan's, I already had him in my sights. A few more
meters and I came out on the Place du 8-Mai. Behind the plane trees,
splashing the night with its neon lights, Le Char à sand took the youth
of Queutilly on a one-way ticket to Cythera. But this evening, Jules
didn't have the ticket. He was stamping his feet at the entrance. From
Naéma to the horizon, period. On the other hand, I saw Catherine
inside, seated in front of... herbal tea. I couldn't resist the rising
snowstorm for more than a quarter of an hour. I knew the essentials:
how Jules Sampan could escape from Saint-Prix. There remained my
revenge.
 Stomping my feet and snorting, I shook off the snow that covered me
then I advanced towards the handsome Jules, with a nonchalant step. He
was pale and had blue around his lips.
His eyes watered with cold but he waited.
— Mr. Sampan…
His face fell before this last blow of fate.
— I understand that you wanted to take advantage of the nice weather
for a ride into town, I said. It would be reasonable to go inside and
get warm now.
I smile despite myself. Jules looked like a chilled scarecrow, his
red hair stiffened by the frost, frost right down to his eyebrows.

— “She” won’t come,” I added.

- It is in your interest ? he spat at me in a stream of mist. I
grabbed him by his jacket:
— Agnelle will not know anything about your escapade on one condition. If
you tell me how you blow the lead.
Jules reached into his pocket and pulled out an electrical outlet. I
confiscated it from him.
— And go!
Without arguing, he walked past me and walked away. I shouted to him:
— 40-30!
He lowered his head to face the storm and its disillusionments.
That’s life, Jules Sampan.
— Shall I order you a verbena? Catherine asked me. I sat across
from her, stiff, my hands burning with the cold. I placed Jules
Sampan's catch on the café table then took Catherine's letter opener
from the inside pocket of my jacket.

—What are you making? my secretary was surprised,

watching to turn the screws to open the socket.
—Banzai! That's what I thought, I said.
Jules Sampan had connected the two plugs of the socket with a
small piece of lead. As soon as, uttering his war cry, he plugged
everything into an outlet at the back of the classroom, he caused a
short circuit.
Sacred Jules.
In thought, I followed him on the way back, running across the fields,
slipping through the window, replacing the gate, closing the door.
latch, adjusting the padlock…
— Drink your verbena, it will be cold.
I looked at Catherine without seeing her. I followed Jules Sampan
passing the student hall, going up one floor. Room 104… Had I really
seen light?
— Woohoo! What are you dreaming of, Nils?
The ill-timed little phrase had crossed my brain again: “You
always get murdered.”
When I arrived the next morning to teach the sixth grade
2, the lock of room 104 was blocked again. Thank you Jules. I took my
letter opener out of the inside pocket of my jacket.

—What are you putting in this lock? made a voice

amused.
I stood up. It was Alban Rémy.
— These damn fourth graders have fun putting plaster in the
lock.
I pressed the tip of my letter opener and noticed:
— Shit, it's chewing gum.
The sixth graders that day seemed unusually agitated to me. I
called Thoth and Anubis for reinforcements to keep them quiet. The
rumor had already gone around the school: someone had sprayed an
inscription in red in the student canteen. During interclass, I joined
Catherine in the kitchen.
— So, she said to me, did you see?
— It's written big enough.
“To death, Agnelle” in clumsy letters that recalled the way the
papers had been graded. But this time it was paint, not blood.

— There was someone, yesterday, who was moving around the school,
Catherine pointed out to me.
- A third. Boussicot or Axel. In short, it's war
nerves between the principal and the students. There is no enigma in Saint-
Prix.
—Ah, do you think so? cried Catherine. And why Claire
Does Delmas throw herself out of a window? And where did that scream
come from that you heard near the toilet? And this “crime maniac” who
slipped among your students?
 “And the bottle of curare,” I added. Don't forget the bottle
of curare!
Catherine gave me a perplexed look:
— Is it really curare, do you think? I
nodded:
“You are right, Catherine. The assassin is on the prowl. We must
watch over.

At 10 a.m., I found the third graders in room 104. They had

already taken out their cards. Alcatraz, for once exempt from chores,
offered me a 421. Boussicot sat across from us.
“Your little game is stupid,” I said, throwing the dice.
— Game of chance, Mr. Hazard, you should like it,
remarked Alcatraz.
— I was talking about your bombing the wall. You tighten the noose
on you. Who would dare to do such a thing, other than the third 1s, and more
precisely the internal ones?
“A hypothesis is not proof,” Alcatraz said, his tone
pedantic.
“It’s not us,” said Boussicot more abruptly. We could have
do it but we didn't do it. Seen ?
— Make sure there are no bombs
painting in your rooms, I replied, rolling the dice again.
After twenty minutes, tired of watching Alcatraz win (which made
me assume that in addition to being a forger, he was a cheat), I went to
find Axel who had isolated himself at the back of the class to to write. He
chewed on his felt hat.
- Broken-down ? I asked shyly.
I never knew how I would be received. Axel turned his notebook
towards me and I read:

— Freezing fog, frosty inside, Cinoque,

you're right, old schnoque. Squirt, I'm
frozen in my head.
Who sows the wind reaps the
whirlwind. Freezing fog, frosty within.

— Do your parents know that you want to be in a rap group?

I questioned.
 — I don't have any parents.
He turned his notebook over and, under the frosted lyric, he wrote: “I no longer
have my mother on earth, no longer my mother and no longer my father. All I have
to do is take one shot from a revolver.”
— Is it serious or is it lyrical? I asked.
— …Depends on the days. When I see the big turkey that serves as
mother at Alcatraz or the grocer who thinks he is Boussicot's father, I like being an
orphan just as much.
“Freezing fog, frosty within…”He was talented, this kid. Why was
he dragging his schooling like a burden?
It was mysterious, mysterious like the submission of Alcatraz, the
hatred of Boussicot. I saw them all, advancing on a wire, their arms
swinging, ready to plunge into the darkness.
At 1 p.m., in the teachers' room, conversations began around the
coffee maker. The general theme was: “We need to know who did
this” — with variations.

THE CHOLERIC
It's the Boussicot and Co., a bunch of sneaky people, we have to kick them out of
Saint-Prix!

Ms ZAGULON(exhilarated)
They should be made to confess...

THE FUNNY
You can see yourself in the role of the torturer, huh? The question
is like in the Middle Ages, isn't it, Mr. Hazard?

MADEMOISELLE KILIKINI(outraged)
I am part of Amnesty International, Mr. Faure. Torture exists
today and it is nothing to joke about.

ALBAN RÉMY
By making false accusations, we risk harming innocent people.

Ms ZAGULON(perfidious)
But we are not talking about your nephew, Mr. Rémy…
 I turned to the gym teacher:
— Is Axel your nephew?
The director had just appeared in the doorway, strapped into his
black coat. A twitch rose in one corner of his mouth intermittently.

—A...a coffee, Mr. Director? Alban stammered.

— Please, yes.
This man was sick. His eyes shone unnaturally in his suddenly
sagging face. The seismic shock that had been threatening for a long
time had just devastated it. Alban handed her a cup, Madame
Zagulon brought forward a chair.
"It's useless," he said.
But he rested his hand on the back of the chair.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “Saint-Prix is crossing in
this moment a difficult crisis.
It was about the lack of values, the absence of benchmarks, this
Who seemed to be his favorite antiphon. Warming up
Gradually, Agnelle undid her coat and placed it on the chair, carefully
folded. All his gestures expressed the manic and fussy spirit.

— A student or students, whose inspiration seems diabolical,

would like to destroy our educational action...
He no longer controlled his voice or his words. He was going to start
raving in public.
— We are trying to save these young people with all our strength and to
all our hearts...
He put his hand to his chest. His mouth twisted into a foaming
grin.
- Help ! shouted the Zagulon receiving the director in her
arm.
- Doctor ! Alban said. It's a discomfort. Agnelle was coming back
already at him but didn't seem to understand what was happening.
He uttered a few incoherent words then closed his eyes. A tear rolled
down her cheek.
His face expressed pain so intense that I could not bear it.
Besides, I had an appointment…
— Catherine!
- What ?
- Come quickly. The “crime maniac” will strike.
 - What ?
— But hurry up! Crime doesn't wait. I caught
Catherine by the wrist and dragged him through the corridors and
stairs, always repeating: “Quickly, but quickly!” On the second floor, I
pushed my secretary into a recess in the hallway.
“Silence,” I whispered in his ear.
- But…
I put my index finger to my mouth. Shh… I looked at my watch.
Only a few seconds left. Suddenly, Claire Delmas appeared, hobbling
on crutches. Catherine crushed my hand under the influence of
emotion. What was the child doing in such a place? Claire stopped for
a moment to catch her breath. Then, comes from the end of the
corridor...
— Niles! Catherine screamed.
I held her back. The criminal maniac had just pounced on the
unfortunate child and stabbed her. Catherine pushed me away and ran
towards the criminal and his victim. Too late.
Claire sank moaning while Terence, aka Baron Von Gluck, aka the
crime maniac, attacked her, plunging his dagger into her up to the
hilt.
- Surprise ! cried the two children, standing up.
“Crouic” said the retractable blade of the fake dagger. I approached
and cried out in a heartbroken tone:
—You always get murdered, Claire!
Catherine was still in shock from the previous scene and her face
expressed such profound daze that I burst out laughing.
“It’s clever, it’s really clever,” Catherine raged,
finally pulling himself together.

I handed a red bottle to Térence:

— Here, for your next assassinations.
Then I turned to Catherine:
— You have such a taste for the sensational that I wanted
to please you. It was well done, wasn't it?
- Dumbass !
Catherine had taken the dagger and was amusing herself by thrusting
the blade into her hand. Crouic. She looked at the children with curiosity:
—So, you're playing the assassin, right?
“The game is over now,” replied Terence. Nils guessed
that I was the crime maniac.
 Once back in the kitchen which served as our headquarters, I
gave some additional explanations to Catherine:
— If Claire Delmas jumped out of the toilet window, it's because
that she thought she was being hunted. She is a very impressionable
little girl who, at times, confuses play and reality. As for the cry that I
heard while passing near the toilets, it was Martine Maréchal who
uttered it when she was murdered by Térence. The game specified
that the victim had to let out a "hair-raising" scream and then, once
dead, could not tell anyone the name of the killer. Terence stabbed,
strangled or poisoned with curare darts. He already had twelve
victims to his name when I ended his criminal career.

— So, according to you, everything is explained. The sixth 2s play

the assassin, the third 1 persecute the director. And the blood on the copies,
and the anonymous letter?
— A guy like Boussicot is capable of these inventions,
I replied.
— There is no enigma at Saint-Prix?
— There are no more enigmas at Saint-Prix.
That evening, I went back to the teachers' room while mentally
writing the humorous report that I would send to Inspector Berthier
on my brilliant intervention at Saint-Prix.
— Good evening, Nils, greeted me the maths teacher I met in
the staircase.
— Good evening, Juliette…
She looked at me as if she wanted to say something else. But she
just smiled and walked away. The teachers' room was deserted. I
emptied my locker and put my books in my schoolbag. One last look
around to say goodbye. My eyes then fell on a black piece of clothing
that had a large back on a chair.
“The director’s coat,” I muttered.
Agnelle had been driven home supporting him and he had
forgotten his coat. Should he bring it back to him? I grabbed it, still
hesitating, so I let it slide to the ground. I bent down to pick it up
again and stifled a cry of surprise. The black coat, severe and always
buttoned, had a bright lining, a red lining.

“All beings have a reverse side,” the little voice whispered within me, “and
a lamb can make a murderer. »
 — Change of plan, I said to Catherine, we're spending the
night here!
 4
SHADOWS AND RUMORS

— If it is a provocateur who is acting, I explained to my secretary,

not having been caught, he will push the provocation further. And if he's
crazy, what's going to stop him?
I asked Catherine to watch over the interns' dormitories.
— At the slightest sound of a door, you are ready to begin
a spinning mill.
She nodded. I added:
— I will do rounds in Saint-Prix.
By distributing the surveillance of the premises in this way, I
thought I would take all the risks on my side. We separated at the foot
of the stairs which lead to the interns' rooms.
“See you here in an hour,” I whispered. Then I
walked away towards the classrooms.
I wanted to first check that they were all locked. As soon as I
found myself wandering the corridors alone, I felt the same opaque
and heavy sensations as the day before.
11 p.m. had struck. Saint-Prix creaked like a ship whose bow faces
the night and the storm. Sometimes it was a loose shutter that
suddenly closed, sometimes windows that shook under the onslaught
of the wind or a bucket forgotten in the courtyard by Lucien and
which began to roll on the cobblestones. If I meet him, I thought, I am
unarmed. Then I remembered the letter opener in my inside pocket.
It was sharp and sharp like a small dagger. I stopped and felt my
jacket. That's when I heard the noise. Very light, very muffled, but
very distinct from the gusts and crackles. The sound of the nearby
human presence, of the breath that we hold, of the footsteps that we
deafen. I turned off my flashlight. The other was standing there. He
was watching for me as I was watching for him. In a few seconds, I
would know if my intuition was right. He didn't move anymore. He
was waiting for me across the hall. In the absence of a real
courage, I am impulsive. I threw myself at the invisible enemy, my
hands out to grab him.
“Help,” moaned the one I had just taken into my arms.
body.
—Juliet?
— Nnnn Nils? said a dying voice.
I released my grip and leaned against the wall, perplexed.
— But what are you doing here? I finally asked.
—I could ask you the same question.
— I want to trap this bad joker.
“But me too,” Juliette assured me. When I saw the state of
director, this afternoon, and all the insinuations from the teachers, I
decided to do my little investigation.
I turned my flashlight back on.
“You look very pale, my little investigator,” I said, my tone
protective. What if we investigated together?
— Oh, I don't mind... I'm scared to death.
Admiring, she smiles at the hero that I am not.
I suggested that we go down to the basement: I wanted to show
him the passage taken by Jules Sampan. This time, the padlock was on
the door but you just had to force it a little to open it. Jules the
handyman had thought of everything. I brought Juliette into cellar no. 7.
“Hey,” I remarked, “the gate hasn’t been replaced.
Through the window, we could glimpse a patch of night in the
storm and clouds galloping, covering then revealing the full moon.
“It’s impressive,” Juliette murmured, moving closer to
Me.
I put my arm around his shoulders and was about to respond
affectionately when... click. I jumped. The latch had just fallen back
into the chin, with a little metallic noise.
I jumped to the door: it was closed.
“The…the latch,” I stammered.
- What is going on ? asked Juliette.
— We are locked up. She
started to laugh:
- But no ! We just have to go through the vent. I
screamed:
—And Catherine? Do you think I'm going to leave her?
A cold silence then:
 —Who is Catherine?
I hesitated between “my fiancée” and “my girlfriend”.
“The cook,” I decided. She is on duty in front of the
dormitories. We have to get out of here.
I shook the door furiously. Then, calming down a little, I noted
firstly that the door, even if thin, would resist my efforts (I think I have
already pointed out that I am rather thin myself), secondly that there
was daylight between the door and the jamb. Through this gap, while
shining the electric lamp, I saw the metal bar of the latch.

“We have to lift it,” I muttered, feeling my jacket. My letter

opener should have done the trick.
- Looking for something ? Juliette asked.
— My letter opener! I yelled.
In a frenzy, I slammed my shoulders against the door, with no
other result than straining my muscles.
—And would this work?
Juliette had opened her shoulder bag. She handed me a nail file.

—Thank you, I think...

On the third attempt, the nail file allowed me to lift the latch.

- Quickly ! On the second floor…

I didn't even think that the other might be waiting for us at the end of
the corridor. My anguish was too great to know Catherine had been
handed over to the enemy.
—Oh, Cathy!
She was coming down the stairs to meet me. In my relief, I
hugged him lovingly.
—Not here, Nils!
Catherine pulled away and stared at a point at my back. I turned
around. Juliette observed us, with a mixture of surprise and reproach
in her eyes.
“I… well… I’ll explain,” I stammered, uncomfortably. Catherine
grabs my arm:
- Oh there !
Through the toilet window, we could see the body of the building
where the director's apartments were located. A hallway was dimly lit.
 “He’s over there,” said Juliette.
The three of us jumped up. Descending the stairs, crossing the
courtyard and the courtyard, going back up two floors, it took just a few
moments. Once I arrived near the director's apartment, I had to extend
my arm to prevent Catherine from getting ahead of me.
“Calm down,” I whispered.
We could see the light behind the bend that the corridor made. A
few more steps and...
- Person !
A lit electric lamp had been left next to a black pile. Juliette bent
down:
— It’s Mr. Agnelle’s coat.
Raising her head, she held back an exclamation of astonishment.
On the director's door, someone had hastily bombed an “Ah! Ah!”
triumphant. The enemy evaporated in a sneer.
“He's crazy,” Juliette said quietly, moving away from the coat.

*
**

On Saturday morning, the interns returned home and the school took
on an air of peaceful melancholy under the snow.
Catherine, excused from service, came to join me in my room at
the Lion d'or.
“We must warn Inspector Berthier,” she decreed,
sitting on my bed.
— Warn him of what, my darling?
— But the director is sick! It is he who persecutes himself
even to be able to play the martyr of education.
— A hypothesis is not proof…
—What do you need then? That he murders a student?
As if to answer his question, the phone rang at the head of my
bed.
- Hello ?
—Ah, Mr. Hazard! You are still in Queutilly. It is
Mr. Agnelle. I would like to see you this morning.
— I'm coming, sir.
I put the receiver down.
 — My darling, your great man will, once again, face
the peril. It deserves…
With a shove on the shoulder, I knocked her back onto my bed.
“A stab,” Catherine completed. I narrowly avoided
the blade by throwing myself to the side.
We rolled on top of each other, then, out of sheer complacency, I let
myself be stabbed. Crouic.
—And don't drag any more young girls into the cellars, sir
Hazard, or next time, I will dip the blade in curare.
I ran to school while adjusting my tie. The wind took charge of
the comb.
The director would probably ask me how my investigation was
progressing. Now, I had nothing to teach him because I didn't want to talk
to him about the assassin's game, nor about "industrial gruge", nor about
sand yachting. Everything I knew about the occult life of Saint-Prix had to
remain hidden.
—So you don't know anything? the director said irritated.
— Nothing for sure.
Agnelle suddenly leaned towards me:
— But you have any suspicions?
— Waves... Sooner or later, the culprit will make a misstep.
The director threw himself back into his chair with an exasperated sigh:
— And in the meantime, he’s smearing my door. My own door,
he moaned. Feeling the malevolence around you...
With a mechanical gesture, he took a letter opener from a case and began to
play with it. Fascinated, I watched him do it.
It was MY letter opener, the one I had looked for in vain the night
before in my jacket. While lamenting, Agnelle turned it between her
fingers, stuck the tip in her palm, put it down, picked it up again. The
more heated he became with his words, the more he dug the point
into her flesh.
“You… you’re bleeding,” I stammered.
- You say ?
He stared at me, as if coming out of a hallucination.
He opened his palm and saw the blood beading there. But he still
didn't react.
“Oh, I'm bleeding,” he said, finally coming out of
his torpor. He dabbed his hand with a tissue.
“It's, umm, a very sharp letter opener,” I remarked.
 Agnelle frowned:
— Imagine that I no longer know which student I confiscated it from…
I probably confiscated it.
He remained silent, with that bewildered look that was becoming habitual to him.
“I found it in my coat,” he muttered. Pocket of
coat. The coat I have...
The sentence was lost in the labyrinth of his thoughts.
I got up to take my leave. I had to cough and suddenly push my
chair back to get his attention. He looked up at me with his drowning
gaze.
“Goodbye,” I said. Don't worry so much...
His lips articulated: “Such malevolence…” I left him alone with his
obsessions.
In the courtyard, I saw Axel jumping over the benches to warm
up.
—Are you stuck? I asked.
I then remembered that he had no parents to ask for him at the end
of the week.
- No. I'm not stuck. But my uncle couldn't
take.
—Alban?
- Yeah. From time to time he wants to spend a weekend
quiet with his girlfriend. It is understandable.
I nodded. What a strange life for a sixteen year old boy. The gym
teacher from Saint-Prix was his only family. “Freezing fog, frosty
within. »Axel said he was “cinoque” and suicidal, but without seeming
affected.
- Hi ! he said to me in this tone that he wanted to be indifferent.
Maybe he didn't want me to leave. But there was no indication
that he wanted me to stay. There was something like a vacancy in his
eyes. A blank space in his head.
When I returned to Saint-Prix the following Thursday, the sixth form 2
welcomed me in the hall, very excited:
—There is an inspector!
I let out a rather incongruous “shit”. Térence started to laugh and
reassured me:
— But he's not here for you. He comes for Mrs. Zagulon. The
Zagulon! Was it possible? But ultimately, why not? I could imagine
him writing anonymous letters.
 Alban passed not far from me. I called out to him:
— Say, is the inspector there?
“Yes, but not for you,” Alban reassured me. It's Faure and
Zagulon who will pass there.
“Faure too,” I repeated, stunned. Suddenly I
understood and burst out laughing:
- An inspector ! But, of course, an academic inspector, ah,
ah!
Alban must have thought that madness was gaining ground in Saint-Prix.
“You won’t have my nephew in class,” he warned me. They are
broke his face yesterday. It's a good fit.
- Nothing serious ?
- Leg in plaster.
I looked at my watch. I just had time to go up and greet Axel in
his room.
As I climbed the stairs, I saw Axel jumping over the benches
again. He must have missed a hedge.
— Hello, daredevil!
—Ah, is that you? Could you do me a favor? I have
forgot my rap notebook at home.
— I'll bring it back to you after my class.
— I have the following lyric for my rapFreezing fog. He hit
his head with the flat of his hand.
- He's there.
As I walked through the door, I turned around:
— By the way, did you buy yourself a bench?
He looked at me, without seeming to understand my question.
- Oh no ! Not a bench... It was the gymnasium wall that gave way.
The top bar.
“The top bar,” I repeated. Our
eyes met.
- And by the way, Axel asked me, are you sure you're a teacher?
Leaving Axel to his doubts, I ran to room 104 where the sixth
graders were waiting for me, still in excitement.
— Is it today that we open the grave? asked me
Terence feverishly.
—Yes, baron.
—Ah! roared all my students.
 They closed the double curtains, stacked the chairs, pushed the
tables aside and then, under my orders, began arranging the tomb.
Frescoes were first pinned up on the walls. They represented scenes
of hunts, banquets and fights.

“It’s mine, my favorite,” Claire whispered to me.

Always looking for strong emotions, she had chosen to reproduce
the scene from Phersu: a masked man throws a Molosser dog against
a victim who, his head caught in a hood, tries to defend himself with a
club - a nice little entertainment suitable for brightening up funerals.

Martine brought the throne, that is to say a chair with armrests

covered with aluminum sheets. From all the racks, precious dishes
came out: amphorae, cauldrons, jugs, cups... made of black modeling
clay and gold paper. One table represented the funeral bed of
Princess Larthia.
This is where Claire Delmas lay, covered in her Prisunic jewels,
while on another table Mathieu lay, surrounded by painted cardboard
weapons and shields.
“It is April 22, 1836,” I began. Regolini and
Galassi are in Caere, in a “necropolis”, that is to say, Terence?
— A city of the dead...
— That day, Regolini and Galassi will discover… And
the children will whisper:
— Etruscan gold.
There was a knock at the door just then and we looked at each
other, petrified with despair. Whoever entered would make our
chimeras vanish, just as the archaeologists, breaking open the crypts
with pickaxes, caused the mortal remains of the warriors and
princesses of ancient Etruria to crumble into dust.
— I beg your pardon... You were going to do a screening,
maybe ?
A man, very solemn in a gray suit and striped tie, had just walked
through the door and was looking at the scene, trying to hide his
surprise. The dead had half risen on the tables. Térence-Regolini still
held his pickaxe in his hand. The inspector — because it was him —
walked towards me and knocked over one of the unusual objects that
littered the classroom floor.
 — My amphorabucchero!cried Princess Larthia,
outraged by this crime of lèse-majesté.
“Oh, sorry,” stammered the inspector, taking a step aside.
— My half-moon razor! the warrior shouted.
— He’s ruining everything for us! said the beleaguered children.
“Excuse me, Mr. Hazard,” stammered the inspector, “it’s
that we really don't see anything there. Madame Zagulon told me that
you have completely innovative teaching methods...
The bitch, I thought.
“…and I see how true that is,” added the inspector midway through his words.
fig, half-grape. Could you reopen the curtains, young man?
He had spoken to Regolini. Terence looked at me to make it clear
to the intruder that he only took orders from his captain. I nodded
and he obeyed.
- What game are you playing ? the inspector asked the students.
“It’s not a game,” Mathieu replied in a tone of pity. It is
a historical reconstruction.
—Ah, very good, very good. And what is this…
thing? the inspector questioned again, picking up an object.
“It’s my big parade fibula,” replied the princess,
articulating as if she were speaking to a simpleton. It's a piece of gold jewelry
and it's fragile.
— A… uh… Merovingian fibula? asked the inspector. The children
burst out laughing at such crass ignorance.
“We’re among the Etruscans,” Terence confided to him, good-
naturedly. The inspector turned to me:
— But you are very late in the program.
“Maybe,” I conceded.
Then I said:
— When you grow up, what will you do?
— Archaeologist! cried Terence.
“Etruscologist,” Claire clarified.
— Oh no, I prefer Egyptologist! cried Martine.
— Archivist!
- Searcher !
— Antique dealer!
— History teacher!
As with Guignol, I asked:
— Do you like history, children?
 A single howl:
— Yesss!
Hopefully the inspector doesn't ask them if they like geography! I
thought at the same moment.
“You are a vocation awakener,” said the inspector, who did not
didn't want to suddenly alienate twenty overheated young minds,
it's... very interesting.
He retreated, narrowly avoiding a bronze candelabra, but
crushing a bracelet.
- That's it, grown-ups, Térence concluded, they break everything
and it goes away.
— In short, I consoled myself, I am right not to be one. At the
interclass, the Zagulon passed through the door, her face painted
as a Comanche on the warpath.
— So, it went as you wanted? she asked me.
- Perfectly !
And I gave him a big smile.
Axel had to wait for me to give him his notebook. I went to the
student hostel. I recognized, dominating the other voices, the nasal
timbre of Boussicot. I knocked on the door.
- It's what ? shouted Marie Baston.
—The little teacher! exclaimed Boussicot when he saw me enter.
— Didn't we already tell you that this was our place? the girl called out to me
in his cheeky voice.
A sneer made me look down. Sitting on the ground, his back to the
wall, Jules Sampan was jubilant that I was welcomed this way. The Sampan-
Alcatraz-Boussicot trio seemed most promising to me.
— Are you opening a kindergarten? I asked, pointing to the
fourth 1 from the head.
— When we open the senior citizens club, we will let you know,
replied Marie Baston, in a friendly vein.
Jules Sampan laughed in a loud and somewhat forced manner.
The scene exceeded his expectations.
— I'm coming to get the notebook where Axel writes his raps, I said to
Boussicot. He wants to write.
—Why are you meddling in our affairs? questioned me
Boussicot. Do you think we're going to be friends with you? Grown-
ups are cops and assholes, you hear? I've seen enough of teachers
like you, and psychologists, special educators,
social workers, good sisters! The adults want to “recover” me as if I
were part of a pile of garbage to be sorted. Fuck them, the adults, and
you!
Alcatraz had stopped writing and he observed Boussicot, not like a
slave to his master, but like an alienist doctor can watch for the progress
of the disease in his patient.
— Give him the notebook, he whispered to Boussicot, and let him
leave alone.
Antoine bent down, took Axel's notebook from the bench and threw it in my
face.
— I got seasoned by Boussicot, I said to Axel
putting the notebook on the bed.
Axel smiled.
— He doesn't love you.
- For what ?
— Because the others like you. Axel
leafed through his notebook.
“Marie Lemercier doesn’t particularly like me,” remarked.
I.
- Stopped. When Boussicot is not there, she finds that you are
“cute”… Don’t blush, it’s not worth it.
I sat astride the chair, laughing.
—And Sampan? I asked. What is he doing with the
thirds?
— He wants to play tough. Boussicot and Alcatraz are messing with him.
Sampan told them that he was madly in love with a girl in his class.

— Naema?
Axel flipped through his notebook in all directions, his eyebrows furrowed.
— Hmm… Yes, Naéma. You know everything, you. She is
Muslim. According to Sampan, the parents want to send her back to
Iran after the Christmas holidays. Well, that's what he says. But damn,
where is he?
Axel turned his notebook over and shook it.
- What's the matter ?
— I can't find my rap from the other day.
I took the spiral notebook and turned the pages as well.
— You didn't tear the sheet? Axel
shook his head impatiently:
 — They cheated me.
— This is someone who wants to be in the Top 50 before you,
I joked.
Axel muttered “that’s it” then, chewing on his marker, began to
reconstruct his first lyric:
“Freezing fog, frosty within.”
Over his shoulder, I wrote a phone number in the notebook.

— The Golden Lion, room 15. In case of need…

Leaving Axel, I headed towards the courtyard. It was deserted. I took the
opportunity to climb the espalier.
“I didn’t know you had this taste for gymnastics,” said
a familiar voice, below me.
— Hello, Alban!… I was looking at the bar which broke. Axel
did well. At that height, he could have killed himself.
The gym teacher nodded:
— This entire courtyard is in poor condition. I told the director, but
It seems there is no money for repairs. When Lucien went to inform
him that a student had broken his leg, he arrived in a panic. But when
he saw that it was Axel, he almost breathed a sigh of relief.

- For what ? I asked, jumping down.

— But because Axel has no other family than me and I can
difficult to file a complaint! Agnelle is a cynic under the guise of a
moralist.
— You don't like him very much? I noticed. Alban
started to laugh:
—We can't hide anything from you. Besides, he's... He
tapped his temple with his index finger.
That evening, I returned to my hotel with a worried heart.
Since I had come to Saint-Prix, I had the impression of chasing an
illusion and that in short nothing had yet happened that was supposed
to happen.
— “The bar was broken”? the inspector repeated after me
Berthier.
Once in my room at the Lion d'or, I decided to call him.

— Yes, I explained, if it had been an accident due to wear and tear, the
wood would not have broken that way. I think the bar was
sawn and put back in place.
“Running nonsense, Mr. Hazard! laughed the inspector.
Ask Lucien if he didn't simply plane away what was left of the bar.

“I would prefer that you question him yourself,” I insisted.

followed by a presentiment.
— The director does not want to see the police in his
establishment, Berthier reminded me, and nothing justifies my presence there.
— But precisely, the director... I began.
—And so what, the director?
- No nothing…
“You disappoint me, professor,” Berthier said. YOU
you let yourself be overrun by college students. You were better off
shot with young François Philippe2.
The next day at noon, I met Alban Rémy in the refectory. Pale
and with worried eyes, he wore his right arm in a sling.
- What happened to you ? I asked him. He
forced himself to smile:
— A dark series, one must believe... The rope in the courtyard was
detached just now. I landed on all fours and it was my right wrist that
took everything. Me who wanted to give a masterful demonstration to
my sixth graders!
He was going to walk away, with an embarrassed laugh. I held him by the shoulder.
—And you find that normal? I whispered.
“Not really,” he replied in a low voice. He
looked around him, almost afraid:
— I think I understood what you were looking at yesterday, at the top of
the espalier. For the rope, I can answer you: the fixing hook was cut
with a hacksaw.
 5
THE ASSASSIN IS IN COLLEGE

I felt very alone that Friday evening in my room at the Lion d'or.
Catherine had gone back to Paris to do some uninteresting errand. I
preferred to stay in Queutilly, as I did not have classes at the
Sorbonne the next day. Something kept bothering me. In my half-
sleep, I heard the Zagulon ask me if the hacksaw was of great
educational use, then I saw Agnelle coming forward in an immense
black cloak that the wind suddenly lifted, transforming it into a red
cape , while vampire teeth began to emerge from his mouth.

—Ah, ah! he sneered, human blood. You will get it back

a little, inspector?
“Never during lessons,” replied the inspector. I'm too
behind in my schedule.
“Late,” I stammered, “I’m late. I stretched out my hand
to stop my alarm. Dring, dring.
“No,” I jumped. It's the phone. I picked up.

— Hello, Mr. Hazard? said a whispered voice on the other end

some thread.

My heart accelerated. I looked at the time when I woke up.

10:15 p.m.
- Yes.
—It's Alcatraz. Axel gave me your number. I you
college phone.
— From college?
- Yes. There is a coin-operated telephone opposite the staff room.
I can't drag on because of the pawn.
I was expecting some shattering revelation or a full confession.

- So. Do you know Jules Sampan?

— I have some reasons to know him.
— He is in love with...
 “I know,” I said, a little surprised at the turn things were taking.
this nocturnal conversation.
— Do you also know that he can leave college?
- Yes.
“So, there you go,” Alcatraz continued, embarrassed. It's an idea of
Boussicot. I wrote a letter to Sampan, imitating Naéma’s
handwriting…
—What did you put in this letter?
— Um… “I love you more than my life. I want to leave this hell...
» Okay, bullshit. We arranged to meet him on the banks of the Doué,
after the sports field, for this evening, 10:30 p.m.
—But you are idiots! I cried. Idiot and dangerous!
“He was told a specific location,” Alcatraz continued. Bench,
on the towpath. There is an external who has taken it upon himself to drop off
another letter this evening.
—And this letter says...
— “You are a cuckold. I left with someone else.” I imagined Jules
Sampan ready to cast off for Naéma's sake, opening the letter and
reading it. No, it wasn't funny. Not funny and La Doué wasn't far
away.
Suddenly I heard another voice on the phone:
- What are you doing here ?
It was the pawn that had just fallen on Alcatraz.
— Um, I'm calling my mother. She is sick.
— Hang up immediately and go to bed!
“Okay,” said Alcatraz. Goodbye, dear mother. Kisses.
He hung up. What to do ? Alert Lucien? By the time he understood, it
would be daylight. 10:22 p.m. I jumped out of bed, got dressed, put on my
shoes. Once in the street, I started running, towards La Doué. To be there, at
least, to be there between Jules and the river. After five minutes of running, I
felt a terrible stitch in my side that forced me to slow down and then walk.
10:32 p.m. Quick, he’s already read the letter.
... I resume my run, I leave Queutilly, I go around Saint-Prix, I cut
through the fields, I can't take it anymore. The sports field in sight. I go
down the embankment. Towpath. The Gifted. Pain in the side. Can't
anymore. The bench.
—Jules!
He is at the water's edge, his fist clenched over his humiliation, his face
contorted with pain. I feel like I'm going to serve as a release for him. I
walk slowly, catching your breath:
—Jules...
— Why are you here? he shouts, hysterical.
— Because... Alcatraz warned me. He wrote both
letters. You understand ?
He cries to the sky:
- I understood !
And he throws the ball of paper into the water.
— They're all bastards! Bastards!
He is crying. I move forward cautiously. I whisper:
— She won't come.
He turns to me with a start:
- I know !
— You have to go home.
- Never ! Get the hell out of me. I'll go alone. She will see.
They will see…
Jules sobs. What a wreck, a love of fifteen years! I take
him by the shoulder.
—Come on, come on...
He pulls away, throwing his fist into my stomach. I kind of
expected it, but it still hurts.
—The others, they don’t know! he shouts at the night, his face
reversed. I like.
I took Jules by the shoulder and he followed me, automaton,
heartbroken. As we walked, I spoke to him in a low voice, more to ease his
pain than in the hope of reasoning with him.
— Tomorrow will be hard. And then, the day after tomorrow. But one step later
the other, you will move away from your sorrow.
One step after another, I led him back to the college's ventilator.

“You are very strong to have found this passage,” I said for him.
comfort.
Jules shook his head:
— It wasn't rocket science. I saw the padlock open one evening.
I grabbed his arm:
— It wasn't you who forced the padlock? Nor removed the grid?
- No. You need some weird tools for that.
And also to file a hook or saw a bar, I thought. Jules took the path
that “the other” had taken.
 — I'm going, he said, fiercely rubbing his smeared face.
of tears.
- I come with you.
- But no ! I'm tall enough…
I escorted him to the first floor, then listened to him climb the last
steps and close his door.
“Mission accomplished,” I whispered.
When there was a knock on my door the next day, I opened it wide.
- Love is beautiful ! I exclaimed. I say to you: “Come,” and
from Paris you come running.
Catherine leaned against the door frame:
— It's to tell me this kind of nonsense that you did to me
to fall out of the bed ?
- No. I want us to do a detailed review of our suspects.
Come in.
Catherine sat down on my unmade sheets and took a small notebook out of her
bag.
— Your divine intuition no longer holds water, sir
Hazard? Catherine triumphed. What do you want to know ?
Catherine had taken it upon herself to chat with everyone to
collect information - a somewhat laborious technique that I had
disdained.
— Axel?
“Axel Rémy,” said Catherine, searching in her little notebook.
Rémy, here it is: “Orphan. Mother actress, father unknown. Alban Rémy,
guardian and uncle.”
Catherine looked up:
— Yes… Axel’s mother had a short career as a starlet in the
USA under the name Lilas Rémy. She loved an American, a man
already married, about whom nothing is known. Pregnant, she
returned to France, she abandoned the cinema or the cinema
abandoned her. She raised her kid until he was four years old. On her
birthday, she committed suicide with a gunshot.
“Devil,” I grumbled.
I thought about what Axel had written under his rap:
“I no longer have a mother on earth, no longer my mother and no longer my
father. All I have to do now is fire a bullet from a revolver. »
— Boussicot?
 — Wait, Catherine searched, Boussicot, here it is: “Father manager
from a mini market in Queutilly. The mother left, leaving three kids.”…
Yes, according to what people say, it is not sure that Boussicot’s father
is really his father. He would look more like the boss of the Sand
Yacht, if you know what I mean...
— Pretty good. Alcatraz?
— Real name Juan Rodriguez. The father is an expert
an accountant. He got into trouble with the law. The mother is a huge
donkey with a questionable past, if you know what I mean...
- Roughly. Marie Baston?
— His father having remarried and having abandoned his second
A woman who immediately found a second husband, Marie Lemercier
is no longer raised by her parents, but by her in-laws. I don't know if
you followed the film?
— I'm probably missing episodes. And Jules Sampan?
— Chic dad, chic mom. Sampan is the typical brat at
heart as big as that.
— I see very well what you mean. I was
silent for a moment.
—Why are you smiling, Nils?
- I smile ? I might as well cry. Okay, let's
friend Jules aside. What do we know about Agnelle?
— There is the black hole. Nobody knows who he is. Alban Remy
told me that he had run a college in La Manche. Everyone wonders
about their mental health. He has been at Saint-Prix for two years. Do
you want news from Mrs. Zagulon?
— How many men, women, children and
cats?
Catherine laughed out loud and read from her notebook:
— “Very conscientious professor. Married, two children.” We
only criticizes him for sticking his nose everywhere.
— Saint-Prix’s pawn?
— A certain Nicolas Arvet-Dumillon who seems to have missed everything
what he has done since he was born.
“Good profile for a psychopathic killer,” I murmured,
connoisseur. And Lucien?
— Lucien Renard. Not as cunning as its namesake.
Collect gory movies.
- Devil ! I repeated.
 — Miss Kilikini is not on your list of suspects?
whispered Catherine.
- Yes Yes. Of course. So, she just benefited from a discount
sentence, after having spent twelve years in prison for the murder of his
grandfather?
Catherine pretended to look in her notebook:
— Kilikini, there you go. “Kilikini Juliet. White goose. We don't
knows only one vice…: you.”
I took the notebook from Catherine's hands and pretended to
consult it:
— “Roque Catherine. Claims to be a cook. Character
resentful who easily wields a knife.”
—And what else do you want to play? Catherine asked me
wrinkling his nose in his cheeky way.

*
**

I returned to Paris with a lark singing high above my head. It's

good to love, Jules. It's better to be loved.
The Sorbonne was buzzing this Monday with student loves and
poorly learned lessons. I rushed down the steps three by three. Out !
The weather is beautiful in the Luxembourg Gardens. A child pushes his
small sailboat on a pond.
— Jules, call his mother, you’re going to get wet!
Something mixes with my joy that spoils the blue of the sky. The
lovers go in pairs along the garden paths.
They will write their first names on a wall, on a tree, on a bench. I
would do the same.

Nils Catherine

But I don't dare. I'm a big boy. Ah, ah! a big !

I walked too fast. My groin stitch came back. Why isn't everyone
happy today, since I am?
 When I pushed open the door to my apartment, the phone was
ringing.
- Yes ? Hello ?
— Are you Mr. Hazard? It's Jules. Sampan. He strains
out every word.
—Who gave you my number?
— The Golden Lion.
- What do you want ?
I try to soften my voice and I can't. Between us, it doesn't work.

“The others are bastards anyway,” says the pitiful voice.

on the other side.
I imagine him, clinging to his coin-operated phone, his face
contorted by a deep desire to cry. Am I his only recourse?

“I can’t tell you,” he whispers. There is too much

world. And then, it's the teachers' room opposite. I need to talk to
you.
— I will be in Queutilly on Thursday.
- No before.
From hesitant, his voice became imperious.
- This evening. At the Sand yacht, after 10 p.m.
— But no, Jules. That’s enough of this little game!
— It has nothing to do with... with Naéma. It's about what
happens in college... I... I saw... I hang up.
- Hold on. Not this…
He hung up. I am looking at my watch. I just have time to jump
on a train. What does this little idiot want from me? And why did he
hang up so quickly? No, I won't go, but I will stop him from going out.

— Hello, Mr. Fox?

— Huh?
— Lucien?
A stammer came to me. It was indeed the concierge I had on the
line. But he was drunk. Too bad, I warn Agnelle.
— Give me Mr. Director!
— Huh?
Exasperated, I grabbed my jacket and ran to the station. Dusk
had fallen. I still don't like this hour
illuminated by pale street lamps.
— A train to Queutilly? the attendant said to me with an idiotic look.
calm. There is no live broadcast on Monday evening. You have to change at
Cambrès-les-Monts and get off at La Ferté-sous-Doué. Then you have the
bus.
— I did it quicker on foot, in short?
Once on the train, I calculated:
Departure 6:30 p.m. Three hours drive. Twenty minutes by bus. I
will be in Queutilly at 9:40 p.m. I sighed and walked outThe worldfrom
the inside pocket of my jacket. Night came along the railway line, a
winter night petrified by the cold. I put my newspaper on the seat. I
had just recognized the beast lurking deep inside me which had
begun to gnaw at my insides. The fear. And the voice that goes its
own way: “What is the name of Saint-Prix’s pawn? Why did Jules hang
up so quickly? Lucien is drunk, Lucien Renard who shoots a horror
film. We know nothing about Agnelle. Agnelle cutting a hole in her
skin with my letter opener…” I began to drum against the window. But
the train was going slower than the voice.

At La Ferté-sous-Doué station, the bus was waiting, dark and cold.

The driver had his coffee at the buffet. I wanted to shout at him: “Get
lost!” I sat at the back of the bus, pulling my jacket tighter around me.
Two old ladies came up.
— Not hot, eh?
- No.
I would have screamed. In my head, I was talking to Jules Sampan: Stay in
your room. Not moving. He heard you. Otherwise you wouldn't have hung up
so quickly. You know the truth, Jules. You saw it with your own eyes. I
understand, Jules. Above all, don't come...
The driver got in, carrying with him the smell of coffee and
cigarettes. He revved his engine. I looked at the glowing face of my
watch. 9:35 p.m.
At 9:55 p.m., on the verge of a nervous breakdown, I jumped
from the bus on the Place du 8-Mai. I ran to the Sand Chariot. Sampan
was not there. In my panic, I turned around, not knowing where to
turn. Then I set off again in the direction of Saint-Prix. The vent was in
place. I pushed him away with my fists. I entered cellar no. 7. The
latch was not in the chinlet. The padlock was not attached to the door
marked “staff only”. I turned on my
flashlight and, at the same time, a groan came to me. I swept the
hallway with my lamp. Desert. Again, we moan. Was it a trap? Slowly, I
moved forward. The door to the student hall was slightly ajar. The
moaning came from there.
- Someone ? I whispered.
I pushed the door but something was blocking the opening. I
reached in and turned on the overhead light. A scream choked in my
throat. I had seen a head of red hair in a pool of blood.
—Jules!
Forcing my way, I entered and knelt down.
Face down on the ground, Jules let his life escape him with a
groan.
— Jules, it’s Nils. Your teacher. I will save you, I will...
The moan became a barely audible whisper. I leaned down.

— Pre. In the pre…pre…lease…medicine. And

Jules was silent.
“What…what’s happening?” asked an evil voice
assured in the distance.
It was the pawn, Nicolas Arvet-Dumillon.
- This way ! I shouted. Help !

*
**

Inspector Berthier was on the scene in the morning.

Sampan was transported to Queutilly hospital then evacuated to
Paris in a deep coma.
“A baseball bat, something like that,” he explained to me.
the inspector.
I remembered Jules' last words. He spoke of “medicine” and
“lease”.
“We haven't found the weapon,” Berthier continued. But there is
Gifted…
We looked at each other and Berthier added:
— We arrested the director. On your recommendations. He
pretends he didn't hear anything. He slept soundly all night.
 So the town of Queutilly and the horrified parents of the students
learned that day that their children had been entrusted for two years
to a... crime maniac.
— Berthier confirmed to me that before being at Saint-Prix, I
Catherine reported, Agnelle was indeed in a college in La Manche
where the same events occurred.
- What do you mean ? I wondered.
- But yes. The copy attack! He had already done it. Copies
of students had been stolen and marked 0/20. In red ink this time.

I nodded.
“Well done,” I muttered.
The next day at noon, Inspector Berthier asked the
teachers and students of 3e1 to gather in the refectory. We also
invited Lucien Renard and the supervisor Nicolas Arvet-Dumillon.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the inspector began, “I am reminded

painful obligation to teach you…
He looked at me. I nodded gently.
— ...to tell you that young Jules Sampan died without
having regained consciousness.
Horror, indignation, amazement, revolt, pain were visible on
everyone's faces. One by one, I examined them. One of these faces
was lying.
 6
SINGLE RIDER

— We should have avoided this tragedy, Nils. Catherine

looked at me, sorry and a little irritated too.
— It was obvious that the director was crazy. You didn't want
agree. He was the only one who could walk freely throughout the school.
Breaking open a locker, sawing a bar, filing a hook, writing on the walls,
everything was simple for him. At night, he was the master of the place.

— The passage through the air vent? I whispered.

— It wasn't the director who borrowed it, all right. But Jules
Sampan wasn't the only kid who could find a way to run away.
Question Boussicot, Alcatraz or Marie Baston!
— Why did Axel's rap disappear? I whispered again.
— But there are jealous people everywhere! Catherine protested. He left
carry around your notebook. This is incommensurable with an assassination.
— Which meadow did Jules want to talk to me about? I whispered
again. I took a sheet of paper on which I wrote Sampan's last
words: "PRÉ TO PRE BALL MEDICINE."
— “Bail” was probably the baseball bat that hit him,
Catherine commented, “medicine” was more like “doctor”. You
misunderstood. He asked for a doctor.
I remained doubtful and dissatisfied for a moment.
—Why are you racking your brains? Catherine reproached me.
It's too late now. Jules Sampan paid for knowing the truth before us.

—How did he find out, in your opinion?

— But the night you went to look for him on the banks of the Doué,
Did you leave it at the foot of the second staircase?
- Yes. So what ?
—And then... he saw Agnelle wandering on the second floor with her eyes
crazy. Then, when he called you, Agnelle was in the staff room and he
heard everything. Jules had signed his death warrant.
 — “Jules had signed his death warrant,” I repeated in a tone
melodramatic. You should write detective novels. It's quite the style.

I looked down at my paper and in a flash, I read:

— Catherine! Preau! Courtyard… Jules spoke of the courtyard and
“medicine ball”.
— These balls weighing several kilos which are used for bodybuilding?
I nodded.
“There are some in the courtyard,” added Catherine. They are stored in
a closet.
— We need to open this cupboard.
When I went to school on Friday, Saint-Prix had already regained
his peaceful face. The parents initially gave in to panic and called in
numbers to ask for their children. The teachers tried to calm them
down. The criminal being behind bars, the danger had passed. Faure
acted as a sort of interim manager. Catherine, believing her role to be
over, had found a successor in the kitchen. Lucien was in his dressing
room, faithful to the post, almost on an empty stomach.

— Huh? The key ? he stammered. The key to?…

“The key to the cupboard in the courtyard,” I repeated slowly.
—It’s on the board, Mr. Hazard. Hold !
I walked away towards the courtyard. What was I hoping to find?
A corpse cut into pieces? I turned the key in the lock and opened one
of the panels. Immediately, a balloon, two balloons rolled off the
shelves where they were balanced. I caught one that was going to
crush my foot and jumped to avoid the other. They were five kilo
medicine balls. I inspected the other shelves. They supported
dumbbells of different weights. Thoughtfully, I put the medicine balls
back in place, that is to say in unstable balance. What did Sampan
want to tell me?
— Dumbbells, Catherine replied. Jules told you
the murder weapon.
— But why talk about medicine balls in this case? Catherine
shrugged her shoulders. The question seemed irrelevant to him.
Since we had a culprit and a victim, the detective story was over.

— Why do you still give lessons at this college?

Catherine wondered.
 I answered him with another question:
— Why did Agnelle notify the police if he was the culprit?
— But he's crazy! Mad people have reasons that escape the
reason.
— Why did Agnelle manipulate my hair cutter under my nose?
paper if he had stolen it from my pocket?
- But because…
- Yeah, yeah, i know ! I exclaimed. He is a mad. There is only in
bad detective novels that the murderer is crazy.
— But then, Nils, if the director is not the murderer, who killed
Jules Sampan and why?
— It is to answer these questions that I still give
course at Saint-Prix, I said in conclusion.
Was it the truth? Didn't I stay at Saint-Prix because there were
Térence, Martine and Claire, Alcatraz, Marie Baston, Boussicot and
Axel?… Axel.
It was the Friday before the Christmas holiday. The weather was
clear, the wind almost warm. Funny how things stick in the memory. I
had decided that this would be my last Friday at Saint-Prix.

I sat down at my desk. The sun, passing through the high

windows, flooded me. Claire had placed her face in her open lotus leaf
hands. The Nile roared at our feet. I looked around my class. The
children look like dreaming sphinxes and young pharaohs.

I started:
— Lord Ra was bitten on the heel one morning by a snake
venomous that Isis, her servant, had herself fashioned. He was
writhing in pain when Isis, the deceiver, approached him and said:
“Teach me your secret name, O Lord, and I will mix it with a magic
formula. Thus, you will heal from the poison that burns you. » Ra
smelled a trap and replied: “I am Khepri, in the morning, Ra at noon,
Atouni in the evening. I am Harma Khouîti, the summer sun, and
Atoumou, the autumn sun. » But the maid protested: “This, O Lord, is
not your secret name. »
I looked away from the high window to look at the children. Like
Isis, they were waiting for me to finally tell them the secret name, the
one that would give them all power over the God-Soled. I resumed:
 — Lord Ra suffered so much that he recalled his servant and,
defeated, he said to him: “My secret name is hidden in my body and,
to know it, I must open my chest as they do to the dead to embalm
them. » The secret name of Lord Ra passed from his womb into the
womb of Isis without having been pronounced. Isis knows the secret
name. From a servant, she became a goddess. We will never know.

When the bell rang, I turned one last time to Amon-Râ:

“Goodbye,” I whispered to him.
— Goodbye, sir! See you next year ! shouted the children
passing in front of me.
I didn't answer them.
In the courtyard, I saw Alcatraz, sitting on the back of a bench.
From the way he looked at me, I knew he wanted to talk to me.
- How are you ? I asked.
- Not too much. I regret what I did in Sampan.
— The fake letters?
Alcatraz nodded, looking unhappy.
“It was a dirty joke,” I said. But Jules didn't die from it.
—What do we know about it? Maybe when leaving college or
on his way back, he saw something... someone? Do you think it's the
director, the murderer?
I flinched. I thought that for everyone Agnelle was the culprit.

“You don’t believe it, do you?” I asked cautiously.

Alcatraz pouted:
— I'm not the only one asking questions. Not the only one to
to fear.
- Fear ?
— What if the murderer, the real one, was still at large? said Alcatraz,
more for himself than for me.
He jumped off the bench as if he didn't want to talk to me anymore. But
suddenly he changed his mind:
— Besides, Alban Rémy is afraid too. As Axel is
immobilized in his bed, he gave him a weapon. In case…
I nodded. So, others besides me were wary. Alcatraz moved away.
I left on my own. I wanted, once again, to inspect the cupboard in
the courtyard. When I opened them
panels, again the medicine balls rolled and I received one in my arms.

- What are you looking for ? said a stern voice behind me. It was
Faure.
Since he took over as interim director, no more jokes and puns.
Perhaps he was satisfying his dearest desire: to be a director in the
director's place?
“Nothing,” I said, closing the cupboard.
I headed towards the entrance hall. I was going to leave Saint-Prix
without having unraveled its mysteries.
— Is it going as you wish? Zagulon said to me, a smile
scarlet blooming on her face like a poisonous flower.
- Perfectly !
The sky, at dusk, was enveloped in a damp and icy cloth.“Freezing
fog, frosty within,”the little voice whispered to me. Tomorrow would
be Saturday, a deserted Saturday in Saint-Prix. In his room, Axel
would write raps in his notebook. Axel alone in Saint-Prix, with a
drunken concierge in his dressing room as his only protector. Luckily,
Axel had a gun. The ice of dusk suddenly gripped my heart. "A
weapon ? said the voice. What weapon? » I turned around and started
running towards Saint-Prix:
—Juan! Alcatraz! Juan!

*
**

I had warned Catherine that I would not return to Paris that

Saturday.
— Are you planning to retire in Queutilly?
— This is the last Saturday that I spend here, Cathy, the last day.
- But why ?
I hung up without answering. I did not know why. I knew I had to.

At 11 a.m., the Saturday before the Christmas holidays, I was in front of

Lucien's dressing room.
— Huh? Have you forgotten anything, Mr. Hazard?
- No.
— Do you want to open the cupboard in the courtyard, Mr. Hazard?
 He seemed to think that this activity had become necessary for me.
— No, thank you Lucien. I just came to say hello to Axel. He's alone, isn't it?
what not?
— Huh? There is me, Mr. Hazard.
I walked down the hall, my heart beating wildly. However,
nothing could have happened.
Alcatraz, Boussicot and the other interns had only left fifteen
minutes ago.
I climbed the stairs with long, silent strides.
- Yes ?
I entered. Axel was in his bed, the notebook on a cushion,
sandwiches on his bedside table.
— Hey, Mr. Hazard?
Axel's voice acts like a filter: the emotions stay in his throat, even
if he has to suppress them one day.
—Are you going to spend the weekend alone? I asked.
- Yes. I'm relaxed. Lucien brings me something to eat. I'm moving forward
my rap, you know,Freezing fog" ?
— Aren't you afraid here?
- Afraid of what ?
His voice had altered slightly.
— From the assassin.
Axel laughed hesitantly.
“I have a gun,” he told me, snorting like a little kid.
— In the drawer of your bedside table?
- Yeah.
- He's charged ?
— Ready to shoot.
Then I heard. A door downstairs had creaked shut.
— Are you expecting a visit? I asked Axel.
- Not especially.
—Someone will come.
—Oh?
Someone is coming. Someone is coming up.
— Axel, I'm going to hide in the bathroom. You say nothing.
You act like I'm not there.
- But…
I put my index finger to my mouth and disappear behind the bathroom
door. He's there, he's going to come in. The one who graded the papers
with blood, who wrote the anonymous letter, smeared the walls, stole
my letter opener, sawed off the bar of the espalier, filed the hook of the
rope, drove the director half mad and murdered Jules Sampan.
— Hey, Alban?
Axel's voice did not tremble.
—Aren't you with your girlfriend?
— It bothers me to leave you all alone in this place, after this
what happened, said Alban Rémy.
Through the half-open door, I see him coming forward, his arm
caught in a sling. Carefully, he releases his trapped hand.
- You're better ? Axel questions, lulling his voice as much as
that he can.
— Yes, the bandage is enough, replies Alban, showing his hand
wrapped with Velpeau tape.
He sits at the head of the bed, he opens the drawer.
“It reassures me to know that you have this,” he said, taking out the
revolver. The cops say no matter what, the murderer is still at large.
— You… you think so? stutters Axel who starts to look to the side
of the bathroom.
Fortunately, Alban didn't notice anything. He got up, gun in hand.
Turning his back on Axel, he surrounds the barrel of the revolver with the
scarf which no longer supports his arm.
He thought of everything: the Velpeau tape so as not to leave a
mark, the scarf to muffle the detonation.
— Say, Axel, why did you write: “I just have to draw a line
of a revolver bullet”?
Alban suddenly turned around, asking the question.
- How do you know ?
It's a matter of a second. Alban puts the gun to Axel's head. And
pull the trigger. Click.
- Surprise ! I said, pushing the door back.
- What... what are you doing here? Alban shouts.
— The same as you. I protect Axel. Since the assassin
still running. I had a good idea, didn't I, to have Alcatraz discharge the
gun without Axel's knowledge?
Proud of my stratagem, I parade, forgetting that a cornered
assassin becomes a wild beast. Suddenly, Alban plunges his hand into
his left pocket.
— Be careful, Nils! Axel shouts.
 Alban took out a puzzle. The weapon that hit Jules Sampan.
- Go away ! Axel shouts to me.
Alban rushed at me, his arm raised. I grab her wrist. With his fiber
hand, he hits me in the stomach.
- Help ! Help ! Axel shouts.
— Yes, yes, there you go, echoes a breathless voice.
I just have time to hear trampling, Alban's cry of rage and I
collapse, in a shower of stars.
—Are we going it alone, Mr. Hazard? someone tells me
in the fog, up there.
 7
CASE CLOSED

— You haven't demolished Alban too much, at least? I asked

Catherine.
I myself was still groggy, a chime ringing happily under my
forehead.
“A stroke of a dumbbell,” Catherine replied to me, miming her
gesture. I took what came to hand when I opened the cupboard in the
courtyard.
… Finding my insistence on spending this last Saturday in Queutilly
strange, Catherine took the train early in the morning. Once she arrived
at the Lion d'or, she learned that I had gone to college.
“I was half an hour late for you,” she told me. Two
minutes more and you were there. Just like Jules Sampan.
“I have to tell you something, Catherine,” I said, “a
little embarrassed. I...I lied to you.
Catherine frowned and, pretending to look around, muttered:

— Where is my dumbbell?
— Calm down. This is Jules Sampan. He... he's not quite
dead.
- What ?
— The latest news is that he might even have come out of a coma. But he
seems to have lost the use of speech.
—Why did you make me believe he was dead? blamed me
Catherine.
“Everyone had to be in the same boat,” retorted.
I. We had reached an agreement, Inspector Berthier and I. For
everyone, Sampan was dead and Agnelle was the murderer. We want
to give confidence to the real culprit and encourage him to come out
of the shadows.
— But how did you know that Alban Rémy was the culprit? I
shook my head, which made me wince in pain:
 — I didn't know anything about it until Friday. I wasn't quite sure
only one thing: the director was not crazy. Rather, he was the victim
of a plot intended to make him appear crazy.
—And what happened on Friday?
“A very small thing,” I replied. Alcatraz taught me
that Alban Rémy had given Axel a weapon.
I saw myself running towards the school, looking for Alcatraz and
hailing it:
—Juan! What weapon?
- Eh ?
— What weapon did he give Axel?
—Alban? A revolver.
- Charge ?
- Yes.
Alban had given a loaded revolver to someone who had written: “I no
longer have my mother on earth, no longer my mother and no longer my
father. All I have to do now is shoot a bullet from a revolver.” Now, this
sentence which had impressed me so much, Axel had written it under his
rapFreezing fog.
“That rap that had disappeared,” Catherine murmured.
— This rap that Alban had torn from Axel's notebook.
Rap didn't interest Alban. But the little phrase could be used to
explain a “suicide” if it was highlighted next to the body of Axel, dead
of a gunshot.
“Of course, it was just an intuition,” I added. But Axel had
already been the victim of a disturbing “accident” and he was at the mercy
of an assassin, alone at college, the Saturday before the Christmas
vacation. So I asked Alcatraz to remove the bullets from the barrel.
“You have found the real culprit and the real victim,” remarked
Catherine. All you're missing is the mobile.
We would soon know him.

*
**

- We always have the impression of disturbing, grumbled

the inspector, sitting down on the couch, opposite me.
“But not at all,” I said, buttoning my shirt collar.
 My secretary was fixing her hair in front of the small office mirror.
— Catherine, will you make us some tea?
She walked away with the leisurely swaying steps of girls who
walk in sneakers.
- SO ? Anything new, Inspector? Sampan found the
word?
— No, the trauma seems permanent. But the girlfriend
d'Alban Rémy sat down at the table. She broke down from the first
interrogation.
—And what did she tell you? asked Catherine, asking
the teapot on the coffee table.
— First, that she had to provide an alibi to Alban Rémy for this
SATURDAY. They were supposed to have spent the day together in La
Fertésous-Doué.
— But did she tell you why Alban wanted to “suicide” Axel?
— It’s quite simple. Alban is Axel's uncle and Axel is
billionaire.
- "Billionaire" ! repeated Catherine, with shivers in her
voice.
“Or almost,” added the inspector. He doesn't know it yet, he goes
learn it soon. But Alban already knew that. He is Axel's guardian,
therefore the first to know.
— Where does this money come from? I asked in turn. From father
of Axel?
- Exactly. This married man that the little actress Lilac
Rémy knew in the United States was very rich. But his affairs were too
intertwined with those of his wife for him to think of divorce. Lilas Rémy
left him without asking anything, even for the unborn child. This man,
Richard Eton, died three months ago. He was a widower, without
children, and he left his entire fortune to Axel Rémy or to his closest
relative in the event of his death. Alban Rémy thought that a little suicide
would suit him well.
— Suicide all the more credible since Axel's mother committed suicide herself.
even committed suicide, Catherine pointed out.
But a whole section of darkness still remained.
— The copies corrected with blood, the anonymous letter, the espalier
saw ? Catherine whispered.
— Alban does not recognize himself guilty of either these misdeeds or the
assassination attempt on Jules Sampan, replied Berthier. It
instructs the director.
— Agnelle is innocent, I intervened, and he is not crazy. He has
only had the misfortune to tell Alban Rémy that before arriving at
Saint-Prix he had been director in an establishment in La Manche
where college students had stolen copies and had rated them all 0/20.
Alban had the idea of starting the joke again at Saint-Prix, spicing
things up a bit with blood.
— What you're saying doesn't make sense! laughed
Berthier. Why would Alban have fun playing Count Dracula?

— The police inspectors — of whom you are a seizor

example — don't look for noon to 2 p.m., I replied calmly. When they
discover a crime, they stick to an axiom proven by hundreds of
detective novels: “Find out who benefits from the crime. » Now, in
Axel's case, the answer would have been obvious, too obvious. Alban
immediately understood that he had to find another culprit and
propose him to the police at the same time as the victim.

—And he had chosen his director? Catherine asked me,

incredulous.
— Agnelle, without being crazy, is a fragile personality,
conscientious to the point of anxiety and he is ill.
“The heart, indeed,” agreed the inspector.
“He could be passed off as mentally ill,” I continued.
Moreover, by tormenting him, Alban Rémy almost pushed him into
madness. What Alban wanted was to persuade all the staff and
students that the director was persecuting himself, then that his
madness, turning against the bad seed of the college, had suddenly
become murderous. Alban had perhaps even chosen the murder
weapon…
- And it was ?
“My letter opener,” I replied. He stole it from my
jacket and slipped into Agnelle's coat pocket.
“That’s all very nice,” the inspector grumbled, “but it has no point.”
tail nor head. Alban Rémy did not use the letter opener.
“He couldn't carry his plan through to the end,” I replied, “because
that he felt hunted.
— Tracked? Berthier wondered. And by whom?
 — But by me. Twice, at night, our paths crossed
crossed. Alban Rémy no longer felt free to move around the school as
he wanted. Someone was spying on him and had even found his way
through the vent.
—Jules?
— Jules and me. So, Alban changed tactics. He wanted to do
believe it was an accident and he sawed the bar of the espalier.
“It was very imprudent,” Catherine remarked. We were going
fatally suspect him. Gymnastics teacher, he sends his nephew to the
pipebreaker. Curious coincidence, no?
I nodded:
— He acted in panic. He wanted this money and he
could hide this inheritance story from the person concerned for much
longer. If Axel had found out he was a billionaire, do you think he would
have stayed another minute in “this shitty place,” as he called it? He
would have asked for his emancipation, would have launched into show
biz and would have dumped his uncle. We had to act quickly. Kill him
before he knows he's rich.
— But the accident resulted in a broken leg, reminded me
Catherine.
—And worse than that, he had aroused my suspicions. Alban me
caught perched on the espalier inspecting the bars.
Catherine snapped her fingers:
— Hence the idea of diverting your suspicions by simulating on him-
even a second “accident”!
Berthier watched our duet act, more and more dazed.

— Of course, Alban didn't hurt himself at all by jumping to the ground

when the rope snapped, I continued. But he took the opportunity to
put his right arm in a sling. He in turn became a victim of Agnelle.

— No, but wait, wait! exclaimed Berthier. I did

understand nothing.
“The opposite would have surprised me,” I said between my teeth.
—What does Sampan have to do with all this? questioned me
the inspector.
— Jules had the misfortune of seeing something that accused
Alban. He wanted to warn me and he called me. But the phone
is located in the corridor, opposite the teachers' room. Alban
overheard our conversation.
“Randings,” Berthier grumbled. There is no proof.
And why did Jules tell you about the “medicine balls in the
playground”? We'll never know…
I kept quiet.
In my mind, I saw myself opening the cupboard in the courtyard.
- That's it ! I know ! I yelled.
Berthier almost spilled his cup of tea with a start.
- What now ? he exploded.
“I… I know what… what Jules saw,” I said, stuttering under the blow.
emotion. He saw Alban Rémy opening the cupboard in the courtyard.
—And then, Mr. Hazard?
— Alban had his arm in a sling, his right arm. He opened the
left hand cupboard. But when he pulled the door toward him, the
medicine balls rolled out. Five kilos each. He had the same instinctive
gesture as me.
I opened my arms as I had done to intercept one of the balloons.

— Alban is very lively. In a flash, he freed his arm from the scarf,
he grabbed the medicine ball that was going to crush his foot and put it back in
place.
—And then, Mr. Hazard? Berthier repeated, looking overwhelmed.
— Alban thought he was alone in the courtyard. But Jules Sampan was
there. Jules saw him use BOTH of his hands without any difficulty. So
his wrist was not broken or sprained.
— Jules saw Alban Rémy, Catherine concluded, but Alban Rémy
saw Jules seeing him.
The inspector put his hand to his forehead, feigning a sudden
migraine.
- Good. I think I'll leave you. Either way, we don't
will never know the truth since this poor kid has lost the use of
speech.
Eight days later, Sampan regained his voice. His first words were to
say that Alban Rémy had opened the cupboard in the playground, that
the medicine balls had rolled away and that, thinking he was alone, he
had caught one...
“There’s something in that little head,” said Catherine, passing the
hand on my bump. The downside is that you imagine very well
past events, but you are very poor at predicting the troubles that will
happen to you.
“I pay you to take care of things, my darling.
— You're a blast. Have we never told you?
Berthier rang my doorbell a few minutes later. He came in and
looked at us mockingly:
— I'm still at the wrong time.
“Not in the least,” I said, fixing the tails of my
shirt in my pants while Catherine powdered her nose.

— You hope to appear in theGuinness World Records?insisted

Berthier with a deep laugh.
He sat down on the couch and finally informed us of the purpose of his
visit:
— Alban Rémy has made a full confession. He exonerated
Agnelle and recognized the assassination attempt on Jules Sampan.
“Case closed,” I said, turning to my secretary. She wasn't
quite.

*
**

In the weeks that followed, I was very busy with a series of

conferences that I had to give, with dissertations to correct, and
proofs to reread. The events at Saint-Prix College quickly faded from
my mind. From time to time, typing on my computer, I would look up
and see an image
suddenly resurfaced. It was class 6e2 painting Etruscan frescoes or
reciting after me all the names of the Egyptian gods. It was Jules
Sampan under the snow waiting for Naéma. And even more often, it
was Axel cutting his claws on his rap book.

— Do you know what happens to Axel Rémy? asked me

Catherine, one evening.
- No idea. I suppose he left Saint-Prix.
— I… I heard from him.
- Oh yes ?
 As Catherine's voice was hesitant, I dreaded questioning her. Axel
balancing on a wire, his arms swinging: that was how I saw him again.
Would the devil finally have his share?
“He left Queutilly,” Catherine continued. He settled in
a loft, near Boulogne. He has many friends, too many.
I frown. Axel was probably in a bad place. His money would only
attract sharks and birds of prey.
“He’s trying to start his rap group,” Catherine said again. I sighed.
Axel was going to be robbed. He would go from drift to galley.
And drugs at the end, probably.
“He doesn't look very happy,” Catherine added. He told me about
YOU. He would like to see you again.
I sighed again. Catherine's voice then became fervent:

— He trusts you, Nils. He suffers that you don't have it

contacted again. He wrote you ten letters, all of which he threw away. If
anyone can do anything for him, it's you.
“He doesn’t need anything,” I said. He is a hundred times richer than me...
“And twice as young,” Catherine added. He is in danger,
You know it well.
—I can neither make him poorer nor make him older!
I shouted. I can't do anything for him.
— Don't you have a guest room in your apartment? I jumped:

- Pardon ?
“You heard me right, Nils. Axel would agree.
- All right ?
— He is ready to leave the loft if you are the one to welcome him.
I shrugged my shoulders. Catherine would invent anything to
complicate my life.
— I'm a loner, Catherine. A lone adventurer.
— A selfish jerk, yes! Catherine screamed.
“That’s what I meant,” I said through my teeth.
Then I sat down at my computer and pretended to be very
absorbed.
The next day, when the phone rang, I answered without
suspicion.
- Yes hello ?
 “Is it… Mr. Hazard?” I… am Axel, said a voice that
wanted to be sluggish but the emotion made him gasp. Axel Rémy… do you
remember… Hello?
— Yes, yes, hello, Axel. Are you doing well ?
— It's going... pretty much. I'm no longer... in college.
— I heard that. It's a shame that you stopped your
studies.
— I don't like it... I never liked it. Studies, what? There
was silence, breathless silence. Then :
— Could I speak to you, Mr. Hazard? But
not on the phone...
- In a coffee shop ?
“Yes, that’s it,” he agreed. At the sand yacht.
The idea took me so by surprise that I didn't even protest. We
agreed on a meeting for the following evening.

*
**

When the bus dropped me off at Place du 8-Mai, I realized how

much time had passed. Very young leaves had grown on the plane
trees, the twilight lingered in peaceful halftones. March, already. I
went over in my head the few sentences I intended to say to Axel:

“You are at an age where you can and must take responsibility...
Be careful with people... Rap is an unloved childhood dream...
Continue your studies... I can advise you. » We would shake hands. It
would be very manly: “Count on me, my door will always be open to
you.” And There you go.
I entered the Sand Chariot and almost recoiled in shock.
— For Nils, called out a young voice, hip hip hip…
— Hurray! shouted ten breasts.
They all stood up as one. Boussicot, Alcatraz, Marie Baston,
Térence, Claire, Martine, Mathieu and Axel. Then they moved aside
and, behind them, I saw Catherine and, leaning on Catherine, her
head surrounded by a white bandage, survivor of death, survivor of
love: Jules Sampan. In turn, I shouted:
—Banzai!
 I never thought such emotion could overwhelm me. These kids,
but I wanted them! Everyone started talking to me at once, pulling me
by the arm, grabbing my hand. “Mr Hazard! Mister Hazard!” Catherine
watched me from the corner of her eye. Of course, she was the one
who set up the trap.
“Nils,” she said to me in a deep voice that silenced them all.
Right now, Nils, I think Axel wants to ask you something.

The trap was closing. But what stupidity to have come there!
— Mr. Hazard, Axel began almost solemnly, “I have no
no longer my mother on earth, no longer my mother and no longer my father..."
I shook my head “no”. I was only too familiar with the sentence that was
going to follow and I didn't want it. But Axel concludes quite differently:
— Also, I ask you to be my guardian.
I cast a dismayed look at Catherine. Trapped, she had trapped
me.
—So, you say yes? asked Terence impatiently.
“I say… I say… yes,” I stammered, defeated.
— Hurray! shouted ten voices.
But I pointed a threatening finger at Axel:
— You, no more zoning out in the lofts! You're going to go back to school.
Seriously. And no “industrial grievance”.
— It’s promised, Mr. Hazard, Axel replied to me,
momentarily ready for anything.
Then he burst out laughing and turned to his friends:
— It will be unheard of: I will be the first rapper
etruscologist!
 Notes

[←1]
…and which are told inDinky blood red.

[←2]
See the chapter No matter naouak, no matter Comanche, inDinky red
blood.