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A tuft of her blonde locks had been torn out and her lower lip was split and bleeding copiously. Fred took her gently by the hand, lead her over to the Wallace fountain, and scrubbed her face. Unable to walk with only one shoe, she tossed it and found herself once again bare-footed. Without saying a word, they meandered together along the streets, inevitably ending up on the rue Fessart. Rirette welcomed them without surprise and without reproach. Still charming, but sad and anxious.

All of this is not healthy for you. Your only resort is Delesalle. He at least is not compromised. No one else is safe. Not him, nor Garnier, nor Callemin. Take a look at this. Next, Rirette showed him a paragraph on the inside pages of the newspaper.

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It was dominated by a full-page spread on the bank attack: Overturned chairs, employees shot at close range by attackers who had scaled the counter. Once again, Octave Garnier was clearly identified by his famous baseball cap with ear flaps, as was Raymond Callemin with his bowler hat and pince-nez. And there, filling up a sack with bright coins. All they have to do now is lay their hands on them. They know that the guillotine lies at the end of their adventure.

Victor and I constantly warned Garnier and Callemin about this blow-hard. But they were hoodwinked by him. And voila the results. But — and always remember this, my petit — the hooligans and the cops are both gun-slingers.

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Avoid the one and the other like the plague. The rue Fessart smelled too much like cops for Fred and Flora to be able to remain tranquilly in their refuge for long. They therefore migrated once more to the Left Bank. It would replace the cabin on the rue Fessart. The fences around the square, not that high, could easily be scaled at night. Fred and Flora adopted it as their new home. Flora found work as a pearl-diver in a restaurant, in exchange for meals. Fixed as they were for grub and with a roof over their heads, the spring of began auspiciously for the infants.

Every morning Fred accompanied Delesalle on his rare book expeditions. I used to roam the narrow streets of the Latin Quarter with him, when I was younger. Whenever Delesalle found a book he particularly loved, he insisted Fred read it. A strong bind was soon forged between the mature man and the child. All the names of revolutionaries, of labor activists, were rapidly etched into his brain. Delesalle was amused by his enthusiasm.

In reality, Fred spent more time reading, curled up on the floor in a corner of the bookshop, than helping the man who was never really his boss, but rather his initiator and, as it might be put in more refined circles, his mentor. He loved just hanging out in the neighborhood. The rue Monsieur-le-Prince mounted, in a more or less straight line, from the Odeon to the boulevard Saint-Michel.

The coachmen cursed and cracked their whips. Fred sometimes helped push the carts along. On the other side of the street rose an immense building, with high wide frosted windows, which intrigued him. He wanted to learn every practice! On May 15, , the French army, which had not yet recovered from the humiliating defeat of the war with Prussia, finally scored its first victory, a kind of prelude to the wholesale butcher shop which would soon be open for business.

At dawn, two entire companies of Zouaves 20 , illuminated only by acetylene headlights, launched an offensive on a pavilion house in the Paris suburb of Nogent-sur-Marne. Before starting the assault, they breached the millstone walls with three sticks of dynamite. As this modest hovel still seemed foreboding to them, they then set off melinite explosive charges and riddled the windows with a riot of machine-gun fire. When the soldiers finally decided, with infinite precautions, to penetrate the interior of the hut, they found themselves face to face with a man bloodied all over, his torso naked, and who still had time to get off four shots before he was mowed down.

Garnier was discovered squeezed between two mattresses, having killed himself with a bullet in the mouth. But Fred never read the newspapers. Delesalle did not know how to break the news about Valet to him. Fred tore out of the bookshop before Delesalle could stop him. Leaping onto the rails of a cart trotting up the boulevard Saint-Germain, he coasted along until the Sully bridge over the Seine, then hopped off to scurry by foot towards the Bastille and after that, Belleville.

He nevertheless pushed at it, felt himself gripped by the arms and turned around to see two giant beat cops who began shaking him, as if they wanted to make who-knows-what key fall from the boy. The cop received such a sharp kick in the tibia that he let out a yowl and released the boy. The second policeman, bitten in the hand, started to yelp.

Re-descending the rue de Belleville towards the center of Paris, he headed for the dive where Flora washed dishes, penetrated the establishment, and made straight for the kitchen, whistling to his companion who, just as quickly, removed her smock and rushed to him. Then they left the restaurant together, hand in hand, without hurrying or looking back, to the general stupefaction of the customers. Fred and Flora were once again roaming wild. He would have liked to have gone farther.

Biting a beat cop made him feel a bit better, but he wanted to kill all of them. However he was smart enough to realize that this was beyond his means. Stealing, on the other hand, would enable him to flirt with prison, which would bring him closer to Rirette and Victor. So he became a thief. A small-time thief. A shop-lifter. Just enough to score bread, salami, shoes for Flora unfortunately too big , a knife, canned sardines. Just enough to stoke the fear of getting caught. The fact is that for the very first time in their lives, they were having fun.

They lived freely like alley cats, never sleeping in the same spot, getting to know every square in Paris by heart, sometimes letting themselves be locked in churches for the night, or the Luxembourg Gardens, or even the Montmartre cemetery. Early one morning, as they were getting their act together after a night in a barrack on the fringes of the Montparnasse train station, they heard the galloping of hob-nailed shoes and looked up to see two policemen running after a bearded citizen with reams of hair streaming out behind him like a comet.

Without consulting each other, they instinctively made for the cops. Fred sent the first flatfoot tumbling by thrusting his leg out and tripping him, while Flora barreled head-first towards the voluminous belly of the second who, in trying to avoid her, stumbled and flattened out on the pavement.

The two children raced after the comet-man, who sped down the rue de Vaugirard in the direction of the Luxembourg Gardens before turning into an dead-end street and vanishing, as if swallowed up by the Earth. Suddenly they heard a light whistle, which seemed to come from a basement vent. They walked towards the sound. The man was there, just behind the bars, and handed them a brand new one-franc coin which glittered in the early morning light. Fred and Flora had never possessed so much money in their lives.

For that matter, why buy at all, when it was so easy and exciting to steal? They entered a boulangerie, posed the coin on the counter and ordered an extra-large baguette. The boulangeriste considered the coin, weighed it carefully in her hands, placed it between her teeth, bit into it as if she were going to eat it, then removed the coin from her mouth, completely warped.

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From hanging out in the streets, Fred inevitably ran into Delesalle, bowed under the weight of an enormous bundle. Delesalle was on his way back to the rue Monsieur-le-Prince, his used book buying done for the day. I read that in one of your books. No more sense than the Bonnot gang. I once knew a counterfeiter who was a solid harness-maker in his time. He earned 60 francs a week. He earns at most 30 francs, half as much as he made when he was an honest man, and will probably finish his days in the Cayenne penal colony. Listen, Freddy, come with me; come back to the shop. You started out so well.

Between now and then, we need to make a man out of you. Fred plunged once again into the sea of books. Every morning he went trolling for rarities with Delesalle. They looked just like ragmen with their arms lugging patchwork canvas sacks which gradually filled up with their bounty as the day progressed until, packed to the brim, they hauled them back to the shop.

The boy like the man thrived in this treasure hunt for yellowed paper. And this on top of the surprises from the auctions of bundled lots where, in the mystery trunks acquired, they sometimes unearthed brochures without any commercial value, but which Delesalle considered the pride of his catalogue. In the afternoons, Fred classified, indexed, and above all read for his own edification. Delesalle let him. Watched him. He had his own agenda. And in exchange, the venerable Sorel would put Fred and Flora up in his pavilion house in the suburb of Boulogne.

The rue Monsieur-le-Prince, into which sunlight rarely penetrated, was in and of itself sufficiently morose. No resemblance to the boisterous animation of Les Halles, nor the working-class familiarity of Belleville. In this dusty, calm atmosphere too calm for a year-old accustomed to the hustle and bustle of the streets , Fred felt that he was getting stiff. Without doubt he would not have lasted much longer cooped up on the rue Monsieur-le-Prince, had not the dramaturgy of the courtroom opportunely arrived to shake things up.

With Bonnot, Garnier, and Valet eliminated by the forces of order, the sole original member of the gang still alive was Callemin, or Raymond-la-Science, the only one who was able to be captured by surprise. Despite that very few members of the public were allowed into the courtroom, plainclothes policemen taking up most of the seats as a precautionary measure, Delesalle had succeeded in getting admitted to the Hall of Justice, accompanied by Fred. The banks of the accused had to be expanded to accommodate the 20 defendants, with each flanked by a pair of gendarmes.

They were all young, the median age being around Fred immediately looked for Rirette and Victor. He was astounded to discover a Rirette still fresh-faced, smiling, with her black blouse, Peter Pan collar, and floating ascot tie making her seem all the more juvenile and mischievous. Close to her, Victor Kibaltchich held up his thin silhouette: clad in the traditional Russian peasant smock which constituted his habitual costume, he stood out as the most elegant member of the gang. The most serious as well. Smiling at the judges and jury, Rirette, with her vivacious voice, quickly demonstrated that neither she nor Victor had sullied their hands in any of the reprehensible deeds of the Bonnot gang.

She drew the obvious sympathy of the court, even though it was still angling for its wagon-load of culpables. But Victor somewhat spoiled things with his eloquence. As when the chief judge, annoyed, launched:. You are a foreigner, banned from your own country, free to express your own ideas in ours, and yet you somehow find a way to welcome assassins into your home. Have we tried, by unacceptable methods, to extirpate a confession from you? Monsieur Jouin, deputy chief of security, did not address me familiarly, nor rudely.

He simply wanted me to become his accessory. The chief judge, with his round bonnet, his mustache and thick beard, his crosses, and his bib, looked like a judge that might have been painted by Georges Rouault, half-judge, half-clown. Oil on paper laid down on canvas, 80 x 58 cm.

Image copyright and courtesy Artcurial. I remind you that we have always been poor, that we had to ask for donations just to be able to publish our newspaper. We have no judicial antecedents. The supreme judge-clown soon lost interest in Victor, whose reasoning, too intellectual, irritated him. He turned towards Raymond-la-Science who, from the beginning of the trial, had brandished a mocking smile.

As the chief judge enumerated his crimes, he interrupted:. A little later, cutting off the state prosecutor Fabre, stiff as justice in his ermine-trimmed velvet robe, he yelled:. The criminologist Emile Michon, who, during the nine months of the preliminary investigation, made frequent visits to the accused, testified next. Peculiar testimony, so different than what one might expect from such a man. I was thoroughly surprised to discover men capable of analyzing their sensations and feelings with finesse. But what surprised me the most was their insensibility to the rigors of winter.

Always exhibiting an exemplary cleanliness, their hands freshly washed, their nails filed, this is how they stood out from the other prisoners, who are usually self-neglected, freezing whiners.

Des policiers étalent leur méconnaissance du code de la route.

Vegetarians who stick to water, every day they practice Swedish gymnastics. And he concluded, in a sweeping oratorical gesture:. During the four weeks the trial lasted, Delesalle made sure that he and Fred witnessed most of the sessions. He wanted the sinister and theatrical images from these proceedings to be burned into the memory of the child.

He wanted him to witness Callemin being sentenced to death, Rirette being acquitted, and Victor copping five years of prison simply for refusing to be a rat. He wanted this tragi-comedy to serve as a prelude for what he was going to tell the child. She got a little bit taller, but most of all more curvy.

A church in whose choir another waif once sang, under the direction of Charles Gounod, who would regret that his pupil with the voice of an angel chose painting over music: Auguste Renoir. Ravachol, was a worker and anarchist militant. Judged guilty for several infractions, assassinations, and attacks, he was guillotined on July 11, Piotr Alexeievitch Kropotkine was a Russian revolutionary and anarchist. Founder of the Geneva-based anarchist newspaper La Revolte in , he authored books analyzing the scientific bases of anarchy as well as looking at related economic and ethical considerations.

A printing corrector by trade many French anarchists worked in printing — the real Rirette Maitrejean would later go into this trade , Pierre Monatte was an anarchist and, later, revolutionary union activist and leader. On July 31, , Jaures was assassinated. Part of the Foreign Legion, typically composed of soldiers from colonized countries in Africa and the Maghreb, such as Senegal and Morocco. A socialist theorist and revolutionary, Auguste Blanqui was arrested numerous times between and opposing various governments. Les chevaux connaissaient leur chemin.

Les chevaux piaffaient, tapaient du pied. La plupart des hommes descendaient de voiture et allaient boire un petit verre de goutte dans les bistrots qui ouvraient leurs volets. La petite fille venait de la mer. On va faire la vie tous les deux. Elle cogne, elle hurle.

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Les rues disparaissent. On construit des ponts de planches. Depuis les grandes inondations de Paris, en , Fred vivait dans la rue. Dans le quartier des Halles, les vagabonds de son acabit abondaient. De tous les genres. Or, sorti des Halles, Fred se sentait perdu. La nuit les surprit dans cet environnement qui leur sembla hostile. Ils avaient faim. Vous aurez bien raison.

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Histoire de vous dire bonjour, quoi! Allez, bonne nuit. Victor et moi nous ne vous interrogerons sur rien. Oil on canvas, Signed and dated lower left. Artcurial pre-sale estimate: 10, — 15, Euros. My English translation follows the excerpt in the original French. Born the grandson of miracle-working rabbis in the Jewish ghetto of the Algerian city of Constantine, Atlan saw his youth torn between political crises and crises of mysticism. A Trotskyist militant, one day Atlan was handed a huge revolver and assigned to bodyguard Trotsky, at the time traversing France. In the middle of the journey, stepping off the train to grab a bite at the station greasy spoon, he suddenly asked himself what personal reason he could possible have for guarding Trotsky, found no answer, and fled to seek out the nearest synagogue, abandoning on the train the figure he was supposed to be protecting.

Imprisoned, as was his wife despite being a native of Normandy , he escaped being deported to the death camps by executing one of his most convincing numbers ever: insanity. By repeatedly insisting that a judicial error had landed him in prison, and that he was actually the Bishop of Constantine, he so unnerved a guard that the guard alerted the warden. He repeated to the warden that he was the Bishop of Constantine.

As a precautionary measure, the warden sent him to the prison psychiatrist. This time Atlan knew that his audience would be harder to convince, this particular specialist being accustomed to dealing with impersonators. He altered his approach accordingly, responding to the psychiatrist in his normal tone.

Then he confessed that he was just pretending to be crazy because he was Jewish and counted on this ruse to escape deportation. The psychiatrist, discomfited, answered that it would be risky for him to make out a bogus certificate, as he himself was being watched. From this they progressed to a cozy chat which had no resemblance to a medical examination.

Atlan subtly insinuated into the conversation that his wife was also locked up, and that unfortunately he was unable to see her as often as he liked. In this manner my wife and I are able to talk every night for 15 minutes. The psychiatrist stared at him, surprised at this smart little man, who had put forth such a lucid discourse. He shook his head. How about if we collaborate? Thus it was that Atlan spent the final years of the Occupation in the Sainte-Anne psychiatric hospital.

Did the doctors eventually figure out that he was faking it, but maintain the ruse to save him from deportation? Was it during this period of isolation that Atlan began to paint? In any case, during the Liberation of Paris he could be seen scurrying along the boulevard Montparnasse, freed or having escaped, moving from one barricade to the next and asking the combatants:.

Painting soon absorbed all his other aspirations. Politics, philosophy, poetry, mysticism — it was all transmuted in the single task of the pictorial oeuvre. Atlan shortly became one of the leaders of the New Painting of the Post-War period, and one of the most prestigious galleries in Paris signed him. And so while he continued to be thought of as one of the essential painters of the new School of Paris, he and his wife were dying of starvation. But they kept up a good front. Oil on panel, 15 x Artcurial pre-sale estimate: 6, — 8, Euros.

Militant trotskiste, on lui confia un jour un gros revolver et il devint garde du corps de Trotsky, qui traversait alors la France. Oil on canvas, 71 x 53 cm. He lived with his wife in a small hotel room, enjoyed playing the banjo, and did his drinking straight up. He was said to be protected by Sartre and de Beauvoir. This Bohemian individual, who called himself Wols, died three years later — when I learned with stupor that he was only 37 years old.

In very little time Wols, just like Van Gogh, altered the rules of the game. A parallel that came to light, obviously, after the fact. Who was Wols? Where did this outsider, this vagabond, this prematurely eviscerated simile of an old man come from? Bryen and Mathieu were his friends and surrounded him with an unflagging admiration. All this amidst the turbulent discussions of his friends or often tumultuous passage of foreign visitors. Because for painters, being cursed goes hand in hand with dying young. Had they lived as long as Picasso, Van Gogh and Modigliani would have been just as rich and celebrated.

But he also displayed exceptional talent for photography, mechanics, and anthropology. The next year he met Grety, 15 years his senior, who became his wife. They travelled to Barcelona and Ibiza, where Wols earned a living photographing babies and luxury dogs. In , at the behest of the German consulate, he was arrested for refusing military service and expelled from Spain three months later, making his way across the Pyrenees by foot and through snow back to France.

Ragon continues:. In , he adopted the pseudonym Wols for an exposition of his photographs at a Parisian gallery. The years were crucial for Wols. Misery, the Spanish prison, the French concentration camps — all these had taken their toll and arduously ripened him. His initial watercolors from reveal scenes of dream cities, mirages, elfs….

We know little of the watercolors Wols produced from to in Spain, lost when the artist was thrown in prison, then expelled. Thus, Wols passed from surrealism-light to a form of expressionism which approached that of Grosz, Kokoschka, Ensor, or even Otto Dix. This is also the most palatable aspect, the most decipherable, of his work. First he abandoned the anecdotal image for even if it was a dream image, it was still an anecdote and replaced it with chaos. The work he exposed was both a slap in the face and a spit in the eye, like entrails rooted out by a python.

Those who discovered it remained surprised, shocked, and disturbed. Oeuvres of art are certainly destined for a strange fate! And this current which, with them, became a furious torrent, bathed with incandescence, spurting blood, rapidly devolved into conformity, the formulaic, and commerce. And then it was over. On September 1, , at a quarter before noon, Wols died a sudden death. He was leading a healthy life, hopping out of bed at 6 every morning so that he could go down to his garden and watch the sunrise. He could walk his dog, and had more or less quit smoking.

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Connectivity Types. Cloud Connection Guide pdf - 3. Questions or Comments? Contact us: iot belimo. La face de toutes mes vertus avait ainsi un revers moins imposant. Que faire pourtant? Mais laissons cela. Pas encore sans doute! Tandis que celui-ci, regardez-le, il ne recommencera pas.

Mais la mer monte, il me semble. Voulez-vous que nous nous taisions pour savourer cette heure assez sinistre? Mais le Zuyderzee est une mer morte, ou presque. Tant mieux! En Orient, aussi, parfois? Mais dites-moi, prendriez-vous ma main dans les rues de Paris? Nous avons de la tenue, nous, la crasse nous guinde. Et nous…. Asseyons-nous sur ces transatlantiques. Quelle brume! Mais je ne faisais plus de discours.

Je multipliai les promesses. De loin en loin, je plaidais encore. Finie la vie glorieuse, mais finis aussi la rage et les soubresauts. Il fallait vivre dans le malconfort. Improbable, hautement improbable! Ou sinon mon raisonnement se casserait le nez. Vous parliez du jugement dernier. On ne voit donc que son visage sur lequel chaque gardien qui passe crache abondamment. Depuis, le savon manque, nous avons le nez sale et nous nous mouchons mutuellement. Tous cancres, tous punis, crachons-nous dessus, et hop!

Je vais vous dire un grand secret, mon cher. Il a lieu tous les jours. Mais restez encore, je vous prie, et accompagnez-moi. Alors, les ciseaux! Et je sais, cher, ce dont je parle. Mais on les compte. Mais non, ils triomphent encore! Les autres aussi sont dans le coup. Nous sommes pourtant dans ce tourment. Venez chez moi, voulez-vous, vous sonnerez trois fois. Ils errent aussi, maintenant, je le sais! Je confesse que vous avez raison. Je vous laisse choisir la case qui me convient le mieux. On voit parfois plus clair dans celui qui ment que dans celui qui dit vrai. Asseyez-vous, je vous en prie.

Un Vermeer, sans meubles ni casseroles. Rien que de banal, vous savez. Aurai-je la force de vous en parler? Il y a si longtemps de cela. Rommel, la guerre flambait. Dans un sens, je le regrette. Vous souriez? Vous avez tort. Je passai donc en Afrique du Nord avec la vague intention de rejoindre Londres. Je ne vous en fais pas la description. Donc, je vous fais confiance. Le genre Duguesclin, si vous voulez. En quoi consistait-il? Ce tableau, oui, regardez-le. Ne le reconnaissez-vous pas?

Vous ne sursautez pas? Votre culture aurait donc des trous? Eh bien, le voici. Depuis, ces estimables magistrats font ma seule compagnie. Permettez auparavant que je me redresse pour mieux respirer. Ne croyez pas en effet que, pendant cinq jours, je vous aie fait de si longs discours pour le seul plaisir.

Aussi sec. Ils ne veulent pas faire scandale, ils gardent leurs sentiments pour eux. En somme, ils ont le satanisme vertueux. Des Savonarole, je vous dis. La mort est solitaire tandis que la servitude est collective. Vous me suivez? Avec cela, je fabrique un portrait qui est celui de tous et de personne. Ne riez pas! Les intelligents, il faut y mettre le temps. Je me recouche, pardonnez-moi. Mais comment? Regardez, la neige tombe! Oh, il faut que je sorte! Quelle invasion!