With a kick, Jeremy sends the sheet to the ground.
It's scorching hot.
“Beast heat”…
He won't use that expression tomorrow.
Nor any other.
They kill emotion.
It will be necessary to unwind the information in a clear voice with a contained feverishness, commensurate with its discoveries.
"Who, apart from me,
wonders Jérémie leaning out of the window,
has been stuck studying the archives of the 80 practicing notaries during the summer of 1572?"
"Who?"
he repeats without succeeding in haloing himself with the slightest prestige, as he wonders if his work will be understood beyond the circle of crumbling historians.
The night is over, in bed his wife moans in discomfort.
“Who, besides me…”
murmurs Jeremy.
For hours, he deciphered the old French of bills of sale contracted when the corpses were rotting in the Seine, he read that so and so had married while the fish spoiled, that another put his child in apprenticeship at the time when we knocked on the doors of the Protestants
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