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Should I tell the whole truth?

I love the people I love

because they're full
of illusions about life.

The only promise of life is death.

When I am with living people, I see
how they'll be when they're dead.

I don't see them, but I know.

Am I sad? Frankly, no.

No one is more thankful
to life than me.

DON'T RELEASE ME,
I CAN DO IT BY MYSELF

17 years.

It was complete solitude.

When I say solitude, I mean it.

It was a cube of concrete.

Nine square meters.

Usually, you can't see the sky.
You see nothing.

You're locked in a concrete cube
for 17 years.

Without...

It took me about

16 years to get used to it.

It was empty.

I mean empty

because it was empty
like a monk's cell.

I mean it.

Anything that could distract me

from what I had to do

was a sin to me.

What could matter more
than getting my freedom back?

Reading a book?

Listening to a radio show?

No.

I wouldn't exchange
my freedom for that.

I wanted to keep my pain intact.

I stayed for years in emptiness
and solitude without speaking

because I actually
didn't see anyone.

I wouldn't talk to the guards.

They were there to lock me up

and maybe more.

Listen,

this is called silence.
17 years.

You think.

You learn stuff
through what's missing.

Something's missing.

I don't mean coffee
or some crap like that.

That's nothing.

You miss things
like merely touching someone.

You see?

You only have the cold walls.
You stay like that for years.

You learn what's missing.

You learn to go back to the basics.

The things that we erase
in our daily lives,

because of habit.

When you don't have them,
you know they're missing.

When you don't have them

for months, for years
and years and years.

That's how I learned things.
By missing them.

It shapes you well.

Michel Vaujour on trial...

Michel Vaujour
was not an ordinary inmate.

A helicopter for Michel Vaujour.

He shouldn't be released
before 2015.

Jamila and I got married

in 1999.

There was no way
I would be released.

In theory,
I was still in for 20 years.

I started doing it as I would have
prepared a jailbreak.

I studied law in depth,
especially a new law.

It said that the decision
to release someone

wasn't up to a random
administrative body anymore,

but was up to the judges.

They had to justify refusing
or accepting a request.

It means you had to fit a profile.

I did my best to meet the
requirements to fit the profile.

In such a game, there is so much
adversity that you cannot lie.

What was the most difficult
for you

from the moment you started
to work on your release?

The most difficult think
was to stop escaping.

My brain was made for that.

I thought about it for 20 years,
day and night.

I had to stop overnight.

To being 20!

I was in solitary confinement
for my 20th birthday.

- I'm sure you love this.
- I do.

It's been a while, right?

For me too.

When Michel was placed in the care
of his Aunt Germaine,

what did you think, Lisa?

When he went to his aunt's?

- It must have been difficult.
- It was.

It was difficult but I was glad.
I knew he'd be fine.

But with me he...

He'd bang his head
against the walls.

I don't know if you remember.

Nothing.

Fortunately,
I don't have a lot of memories.

One time, it was so violent
I even called the doctor.

I was scared.

What did I do?

Like a kid.

Then you were grumpy because
you couldn't open the door.

Back then, it wasn't like now.

You entered through the window.

- Why?
- To enter!

You must have been five or six.

So he was with his aunt
not far from here.

When did you see him?

We were in Vertus.

He was in Reims.

- In Reims?
- Yes.

VERTUS,
THE VILLAGE OF HIS CHILDHOOD

My parents gave me away
because of that.

What a disaster.

Already as a kid.

Did you feel it was unfair
when they gave you away?

I know it's weird,
but that time is erased.

It's funny, right?
And still...

I only have a few dots of memories.

I know that at my aunt's
we ate margarine toasts.

And my cousins.

I remember a few dots
here and there.

I have almost no memories.

It's almost
as if they had been erased.

Not really.

When I was released,
before coming here,

I would call my mother every day.

She'd say:
"Are you sure you're okay?"

She thought I'd do it again.

Don't worry, I'm okay.

One day, we talked about my aunt.

My mother said, talking about her,
that she was like a second mother.

When she said that,

something from deep inside
came out:

"No, your first mother."

And I snapped.

It's weird.

How was Michel as a kid?

He loved nature.

He had a hawk.

He had plenty of pets everywhere.

He even had a crow or a magpie.
No, it was a crow.

I had a magpie, a crow, a hawk...
Everything.

He raises them by himself
and he took good care of them.

He wasn't mean at all.

When you love animals,
you can't be bad.

- But who knows?
- Yes, who knows.

You said you didn't talk
about Michel when he was in jail.

No.

Nobody ever talked about Michel.

First, there wasn't much to say.

He was in jail.

I think that people and me too

felt somehow guilty,
but not exactly that.

We wouldn't go see him even though
he was alone in his cell.

Everybody thought like me,
that's why we didn't mention it.

Otherwise we would have said:
"You never go to see him."

Or something like that.

Not talking about it
made things easier.

It's true.

During all those years,
I never shed a tear.

Not even one.
I don't know how to cry.

I don't know how.
It sounds silly, right?

In jail people only talked about
jail. But you couldn't with me.

You are in prison.
Why would you talk about it?

When you're in shit, you won't talk
to me about how it smells.

When I was in jail,
I didn't think in jail terms.

I did my best
not to have a prison routine.

A guard says this and does that.

He presses a button
and you raise your hand.

You're like a puppet.

I did things normally,
with indifference, my goal in mind.

It was always the same,
like with my jailbreaks.

I had a good mental hygiene.

I shouldn't think about jail.

I should put good things
in my mind.

The day you care more about
your enemy, you're done for.

He's won.

You see? Even if you're ready
to die to kill him.

Do you feel like being reborn
or like being born?

You'd be a beautiful baby.

Thank you, cousin.

A beautiful baby.

I'm really being born.
It's not a stupid idea at all.

I feel I have no past.
It's weird.

You keep the good things
and you move forward.

If you keep the bad things inside,

they will screw you, that's all.

That's the mistake I did
during the first period.

- Haven't you heard the ducks?
- No.

I can hear them well.

- What is this?
- Not chicks, that's for sure.

You know what fascinated me?

It's all the life
behind the things you can't see.

It just...

I knew that if I wanted
to go back to a normal life,

I would have to be a normal man.

To me, a normal man

is what I call a human being.

You were not one before?

I tried hard not to be one.

This isn't good.

It can be seen from afar.

In the neighborhood,
everybody loved Michel.

Why? Because there were
no thugs in the neighborhood.

We were the thugs.

He loved to disrespect
the tough guys,

those who earned respect
with their fists.

He liked to give them a trashing.

"Everybody's scared of you?
Come here.

"I'm going to kick your ass."

You loved that.
I remember the words you used.

You pissed them off so much.

They were about to lose it
right away.

You just had to go get them.

Yes, I loved that.

- I always loved...
- Direct confrontation.

Square things.

Let me explain.

While we were wearing jeans
and biker leather jackets,

Michel had style.

He wore a suit with a tie.

Fancy clothes. So stylish.

You can't deny
you had fancy clothes.

- I liked that back then.
- You loved it.

I liked the fact that
with or without fancy clothes,

it was the same for him:

"You want a piece of me ?
Come here."

And that was it.

After 10 P.M, all was dead.

We were 17 and we wanted
to get our butts in gear.

I would steal cars to make the cops
come to have fun

and lose them if possible.

Sometimes, there were car crashes.
It was a riot.

We were very bad drivers.
We didn't know how to drive.

He stole cars
but he couldn't drive them.

Asshole.

At first.

It's true somehow, though.

We wanted to get rid of boredom,

to get rid of the nonsense.

There was nothing.

We wanted to break the chain
of events that was taking you

to work at the factory.

We wanted to avoid the path
our fathers took.

My father and my mother were civil
servants their whole lives.

They obeyed society's authority
a lot.

I was the opposite.

I refused being subservient
to society.

I think a life's secret

can often be summed up
as a child's heartache.

What would you have needed
not to go over to the dark side?

The problem was my relationship
with my father.

One day, we broke a vase.

As always, he thought it was me.

I remember he tried to hit me.

He twisted my hand
so that I'd kneel and apologize.

I never did anything of the sort.

That's me.
I never gave in to anyone.

You first went to jail
because of a car theft,

what you call a loan.

- You'd put them back.
- Yes.

The sentence was very heavy:

you were sentenced to 30 months
in jail and banned for five years.

I had never gone
out of the department

except to go
to Paris for demonstrations.

I had never gone
out of the department

except when Zabette drove us
sometimes, but it was never far.

I ended up in jail for 30 months.

It was bad, very bad,

since it was my first heartbreak.

Do you feel that if the police
hadn't busted you,

you would have led
the life you lead?

It completely cured me from...

If I hadn't been busted
and if the she hadn't betrayed me

with a cop to add insult to injury,

and if I hadn't spent
30 very harsh months in jail,

my life could have been different.

I wasn't worse

than all the local guys
I hung out with.

Today, they have normal lives
and had normal journeys.

It didn't keep them

from doing one burglary or two,
things like that,

but it never got as big as with me.

I would have gone home.

In time, as should be,

I would have married a local girl

and I would have ended up
leading a quiet life.

What did your first time
in jail teach you?

It had gotten to the point
when I thought of it as Harvard.

I thought: "I have two years
left in here.

"I will meet the people I need
during these two years."

I merely thought

that when released, I'd have
all the diplomas I'd ever need.

It was like studying.

I had an ideal vision
of what a bandit was.

To me 'prison'
was the same as Harvard.

That's what I thought
in my immature mind.

To me, justice didn't exist.

To me, it was a big sham.

You have those people who lead
and those poor people under.

I was among the poor people,
those people without any power.

I was the son of a nobody.

After you first time in jail,
you bought a car.

You wanted to see Zabette
who betrayed you,

except the car broke down.

The only car that came
was a police car.

They asked me for the car papers.

You weren't lucky.

Not at all.

I didn't have a driving license.

I didn't have insurance.

Just by seeing the cops,

just by seeing their uniform...

One bitten, twice shy.

I had done time once...

The weather was too nice.

Even if it had rained,
I had just spent 30 months in jail.

I didn't want to lose my summer

for a mere driving license.

In my head, with my experience
of police and of justice,

I didn't want to stay there.

I fled running in the fields.

I jumped in the Saône River.

I swam and swam.

There were signs on the bank.

They called reinforcements.

Before I was on the other side,

there were already plenty
of gendarme trucks there.

They put me in Mâcon prison.

I escaped.

It was a simple jailbreak.

I spotted something
at the beginning.

It was a simple jailbreak,
out of sheer cunning.

I disappeared.

I came back
to the only place I knew,

around here, in Marne.

One evening,
we did a small burglary.

I needed money, I was in hiding.

We did a small burglary
but could take nothing.

I had seen 'Farewell, Friend',
with Alain Delon.

There was a chest in the small
factory we entered.

I spend at least two hours in front
of it, doing as in the movie.

I was a kid.

We left and 48 hours later
I got arrested.

I got arrested and ended up
in Chalons prison.

To manage to get out of a prison
and of all it represented

was truly exhilarating.

There was something

truly exhilarating to me,

to the young exhilarated guy I was.

There was something
exhilarating, yes.

I knew

that whatever happened,
I'd escape again.

Escaping was my part.

To me, prison meant escaping.

It was what it was meant to be.

Once I told someone,
I can't remember who,

that I wouldn't been surprised

if I had opened a dictionary
to see that prison meant:

"place where you escape from."

That was me.

You got arrested one month
after your jailbreak.

During this new detention time,

you met Gilles,
the brother of Nadine,

the woman you eventually married.

How was he your brother in arms?

We were the same.

He was a handyman.

He liked to rigs thing up.

He was a housebreaker.

I met him the first time
I was on the run.

He opened his sports bag.

Inside

there was a small-caliber gun.

I had never seen a real gun,
except the policemen's.

There was also a sawed-off gun,

a wig, and some other stuff.

He told me:

"Have you ever robbed someone?"

I can't forget about it.

I said yes.

I could have said no.

It was the first time
I saw something organized.

Yes.

The world is a small place
and we ended up together.

We went for it together.

He didn't want to escape.

He only had a few months
left to do.

We were in the same cell.

We did everything together.

How did you escape?

Give me a pencil.

2.5 by 2.5.

This is the cell's key.

How can you say it's 2.5?
You never touched the key.

I did.

How did you do that?

For months, I went around
with some wax in my hand.

I wanted to get
one of the keys' imprint,

the cell's key
and of the promenade's key.

The guards walked
holding the bunch of keys.

You must identify
the key to the cell.

When the guard opens the door,
you take a peek,

two, three, four, five, six times.

In the end, the shape gets
imprinted in your mind.

You can spot it right away
in the bunch.

Then you jostle the guard
as a pickpocket would do.

You jostle the guard.

The key.

Then you quickly
go back to your cell

because the wax loses its shape
quickly under the heat.

You put in the box
and you make measurements.

It's a lot of work.

It took me weeks
to get something like that.

You have an idea, you work on it.

You must find how to get the key.

That's the right question.

How to get the key.

MAY 1974

You got arrested one month
after your jailbreak.

I'd like us to talk
about your friendship

with Gilles.

You said back then

that you were rather rebellious
anarchists than gangsters.

What's the difference?

To me a gangster
is almost part of the system.

A gangster is too much like a cop.

It may sound strange.

Gangsters were too close
to the system.

I was completely out of the system.

In the unfulfilled dreams
of your childhood,

you were missing a brother.

It always was...

I think I've told you.

He was the brother I never had.

A brother who took you closer
to that world,

in terms of fraternity, of crime...

- And of family.
- Yes.

The life I'm building right now
excepted,

they were my only real family.

A family where ties

had some real value,

where I knew who was who
and that we had each other's back,

and where we were one,
because that's a family to me.

That's where
my only real family was.

From nice little jailbreaks

to small accumulated offenses,

I ended up
with a 25-year prison sentence.

I had never used a weapon.

I had never hurt anybody.

It was a lot.

Of course, prison wardens
didn't like to see me arrive

since I escaped all the time.

I ended up in solitary confinement.

I understood I had a problem

because escaping
wasn't the same at all.

How old were you
when you were first confined?

I was 24.

You discover the cell.

It's a concrete cube.

It's yellow from floor to ceiling.

That yellow doesn't absorb
the light, it reflects it.

That was the first evening.

You wait until the light goes off
to sleep.

But it doesn't.

It stays on all night.

It will never go off.

The mosquitoes come in.

You can never really sleep.

I could never really sleep
even when I was tired.

The most significant things

were solitude, silence,
and the stillness of all things.

Nothing moves around you.

Only one thing moves around you:
the guards.

When did you...?

lose my innocence for good?

Was it then or was it later?

Back then, I realized
how much in trouble I was.

I had to do 25 years in jail
because I played too much

in the detentions condition I've
just described, with the solitude,

the impossibility to escape,

and solitude.

When you realize that,
prison becomes very heavy.

You cannot escape.

If you have a tiny opportunity,
you work on it.

For one, two years.
It doesn't matter.

But there was nothing.

I thought about everything I could
in that cell.

With what I had at my disposal,
there was nothing.

You understand you're in trouble.

You start wondering.

Is that when you lost
your innocence?

No, it was later, as time went by.

When you decide

that you want to die too much.

You want to die
because it's too much.

You can't be reduced to this.

Your life can't be reduced to this.
You don't deserve it.

That's what I felt.

You don't think about it
just like that.

It's there all the time.
It's in the weight of every moment.

It's in every moment,
in the meaninglessness of days.

You have as much life
as a fly in a closed jar.

You have about as much life,

except the fly has more space,
proportionally.

I think I would have offed myself.

It was well underway.

Then I realized
that if I had to die,

at least I'd die standing
trying to get my life back.

Do you understand?

I had enough time to understand.

Accepting death

was the only strength I could
muster to turn things around.

I would face the wall.

There was a small dot on the wall,

with some light mark in the middle.

As Master Deshimaru puts it,

I entered my coffin.

I became as emotional

as a soldier on duty.

Really.

It was a daily exercise.

It was a cleanse
that yoga brought me.

I used yoga as a tool back then.

I couldn't be hurt.

I had removed
everything from myself.

I couldn't be deprived of anything
since I needed nothing.

I had to be immobile all the time.

When I say immobile,
I mean on the inside.

You see?
They shouldn't have any grip on me.

You cannot imagine
the grip they have

when you have to face five people.

You see only them for years and
they are your masters in uniform.

They are the unchallenged rulers
of a place without rights.

I became a weapon.
I built the weapon I didn't have.

I had become a real predator.

Really.

It's as I said before.

I was a man
that could be deemed dangerous.

I lived in a truth I had built
in myself day by day.

To me, it was clear
the world was very harsh.

I had become as hard as what I had
been surrounded with for years.

I had become much harder.

When you mother
and your sister visited you,

you could size up the rift.

Yes.

At some point, you asked them
not to come anymore

because somehow...

I was afraid.

You said it threatened
your own project.

It did.

When I saw them,

they were like aliens.

I'm not kidding.

They were aliens telling me
about the simple things in life.

They did it to me,

a man who would look
at a dot on the wall for hours,

going down to the deepest
parts of his self.

They told me about

the Christmas parcel
they brought me.

Berthe told me
about something we ate

for lunch.

Salt pork.

She told me about
the things in the parcel,

the pancakes I liked
and things like that.

To me, it was completely surreal.

You see?

The food they brought me

was a wound to my heart.

There is something in the food
you prepare yourself.

It's not as if you're brought
canned food.

People who love you cook for you,

and bring it to you
when you're there,

seasoning it with love.

Love wasn't something
I got on a daily basis.

If you meet a rat in a hallway

that is fleeing from something,

and that it does have space to pass
on your right or on your left,

it stops and looks at you.

That rat

will bite you in order to pass.

If you let it pass,

it will pass.

The first law
is the law of survival.

It supersedes
all the laws of society.

When you're dying in a hole
like a dog,

you don't give a rat's ass
about all the laws.

I had started thinking
about my jailbreak for years.

I had been preparing it for years.

Every time I went to court,

things got nearer.

Every time.

I had trained for a long time

when they searched me
to go to court.

The guards always went
to the same spots.

One, two, three like that.
I was in the middle.

I undressed and I looked
at my clothes.

I put so much distance
that they didn't dare insisting.

I had hidden a weapon
in my underwear's false bottom.

They were supposed
to feel my underwear.

They usually didn't do it,
in my case even less.

I undressed.

I had only taken my underwear's
elastic bands.

If I pulled it down in a really
specific and precise way,

it'd take a bell shape
on my thighs.

The weapon was in the hollow
of the bell.

I had a guard here
and a guard there.

I turned on myself.

I pivoted so that they could see
everything

and I pulled my
underwear up.

As I did it, my back was facing
the place where there was no one.

It was a dance

I had practiced hundreds of times
in my cell at night

with my fake underwear.

That very precise movement
was a choreography.

That's what it was.

It was a very precise choreography.

I went up there like that.

I took it out in the waiting room.

I put it there.

I left to the court of justice.

In my escort,
there was always a guy.

He was a sniper.

I knew he'd cause trouble for me.

He was always there and I could see
what kind of person he was.

I would test him every time.

During my previous time to court...

I tested him all the time to see

what he was made of.

During my previous time to court
we were waiting to leave.

When they heard the car
coming to pick them up,

he said to his colleague,

and I know I'm digressing:

"Here comes the coach."

I allowed myself to smile.

He looked at me and said:
"Is the coach funny?"

And I said:
"No, the drivers are."

He didn't like my joke,
but he went no further.

I knew there'd a surprise
in store for him the next time.

And he got it.

I usually didn't stay long
in court,

but that time,
I had to stay until the night.

I started answering
the questions I was asked.

I said mostly rubbish,
but some things were true too.

I didn't care.

At some point,
the judge showed me a map.

I got up, rolled under the desk
and took the weapon out.

The exit door was there.

There was a cop in front of me.

I called him "moustache".
He was the troublesome one.

He took his weapon out
looking at me in the eyes.

He said: "You won't leave this
place alive, Mr. Vaujour."

I said: "Don't move, asshole."

He stood to attention.

I thought he had something to do
with the court clerk.

Maybe they were relatives.

I said: "If you move,
I will shoot her right away."

He lowered his weapon.

I made it clear they'd get me.

I said: "I go out,
I go to the door,

"and then the hunt begins."

The judge's bag was there.

The key to the door was in the bag,
I saw it before.

When I got to the door,
I asked the judge to take the bag

and to take
the little white key out.

I locked them in.

Three jailbreaks
and three arrests:

Michel Vaujour has escaped
once again,

this time from the Chalons
court of justice.

For more an hour, before escaping,
he held the judge hostage.

He had been sentenced to 15 years
in prison in 1976 for theft.

Jean-Claude Perpère.

He escaped from the Chalons
court of justice

where he was being heard for
a whole series of armed robberies.

His escape was in Mesrine's style.

After an-hour-long questioning,
he asked to go to the bathroom

where an accomplice
had hidden a gun.

With his weapon, he took the judge,
Ms. Blink, hostage.

She tried to reason with him
for an hour.

They couldn't realize
it wasn't a gun?

It looked good enough?

You cannot imagine.

It was not good enough

because it started getting broken
in the court of justice.

Since it was soap
it was slippery, right ?

I had added some icing on the cake.

I made a bolt.

I had made it using a battery.

It gave it a metallic feel.

You know, the round batteries.

The bolt had a mechanic feel.

I had also made
a hammer for the sound.

The hammer

was a nail clipper.

I put it together

using some can sliver
that went like this.

Ten minutes before,
I asked to go the bathroom.

I just went there to pee.

I locked myself in and they pushed
the door behind me.

In their heads, automatically,

they thought I had gotten
the weapon there.

The usual stuff.

Back then, Jacques Mesrine
had just escaped like that.

He went to the bathroom
to get some weapons.

To a cop, one plus one
means two all the time.

It gave credibility to my weapon.

When I escaped,
I really thought I had won.

I understood much later

that I had actually lost
something essential:

my ability to feel joy.

I had gotten my freedom back

but it wasn't really joyful.

I didn't know how to love.

Going back to civilian life
wasn't difficult.

You got used to it quickly.

Yes, I got used to it quickly.

It was much easier to adapt
to freedom than to prison.

Freedom gets to you
really quickly.

Plus,

you're in the action.

I was to a point
where it was a job to me.

It wasn't a choice
since I couldn't go back.

It was the first time
you really owned a weapon.

You met Gilles and you planned
armed robberies together.

I could be Gilles' hand and eyes.

He was my hand and eyes.

When my eyes couldn't see
and my hand couldn't do,

he was there.

When his eyes couldn't see and his
hand couldn't do, I was there.

DURING HIS THREE YEARS ON THE RUN,

MICHEL, AS A GANG LEADER, WENT FROM
ONE ARM ROBBERY TO THE NEXT.

I wonder how you could survive
for so long under such conditions.

You can't lose.

- It wasn't possible.
- You can't lose.

You can't.

What looks crazy to you?

That he managed to do it
without hanging himself.

I saw many people who didn't go
through what he did

that ended up hanging
from the bars of their cells.

When were you supposed
to be released?

I felt it was like
a science-fiction movie title.

To me, it wasn't possible.

It was dying step by step.

Every day, one second,
one minutes, one hour, one day.

It was hell.

I don't think people who have never
been to prison for a while

can understand what it is.

I think you can tell Michel's story
in three episodes.

Before solitary confinement

he was a nice and decent guy.

He liked to fight, but he was nice.

During and after
solitary confinement

he was not the same at all.

He was violent,
but his violence had a purpose.

I felt he was dangerous.

I can even say he made me nervous.

I could feel...

..he wouldn't be caught.

If he had a chance to take
his weapon out to defend himself,

he would risk it all
and let the chips fall.

That was true for himself
as for the others.

So he was dangerous.

He absolutely
didn't want to go back there.

Do you remember?

Even while I was on the run,

sometimes

I felt there was no meaning.

I needed some meaning to live.

When you had a life

like the one I had
all those years,

you need a meaning
to make the pain worth it.

When I say pain, I really mean it.

It had to be worth the pain.

Sometimes, during those years
when I had it all

materially speaking,

something was missing.

Maybe

the only thing that really moved me
was death.

It was the challenge of death.

Sometimes, when the emptiness
was too strong,

I would leave.

Sometimes, I would even
provoke situations

that were extremely borderline.

I could have been killed easily.

I loved those times.

I actually felt all powerful.

It was never enough anyway.

It wasn't for the money.
It wasn't for the money anymore.

It was for my taste for it.

One of the most satisfying things

was not to count the money.

It was to plan the action.

What is a robbery?

A robbery is, all of a sudden...

Everything is normal in the city.

All of a sudden,

you become the master
of that small space

for a determined duration.

It means
controlling things completely.

That's what a robbery is.

When you did an armed robbery
and held innocents hostage,

you knew you could have
been threatening your mother's life

who could have entered the bank.

I wouldn't have hurt a woman
entering the bank.

No, but you had no idea
how she would react.

You didn't know

whether she could get panicked
and have a heart attack.

Did you think about that?

Not the heart attack.

I wouldn't hurt someone
who didn't threaten my life.

I feel such deaths would weigh
on your conscience.

I know such things today.

Back then, I didn't
because it was the norm to me.

For instance,

during a robbery

a policeman got shot in the head.

I'll give it to you in a nutshell.

It had gone smoothly
and we had left.

The guy with me,

Norauto,

forgot one of the bags with
the money on the parking lot.

We went back and got it
on the parking lot.

Nobody had touched it
and we left with it.

Of course,
when we arrived on the road,

which was our escape route,

we passed a cop car.

They tried to get in our way.

I accelerated.

As I did, I heard gun shots.

We scampered.

When I arrived at our hiding place,

I told the other:
"Fuck, that was close."

He said: "No, it was me."

I didn't know.
It wasn't even needed.

We didn't need it,
I had passed them.

Much later, when I got arrested,
they blamed me for it.

I said it was the policeman
not the man that got injured.

I said it was the policeman.

I couldn't see the people
behind the function.

It was the same with the guards.

With the guards it was worse.

I had very abstract
representations.

There was the uniform

and I didn't know what was next.

It's easy to get addicted to power

when you realize what you can do.

It's easy to take a liking to it,

to the euphoria.

Was it difficult for you
to give that power up?

It was a work that happened
using the same rules

that trained me

to being efficient

and thus

to the feeling of power
that stems from it.

That was the corner stone.

SEPTEMBER 1981

MICHEL WAS ARRESTED AGAIN.
TO LOWER HIS CHANCES OF ESCAPING,

HE WAS TRANSFERED FROM PRISON
TO PRISON EVERY THREE MONTHS.

Dear parents,
you must be on vacation.

I ate beef with fries for lunch.

I hope you'll write to me, dad.
Thanks in advance, dear father.

I hope you had a nice vacation.

A few words to give you some news.

I spit on society
and on the rest of the world.

Dear Chantal, say hi to our parents
and to Claudine and Bébèque.

Even though they scarcely write,
I guess they're not dead.

You can't measure my resentment.

Say hi to Father Hello.

Tell him I wasn't made
to live in a city.

I write a few lines
to answer your letter.

I write a few words
on this wet Sunday.

I need no words
or outward signs

to know a mother loves his son.

I want to live in nature so much,
far from the cold cities.

I leave you giving you big hugs.

Your son, Michel.

My biggest connection is to Michel.

Of course, even if it's violent.

I almost visited
all the prisons of France.

I went there every Sunday
and Saturday.

Daniel and I visited you
every Saturday.

I saw nobody else from my family,
except my mother sometimes.

With Chantal,
there was continuity.

Chantal had always been
here for me.

It hurt the most
when he was in Clermont.

The first year.

He was on hunger strike.

They had attached things to
your feet when you came to see me.

- The chains.
- Yes, to the feet.

You couldn't stand anymore.
Two guards brought you.

Yes, I remember the chains.

You remember?

Yes, at the parlor I had chains.

One time, they took me
to the parlor like that.

I was isolated
because I was on a hunger strike.

I remember
she was behind the window.

In the parlor,

there were windows overlooking the
courtyard I was passing through.

She looked at me from there
and she was screaming.

That was my daily life.

When you go out of there,
it is gut wrenching.

When you see your brother
being held by two guards,

unable to walk
and on hunger strike,

you want to kill everyone.

I'm telling you,
you want to kill everyone.

With the chains,
you want to kill them even more.

Sometimes, I thought
I would never touch a tree again.

It sounds stupid, I know.

I lived in concrete,
only in concrete.

In solitary confinement,
whenever a blade of grass grows...

There is always dust and
the strength of plants is dreadful.

- The dust piles up.
- It grows everywhere.

The dust piles up
in the corners of the walls.

Some grass starts to grow.

As soon as it grows,
the guards came to cut it.

They removed everything.

There were flowers
growing in the cell.

I'm not kidding.

I went out in the morning
with a wet rag in my pocket.

I gave them water.

I went to the yard
and gave them water.

When I arrived, they were gone.

I don't like to talk about it.

How did your father justify
not going to see Michel in prison?

He couldn't.

- Why?
- I don't know.

How many times did mom
come to see you in prison?

The fact he never
came to see me hurt me.

I didn't exist anymore.

- To him, it was a shame.
- No it wasn't.

It was about what people thought.

He was a civil servant
in the administration,

where there was such prattle:

"You know,
having a son like that..."

Dad was what he was,
but he was honest.

That's bullshit.
I saw him steal meat my whole life.

That's nothing.
It's normal.

In that case,
what I did is nothing either.

It's true that mom had a child,
a son that she lost.

Then she had my sister Nicole,
then me.

- I had a dead brother?
- Yes, Bertrand.

I didn't remember.

You never knew.

Maybe I knew.

It's strange.

I told mom about it sometimes
and she couldn't remember.

It's strange sometimes.

I must have heard about it
as a kid. It's very strange.

In our family,
we're skilled at keeping secrets.

You liked the priest.

He always paid visits
to the priest.

Odile and you.

You were happy
and you believed.

He believed in Santa Claus.

This was when you got released,
right?

You had beautiful hair.

- They're long.
- They were still beautiful.

Look how beautiful you were
for your communion.

Actually, that wasn't you,
it was your father.

This is you too.

Probably in school.

- What school?
- No idea.

- I'm sure it was in prison.
- Probably.

I'm sure.

You were easily 18, if not more.

- Your hair is cut here.
- Yes.

Where was it?

- In prison.
- Really?

It looks nice.

You should stay there
for 20 years.

Of course.

- This was gymnastics?
- Somehow.

For sure!

With Michel's each escape,

you ended up with, as you say,
the cops right on your ass.

Yes.

- They came to check each time?
- Yes, each time.

Were you worried about him?

Yes, I was worried about him

because of what
could happen to him.

I was quite scared, yes.

It's sad, but I was happy
whenever they caught him.

It's a sad thing to say.

I shouldn't have said it?

You see what I fled from?

I understand.

Chantal told me the other time

that I had a brother.

Is she insane?

Wait, yes. The first I got
died as I gave birth to him.

Yes.

He would be more than 60 too.

It's true, I remember.

I couldn't remember.

You weren't born.

When she said it,
I knew it was true.

Yes.

I must have heard about it
as a kid.

JULY 1983

Gilles died in an armed robbery

that was meant
to fund the jailbreak.

His sister was the pilot.

My wife.

He wanted the job to be clean.

He decided to do an armed robbery

to get money
for after the jailbreak

so that everything would be easy
and we would have everything.

For 20 days, we didn't know
whether he was dead,

whether he was among the dead
or the living.

Back then,
the atmosphere was as follows.

Saying nothing for 20 days to
a mother or a sister is a big deal.

Or to a friend.

He was dead, maybe roasted.

We didn't know whether
he was dead or alive.

That place where joy was,

where things were supposed
to work out, it was a slaughter.

To some extent,

it quickened
the La Santé prison operation.

It quickened it.
It had to be done right away

so that I could be free
right away

to get his body at the morgue.

We wanted to bury him by ourselves.

Back then, Nadine was too much
in an emotional shock.

Piloting was dangerous.

On site, it had
to be very accurate.

She was stressed out.

It would have been a disaster.

Still, that's what
they asked me to do.

- You wanted to get his body?
- Yes.

We wanted to take him and bury him.

You understand?

Then we'd have all disappeared.

It didn't happen.

I saw his body in the news.

I saw a body but I didn't know
it was him. I knew later.

He was in the middle of the road,
all curled up and burnt.

He was almost a piece of charcoal.

His shoes were...

I couldn't stop

what I had started.

My closest friend had died
to help me do it.

And I was supposed
to give up fighting

and sit on my hands?

It would have been a betrayal.
I simply couldn't do it.

He mustn't be dead for nothing.

- You never visit his grave?
- No.

The death of those who love

leads to small deaths
inside of you.

In the end, Gilles died

to save me.

To me, it wasn't normal
I was still alive.

It didn't matter
when you gave up fighting?

No.

Only one thing mattered
in that case.

Meaning.

MAY 1986

A prisoner from La Santé Prison
escaped by helicopter.

Spectacular jailbreak this morning
in the middle of Paris.

Michel Vaujour
escaped by helicopter.

A 34-year-old prisoner
escaped through the air

in the middle of Paris.

As in a movie, a prisoner
spectacularly escaped

from La Santé Prison.

He had been sentenced
to 10 years in prison.

You cannot dream about Zorro
and Arsène Lupin's feats

without being amazed
by the spectacular jailbreak

that occurred in La Santé Prison.

It was a movie
because nothing was missing:

a helicopter, the prison's roof,

and even a woman
who led the operation.

The operation had been planned
in a pure American blockbuster way:

fake license plates,

a pilot who severed all
communication with the police...

With the aircraft hovering
above the prison,

only one of the two men
grabbed its skids.

Michel Vaujour was free.

Nadine, his wife, was the pilot
of the Alouette Two.

Michel Vaujour left the prison
by air,

under the cheers
of the other inmates.

The helicopter escape
symbolized the failure

of all the guys I believed in
considering the values of the time.

They all copped out.

In the end,

it was a woman

whom I had sometimes neglected
for these friendships

which I found were more important

who took over what these men
were supposed to do.

It was supposed
to be unexpected and fast.

It had to be efficient, especially
psychologically, even for Nadine.

This is a blind spot.

All this is a blind spot.

The aircraft was always
in the blind spot.

That was the idea.

All was supposed to happen
in the blind spot where I was.

I was supposed to climb up here
and get rid of the guard.

There was a building there.

A female friend
entered the building.

She came down.

She called from a public phone
next to the heliport

where Nadine was waiting
with a friend.

She said: "He's here."

It was in case I had been moved.

She went back up.

She stuck a piece of paper.

The red piece of paper meant
that they were on their way.

The helicopter arrived.

It launched a call.

Suddenly, it disappeared
from the radars.

It was troublesome.

We had to give a reason
why it disappeared.

We needed no more
than three minutes.

When Nadine threw the bag...

It was really specific stuff,

with a really precise organization
in the bag.

The bag shouldn't be opened.
With zippers, you never know.

It was closed with
two big rubber bands.

I knew the first thing in it
was the weapon.

There were inmates around me.

They were not all my friends.

I spun round
with the weapon in my hand.

The guard clung to the wall
and the others went out of my way.

How did I climb to the roof?
With a telescopic stick.

I opened it and took it out.

I climbed up.

My friend gave me his hand.

I took it, sat on the skid
and we left.

I had the weapon in my mouth.

I was climbing up
with the gun in my mouth.

I threw it in the yard.

The guy in the helicopter
did the same.

They were both fake.

It was enough. It looked
like a military operation.

But there were no weapons.

We had determined
we'd use fake weapons

so that
her offense would be minimal.

She shouldn't have ended up
in the dead-end I was in.

It had to be light.

How did Nadine prepare?

Nadine belonged to our world.

She had never taken part
in an operation, obviously.

It was an atmosphere.

We were a family.

We really were a family, with Lina,

Gilles, Nadine, and me.

Gilles died

trying to get me out,
so that I could be out.

Does what you're saying explain
that still today,

20 to 30 years later,
you are still much moved?

He was my friend.

It looks as if
you're still mourning.

I am.

I have a hard time mourning,

even more so when it's about
people I love.

The only one who really was up
to the standards of that world

as I conceived it,
as I dreamt it,

was Gilles.

When I escaped from La Santé,

a few men almost died

before I went on vacation.

It's true.

What I say can sound
harsh sometimes.

But that's who I was.

I remember one man in particular.

I went to a bar
where he usually went.

I arrived by bike
and left it outside.

I got off,

entered the bar and looked around.

He wasn't there.

If he had been, I would have
gunned him down like a dog

just because he hadn't been
up to my standards,

just because he hadn't owned up
to what he owed me.

That's all.

It wasn't out of the blue.

In the past, I helped him get out
of a very dire situation.

He didn't reciprocate.

Such examples

are deceptions.

I started to understand

that there was no fraternity.

He's moving, looking for smells.

Look, there's a fox moving.

Maybe it's a badger.

I'm discovering many things.

Before, it was almost duty
that presided over my friendships.

There was almost always
that notion of rules.

Today, it's different.

Today, they are real friendships.

There is nothing else
than instinct or affinities.

There are no other backgrounds
that stem from my past

like the fraternity
of brothers in arms.

It's a very good discovery.

I am disabled
when it comes to exchanging.

It's true.

I deprived myself of everything.

I deprived myself
of what makes us human.

You've heard about Michel before,
right?

Yes, since we were kids.

I told you on the phone.

You were at the train station
and I had stolen a moped.

Mom said: "Talk to him,
he knows all about it."

I remember.

It was weird to be
on the phone with him.

I didn't really know who he was
but I had heard about him.

I wouldn't say I was moved,

but it was weird to hear him talk.

I had never seen him before.
His voice on the phone is cold.

He's quite cold when he talks.

Even when he's not in front of you,

you quickly get he means business.

He talked to me seriously
and it was chilling.

Right now,
I'd like to go to prison.

To see how it feels like.

You cannot get out
whenever you want.

In movies, prison looks
as if it is hell.

I know people
who had been to prison.

They told me it wasn't that bad.

To do what he did,
he must have been through a lot.

You really need to...
How can I put it?

You shouldn't have anything
holding you back.

Usually a family holds you back,

your father stops you
like mine does.

When my father said 'Stop',
he meant it.

I'd like to understand Michel,
but I can't.

There must be things he saw
he keeps to himself.

The things that led him

to do things on his own and do
stuff that is normal to him.

We're about to be 18, to be adults.

We think about work, money,
and family.

I think it wasn't the same for him.

From age 18 on, all he saw
was jailbreaks and robberies.

What you experienced, we will never
do in our entire lives.

You will do things
I haven't experienced.

That's why we should share
those things before you...

Then how do I share
what you'll experience?

What bothers me the most
is why, since he is normal now,

he didn't do it from the beginning?

- I know it'll anger you, but...
- It doesn't.

We could talk about it together
and I would keep it to myself.

As a youth, I don't want to do
what you did.

There must be something in your
head that encouraged you.

Where?

Thomas and you said there are
things holding you back.

Yes.

I never said there were for me.

If you ever had a son or a nephew

who took the same path you did,
what would you tell them?

Who am I to lecture them?

I think I'd say: "You punk,
do it if you have the balls.

"You don't know
the price you'll pay.

"If you don't have the balls
until the end,

"you'll die with bitterness
down your throat.

"Do it if that's what you want.

"But...

"You have no idea.

"This is not a movie."

A flight by helicopter ends
in a banal robbery.

Michel Vaujour, who did the escape
of the century five months ago

by breaking out of La Santé Prison,

fell yesterday
in the middle of Paris.

The police had lost him
for four months,

since his spectacular escape
from prison.

A few seconds after attempting
to force his way out of the bank

holding one hostage,
the gunshots started.

Tonight, Vaujour,
a bullet in the head,

is between life and death
in intensive care

in a hospital in Paris.

I feel that in a weird way, you
searched for it your whole life.

I think about it often.

I don't know if I was searching
for it, but it found me.

I mean unconsciously, of course.

Maybe not my whole life.

It's the suicide I didn't commit

the day I realized the mess
my life had become

before the time of loneliness.

I think that death

only happened
as an initiatory process.

I think I always had it in me.

I saw glass shards pass me by,
on my side.

At the same time,

there was a huge blow to my head.

From head to toe you...

I had been shot in the head!

I had gone to the very end.

I had failed because
I was dying.

I didn't play the game well.

I must have failed.

Still, I didn't betray myself.

I heard a voice saying:

"Don't bother with him.

"He's already dead."

The feeling I had
was that me, dying on the sidewalk,

was more alive
than he had ever been.

I can't explain.
It was...

It was like that.

Yes.

Do you remember what happened next?

I woke up in the hospital.

It was very unpleasant.

You weren't glad to be alive?

That's the understatement
of the century.

Fuck, no.

You felt you had failed?

More than that. Absolute
failure was to have survived.

When I woke up,
I was filled with tubes.

I was paralyzed on one side.

It's hard to escape
from your own body.

It's a problem.

Walls for several decades.

Prison.

And on top of that,
a prisoner of my own body.

Back then, my wildest dream

was that one day I'd walk again
with crutches.

It was my wildest dream
when I gave it all.

There was no limit either.

How did your reeducate yourself?

I did what I would call
some sort of inner journey.

I turned my consciousness
upside down.

Your entire consciousness

takes you to the leg, to the foot.

You look for what you can perceive.

You start having some feeling.

A small muscle twitches.

From request to request,

as time, days, and hours pass by,

as weeks and months pass by,

or rather weeks,

there is some sort of reflex.

You reactivate.

You don't reactive there, because
the muscle is not injured.

The wound is here,
in the erased connections.

Bit by bit, I got my foot back.

I learned how to be human again
by crawling on the floor.

I preciously kept
all that was done to me

or the denial of humanity
that was given to me.

To find the meaning
and the strength I needed,

sometimes, often,
always in my head,

sometimes and even often,

I pretended to hang myself.

It was the promise of a last exit.

It was the final exit,
the final escape.

- And a choice?
- Yes.

I had that freedom left.

I knew there was a possible end

that belonged to me and that nobody
could take away from me.

You father died in 1986.

Did you miss not seeing him again?

Do I regret not seeing him again?

Yes.

It's horrible to say, but the
reason I made peace with him

was that when he had cancer

he refused to keep
on getting worse.

He asked to be helped in the end.

To me, it sort of "paid for"

the flaws I thought he had.

Maybe those were the
interpretations of a child.

The man I have discovered since

looks like a nice guy.

For all those years,
I had gone so far.

I had gone to another mental world.

It had nothing in common
with normal perceptions.

The grave of my father

has been a bridge to me.

I felt it when I left.

When I left, I could feel
I was more balanced.

I knew that this part of my life

would help me face things quietly,

those difficulties
I would eventually encounter.

I felt as if I had been given
a center of gravity.

That why I talk about getting back
to my roots,

to a world I had forgotten.

Whenever Michel Vaujour
is transferred,

the same forces are deployed.

The reason is always the same:
the fear of an escape.

During the arraignment,

Vaujour, who at age 45

has already spent
21 years in prison,

never stopped staring
at the ceiling,

as if exhausted by having to hear
about his life in a courtroom,

as if despaired by the fact

that he could be sentenced
to 30 years in prison

on top of the 17 years
he still has to do.

NADINE AND MICHEL SPLIT IN 1991

Death was welcome then.

I was fighting
to get my freedom back.

That's what I thought.

You cannot imagine
how harsh it was.

It would scare me today.
It scares me

when I thing about that time.

That was the man I was back then.

I was trying to save my own skin.

Nothing could distract me from it.
I reasoned 24/7.

Alone.

My humanity could be summed up
by a guy opening the door

to give you a plate of shit
through bars.

Then he'd close the door.

All that was left was four walls.

You have time to think.
All you can do is think.

Ideas and thoughts bounce back
on the walls.

They come back and cross your mind.
They're always the same.

Your brain cannot stop thinking.

Nothing distracts you from it.

You cannot distract yourself
from it.

You're a prisoner.
You're not even yourself anymore.

You're not even anything or anyone.

Consider the element of time.

Then you multiply it indefinitely.

There's nothing in between.

You'll see that you quickly
stop resembling who you are.

- When you saw...
- Jamila.

It was crazy.

- It must have been...
- It was... No.

You cannot believe it.

I was in the promenade,

a small yard
with fences everywhere.

I was wandering in my thoughts.

The guard who came told me:
"Vaujour, social service."

I still remember it.

It could have not happened.

If it hadn't rained,
maybe I wouldn't have gone there.

Her audacity was so...

She was working on her studies.

She had registered at GENEPI.

It is a body
that allows some people

to teach to prisoners.

Nobody taught a prisoner like me,
obviously.

Can you imagine the prison
administration

caring about whether
I'm taught?

Funny.

She wrote on a piece of paper
by herself:

"Mr. Michel Vaujour,
solitary confinement."

She arrived there, gave it to
the guard who opened the door.

- It was that simple?
- Yes.

There was the administration seal.

If you have a piece of paper,
it means it's the truth.

It wasn't really true,
but it was a good cause.

JAMILA TRIED TO RAISE
PUBLIC AWARNESS

ABOUT MICHEL'S
DETENTION CONDITIONS.

TO NO AVAIL

New hostage situation
in a helicopter in Touraine.

Apparently, its goal was to help
Michel Vaujour escape again.

The hostages were liberated
and are safe.

Things went wrong

but the three criminals
were identified.

One of his accomplices
is once again a woman.

Her name is no longer Nadine,
but Jamila.

She is a prison visitor
who fell madly in love with him.

It's true Michel Vaujour's
jailbreaks

are always surrounded
by the same feelings.

What feelings?

Friendship, affection,
and sometimes love.

Imagining Jamila in prison,

imagining that she could discover
all that I knew,

that she could encounter all that

I encountered in prison...

The fragility I felt in her,

the fear she'd get broken
like I got broken...

The fear

she'd lose what I lost there.

The fear she'd lose what made her

what she was for me.

Her innocence.

What I call innocence.

What allows me to go through life

with some faith in life.

What allows me to smile to people.

What allows me to breathe life in.

Michel, my love.

Since I arrived here,
I haven't realized yet

even if during the first day,
I went in front of the mirror

to strenuously word:

"I am in prison."

I feel I am living another life.

It's as if I imagined
what confinement could be.

Now I know.

Don't worry about me, Michel.

I will endure.

I understand Stefan Zweig
in his novel, 'Chess Story'.

It talks about this silence.

Michel, my love.

No, my love,
I'm not suffering too much.

What you planted in me
before this detention

helps me today to suffer
through the hardships.

Yesterday,

the cellmate I had been for more
than one month has been released.

Pain and profound joy

at the thought she will be
with her children again.

I even get used to the vagaries
of the prison world.

My love, my scald.

Yesterday, my brother
came to the parlor.

He brought me the inevitable
Christmas package.

What pleasure it was this morning
to eat a mint at last.

I had been dreaming about it
for three months.

I saw that she could face things.

She has a courage

that is very different
from the courage of action.

I mean it's a continuity.

She is calm, serene.
She has a strong soul.

She didn't hide.

She never renounced anything

even though she was given
big opportunities to do it.

I remember something she said.

The judge asked her: "What's
your connection to Mr. Vaujour?"

She answered
that beyond the registers,

I was her family.

That I was her family then,
and that I'd still be tomorrow.

Anyway, my case was unacceptable

and it would have
to be revised one day.

When she said that

she knew it doomed her.

She had been released
a few months prior.

It was conditional.

By saying that, she doomed herself.
She knew it and I knew it.

Michel, my love.

I knew what was at stake
in this trial.

We wanted to explain
our longing for life.

We wanted to be done
with being on the fringe.

You tried to say
how much you suffered.

I tried to say what we wanted.

I hoped they would hear us.

The verdict was rendered.

My love, my scald.
Please.

Don't be sad
because of the sentence.

Know, love, that I'm with you
in your loneliness.

Your emotions make me quiver.

The answers to the questions
you ask out loud

are not fantasies.

I'm always here.
I don't leave you.

You live inside of me absolutely.

I imagine, my love, that it must be
hard to get your balance back.

You talk about death.

Please, my love, don't let those
dark thoughts overcome you.

I respect and will always respect

your ideas and desires
when it comes to death.

You know it, my love.

I cannot help but give you
the hope I have inside of me.

Simply filtering the things
that were hidden

in my exchanges with Jamila,

already revived

what I had killed before.

A woman of my world

would have necessarily
confronted me with the values

of that same world.

But she opened me to new things.

It's what

surprised me.

How you can be someone normal

and have such a strong soul.

How?

That was it.

She remained herself.

She was true to herself.

She remained straight

without destroying anything

and without destroying herself.

What I hadn't been able to do.

AFTER 27 YEARS IN PRISON INCLUDING
17 YEARS OF SOLITARY CONFINEMENT,

FIVE JAILBREAKS,
THREE YEARS ON THE RUN,

MICHEL HAD HIS SENTENCE
REDUCED BY 16 YEARS.

HE HAS BEEN FREE
SINCE SEPTEMBER 2003

When we started to talk, you asked
me where my sadness came from.

The kind of sadness you think
you can see in me.

There is no sadness.

Somehow,

I don't know when or where,

I already died.

It's weird, right?

The emotions I experience,

be them pain or joy,

are through Jamila's eyes.

If she is joyful, I am joyful.

If she is in pain, I am in pain.

Today, what mark, in your mind
and in your flesh,

did those 27 years in jail leave?

What won't you ever forget
in your mind and in your flesh?

In my mind and in my flesh?

In my mind, the eyes of my wife

when we won,

when we knew we had a future.

In my flesh?

It's not in my flesh,
it's in my heart.

It's the bullet in my head.

The experience that I cannot
forget and that defines me

is the beauty
of what was given to us.

That's all.

SUBTITLES: RED BEE MEDIA FRANCE