Original subtitles

Raulhac, Cantal. September 1st, 1905.

I killed François Raulhac.

And I'm here to give myself up.

Reidal!

Follow me.

I want the hands stiff. Motionless.

Lean on the chair.

The photo will be blurry. You'll need to help him.

Bruno Reidal is presently a young man of 17,

5 feet 3 inches tall and weighing 7 stone 12 pounds.

Inhale.

Slowly.

Close your eyes.

His overall appearance is delicate.

The build is weak,

the chest narrow,

the muscles small,

and the body generally lean and scrawny.

That should do.

Look at the lens.

His gentle and worried expression

gives his physiognomy a certain melancholy.

To everyone he seems taciturn or shifty.

The facial expressions lack spontaneity,

one might even say candour ,

if he hadn't been the first to inform us

of his former habit of controlling and hiding his emotions.

"It is when I am tormented by my thoughts of murder," he tells us,

"that I am calmest and quietest."

You know why we are here, don't you?

You want to know whether I'm sick or not.

What is your opinion of the matter?

I am not crazy.

I don't want to be.

My classmates who call me crazy,

I could no longer tell them otherwise.

There is something I can't quite grasp.

During the first investigation, the experts' report was very clear.

I'll read it again.

"Bruno Reidal is abnormal

with regard to satisfying the sexual instinct.

"A bloodthirsty sadist,

"but sadism implies neither irresponsibility

nor madness."

So why challenge that report

since it affirms you are not mad?

They misrepresented what I said.

They made me sound like a hardened criminal.

If I understand properly,

you don't want to be considered

either insane

or criminal. Is that so?

Yet you're not here for no reason, are you?

You did kill

an innocent child.

By cutting off his head.

Have you nothing to say?

Bruno,

look at me.

We've been told you were an excellent student

and a very hard worker.

I'd like you to do a job for me.

A job I sometimes ask of those who seem sincere, honest, and intelligent.

I'd like you to write your life story. Your memoirs, so to speak.

If you could express in your own words what is in your head,

that would help us understand you.

What should I write?

Everything.

You'll have to tell us the whole truth.

We are not your judges, we must know everything.

Information about my family

I was born in Raulhac, in the Cantal,

on June 12, 1888.

I remember that during my early years

I lived with my parents, my grandparents,

and my brothers and sisters.

My parents married in 1871.

My father was 32 then, and my mother 25.

Six children were born to that marriage,

all living.

Marie, the eldest,

is now 34.

She has had four children.

The first one died in Raulhac, at our home, at the age of a few months.

Second child, Antoine:

lives in Paris and runs a restaurant.

In 1900 he had thoughts of suicide and persecution.

You may be seated.

The Lord Jesus

showed us God's love

for children and infants.

Forbid them not to come unto me...

Third child: Joseph.

Currently a soldier in a line infantry.

He would punch his classmates and beat animals.

Eugénie, 23.

She is unmarried and still lives with my mother in Raulhac.

She was anaemic.

She has had nervous episodes and serious illnesses.

The youngest, Jules, is 13.

Cheeky and sly,

for him, every means to success is good.

My mother, Marie Ramond,

born August 15, 1846,

was in her youth apparently strong-tempered.

She is quick to anger, very touchy and sensitive.

Give me your knife.

Look.

You think we can peel so thick?

She would beat us violently.

Rarely did she stroke or kiss us.

"You will do exactly" she would tell us,

"what you say you don't want to do.

"I learned early on to work and to suffer.

It will be the same for you."

Put it in the shade.

My father Jean-Marie, born in 1839,

was a man of medium build with a full beard.

Watch. Later, you'll do it yourself.

You're watching?

He was intelligent and had some schooling.

He had the reputation of a very good man and a fine peasant.

I cut off the knots.

So it's smooth.

And to finish, you make a little cove.

It's more comfortable.

He would go to the inn.

At home he often drank brandy.

Here, it's yours.

Go and try it.

I don't know what illnesses he had,

or what illness he died of.

He'd thrash us, but less violently than our mother.

- You like it? - Yes.

Good.

He was gentler,

and more loved by my siblings and me.

One day,

in very fine weather with a hot sun for the season,

I went to guard our cows in a field.

I had no cap with me

and I was bare-headed for quite a while.

After that sunstroke,

I was bedridden for a fortnight.

I don't know if I was delirious.

But I certainly was so ill

Any pain?

That my parents feared I would die.

It is certain that it was not a result of that illness

that I had my first thoughts of murder.

I'd already had them the winter before.

Our family,

like all of our neighbours,

killed a pig every year.

He'll calm down.

I was glad to see a pig killed.

Not to see it bleed, because when we bled it,

I'd run away when I heard it squeal.

I was glad because after bleeding it,

we'd burn it,

butcher it,

make sausages, and even have a party.

To the pig's health!

He was one good pig.

And fat, too.

We killed the pig by bleeding it,

and in my child's imagination,

killing meant bleeding.

Then one day,

I heard my parents say someone had killed a man.

And I thought to myself:

are men killed too?

Like pigs?

At night,

in bed,

before going to sleep,

I pictured myself hurting the boys my age

with whom I often found myself.

I thought I'd take great pleasure in striking them with a knife.

Not with the aim of killing them:

whether they died was irrelevant.

But I thought I would enjoy torturing them.

Average, as is your wont.

I fear you will linger there forever.

In second place our dear shaker, Reidal.

9 out of 10.

- Can you read that for me? - 11.

I couldn't.

With better penmanship you could be first.

Improve that, it's illegible.

First:

Deslauriers Emile. 10 out of 10.

Keep it up.

We will now do a dictation.

- Can I play? - There's enough of us.

When I was ten,

I lost my beloved father.

For a long time,

even while dreaming at night,

even now after seven years,

I cry when I remember

my mother leading us to his deathbed,

telling us:

"Kiss him, poor children,

it will be the last time."

Dammit Bruno, what are you doing?

Hurry it up!

Tomorrow at dawn,

when the countryside whitens, I will set out.

You see, I know that you wait for me.

I will go by the forest, I will go by the mountain.

I can no longer remain far from you...

I remember that one day,

in primary school,

I felt the desire to kill more keenly.

One of my schoolmates stood up,

and I had him in front of me.

Very good, Emile. Sit down.

My desire to kill him made itself felt so strongly

that I thought, sooner or later,

this need to kill

which should bring me such great pleasure

would have to be satisfied.

And I thought as I looked at him:

"You shall not grow old."

Your turn, Louis.

Here, you hit it, you get to keep it.

Your turn, Pierre.

You're cheating...

You're hurting me.

Stop or we'll tell.

Have you ever tortured an animal?

I don't think so.

Oh yes, once.

I stepped on a lamb in a sheepfold.

- Did you kill it? - No.

- Did you get pleasure from it? - No.

I tend to feel sorry for the poor beasts.

Bruno,

have you ever wanted to kill a girl?

No.

It started in school,

it was some of my schoolmates that I wanted to kill.

So from age 6 or 7?

From age 6.

Bruno,

are you attracted to girls or boys?

I don't know.

Do you remember at what age you started masturbating?

I'd rather write it down for you.

Hey, kid.

Got any wine?

- I have milk. - What?

I have milk.

Ok, gimme some.

You're all alone here.

No, I was hired out.

Hired out to who?

The Lacombes.

The Lacombes...

Do you know them?

You're not from around here.

Where are you from?

From Raulhac.

What's your name?

Reidal.

Reidal what?

Reidal Bruno.

One day,

I met a shepherd,

and he forced me to the ground

and against my will started masturbating me.

Hot, isn't it?

- Lie down. - I have to go, sir.

- I told you to lie down. - Stop it, sir...

Stop.

Leave me alone.

Stop moving.

Sir, please stop, you're hurting me.

Stop squirming or I'll really hurt you.

Let's see if you're a good mountain shepherd.

There you go.

Sir...

Stop struggling!

That's good.

That's good...

Sir...

After a while

I stopped struggling and I reached orgasm.

Henceforth I knew how to masturbate.

Here you are already!

What a mess he is!

Go change your clothes!

At first

I masturbated rarely, if ever.

I wasn't able to ejaculate,

and had great difficulty achieving orgasm.

One day,

while I was masturbating and couldn't orgasm,

the thought of murder came to me by chance.

During the following months,

I masturbated often,

several times a day,

imagining myself killing one or another of my classmates.

If I felt pleasure coming, I would stop.

Then start again imagining another classmate.

And I would make the pleasure last from five to ten minutes.

To be tempted to kill a person,

he had to meet several conditions that I will try to list.

First,

I had to know him,

to have spent some time with him.

He had to have a pleasant physiognomy,

considerable intelligence,

and a certain pride in his gait, behaviour, and gestures.

And then I killed him, but as if regretfully,

because I loved him but could not do otherwise.

You never say explicitly.

Did the desire to kill give you an erection, or the contrary?

I would imagine myself killing someone.

It was after that I got an erection.

And did you ever dream about murder?

Yes, often.

Did it give you pleasure?

Yes.

How did that manifest itself? Did you ejaculate in your sleep?

No one ever noticed you were masturbating so often?

I don't know.

Have you ever masturbated with someone else?

No, that would disgust me.

Not even at the seminary or with one of your brothers?

No, I said no.

Are you still masturbating here, in prison?

- When was the last time? - None of your business.

We need to know everything.

If any of our questions make you angry, so be it.

We aren't here to please you. So now answer the question.

- When did you masturb... - I don't remember.

You don't remember

or you don't want to remember?

You do remember that you fell from a window at age 3 and a half,

that the weather was cloudy that very day,

maybe even a bit rainy...

Your memories of that are very accurate.

But you don't recall your last masturbation?

Bruno, please answer.

We know you don't like to talk about it, but it's important.

You have to tell.

It's been 2 months and 13 days.

Pardon?

We can't hear you. Speak up, articulate.

It's been 2 months and 13 days.

Other than us,

have you ever spoken about this to anyone else?

About what?

About masturbating,

your thoughts of murder, your dreams...

About my dreams, no.

I never thought it was really a sin.

And the rest of it?

I started talking about it last year.

At Easter time.

I will see her one day

In heaven, in her fatherland

Yes, I will see Mary

In her heavenly home

In heaven, in heaven...

I will see her one day

In April 1904,

a mission came to my parish in Raulhac.

I resolved to take the opportunity

to put my conscience in order,

and I went to confess to the priest who was preaching the mission,

who was the superior of the minor seminary of Saint-Flour.

What do you mean by bad thoughts?

I have

hateful thoughts.

Sometimes I...

I almost want to kill them.

- What did these classmates do to you? - Nothing.

Nothing at all.

What else?

Despite myself I commit acts of impurity.

- Regularly? - Yes, often.

I sometimes tell myself

that I'll never be able

to resist.

So to stop committing the sin,

to stop having these thoughts,

maybe I have to kill myself.

Suicide is a grave sin, Bruno.

Perhaps the gravest of all.

It is refusing the gift of life that God has given us.

It blasphemes His divine creation.

All suicides suffer eternal damnation.

- You know that. - Yes, Father.

Listen well, my son.

I believe

you know right from wrong.

That's the best way to fight these sins, which are very grave.

Pray to God to save you and He will do it.

But Father,

every day I fight against these thoughts,

every day I pray, but the thoughts return.

You have to fight harder.

Each of us must struggle.

Our Lord himself was tempted by the devil,

but defeated him.

Perhaps

your greatest sin is to see everything a little too darkly, don't you think?

Yes, Father.

How old are you?

15. I'll be 16 soon.

And you say you pray every day.

Yes, Father. Morning and evening.

And you have a taste for school.

I've always been first in my class.

Tell me, Bruno.

Have you even felt a vocation to become a priest?

A priest?

I've never thought about it.

At first

I wasn't thinking about becoming a priest.

But I believed that in a seminary

I would be much safer from myself.

The thought of being a priest appealed to me.

Not to live comfortably,

to be paid well, and to work little,

but I would have been happy to lead an orderly,

holy,

penitent life,

free from disorder and sin.

Thank you, my Lord.

Thank you.

I am at present entirely yours.

I will sin no more.

Never again.

Let me find peace at the seminary, please.

I hope my father is with you.

Amen.

Blondel?

What time is it?

25 minutes to 3.

Thank you.

Do we arrive soon?

In a little under two hours.

The cost of education was too high for my family,

but a wealthy landlord in Raulhac agreed to pay my fees for us.

And so it was decided that I would study

at the minor seminary of Saint-Flour.

Hello, Father.

Blondel and Langlois, show him the dormitory.

Yes, Father.

Stand up straight.

Did you study over the summer?

Ready for the new school year?

Very good.

When I first got to the seminary, I was very much behind.

I had never studied Latin or Greek.

Having been the best in primary school,

I believed my intelligence to be completely superior.

I'd never thought the other students would all be very intelligent,

and that to make up for lost time

I'd have to rely less on my intelligence than on hard work.

I would like to welcome

those who are joining us here this year.

"He who lives by the rule lives by God."

If you understand that, you understand the essential.

We expect from you an abiding taste for study,

total obedience to your teachers

and respect for your fellow students.

You must now think of the entire minor seminary of Saint-Flour

as your new family.

And now, let us pray.

Silence!

Move closer together.

A little closer.

I was the only boy whose fees were paid by charity.

Always poorly dressed,

gauche,

scrawny, and expressing myself with difficulty...

I was dark and lonely.

As for my schoolmates, they all enjoyed wealth,

pride,

physical beauty,

ease of speech,

boldness, and joie de vivre.

Look at the lens.

How I resented them!

How I would gladly have made them suffer!

How I would have liked to deprive them of their enjoyable life!

But killing them would have been too simple.

I had to subjugate them, humiliate them,

shred their beautiful clothes and faces,

see them humble and obedient under the knife,

torture them, behead them.

How did you resist for a whole year?

I studied hard.

My classmates made fun of me

when I told them I wanted to get through three classes in one year.

They said I was mad.

"That Reidal, who never plays with the others,

"who doesn't want a holiday,

"who spends his breaks walking alone in the yard...

"He's not mean, Reidal.

"He's a bit mousy.

"Even if he is taciturn, his conversation is cheerful.

"He is quick with a joke.

Reidal is a pretty good fellow."

Were you happy at the seminary?

When my studies went well,

and I didn't have to fight too hard against my inclinations,

I thought myself happy.

At the end of the year,

my success was beyond all expectations.

I received seven prizes:

1st in Religious Instruction,

2nd in Excellence,

1st in Greek translation,

1st in Natural History,

1st in History and Geography,

2nd in Mathematics,

2nd in Quarterly exams.

Inwardly, I was swollen with pride.

Alas,

when I saw myself attain a goal

I had longed for,

and in which I had seen all of my happiness,

I was suddenly disgusted to see my life without any difficulty to overcome.

Come children. Let's hurry.

Then I saw existence as something bland.

Enjoy the holiday, Odoul.

You too.

Something empty and monotonous.

- Good-bye, Bruno. - Good-bye, Jean.

Something I'd had enough of.

I was overcome with a great languor.

I wished no longer to live.

Ma, Eugénie! Bruno's here!

Gentlemen, my apologies, there was an emergency at the asylum.

It's alright, I'm ready.

So, we were at the holidays that preceded the crime.

You wrote that you held them in great fear.

Can you explain why?

Surely you were tired after your year at the seminary.

That's true.

I was exhausted.

But during the holidays I was at home.

I didn't do much.

And I know that when I am idle, I am most prone to evil.

You were tempted at the seminary, too.

Yes, but at the seminary I was supervised.

And that alone kept you from succumbing?

I think so.

And I was working really hard.

- You had work in the summer as well. - Very little.

My mother could not find to hire me out.

Everyone complained about my clumsiness.

What did you do with your time?

I would go and guard our cows.

Or I'd take one of my prize-books and go read it somewhere.

You didn't do anything else?

When there was an errand to run, I'd do it.

Or I would

go fetch grass for my mother's rabbits.

Since she was sick, it was up to me.

You didn't masturbate?

I resisted for the first days.

But thoughts of murder and sexual pleasures were very strong.

Get out!

Go on, get out, now!

Find yourself a husband. And a job!

That'll be one less mouth to feed!

Ungrateful girl!

After four or five days,

the idea came that, no matter how much I resisted,

I'd never be able to resist all summer, despite my will.

I wanted to go to confession, but I didn't.

And I continued for a fortnight to masturbate

five,

six, seven, eight times a day.

I was struggling, though.

If I hadn't tried to hold back, I would have masturbated even more.

My aversion to sexual pleasure was such

that I thought I would be less guilty were I to commit a crime

that would put an end

to this sin I indulged in every day,

than to commit every day the sin of masturbation.

From August 12th to 23rd, I managed to stop masturbating.

Bruno!

- Bruno! - What?

Come here!

And your parents?

My parents are fine.

What about your little brothers?

One will start at the minor seminary too.

That's good.

Here he is, I'll leave you.

- Hello Bruno, am I disturbing you? - No.

What were you doing?

I was doing the hay.

What do you want?

I need a Latin dictionary. Could you lend me yours?

I'll get it for you.

Wait here.

You still have your shaking?

I still get it.

Can I get it back to you next week?

Yes, whatever you want.

- You won't need it? - No.

Thank you.

We could go for a walk together sometime.

"God, grant me the grace to remain faithful

"to the resolutions I will make in writing

"to remember more easily.

"For me, you opened paradise, and closed the infernal abyss under my feet.

"I loved you, O my Lord.

"But the demon seduced me with the lure of fictitious pleasure,

"closing my eyes to the light.

"And I listened.

"I succumbed,

"I betrayed you cowardly, O my Lord.

"I consented not to see you and possess you eternally in heaven

"in exchange for a moment of pleasure

"and an eternity of tears.

"What wouldn't I sacrifice to return to the moment when I succumbed?

"But the evil has been committed.

"There is no more hope. Oh! yes...

"The source of your mercy is inexhaustible.

"Forgive, O Lord. I will sin no more in the future.

I would rather die than commit that sin again."

Do you remember when you wrote these "solemn resolutions"?

It was August 23rd.

And how soon after that did you succumb again?

That same evening.

And that was when you wrote this in the margin:

"impossible to fight it"

as well as "renewed resolutions"?

In one of your notebooks you mention suicide.

I've thought about it since I was 13 or 14.

In your opinion, what stopped you from doing it?

My religion says that suicide is an irreparable sin,

followed by eternal damnation.

But your religion also says that homicide is a very grave sin.

Of course.

But you consider it less serious to kill someone else

that to kill yourself?

I did not say that.

Well then?

After you kill someone you can repent and expiate your sin.

Whereas for suicide

that is impossible.

Now you will have to tell us about September 1st.

You already know all of the details.

It's your story that we want to hear.

The night of September the 1st,

I dreamt about murder and I ejaculated in my sleep.

The following morning,

my bloodthirsty obsessions felt quite enjoyable.

Good morning Mrs Reidal. Am I disturbing you?

No, what is it?

I've come to return Bruno's dictionary. Here.

Thank you so much.

You're welcome.

I'm going to go read on the boulder. Want to come with me?

May I?

Like you meant to do anything today?

I'll get my book.

Eugénie, hand me my knife.

Ah! I thought to myself, what is the point of fighting fate?

You're meant to be a murderer, what has to happen will happen.

Rejoice!

Soon you will strike Blondel down.

Blondel, so handsome,

so proud, so intelligent,

he whom you love so much.

You will hold him,

you will possess him, kill him.

He will be yours, yours alone.

Is it good?

I don't know.

To tell you the truth, I just started it.

Can you lend it to me when you're done?

If you like.

I could see his beautiful face,

his beautiful colours.

I saw myself cutting off his head

and hiding it and his clothes

so no one would know if it was him or me who had been beheaded.

It was the beginning of September.

There were all kinds of fruit outside that I could eat.

I saw myself travelling South,

towards the land of good weather.

From there I would somehow find a way

to embark for a colony.

I'd go to an African mission where I'd make a general confession.

There are those who, once the crime committed,

give themselves up.

How stupid they are!

Don't you even think about that.

You'd be very foolish to get in a state

on a happy day like today.

This evening you will have cut Blondel's head off

and then you will be free.

You will live a new life

until the day God sends death unto you

to free you from a life that has been nothing but a long burden

and to give you real bliss in eternity.

The crime was committed.

All that remained was to enjoy it.

I'm cold, aren't you?

A little.

Why don't we go back into the woods?

There's a nice view here.

It doesn't matter, we're reading.

You're right.

Let's go.

How happy I was!

He was entering the trap.

The opportunity had come,

it was time to take advantage of it.

I'll be right back.

He finds life beautiful and I find it awful...

I will open his chest,

rip his heart out,

and take it with me in memory of him.

Will you come back for a walk tomorrow?

If you want.

And what are you doing this evening?

I'm going to Badailhac to visit my cousins.

Oh, alright.

So I'll see you tomorrow.

- Shall I pick you up? - As you like.

After masturbating,

when I thought about killing Blondel,

I no longer saw any pleasure in it.

I blamed myself for masturbating and failing the crime.

It had to be done at all cost.

I could think of nothing else.

I couldn't keep still .

I felt myself compelled to get up,

to go look for someone to kill.

Yet I remained at the table with my family.

What?

How old are you now?

- 17. - 17?

When I was 17, I was helping my parents!

You'll give us a hand. It won't take long.

Toward two in the afternoon,

I figured that in the fields or on the paths

I would find

someone or other guarding some herd, and I'd kill him.

I thought that the knife would cut my victim better

if it was sharp.

So I went and carefully sharpened my knife.

François?

What?

Do you recognize me?

You're Jules's brother.

I saw you at mass.

You're an altar boy.

Yes, what of it?

Nothing, just asking.

What are you doing?

Can't you see?

Are you going home?

First I have to get some kindling.

He's not as good as Blondel,

but I'll have a better chance of grabbing him.

Can I come with you?

If you want.

"Well, here's what I need," I immediately thought.

Are you tired?

A little.

Let's go gather some hazelnuts.

- Is it far? - No, just over there.

Leave your things here.

Come on!

Go ahead, it's right over there.

Let's see if you're a good mountain shepherd.

You're crazy! That hurts!

When the poor little boy shouted:

"Reidal, you're crazy, you're hurting my neck,"

I hesitated for a moment.

I was starting to realize the seriousness of what I was doing.

I might have let go,

but I thought I had hurt him badly and that he'd tell his mother.

After holding the head in my hands for about ten seconds,

I saw that this was only a cadaver.

It disgusted me so much

that I threw it 3 or 4 meters from the body.

I didn't masturbate, and I thought:

"Is this how long this pleasure lasts?"

I tried to cry to soothe myself,

but I couldn't.

"Mary, refuge of sinners and the desperate..."

After praying for a moment, I thought:

"What does God require of you?

"It's only natural.

"He asks only to forgive you,

on the condition that you sincerely repent."

I killed François Raulhac and I'm here to give myself up.

Major crime, the gendarmes said.

I did not understand the meaning, the scope, the weight,

the value of those words:

major crime.

You feel no remorse for what you did to François?

François?

He looked happy and proud.

Besides, he didn't like me very much.

And those are sufficient reasons to have killed him?

Please,

we would like to know exactly what happened yesterday.

Well, gendarmes,

perhaps you can show him what he did.

Show Mr. Reidal what he did yesterday.

Remove these sheets.

Come closer.

Come closer! Close.

Take a good look.

Don't you remember this?

Tell us exactly what happened yesterday.

It's so very clear.

We see a young boy who died in terrible pain.

How do you explain it? You monster!

If my conscience made it my duty to feel pity for François,

I felt rather more inclined to hate him,

jealous that he was being pitied while I was being insulted,

I who felt much more unfortunate than he.

That's enough!

Take him to the prison in Vic. I'll see him later.

"Scoundrels!" I thought to myself,

"is this how you should treat a child unable to resist?"

Young François, his face was a great deal nicer than yours...

You deserve the same thing.

I didn't cry.

I might have cried if anyone had shown me compassion.

And my thoughts turned to God.

"My God, forgive me,

and forgive them, for they know not what they do."

Today, December 3rd,

it is raining.

My thoughts are darker and above all rather vague.

My days are sad and monotonous,

but don't seem long to me.

I spend my time writing my memoirs,

reliving in thought the life I have lived.

I think often of the minor seminary of Saint-Flour,

which is so dear to my heart.

I am troubled to be so far from those I love,

from those I loved,

from those places I loved.

All of my happiness lies in what I no longer have,

in what I will no longer have.

Everything that could make me happy is over there,

at the minor seminary of Saint-Flour.

Do they ever think of me, those friends I mourn?

Will I ever see them again?

What misfortune is mine?

For months I've been struggling and struggling

to keep the idea from coming back.

And with all of your questions...

I am a coward.

I always say I won't do it again, and then I do.

What happened?

I masturbated last Thursday.

I had a dream about Blondel.

I saw him on the boulder where we went for a walk.

I saw myself hit him over the head with a stick.

And then I saw him there, on the ground.

And I had a great erection.

Imagine,

what a joy for me to possess Blondel.

He whom I consider almost like a demi-God.

At every moment Blondel is in my mind.

I imagine myself furrowing his face with a knife.

All day long,

thinking about him, I want to kill him.

I'll never be done with Blondel.

No matter what I do,

for me, scenes of murder are full of charm.

Based on the report by Professor Lacassagne,

Bruno Reidal was interned in an insane asylum.

He entered the asylum at Aurillac on January 16th, 1907.

He died there on September 13th, 1918 at the age of 30.