Attila, mon amour, tome 5 : Terres brulees by Jean-Yves Mitton, Frank Bonnet

By Jean-Yves Mitton, Frank Bonnet

"Ravenne, avril 451. C'est le branle-bas de wrestle dans les quartiers généraux romains. Est-ce qu'implorer Dieu sera suffisant pour sauver le peuple des griffes sataniques d'Attila et de ses hordes barbares ?... Certainement pas, malheureusement... Attila s'apprête à envahir toute los angeles Gaule et face à ce désastre, l'armée romaine crée une sainte alliance avec les Wisigoths. Ensemble, ils seront plus castle, et pourront peut-être lutter. Mais celle qu'ils craignent par dessus tout, c'est los angeles Lupa, l. a. femme-louve, âme damnée et maîtresse d'Attila. automobile celle-ci n'a qu'une idée en tête, envahir Lutèce, afin d'assouvir une vengeance personnelle... Et il sera bien difficile de lui faire changer d'avis... Mitton au scénario et Bonnet au dessin nous invitent à suivre los angeles destinée d'un des plus célèbres conquérants de l'Histoire. Un récit réaliste qui restitue avec crudité et cruauté cette époque barbare."

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He’d have liked to, I’m sure. ” “They,” Vidocq says. ” “I should say not,” says Poulain. ” “Fuck’s sake, they went through his pockets, but they didn’t take any money! Just a blessed envelope. ” I’m not sure I can convey the thing Poulain’s lips do. A twisting, a deformation—we’ll call it a smile. “I yelled for the police,” he says. Eyes shining, Vidocq pats the smaller man’s hand. ” “And it worked? ” “Bastards tore off like hares. Blood still on their paws. Didn’t even stop to take the man’s shoes.

Three ragged patches of cuticle scatter into the light. “We found them when we went back to the scene. ” One of them is resting in my palm now. Hard. Like a flake of amber. “Oh, the memories,” says Vidocq. “I once saw Bobbefoi do that to one of his pals in the bagne. With a saddler’s awl. You never heard such screaming. Bobbefoi figured the fellow for being a police spy, but he got the wrong man. ” He strokes Leblanc’s brow. “There there, old bear. ” “The knife wounds,” I say. “The fingernails .

Here I am, climbing without a second thought into the carriage waiting round the corner. Waiting, benumbed, as he barks the address to the driver above. “Quai du Marché! ” He pulls the curtains over the windows and yanks up his sleeves— only to remember he doesn’t have sleeves, only Bardou’s damp rags, which cling to him now in the form of an apology. The cab must recently have carried a wedding party, for there’s a scrap of lace caught in the door and a scattering of hothouse orange blossoms and the snapped-off handle of a Japanese fan.

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