LITMIR.BIZ

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      This story begins in Paris.

      One night, years ago, a few days before Christmas, while softly snowing and the first lights of the street lamps being powered off by a long candle-snuffer.

      - Crazy things! There's people doing

      odd jobs for living!

      Madame Tussauds thought to herself.

      Outside it’s snowing big twitchy flakes,

      dancing in the wind and

      in the glow of the lights,

      before settling on the roofs and

      the streets of Paris.

      - How cold it is! What a rough night out!

      Mary Jane thought, leaning on the fogged glass window overlooking the courtyard.

      Facing Ladurée House, the residence of one of the richest families in the city.

      And lastly, the street lamps on the luxurious entrance of the villa are powered off, as if even the light felt a certain subjection to the richness.

      Coincidentally, the useless person doing an odd job is the one to ensure that eventually, the street lights on the road beneath that window are turned off. Where far away, he - maybe he’s the only one - can see the shape and face

      of the beautiful and sad Mary Jane.

      So, the last light in Paris remains lit on the landing full of snow

      beyond Ladurée’s backyard...

      Then there is only night and few stars in the sky.

      You can make out a stealthy shadow, fast in the little and only light on. Maybe a thief beyond the gate? ... After an imperceptible second, the shadow vanishes into thin air, and

      in the dark of the deep night.

      To Mary Jane’s misted eyes it seemed to have bent like a caress or a kiss; she was still motionless in her strong melancholy, watching the snow falling.

      Then there was only night and few fragile stars in the sky.

      So, the last light in Paris remained lit on the landing full of snow, in

      Ladurée’s backyard. Where now there was a cradle at the large gate, lightly resting on the soft

      blanket of snow.

      Inside the cradle, under a big blanket of heavy wool,

      there is a child who screams, cries and

      despairs; on the edge of the cradle there’s a name,

      written with the painters’ bloody red:

      Jane Baptiste.

      The sharp crying of the newborn is like a magic flute, like an ultrasonic fluctuating and invisible call.

      Lights up and awakens the other houses in the neighborhood.

      It’s creating a small gathering of useless and curious people who want to know.

      Even Mary Jane comes down and the guy comes up; he who switches off the street lamps with its long iron

      now abandoned on the ground.

      Mary Jane shouted astonished, bringing her little hands on her cheeks.

      Mary Jane’s stepmother falsely

      ordered the housekeeper.

      While she invited the priest to enter the house, looking at him with watchful and vile eyes.

      Leaving out the rest of nosy neighbors.

      The snow kept falling in large flakes.

      Now, in the enlightened hall of the villa there were three people plus the priest and the little cradle.

      They were all standing still, waiting for someone to start speaking, a task that was quickly acquitted by Madam Tussauds, resourceful and dictator, but also very scenic and theatrical.

      - Insolent peasants! They creep even into

      our homes to bring the evil fruit

      of their sins! It’s incredible!

      Isn’t

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