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Reading The Hound of the Baskervilles right now (for the first time!) and enjoying it so much. This is one of my favorites in the series because of the amazing writing and the drama. I want to start watching the show on BBC during the summer because I am so in love with SH right now <3 <3 
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Sir Arthur Conan Doyle left this mortal coil on July 7, 1930. We remember some of his contributions.

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A time-traveling Arthur Conan Doyle? The Spiritualist in him wants to believe.

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Elementary my dear Watson.

Published in 1867 Monsieur Lecoq is the third “judicial” novel of the French novelist Émile Gaboriau.

A young French police agent is enquiring about three murders in a hovel, The Poivriere, near the old Barriere d'Italie, between the outer boulevards and the fortifications.

It’s winter night, the Poivriere is standing alone, in a tract of waste ground.

The back door of the hovel open into a small garden. In this sheltered enclosure the snow had not melted, and upon its white surface the dark stains of numerous footprints presented themselves.

This is the Lecoq’s modus operandi :

Quick in his motions, and understanding how to maneuvre the lantern in accordance with his wishes, the young police agent explored the surroundings in a very short space of time.

A bloodhound in pursuit of his prey would have been less alert, less discerning, less agile.

He came and went, now turning, now pausing, now retreating, now hurrying on again without any apparent reason ; he scrutinized, he questioned every surrounding object : the ground, the logs of wood, the blocks of stone, in a word, nothing escaped his glance. For a moment he would remain standing, then fall upon his knees, and at times lie flat upon his stomach with his face so near the ground that his breath must have melted the snow. He had drawn a tape-line from his pocket, and using it with a carpenter's dexterity, he measured, measured, and measured.

And all his movements were accompanied with the wild gestures of a madman, interspersed with oaths or short laughs, with exclamations of disappointment or delight.

After a quarter of an hour of this strange exercise, he placed the lantern on a stone, wiped his hands with his pocket-handkerchief, and said : Now I know everything !

«This expanse of earth covered with snow is a white page upon which the people we are in search of have written, not only their movements, their goings, and comings, but also their secret thoughts, their alternate hopes and anxieties. What do these footprints say to you ? To me they are alive like the persons who made them; they breathe, speak, accuse !

These are the facts as I have read them. When the murderer repaired to the Poivriere with the two women, his companion—I should say his accomplice— came here to wait. He was a tall man of middle age ; he wore a soft hat and a shaggy brown overcoat ; he was, moreover, probably married, or had been so, as he had a wedding-ring on the little finger of his right hand. »

Lecoq explains his deductions :

«I told you that the man was of middle age. It was not difficult to see that after one had examined his heavy, dragging step. I told you that he was tall--an easy matter. When I saw that he had been leaning upon that block of granite there to the left, I measured the block in question. It is almost five feet five inches in height, consequently a man who could rest his elbow upon it must be at least six feet high. The mark of his hand proves that I am not mistaken. On seeing that he had brushed away the snow which covered the plank, I asked myself what he had used; I thought that it might be his cap, and the mark left by the peak proves that I was right. Finally, if I have discovered the color and the material of his overcoat, it is only because when he wiped the wet board, some splinters of the wood tore off a few tiny flakes of brown wool, which I have found, and which will figure in the trial. »

Elementary my dear Watson.
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Quelque ressemblance... A striking resemblance...

Un dessin de Charles Altamont Doyle, dans les années 1880. A drawing of Charles Altamont Doyle, in the 1880s.
 
Une gravure parisienne de Charles Meyron, en 1865, la même inspiration fantastique...
A Parisian engraving of Charles Meyron, in 1865, the same fantastic inspiration…
 
 
Charles Altamont, le père de Conan Doyle, sombra dans l’alcoolisme et la folie et fut interné en asile psychiatrique jusqu’à sa mort.
 
Charles Meryon, officier de marine et  graveur français, fut lui aussi interné à l’asile de Charenton pour maladies mentales, où il fut soigné par le docteur Gachet (le même qui soigna Van Gogh). Il y décéda à 46 ans.
 
Deux dessins, deux hommes voulant s’échapper de leur réalité psychotique en donnant forme à leurs fantasmes et leur angoisse.
 
Quant à Conan Doyle, n’oublions pas que, fidèle lecteur d’Edgar Poe, il écrivit de nombreux récits fantastiques.
 
 
Charles Altamont, Conan Doyle’s father, get into alcohol and was interned for madness in an asylum.
 
Charles Meryon, son of an English physician, naval officer and French engraver, was also interned in the asylum of Charenton for mental illness, where he was cared by doctor Gachet (the same one who take care of Van Gogh). He died there 46 years old.
 
Two drawings, two men wanting to escape from their psychotic reality by giving visual form to their fantasies and their anguish.
 
As for the fantasy, remember that Conan Doyle, faithful reader of Edgar Poe, wrote numerous fantastic tales.

http://peccadille.net/2015/04/14/charles-meryon-et-paris-entre-realisme-et-fantastique/
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