La Chauve-Souris

In a tender, slightly whimsical voice, the story opens in the small quarter of Jolibeau, where the narrator spends long summer days wandering between the garden of his grandmother’s sister, the hospice’s old chaplain, and a kindly neighbor who plays flute beside his chicken coop. The children are more interested in the sky than the grass, tracing clouds into monsters and naming the stars—Vega, Capella, even dreaming of the distant Southern Cross—while the flat Lot plain stretches endlessly beyond the hills. This early reverie builds a world where light and shadow compete, and every evening promises a new constellation to discover.

Soon the narrator’s curiosity shifts from distant heavens to the fluttering bats that emerge as the sky darkens. He muses that an astronomer’s work is not only about distant perfection but about finding ways to draw nearer to the objects of study, a thought that mirrors his own restless quest for self‑knowledge. The lyrical prose invites listeners into a reflective childhood that balances wonder with quiet introspection.