Formerly fan of Fred Vargas and his lunar Commissioner, I remain amazed once finished reading the last installment of the adventures of the band at Adamsberg. Certainly, the strength of intrigue and police techniques have never been strong Miss Vargas, who always put everything on his characters endearing to remain strong. But with this book it falls at a Musso or Levy. The plot here is totally ridiculous, worthy of a pimply schoolboy a bit cheesy! The previous parts, iconoclastic, poetic, sometimes wacky had never fallen to a level of improbability as staggering: this ridiculous murder story on a small island of Iceland, this ridiculous police brigade that never seeks to ascertain the facts , ridiculous serendipity, the hypermnésiques witnesses and wild boar bodyguard. As for this part of the plot on the company to study the writings of Robespierre and his reconstructions of sessions of the National Assembly during the Terror is preposterous. So if the main characters are still there, there is nothing else to put in their mouths apart nonsense. It has moreover a grueling length, both the book lacks material and accuracy. A very disappointing volume, smoky and sloppy. Vargas is interstellar freewheel, at this rate it will soon overtake Pluto.