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The legend of the "ripper", half-wise and half-wizard assassin, is very old in my land. I heard it in tender years, whispered or chanted in terrifying stanzas, perhaps on the edge of my cradle, by the old maid, perhaps in the village kitchen, in the gathering of the peasants, who commented on it with tremors of fear or dark laughter. It reappeared to me, like a phantasmagorical creation of Hoffmann, in the dark and twisted alleys of a town that until recently remained dyed in medieval colors, just as if there were still pilgrims in the world and the anthem still resounded under the vaults of the cathedral. from Ultreja. Later, the clamor of the newspapers, the vile panic of the ignorant crowd, make the tale rise again in my fancy, tragic and ridiculous like Quasimodo, hunchbacked with all the humps that disfigure blind Terror and infamous Superstition. I'm going to tell it. Enter with me courageously into the shadow zone of the soul.
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