Le savon se desintegre chez un ancien gendarme.
Tarbes, 28 fevrier.
“En tant qu’homme de science, je ne puis rien car je ne comprends pas ce qui se produit,” a declare le docteur Carriere, qui dirige un laboratoire d’analyses et est medicin de l’hygiene municipale. Comme beaucoup de Tarbais, le praticien venait d’etre temoin de curieux phenomenes dont le domicile d’un ancien gendarme est le theatre. Le savon s’y “desintegre” comme un vulgaire atome.
En 1941, M. Edmond Trebouil, aujourd’hui age de 76 ans, vint si’installer avec son espouse dans une maison situee pres de l’Arsenal qu’il possedait depuis 1914. Il pensait y jouir d’une paisible retraite apres 30 ans passes loyalement dans la marechaussee.
Il y a quelques annees, son petit-fils Edmond Dabezies et sa petite fille Claude, 12 ans, vinrent les rejoindre. Jusqu’a la semaine derniere, la vie de la famille fut sans histoire.
Noisette flottante.
Ill y a huit jours, au cours du repas, l’ancien gendarme constata que le potage avait un gout de savon: – Tu as confondu le paquet de lessive avec celui de sel, reprocha-t-il en souriant a son epousse.
Mais Mme Trebouil ne commettait pas ce genre d’erreur. Et d’ailleurs tous les plats se mirent a sentir le savon. Dans toute la maison, de la cave au grenier, on retrouvait des paillettes sur les meubles. En une nuit une grosse savonnette verte se volatilisa. L’eau, celle du robinet, comme celle qui avait ete distillee dans les laboratoires de l’Arsenal, se trouvait – en quelques minutes – transformee en liquide mousseux, surmonte d’une noisette flottante.
100 grammes en 36 heures.
M. Dabezies, qui faisait la sieste mercredi apres-midi s’est reveille le visage couvert de paillettes. Mme Ribaut, chimiste a l’Arsenal apporta un jour un morceau de savon de Marseille de 200 grammes. Trente-six heures apres, il n’en restait que la moitie. On en a retrouve des parcelles dans toute la maison. Il est impossible de faire la cuisine. Ces inquietantes manifestations – que personne jusqu’ici ne peut expliquer – ne se produisent qu’au domicile des Trebouil. Chez les voisins, rien ne se passe.
Le gendarme et sa femme ont jete au feu tous les morceaux de savon qui pouvaient rester dans la maison, mais le phenomene continue. Aussi sont-ils alles se reposer dans une propriete qu’il possedent dans le Gers. Dans quinze jours ils reviendront. En attendant, quotidiennement un voisin vient voir si la “desintegration” se poursuit. Tandis que tous les chimistes tarbais sont sur les dents et essayent d’expliquer…
(Paris-Presse, 1 mars 1958).
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Google translate:
The soap disintegrates in a former policeman’s home.
Tarbes, February 28.
“As a scientist, I can’t do anything because I don’t understand what is happening,” said Dr. Carriere, who runs an analysis laboratory and is a municipal health physician. Like many people from Tarbes, the practitioner had just witnessed curious phenomena in the home of a former policeman. The soap “disintegrates” there like a common atom.
In 1941, Mr. Edmond Trebouil, now 76 years old, came to settle with his wife in a house near the Arsenal which he had owned since 1914. He thought he would enjoy a peaceful retirement there after 30 years spent loyally in the constabulary.
A few years ago, his grandson Edmond Dabezies and his granddaughter Claude, 12, joined them. Until last week, the family’s life was uneventful.
Eight days ago, during the meal, the former policeman noticed that the soup had a taste of soap: – You confused the packet of detergent with that of salt, he reproached, smiling at his wife.
But Madame Trebouil did not make that kind of mistake. And besides, all the dishes began to smell of soap. Throughout the house, from the cellar to the attic, there were sequins on the furniture. In one night a big green bar of soap vanished. Water, that of the tap, like that which had been distilled in the laboratories of the Arsenal, was – in a few minutes – transformed into sparkling liquid, surmounted by a floating hazelnut.
Mr. Dabezies, who was taking a nap on Wednesday afternoon, woke up with his face covered in sequins. Madame Ribaut, a chemist at the Arsenal, brought a 200-gram piece of Marseille soap one day. Thirty-six hours later, only half of it remained. We found patches of it all over the house. It is impossible to cook. These disturbing manifestations – which no one can explain so far – only occur at the Trebouil home. At the neighbors, nothing happens.
The gendarme and his wife threw all the pieces of soap that could remain in the house into the fire, but the phenomenon continues. So they went to rest in a property he owns in the Gers. In fifteen days they will return. In the meantime, a neighbor comes every day to see if the “disintegration” continues. While all the Tarbes chemists are on their toes and try to explain…
(Paris-Presse, March 1, 1958).
La Tour Saint-Jacques, Bulletin de Parapsychologie 13-14. Jan/April 1958.
Forever blowing bubbles in French home?
Whenever a piece of soap is brought into the house of Edmond Trebouil, a 76-year-old retired French policeman, half of it vanishes overnight. Then the trouble starts. Soap flakes fall in every room. The weird, unaccountable “fall out” is particularly concentrated in glasses of wine and saucepans containing coffee, milk and soup. Everything tastes of soap.
Water from the household taps lathers in a few minutes. So does water brought in by neighbours, and even distilled water supplied by chemists.
Things have reached such a pitch that the Trebouils can stand it no longer. They have shut the house up for a fortnight and gone into the country.
Dr Georges Carrere, Tarbes medical officer for health, can offer no explanation for the phenomena. “One is almost tempted to regard it as a manifestation of the supernatural,” he said.
“I’ve never believed in ghosts,” retorted Monsieur Trebouil, closing his front door with a bang. “All the same, I couldn’t bear to live here and spend the rest of my life blowing bubbles.”
Belfast Telegraph, 13th March 1958.