𝑰𝒍 𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒖𝒏𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒅𝒖 𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒏. 𝑪𝒐𝒖𝒄𝒉𝒆́ 𝒅𝒂𝒏𝒔 𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝒍𝒊𝒕, 𝒊𝒍 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒆 𝒍𝒂 𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒊𝒆. 𝑫𝒂𝒏𝒔 𝒔𝒂 𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝒅𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒓𝒆, 𝒍𝒂 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒕𝒆́𝒈𝒆𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒅𝒆𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒔 𝒅’𝒂𝒊𝒓, 𝒄𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆 𝒋𝒐𝒍𝒊𝒆 𝒇𝒍𝒆𝒖𝒓 𝒅’𝒂𝒓𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒅𝒂𝒏𝒔 𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝒑𝒐𝒕 𝒏𝒆𝒊𝒈𝒆𝒖𝒙 𝒗𝒂𝒄𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒆 𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒔 𝒓𝒆́𝒔𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆 𝒕𝒐𝒖𝒋𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔. 𝑬𝒍𝒍𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒔 𝒎𝒖𝒍𝒕𝒊𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒇𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒔 𝒅𝒂𝒏𝒔 𝒍𝒆𝒔 𝒎𝒊𝒓𝒐𝒊𝒓𝒔 𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒆𝒖𝒓𝒔 𝒅𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝒆́𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒏 𝒆𝒕 𝒅𝒖 𝒋𝒐𝒚𝒂𝒖 𝒆𝒏 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒕 𝒆́𝒎𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒖𝒅𝒆 𝒒𝒖’𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒆 𝒔𝒖𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒎𝒆. 𝑬𝒍𝒍𝒆 𝒏’𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒑𝒍𝒖𝒔 𝒔𝒆𝒖𝒍𝒆 𝒄𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆 𝒏𝒖𝒊𝒕. 𝑺𝒂 𝒓𝒂𝒚𝒐𝒏𝒏𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆 𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒆 𝒓𝒆́𝒔𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒒𝒖’𝒂𝒖 𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒅𝒆 𝒍’𝒖𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒆. 𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒃𝒊𝒆𝒏 𝒅𝒆 𝒕𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒔 𝒔𝒆𝒔 𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆́𝒔 𝒅’𝒐𝒓 𝒋𝒐𝒖𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒄 𝒍𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒎𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒃𝒔𝒄𝒖𝒓𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒐𝒏𝒕-𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒔 𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒆𝒏 𝒆𝒏𝒍𝒖𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒍𝒆𝒔 𝒑𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒔 𝒅𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒓𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒏𝒕 𝒊𝒍 𝒏𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒏𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒓𝒂 𝒋𝒂𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒔 𝒍𝒂 𝒇𝒊𝒏. 𝑪’𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒍𝒂 𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒆̀𝒓𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒈𝒆 𝒅𝒆 𝒄𝒆 𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏, 𝒍𝒂 𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒆̀𝒓𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒈𝒆 𝒅𝒆 𝒔𝒂 𝒗𝒊𝒆, 𝒊𝒍 𝒏’𝒂 𝒑𝒍𝒖𝒔 𝒍𝒂 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒄𝒆 𝒅’𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒓 𝒖𝒏𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒖𝒗𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒆. 𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒃𝒊𝒆𝒏 𝒅𝒆 𝒕𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒔 𝒓𝒆́𝒔𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂-𝒊𝒍 𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒐𝒓𝒆, 𝒊𝒍 𝒏𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒖𝒕 𝒑𝒂𝒔 𝒔’𝒆́𝒕𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒗𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒆. 𝑰𝒏𝒆𝒙𝒐𝒓𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆𝒔, 𝒍𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒊𝒈𝒖𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒔 𝒅𝒖 𝒓𝒆́𝒗𝒆𝒊𝒍 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒍𝒆𝒖𝒓 𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕, 𝒔𝒂𝒏𝒔 𝒔’𝒆𝒏𝒇𝒍𝒂𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒓, 𝒔𝒂𝒏𝒔 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒓. 𝑳𝒆 𝒕𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒔 𝒆𝒔𝒕 𝒖𝒏 𝒇𝒍𝒆𝒖𝒗𝒆 𝒊𝒏𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒊 𝒆𝒕 𝒊𝒎𝒑𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒅𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒏𝒕 𝒏𝒖𝒍 𝒏𝒆 𝒑𝒆𝒖𝒕 𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒆̂𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒍𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔. 𝑬𝒏𝒗𝒐𝒖̂𝒕𝒆́ 𝒑𝒂𝒓 𝒄𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆 𝒇𝒍𝒂𝒎𝒎𝒆 𝒂𝒓𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆 𝒄𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒆 𝒅𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒖𝒎𝒆𝒕 𝒅𝒆 𝒍𝒂 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒙 𝒒𝒖𝒆 𝒍𝒆𝒔 𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒏’𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒑𝒂𝒔 𝒂̀ 𝒎𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒓 𝒃𝒊𝒆𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒕𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒔 𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒖𝒎𝒆́, 𝒔𝒐𝒏 𝒄œ𝒖𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒊 𝒅’𝒂𝒎𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒆𝒕 𝒅𝒆 𝒎𝒆́𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒐𝒍𝒊𝒆, 𝒂𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒔𝒆́, 𝒓𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒕. 𝑳𝒂 𝒇𝒍𝒂𝒎𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒆, 𝒎𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒕, 𝒔𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒖𝒓𝒕. 𝑰𝒍 𝒔’𝒆́𝒕𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒕 𝒆𝒏 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒙 𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒔 𝒑𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒆́𝒆𝒔 𝒅𝒆 𝒔𝒂 𝒗𝒊𝒆. 𝑨𝒖 𝒎𝒆̂𝒎𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒅𝒂𝒏𝒔 𝒍𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒅𝒆 𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒆𝒓 𝒅𝒆𝒔 𝒇𝒍𝒂𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒅𝒆 𝒗𝒊𝒆 𝒔’𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒖𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒔 𝒆𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒇𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒔.
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