“Écrasez l’Infâme! If we believe absurdities, we commit atrocities.” -Voltaire Silver moonlight flickers through branches waltzing with the breeze of a cooling November night. A star or two two-steps behind the trees and curtsies to the darkening street corners as café lights rise in welcome to the symphony of sounds – the chatter of workers shedding their clocks, tools stowed and files stacked, the tremulous sighs of lovers rolling fortune’s wheel Lady Luck in jolly roulette. Over the babble, the deep bass of a band riffs its grit and backs the swelling vibes of the avenue with raucous joie de vivre, a chemical soup du jour of color and creed, class and culture simmering on the low heat of liberté, egalité, and fraternité. A young man like all the rest joins in taking a seat at the crowded Café Voltaire, placing an order for a croque monsieur, perhaps, an Orangina, s’il vous plait. In the yellowing haze of the terrace lights, he sits in silence absorbing a laugh, a whisper, a slap on the back, two beers slammed in salute to soaring spirits. Later, a survivor said he lightly rubbed his belly like a man savoring his pleasure, releasing his device of hate in darkness on a street named for tolerance, the bête noire on the Boulevard Voltaire. ***