By noon, Cruchot was deep in the brush, camouflaged with palm fronds and wielding a pair of binoculars like a sniper rifle. He watched as a group of rebellious youths—including, unbeknownst to him, his own daughter Nicole—splashed in the surf.
"In the name of the Law!" Cruchot screamed, tripping over a driftwood log and performing a perfect somersault into the shallow water. He emerged dripping wet, pointing a soggy finger at a bewildered sunbather. "Your swimsuit is missing three square centimeters of fabric! To the station!" Le.gendarme.de.Saint-Tropez.(1964).HDlight.1080...
As the moon rose over the Mediterranean, Cruchot stood on the quay. He had the painting, he had his daughter, and he had a newfound, albeit grudging, respect for the chaos of the coast. He looked at Gerber, who was exhausted. "Tomorrow, sir?" By noon, Cruchot was deep in the brush,