This article was published in the daily newspaper Samedi-Soir, Paris, France, on October 14, 1954.
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Mourieras (Correze), France, Sept. 10, 1954, 07:15 p.m.:
ANTOINE MAZAUD has just bound his last heaf of oat. He thinks that the night falls already rather quickly in this season and that he was right to work late to finish before the first cold. On one kick of his heap, he adjusts the strap of his haversack and his fork on the shoulder, rejected his cap away of the forehead, and moves at great strides towards the hamlet located at approximately two kilometers.
He is a strong bloke, ole' Mazaud. Despite his fifty-eight years, one would find few like him to farm on this arid ground of the plate of Millevaches, where brooms and heather grow better than corn. It was almost night, but this sunken lane, bordered of ferns, he knows it down to every stones, he know each of its ruts. He walks faster, because he's afraid to be late for the soup. Indeed, here's the shortcut which, through the moor, leads to his farm. He engages there, walks fifty meters, and suddenly freezes still. Three steps in front of him, along a bush, a worrying silhouette shows.
Antoine Mazaud, however, does not have any reason to be afraid. Everyone has the right to walk on the plate, even at eight hours of the evening, and it would not be the first time that Mazaud meets a poacher while returning from his field. And yet the fact remains: Antoine Mazaud is afraid. Inexplicably afraid.
Something makes him think that the man is not local.He cannot distinguish his features, but his clothing is of dark color, and his head, which he holds obstinately hung low, appears enclosed in a helmet as those which the motorcyclists wear. He is of small stature, and he is rocking, without saying a word.
In his callous palm, ole' Mazaud father squeezes the handle of his fork. If the unknown wants evil to him, he will get some reaction.
A few seconds went by, then suddenly, the man shook his hand. It is an obvious sign of peace. Mazaud shakes hands with him. The unknown advances, still lowering the head. He takes Mazaud's hand, presses it firmly, and, attracting the farmer towards him, he kisses him. Awestruck, Antoine Mazaud lets him do this and has just hardly realized what has happened that, already, the unknown moves away at great steps on the moor. All the scene lasted one minute and neither one nor the other of the protagonists pronounced a single word.
Still under the shock of the surprise, Antoine automatically resumes his walk.
- I feared another meeting of this sort, which perhaps would have been less peaceful, he would later say.
But hardly had he crossed twenty meters, when he sees "the Thing", or rather he hears a light rustle which makes him turn over. At approximately fifty of meters from him, an apparatus of elongated shape, slightly shining, measuring approximately from four to five meters length, rises gently from the ground and takes altitude little by little.
After having passed under the powerline which borders the road of Tarnac, "the Thing" disappears in the night. Antoine Mazaud, from Mouri ras (Corrèze), will become the man in the news.
He tells the affair to his wife, initially, then to his son who is a teacher in Bort-les-Orgues. Soon, all the village is well-informed and, little by little, the case of the ole' Mazaud comes into the ears of the mobile brigade of Tulle, which dispatches police chief Bernard on the premises, from the General Intelligence. To him as with the others, Antoine Mazaud can only repeat what he said: The man... the kiss... the Thing...
On the spot, the investigators discover nothing. No landing trace, no clue. Before to have even started, the investigation is blocked at the declarations of Antoine Mazaud. The mystery remains whole.
Such is the manner in which the adventure of Mr. Mazaud was reported. This story seemed surprising enough to justify the impassioned interest of the public and to make those which regard the flying saucers as interplanetary apparatus utter clamours of triumph.
A local investigation revealed certain rather disturbing details all the same.
"THE BEING WHICH I EMBRACED WAS OF SMALL SIZE," said Antoine Mazaud and he added later "HE EMBRACED ME WITHOUT RAISING THE HEAD." Antoine Mazaud has a size of 1 m 80 approximately, it appears rather difficult that an individual of small size embraces him without raising the head.
DARKNESS PREVENTED TO DESCRIBE FACIAL FEATURES OF THE UNKNOWN, tells Antoine Mazaud. That however did not prevent him from distinguishing certain vestimentary details such as the motorcylcist helmet.
THE APPARATUS WENT UNDER A POWERLINE, affirms Mr. Mazaud. Close to the place where he was and at the hour when the event occurred, it would have been necessary to have an hawk's sight to notice this detail with certainty.
Lastly, it seems that certain precise details came to be grafted thereafter onto the account by the witness. Is this so astonishing, when a flock of people overpowered Mr. Mazaud with questions and when he has to repeat his story more than one hundred times?
Who subjected Antoine Mazaud to a questionnaire bearing on absolutely irrefutable facts? Who tried to reduce back his adventure to data which he would have judged certain himself?
The mystery is perhaps not as impenetrable as it appears, but Saint-Thomas would perhaps not be too much to clear it up.
