In partnership with Rocambole, the app for reading differently, we are offering a new episode of Tina Bartoli's literary soap L'Ancre Noire every day at 5 p.m.
Summary of season II (the summary of the first season is here):
The eldest son of Jean De Saint Geores took refuge in the Czech Republic after a life of search for treasure which led him, in particular, to assist on August 8, 2008 to the sinking of L'Espérance, with Abel and his class on board . For years afterwards, he searched in vain for the trace of the wreckage of this ship, until, under investigation for an investigation of wreckage, he took refuge far from the sea. While he was walking in a village, he falls into a mysterious shop on a seller who orders him to go back to sea and gives him an old bible. Inside the binding, he discovers the 18th century encrypted correspondence of the former owner of the Vosges manor.
In Corsica, Clémence is spotted by Octave, the other son of Jean De Saint Geores, accompanied by a man with a disturbing appearance. She manages to escape them and take a flight to the mainland. Direction Hyères, where she finds her ex-stepfather and her ex-stepmother, Daphne, suffering from Alzheimer's disease.
SEASON II, EPISODE 6 - The silent correspondence
I had to face the facts: for Daphne, I was only a stranger; nothing remained of the tender affection that had once linked us. As in the past, when Abel was lost, I decided to drown my pain in the workplace.
The next day, shutting myself up in the office, I immersed myself in the archives collected during my husband's research around L'Espérance . When I opened a small notebook, I recognized Abel's tight handwriting and my heart stopped. I had just plunged back into the past, more than ten years back, at the time when, feverishly, he scribbled notes about this frigate converted into a merchant ship; it had finally become an obsession for him. The shock was such that the idea of giving up crossed my mind: why insist on wanting to make the dead speak? It was so painful. Oblivion seemed to me the best therapy. I realized, however, that fleeing and forgetting were the strategies I had instinctively adopted so far. What had they brought me? Nothing. My heart continued to capsize at the sight of Abel's writing; the wound was still open. I had fled the De Geores mansion and its nightmarish memory to be caught up in the maquis of an island in the Mediterranean, by Octave and his accomplice. I had wanted to erase from my memory the fatal shadow of Hope but, relentlessly, it came back to haunt me. I had to go to the end of my fears to understand and perhaps, finally, deliver myself.
With the rage of the madmen, I went back to work, immersing myself in the documentation. I unearthed mountains of naval plans and an ocean of ancient and current nautical charts. I allowed myself to be overwhelmed by the maritime position reports accompanied by notes, deductions, reflections, questions raised by Abel. He had photocopied all the maritime registers for the period concerned, from the port of Nantes to those of Hispaniola via the island of Gorée in Senegal. These period documents told me that Hope had sunk on May 9, 1788 during a memorable storm. I discovered that Abel had died a stone's throw from the sinking of the original 18th century frigate. The drama took place in a pass known as the "Roaring" in connection with the headwinds that clashed in this knot formed by the coast and its breakers.
Did I at least know it at the time? I did not remember any more, so much my memory had hurried to drive these painful events into the opaque limbo of oblivion.
Evening fell on the medieval alleys of Hyères and my eyes tired in the waning light of the end of the day, but, driven by an obstinate thirst to discover the truth, I paid no attention to it. I had just extracted from a leather briefcase two yellow leaves which seemed particularly promising when the ceiling light came on, then went out immediately. Surprised, I jumped around: a motionless figure loomed in the doorway. This vision in the darkness froze me with terror; it echoed the sinister memory of De Saint Geores, playing with my nerves, while I was locked in the anchor cellar of the castle. When the light shone again, I recognized, lurking behind the door, Daphne. She played with the switch and stared at me without smiling; his gaze shone with a strange gleam. As I opened my mouth to breathe a few words of welcome, she cut me off abruptly:
- You're going to die, little schemer.
- Come on, come on Daphne, I tried to articulate in a natural tone, but she didn't let me continue.
Still staring, playing with electricity, she repeated:
- You're going to die, because I'm going to kill you.
Terrified, I remained without reaction. The light went out: plunged into darkness, I could make out Daphné's motionless figure. Then this silent face-to-face ended. Softly, the threatening shadow evaporated in the emerging night.
The three of us had dinner under the wisteria. Daphne did not take my eyes off me, sly, threatening, ready to pounce. André, too busy distilling his good humor and his joy in taking care of us, noticed nothing. He seemed so naively happy at the moment that I made the decision not to reveal anything to him about his wife's gruesome intentions. I didn't want to risk destabilizing the semblance of balance that made him so happy. Poor André, he had silently endured so much suffering.
At the start of the evening, I returned to shut myself up in Abel's small office, determined to study the two yellowed leaves that I had discovered. I took care to turn the key in the lock and set to work.
The first sheet that I unfolded puzzled me: the large curly writing that covered it told me that it was a letter from a certain Estienne Lebel addressed to a man named Dupasquier, captain of his state. This letter had been handwritten in Nantes and was dated August 24, 1787. This is the essential of what I was able to draw from it; the body of the correspondence was covered with a series of letters associated in a completely unintelligible manner:
'Mdl elhq uhfx yrwuh frxuulhu gdwh gx 15 Mxlq 1787, etc. "
The second document, however, came in a lighter version. Its author was still Estienne Lebel, still from Nantes; he wrote to his daughter on September 21, 1788:
"Laure, my darling daughter,
We have ceased to hope. Wait no more, the captain will not return. He was swept away in the roaring with our hope. Here I am ruined, I return to Otaville. In the absence of a good husband, you will take care of your old father, broken by his destiny. "
These two old sheets left me doubtful, I learned nothing that I did not already know; Hope had sunk, bringing with it the shipowner's bankruptcy. However, I had kept the memory of an information delivered by De Saint Geores: after its ruin, Estienne Lebel had taken care to reproduce the anchors of the armed boats by her company. Like the originals, each reproduction faithfully bore the name of the ship and its date of entry into the service of the company. I remembered perfectly the date indicated on the anchor of Esperance : 1788. But the missive of the shipowner announcing his ruin was also dated 1788: could it be that Esperance sank the year of its entry into the Lebel fleet? Why did the anchor tattooed on my shoulder, a scrupulous reproduction of the original anchor taken from Abel's work, not bear a date? And why had Lebel waited five months to announce the disaster to his daughter?
Losing myself in conjectures, I only manage to confuse myself a little more. So I decided to go to bed, to resume my research the next morning. I then heard the characteristic roar on the red tiles of the roof: the Mistral had risen, and it was blowing hard.
While I was in deep sleep, the unpleasant feeling of suffocation suddenly took hold of me. I was terribly hot, I was suffocating, struggling to hope to get a breath of fresh air. I opened my eyes and saw nothing but black. As I came back painfully to myself, I felt something cottony grip my head. Suddenly, my brain finally sent the warning signals: someone was firmly pressing a pillow on my face. Reaching out, I grabbed my assailant's shoulders. In a last instinct for survival, I pushed them with all my might to finally free myself. As the air entered my lungs again, I saw Daphne sprawling on the floor. She started to scream like a madwoman. As I rushed towards her to help her, she jumped up, opened the French window which overlooked the garden and fled towards the small path which led to the ruins of the old castle. At that moment, André entered, breathless:
- What's going on ?
- It's Daphne, she ran away, quickly, we have to catch her! I shouted, in the greatest confusion.
But as we were about to leave to go in search of it, an orange glow lit up the early morning light: the pine tree above the garden was on fire. Fanned by the Mistral, a flame jumped towards the neighboring oak which, in turn, began to crackle, bringing with it the conflagration of the vegetation around.
- I'm going to get Daphne, call the firefighters, André ordered me, before jumping into the smoking path.
He returned a few minutes later, drawing a black Daphne with soot, screaming in terror. She had not gone very far, André had found her curled up on herself a few steps from the burning pine. I noticed that she was holding a small object in her clenched fist. Observing attentively, I recognized the stone of a lighter.
The firefighters were quick to arrive on the scene: the fire, pushed by the mistral, was taking on alarming proportions, threatening the first dwellings of the medieval city. It was necessary to evacuate the place in the midst of the sirens of firefighters, the gendarmerie, amazed onlookers and some journalists who came to film the disaster. While reigning the greatest confusion, the nice André took the time to answer the microphone of France 3. And while we followed the ambulance which transported Daphne, danced in my head the flames of a macabre round. The fire of the De Saint Geores manor, the blaze of the hill of the old castle ... two bonfires crackling in the name of an evil mystery: Hope.
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