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Summary of season II (the summary of the first season is here)
Joachim, the eldest son of Jean De Saint Geores took refuge in the Czech Republic after a life of treasure seeker which led him, in particular, to attend on August 8, 2008 the sinking of L'Espérance second of the name, with at its edge Abel and his class. 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. a village, an old man gives him a bible. Inside the binding, he discovers part of the encrypted correspondence of Estienne Lebel, first owner of his father's manor, in the 18th century. By deciphering it, he understands that Lebel had made believe in the sinking of the first Hope to touch a gold mine of 500 kg with the help of Captain Dupasquier to whom he promises his daughter's hand. Unfortunately, the captain seems to have been shipwrecked on the way back, August 8, 1788, with his nest egg. Son De Saint Geores returns to his father's manor, where he sees Clémence then captive, and searches in vain for additional details on L'Espérance. He witnessed helplessly the conflagration of the manor that had ended season I. Saving Octave from the fire, Joachim fled to Paris. But when his brother tells him about the anchor tattooed on Clémence's shoulder blade, he understands that she is the wife of Abel, the shipwrecked man of 2008 and sets out to find her first in Corsica where he finds his trace and pushes him, while pursuing it, to take a flight for the continent. Then in Hyères, where the young woman found her ex-stepfather, André, and her ex-stepmother, Daphne, suffering from Alzheimer's disease.
But in the middle of the night, Daphne, caught in a dementia crisis, tried to assassinate him before fleeing by setting fire to the surrounding forest. In the emergency room, while waiting for news from Daphne, Clémence is joined by the two brothers after a chase. She ends up listening to them and realizing that they don't want to hurt her. They all go back together to Daphne and André and live a few peaceful days. Clémence and Joachim exchange their info concerning L'Espérance but gray areas remain…
SEASON II, EPISODE 11 - The white grain of Yudus
I was forced to admit it: despite the information provided by Clémence and the research in her husband's archives, we were no more advanced. No matter how much I turned things over in my head, I was at an impasse. The information patiently accumulated by Abel only told us that the official history and the letters found in the leather briefcase had only confirmed what I had deduced from the correspondence already in my possession. It seemed that L'Espérance , laure and the mystery surrounding these two ships had won; what good is it to persist? Their secret was only a mirage, it will remain whole. It only remained for me to try to disappear again, I was going to resume the road, with no other goal than to blend into the background and, as in the past, I will stop my race when the wind has stopped blowing.
But this time, I will not be alone; in this adventure I had regained a brother, Octave, a faithful companion of my darkest hours. I did not know how to tell him of my decision, he finally seemed so stable, so happy, surrounded by Clemence and her parents-in-law. But the eternal fugitive that I was could not stay in France: in a mad hope of being born again, I had toasted my cartridges unnecessarily, I was advancing here in the open, I guessed that I was in constant danger. Following the fire at the De Saint Geores mansion and the disappearance of my father, the French police probably looked at me again. I didn't know if the billionaire's case had been closed by the American authorities, but I doubted it. In the midst of uncertainty, I could not continue to take such risks any longer.
I did not want the moving Duchamp family to learn of my troubled past, they would have been so disappointed if they had known that I was only a liar. Yes, I had lied to them and I was ashamed. If I had been born into a family like that, my existence would certainly have been very different: happiness is not a right, it begins in the great lottery of chance; some win, others lose.
I decided to leave us another twenty-four hours in the illusion of a happy life with these wonderful people and, tomorrow morning, I will take Octave silently into the black sedan, I will tell him that we are going for a walk . We will disappear without farewell from the healthy and gentle life of the Duchamp family.
But our last day in the little house against the castle hill began with a drama. Clémence returned empty-handed from the market: impossible to find the smallest pod of peas; she had scoured all the market gardeners in town, the rupture was total.
In front of the rising and disorderly agitation of Octave and Daphne, Clemence proposed a walk in the hope of creating a diversion. It was obviously categorically refused by the two frustrated shellers. André then came to his rescue with an idea of genius: he proposed to go and see the collection of ex-voto sailors from the collegiate church of Saint Paul. Knowing Octave's passion for replicas of frigates, he sold his project to him so well that my brother allowed himself to be convinced and, a few minutes later, we took the road to the church, dragging a surly and sulky Daphne, completely hermetic to the boisterous euphoria of Octave.
We climbed the steps leading to the heavy wooden door, one of the doors of which was open, and entered the freshness of the old religious building. A little lady greeted us, asking us if we knew the collection. André, still quick to start a discussion, extended his accent singing about his birth in the land of the cicadas, indicating the name of the rue Hyéroise where he was born, the primary school he had attended ... The hostess d welcome politely listened to her until she finally managed to cut him off with an “I let you watch, then”. Clémence, Octave and I had not waited for it to advance towards the impressive collection of pictorial representations which covered the walls of the apse from floor to ceiling.
Different shapes and sizes, sometimes naive, sometimes worked with care, all these offerings to God in thanks for a saved life testified to various maritime accidents in the Mediterranean. Here, the survivor of a drowning in Fréjus in the 16th century, there a 19th-century fisherman who survived a blow of tobacco off La Ciotat, or even a little higher, a freight boat represented with a strong house on starboard side under surprisingly blue skies. But beyond the color of the sky, I was immediately struck by the date written on the bottom of the small frame: 1788. A sentence was written under the hull of the ship, but impossible to decipher it from my position, the table was placed too high. Turning my head to look for Clemence, I saw her approach with a determined step, eyes wide, pointing to the canvas I had just noticed. We then rushed to the little lady at the reception desk to ask her permission to pick up the votive offer in order to examine it more closely. We encountered a categorical negative response. I insisted, begged, but the annoyed hostess threw me in the face in a dry tone:
- When you go to the Louvre, you also ask to win the Mona Lisa?
It was final.
Clemence gently pulled my sleeve and, as we walked away, she whispered in my ear: "I have a plan". Her tactics were simple: ask André to monopolize the attention of the supervisor, post Octave at the entrance to retain potential visitors while I made him the short ladder so that she could take down the painting. It is then up to us to decipher it as quickly as possible before putting it back in its place.
Fortunately, at that time, the guard took a phone call. We discreetly approached André to explain our strategy to him. Excited, he rubbed his hands:
- I am your man, a little action to maintain health, I like it! he affirmed, while Daphne's voice echoed under the arch of the church:
- Huh? What? What do we have to do ? I don't understand anything!
Obviously, Octave was delighted by the new role that we proposed to him. As soon as the hostess had hung up, André approached to ask her for information on a work positioned at the very bottom of the nave, opposite the place of our clandestine operation. As soon as they were out of sight, Octave pushed the heavy door leaf, which mutated into a dismal creak that André managed to cover up in a raised tone, while I coughed compulsively.
Everything was ready: with an alert gesture, Clemence placed her foot in my joined hands and I hoisted her towards the small painting. She tensed all the way and ended up reaching her with her fingertips. She came down with flexibility, a big smile hanging on her lips. But as we were looking at the work, a cry rang out in the nave; it was Daphne:
- The cursed black virgin!
I heard hurried steps coming back to us and André:
- Daphne! Come back !
Disaster! Our plan was coming to an end and, from one moment to the next, the supervisor would reveal the painting to us by hand. Clemence snatched it from me and slipped it quickly into her purse. Already, Daphne in the grip of the greatest panic, rushed towards the door which she began to drummer frantically:
- Help ! To me ! Let me go out !
In a creak of hinges, the door opened, letting Octave's head pass in amazement and vaguely worried.
- What are you doing, why is the door closed? shouted the guardian.
- Surely a breeze Madam, do not worry and thank you for the visit! said André as he rushed outside to catch Daphne.
Clémence and I followed suit, thanking the lady for the most relaxed air possible.
In good humor and bursts of laughter, we returned to the house. Then, when we were all seated around the kitchen table, Clemence ceremoniously took the painting out of her bag and handed it to me under the impatient and eager gaze of the family.
In concentrated silence, I read aloud the sentence written under the shell:
"Thank you Lord, for saving me from the white grain of the Yudus. "
No name, no signature, just this sentence.
- The white grain? asked Clemence, dubious.
- Yes, this is a phenomenon well known to sailors, I commented, and that explains the list of the boat under the blue sky. It happens when the sea is warm. When there is a thunderstorm somewhere and the rainwater comes into contact with the seawater, their meeting produces air which rises and begins to whirl. This mass of air can then travel several kilometers far from the storm. If a sailing boat, like those of the 18th century, is in its path, it can be destabilized by the violence of the whirlwind, to heel and sink. This apparently happened to this ship.
Octave, obviously very proud of my performance, expertly handed me a magnifying glass. I ran it over the painting when, suddenly, my heart jumped in my chest: on the hull of the ship, I had just noticed a tiny word, invisible to the naked eye: "Laure".
- It can only be a coincidence, what would Laure have come to do in the Mediterranean, since she was sailing towards Nantes? exclaimed Clemence.
- Despite everything, there are two coincidences: Laure and 1788, I justified.
- And then "Yudus", it's not a word from here, adds André.
- Ah no, that's for sure! "Yudus" is not a name from here, declared in a small voice Daphne, who participated from afar in our conversation ... it's Breton.
All eyes turned to Daphne:
- How do you know that? I cried, dumbfounded.
- Me zo breton avel just!
("Because I'm Breton, of course!")
My arms fell to me:
- And does that mean something "Yudus"? I jostled her, overwhelmed with excitement.
- Yes.
- What does it mean ? Can you translate it?
"Give me chocolate, young man, and I'll tell you," she said calmly.
Octave literally threw himself into the cupboard and handed him a tablet of Côte d'Or in a rough gesture. Perfidious, savoring its little effect, Daphne took his time to cut a piece of cocoa and tasted it slowly before our impatient eyes, in a religious silence. No longer holding it, Octave fidgeted:
- So ?
- "Yudus" means "Roaring" she declared placidly with her mouth full.
- The shipowner's letter! cried Clemence, then quoting her head: "We have ceased to hope. Wait no more, the captain will not return. He was swept away in the roaring with our hope ”. He therefore spoke neither of Hope, nor of the roars of Hispaniola!
- Daphne, does that speak to you of a reef, an islet, a pass in Brittany which would be called "Les roissants"? I asked hastily.
- Well yes, there is a lighthouse on it, it is well known. I went there when I was a child on vacation with my parents. You are a freshwater sailor!
- But where is it in Brittany?
- Near Hoëdic Island. Can I get some chocolate back?
An internet search quickly confirmed Daphne's words: there was indeed a lighthouse located 1.5 nautical miles southeast of the small island of Hoëdic. Classified by the lighthouse keepers in the “hell” category, it was built almost 50 years after the sad adventure of Captain Dupasquier. Around it, the heads of rocks touching the surface of the water had for centuries constituted formidable traps for careless ships daring to venture too close.
We were on the right track, I knew it, all the elements were now fitting together perfectly. Going up the Atlantic to regain Nantes, practically arrived safely, Laure had the misfortune to fall on a white grain which had pushed it on the sneaky rocks of the Roaring. The shock had been fatal and the ship had sunk into the raging sea, taking with him Captain Dupasquier and his fabulous treasure. But there had been at least one survivor, the author of the small ex-voto found in the apse of the Saint-Paul collegiate church. It was probably he who had reported the tragedy and its precise date to the unhappy shipowner Lebel.
Lost in my thoughts, I suddenly felt Clémence's burning gaze placed on me. Raising my head, I saw in his eyes a new gleam shining: the promise of a strong and crazy duo. Accustomed to go it alone, I understood that my reluctance to embark on this adventure would not resist his determination to follow me.
The next morning, accompanied by Octave, we left with emotion Daphne, André and their pretty stone house. Then we set sail for the Atlantic and her great promise: that of making an old lady who has been engulfed for 200 years speak.
What we didn't know was that, hidden in the shadows, men were watching us: a loner and an army.
(…)
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