Yes, there is something more mysterious than the right cupboard in your kitchen, the one that you do not decide to put away despite the free time that confinement gives you. More mysterious is this strange Vosges abode in which our heroine has just entered. The decor is set, the third episode can begin.
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 previous episodes: Clémence, consultant overwhelmed by her success, dreams of becoming a writer. She entered a competition organized by the publishing house L'Ancre Noire and won a three-week coaching program supposed to allow her to publish her first novel. The coach, the great author Jean De Saint Geores, awaits him on the porch of a large property lost in the Vosges where Clémence is called to spend the next three weeks…
EPISODE 3 - The manor De Saint Geores
As I psychologically prepared to face the rascal, I was amazed to find that he was smiling. He gave me a little wave of welcome. If I hadn't recognized the great man of letters I had seen on television, I would have sworn that he was someone else. But it was him and while Octave opened the door for me, he hurried down the stairs to come and greet me. He grabbed my hand and squeezed it warmly, and in his surprisingly deep voice exclaimed:
- Finally you are! I couldn't wait to meet you! What text! What talent ! I can't wait for us to start our creative work!
Forbidden, I let myself shake my hand without any sound passing the threshold of my lips. What a contrast to the man on the phone! Without worrying about my stupor, he continued his monologue, accompanying me on the porch while worrying about my travel conditions. Out of the corner of my eye, I guessed that Octave was taking my suitcase out of the trunk of the car. He took a few steps on the crunching gravel, carrying my heavy baggage as if it were a wisp of straw. He disappeared through a small door adjoining the first steps of the beautiful mossy stone staircase. Monsieur De Saint Geores paused on the terrace and turned to face the lake. I imitated it mechanically. A ray of sunlight was timidly reflected on the dark waves of the body of water. A small wooden boat fitted with oars was moored to a pontoon. Here and there, tufts of reeds slowly undulated according to the light wind. I noticed a couple of swans sliding on the barely wrinkled wave. All around, the park was splendid. A small path of blond gravel ran through the lawn dotted with thickets of large deciduous trees which ended up mingling with the immense dark fir forest that surrounded the property. At the far end, I thought I guessed a small bandstand with an almond green tin roof which blended discreetly into the landscape.
He was silent to let me admire the beauty of the panorama. After a deep breath, he whispered:
- An idyllic setting to invent the beautiful story that each bookseller will tear himself away, isn't it?
I nodded, a little embarrassed by the grandiloquent confidence that this stranger seemed to place in me.
- But I chat, I chat, forgive me, I'm so happy to welcome you! Perhaps you would like to refresh yourself? Octave will show you your room, but before that, you must fulfill the number one rule of every self-respecting writer: no cell phone here. Will you turn off your device and return it to me? I will return it to you at the end of our successful internship. "
A wind of panic seized me. No laptop? Impossible ! I live with my transplanted phone, he is my best friend, he tells me the time, the weather, wakes me up in the morning, gives me news from the world, sings me songs, distracts me when I want to clear my head , makes me dream when I need it, connects me to the whole world, my clients, my entourage and others I don't know. Without him I am lost, an orphan and above all, I must admit, I intended to follow my affairs from afar during these three weeks of forced exile.
Seeming to read my mind, the man smiles at me:
- The profession of writer requires many more sacrifices than one imagines. Talent is not enough: calm, rigor and discipline are the keys to quality production. It is to learn this that you are here and it is an immense chance which is offered to you to be able to experience it in a framework like this. I will accompany you and give you all the tricks to bring your talent to light. But for that, you have to trust me.
Once again, the idea of backtracking crossed my mind. I immersed myself then in the landscape which undulated delicately under the light breeze, and the desire for renewal was the strongest. De Saint Geores was right; it was a unique opportunity to reinvent myself, I was already touching my whole life's dream with my fingertips, buried for a long time under the constraints of Madame Toutlemonde. What were three short weeks of a new and perhaps promising experience? If I failed, I could always go back to my comfortable life before and bury my illusions of literature once and for all. Twenty-one days in the skin of an author, accompanied by one of the greatest, it was no longer a dream, it had become a reality.
Slowly, I took the device out of my purse and, without even looking at the screen, pressed the stop button before handing it over to my host. I already felt naked, but De Saint Geores reassured me:
- You make the right choice Clémence. We will get along well, you will see ”.
We then entered the hall of the manor, bathed in the light that filtered through the stained glass windows of the heavy front door. It was entirely covered with woodwork representing here and there hunting scenes. The cold marble floor, in black and white checkerboard, contrasted strangely with the warmth of the wood and the colorful designs of the stained glass windows. A large solid oak staircase flew upstairs. On the left, behind a large glass door with small uneven panes, I guessed a room bathed in the gray light of the capricious sky. While discovering the place, I barely heard the deep voice of my host resound under the heights of the ceiling:
- I'll let you settle in, you're here at home. Meet me in half an hour in the winter garden, Octave will guide you to your apartments.
The next moment, he was gone and I found myself alone in the monumental hall. Where was Octave then? In an unsteady voice, I dared to call him softly. No answer, no noise. I emboldened myself and climbed a few steps. The plaintive cracking of the oak tree made me shiver. Suddenly, I turned and saw Octave completely motionless in the middle of the hall, at the exact location I had just left. The color schemes placed strange shadows on his crooked face. His empty eye was stubbornly staring at me, his mouth was twisted into a grin that I had trouble understanding. Freezed by this sudden vision, I had to make an effort on myself not to scream. Without a word, he moved and, with his trailing step, got ahead of me in the creaky ascent towards the floors.
My room was located at the top of the building, under the roof. A large, ornate wooden bed was covered with a giant, fluffy quilt that called for laziness. In an adjoining room, I discovered a dressing table with a beautiful golden mirror and a desk facing a small window protected by pretty swirls of iron. A little further on, a small door led into a small but practical bathroom, whose bathtub with feline feet craned on a stage theatrically framed by two red curtains. This environment, although outdated, seemed to me comfortable.
A large window, framed by heavy decorative drapes, bathed the room in light. It opened onto a small balcony dug into the thickness of the wall. For safety reasons, it was spanned by large delicately wrought iron bars. On either side of this constrained opening to the outside, two gargoyles stood guard. These neighbors with uninviting faces made me smile.
Was it my room they were watching or was it the park and its lake that sprawled below? Unless it is the dark forest?
My suitcase had been left at the foot of the bed. I started to store my things in the big oak wardrobe. When I was finished, I reluctantly dropped into the welcoming comforter. But as I watched the slats from the ceiling, something tickled my conscience. The feeling of having forgotten something important. I suddenly straightened up. Yes ! Something was missing in my business, and not least! My work tool, my computer! I couldn't have forgotten it at home, since I had sent emails on the train again. No doubt, someone had opened my suitcase and grabbed it. The image of the ugly cynical grin came back to me: Octave.
(…)
Check out the next episode right here on March 27 at 5 p.m. or on the Rocambole app for iOS and Android.
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