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 won three weeks of coaching in the disturbing property of the great author Jean De Saint Geores, the former home of the ruined merchant of the 18th century. Without smartphone or distraction of any kind, she immersed herself in the writing of her first novel, subjected to an intensive work rhythm by her coach. One day, while taking advantage of one of her rare breaks to search the library, she comes across a series of surprising dedications. Her host surprises her and sends her back to her book bluntly.
EPISODE 5 - The secret
Our interview the next morning was freezing. I had decided not to make any further courtesy. My goal was to finish this writing work as quickly as possible, to have it edited and permanently wipe out this tyrannical bear with my life. De Saint Geores did not appear for a moment destabilized by this sudden change of attitude and was, for his part, perfectly equal to himself.
I often wondered how this man of monastic life managed to find inspiration. Of course, the writing job requires calm and concentration, but before getting to the writing stage, you have to live to have ideas and to mature them. However, here the days passed gloomy, dead between the master of the house, Octave and me. One day, however, when Octave was usually as precise as a Swiss clock for serving Moroccan tea, I found myself waiting for him. I smiled inwardly at my reaction, noticing that I had become as attached to the slow ritual of the house as the boring owner of the place.
Vaguely worried about this unusual delay, I dared to take a few steps towards the entrance hall. A slight whisper from the large dining room came to me. On the lookout, I approached slowly. I recognized the growls of Octave, but understood that his interlocutor was not De Saint Geores. I had never seen anyone else here. The event was so rare that, consumed with curiosity, I risked an eye by the heavy half-open wooden door. Octave was in the middle of a conversation with a tall man who had his back to me. He had casually placed a small brown leather travel bag on the huge ceremonial table. I heard him laugh, he gave Octave a hug and his mouth began to twist in all directions. Was he laughing too? Then he returned his pat on the shoulder. But suddenly the stained glass window in the front door trembled. The man turned suddenly. I barely had time to meet his blue eyes when the silhouette of the master of the house was already looming behind me. I hid furtively behind a thick velvet drapery. Taking a last look in the dining room, I noticed that Octave, the man and the small luggage had disappeared. Shortness of breath, I guessed the disturbing De Saint Geores pass in front of me. When he entered the big room, I fled on tiptoe to find my workstation as quickly as possible.
Dumbfounded, I found Octave there in white gloves, conscientiously occupied in mastering the trickle of boiling water in my tea. How could he be here when I had seen him on the other side of the house a few seconds before? Confused, I dared not question her.
Life sadly resumed its course and I finally persuade myself that I had dreamed of the dining room scene. A few days later, during my afternoon recess, while strolling in the park, I noticed a small door in the basement of the manor. As it was ajar, curiosity drove me to approach it. There was a noise of slight friction. Passing my head carefully through the gap, I discovered Octave busy sanding a wooden board. Concentrated on his task, he didn't notice me right away. But when I dared to step forward, he jumped and grabbed a mass, with disconcerting speed at the look of his imbalance. When he was already sketching the gesture of throwing it in my face, I shouted: “Octave! It's me ! And, at the last second, he managed to stop his gesture. The mass fell heavily at his feet. He remained swinging arms watching me with his soulless gaze.
- Can I enter Octave? I asked in a small voice.
He nodded in approval and, with a big twisted smile, pointed to the shelf on which the models of his frigates were wisely stored. I understood that I had just entered his studio. It was perfectly maintained, and there was a pleasant smell of freshly cut wood. Surprised, I found that he was very gifted: the thoroughness of the details of his reproductions of boats left me in awe. While I congratulated him with great reinforcements of exclamations, I saw for the first time a small gleam lighting up in his eyes; I think he was happy.
As I was about to leave on this unexpected friendly note, I saw in the back of the room a sort of small altar on which we had placed a few flowers, in front of a portrait whose features I could not distinguish. Approaching, I recognized a young woman in her thirties. She was very pretty, but her gaze was sad. The photo was not recent.
- Who is it ? I asked
- It's mom.
- Ah! Is your mom dead?
- Yes, so dad left too.
- Oh my poor ! Is your dad also dead?
- A little.
- What do you mean, a little? Where is your daddy now?
- In the library, he reads a book.
I almost fell backwards. Thus Jean De Saint Geores was the father of Octave! I was completely mistaken about the reason for his presence here. It must be said that De Saint Geores treated him like a servant and I had fallen into the trap without asking myself any questions.
Trying to hide my confusion, I said the first sentence that came to my mind:
- Your mom was pretty, Octave.
- Yes, she's like you. Can I call you mom?
I was only able to do one thing: run away. But from that day on, Octave called me no more than mom. When De Saint Geores noticed it, he entered into a black anger. This did not stop poor Octave, who continued, while taking care never to pronounce this name in front of his father. For my part, I could not hear myself so called without shivering, but all my protests did nothing. For Octave, I became a mom.
In a hurry to finish and leave this place, I advanced in my work at lightning speed and, the more time passed, the more I was satisfied with myself. To believe that emergency is the best stimulant.
I never set foot in the workshop again. However, one afternoon, I was forced to in spite of myself. As I quietly watched the swans glide majestically across the lake, a cry came from Octave's lair. I rushed over and found his hand in blood. He had cut himself by ripping off with a screwdriver and the wound was bleeding profusely. Tearing a piece of canvas, I quickly realized a tourniquet which put an end to the hemorrhage. Octave was very shocked, so I offered to go back to the manor to disinfect his wound, drink and take some sugar. He guided me to the kitchen. I made him sit down and he pointed to a door which gave access to what he called the pantry, in which I could find the sugar.
Passing the door, I found myself on a bare landing. Opening what I thought was a cupboard, I came across a small staircase which sank in the dark. While looking for a pick-me-up for Octave, I got involved without asking any more questions. I then emerged into an empty room with stone walls. The light in the corridor dimly lit the room, but enough for me to realize that I was not in the right place. As I was about to turn back, my attention was drawn to a black mass at the back of the room. Forcing my eyes in the semi-darkness, I recognized four sea anchors. The shipowner's anchors ruined! They were cast iron and I could read the following inscriptions:
The Medusa 1777
Bellona 1779
Aeolus 1780
The epitaph on the last anchor made me dizzy: L'Espérance 1788.
I gathered all my energy to go up the corridor. Arrived on the landing, I opened another door which was a cupboard and finally found sugar there. I administered two pieces to Octave, also took two. While disinfecting his wound, I felt his gaze insistent. His fixed and empty eyes riveted on my shoulder finished to upset me. Quivering, I hastened to finish my work and, pretending to be tired, I retired to my room to reflect on my discovery.
Like a robot, I undressed. I needed a shower. Naked, before entering the feline claw bathtub, I looked at myself for a moment in the mirror: I was as pale as death. I heated the water and let it slide over my skin.
But suddenly the bathroom door opened with a crash. At the same instant, the red curtains tore open and in a cry, I recognized Octave's broken face; his big hands grabbing my arms, he bluntly pulled me out of the tub. I barely had time to grab a towel on the fly when he was already dragging me down the creaky stairs. The next moment, I found myself in the library, dressed in my only towel, in front of a De Saint Geores as taken aback as I was.
In a groan, Octave made me turn my back on him and I felt one of his big fingers press on my shoulder blade. I then understood that my secret had just been discovered.
(…)
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