Violence, secrets, mysteries ... 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.
Later, she caught sight of a visitor without the home without being able to learn more. Strolling, she discovers Octave's lair, the handyman of the house, who confesses to him that he is the son of Jean De Saint Geores. As for her mother, she is dead, adds Octave, who immediately begins to call Clemence "mom". While a little later, Octave is injured, Clémence heals him and ventures into an unexplored wing of the house where she discovers marine anchors, probably those of the boats of the first owner of the place. One of them, bearing the name of L'Espérance , seems to particularly disturb the young woman. As she takes a shower a few minutes later, Octave grabs her and drives her violently to De Saint Geores.
EPISODE 6 - Atlantic Blue
De Saint Geores approached in silence.
"Glasses," he ordered Octave.
Then I felt him lean on my shoulder.
- Unbelievable ! he mumbled, so you knew the story? !
Bombed by a thousand contradictory thoughts, my brain was spinning. Humiliated by my nudity between these two scrutinizing men, I was on the verge of tears, unable to pronounce a sound.
Grabbing one of the pretty lamps he smashed on the ground, De Saint Geores shouted his question again:
- Did you know the story ?? !!
The noise of the bursting glass on the tiles made me jump and in a sob, I shook my head in sign of negation.
- You're lying ! What else do you know? What were you doing when I found your nose in my books instead of working?
I could only utter a weak:
- Nothing.
The slap started suddenly, in the face, violent, painful. I felt the blood beat my ear. I suffocated, unable to recover from the power of the blow. What was happening to me? What was I doing in this mansion in the middle of the forest, surrounded by a mentally handicapped person and a madman? Why let me be treated like this? By what right did De Saint Geores allow himself this conduct? Then, taking a whiff of hatred, I started to scream with all my might, I spat my destructive rage in his face. Grabbing a large volume on the shelf, I swung it across her face. I saw his glasses fall to the ground. I grabbed a pedestal table, I threw it on Octave who crouched down to protect himself, screaming like the lunatic he was. Then all the violence of my anger, I rushed to the entrance hall, tearing off a jacket from the coat rack. I went out at night, barefoot in the pouring rain. Foaming with rage, I took no notice. Only one thing mattered to me: to flee this sordid place. Beyond these few trying days, this library scene was too much. I had just been raped in my privacy. Not happy to have discovered my tattoo, De Saint Geores wanted me to reveal its meaning to him. But it was impossible, it was too hard for me, and unimaginable in front of this abject being and his disturbed stooge.
I knew where Octave parked the sedan, I ran there. The keys were on it. I threw myself behind the wheel and drove off. But when I got to the end of the aisle, I ran into the huge iron jaws of the gate. The need to flee urgently prompted me, without question, to leave the vehicle and start climbing the metal wall. Blinded by the rain, soaked to the bone, my hands, my feet slid constantly on the elaborate scrolls. Shots were heard. It was me we were targeting. This discovery increased my desperate rage to reach the summit. I was caught like the fish in a net, but the instinct of survival pushed me to throw my last forces into the battle.
Perched four meters high, I was about to reach my goal. The shots suddenly stopped and a threatening silence settled. I was then blinded by the headlights of the vehicle. This great patient amused himself by extinguishing and re-lighting them. I saw his face behind the windshield, his eyes shone with a sadistic gleam. No way to let myself be impressed, I stepped over the portal.
Suddenly, I felt a jerk and the door on which I was balanced began to move in a dismal creak. It closed in shock before resuming movement. I heard him laugh out of devilish laughter; he taunted me with the gate remote control. These comings and goings unbalanced me and I had to hold on with all my strength so as not to slip on the dripping sheet. When I finally reached the ground, I started to run. I heard the complaint of the gate swingers opening. The calls from lighthouses became even more insistent.
As I was about to turn to melt into the dark forest, the sedan struck me violently. For the flash, I saw the hood and, behind the windshield, the mad eyes of my torturer. Then nothing.
********************************
He's there, he's back, he's holding my hand and I'm feeling good. Everything is soft, everything is cotton, I get lost in the blue of his eyes, that Atlantic blue that I missed so much. He was my compass, my lighthouse, my port and since that terrible day in August 2008, I hang around, alone, damaged in the bottomless pit of a lonely existence. I carefully keep, wrapped around my left ring finger, one of the rings we had exchanged. Inside is inscribed: "Abel and Clemence for Life". But his twin disappeared engulfed by the waves one evening in August 2008. So the "for life" became "for my life alone".
Abel was a history teacher at the Jacques Cassard maritime high school in Nantes. With his students, he had created an association to build a replica of an 18th century frigate. Eight years of work had been necessary. All were involved, holidays, weekends included, with the precious help of maritime trades and with state subsidies.
It must be said that the educational project was as rich as it was exciting: this frigate had been converted into a merchant ship in the late 1780s, before experiencing a darker period in its history. Acquired by a wealthy owner, the ship had ended its career transporting very sad goods. Based in Nantes, he descended to the island of Gorée in Senegal to go up to Saint Domingue; the proud frigate had become a slave ship.
But caught in a storm, the ship sank somewhere in the Caribbean Sea, resulting in the bankruptcy of the owner who operated it. Legend has it that that night, the boat was carrying a fabulous treasure on board. His wreckage had never been found, but Abel had done research and thought he had located it. With his students he planned to follow the course of the ship to Senegal, cross the Atlantic to reach the Caribbean Sea and try to find its trace. In their wildest dreams, they flushed out the legendary treasure. But none of them had returned and my heart, now as heavy as a ship's anchor, was silent.
This anchor was now forever embedded in my flesh, tattooed on the scapula, like the witness of the day when my life ended. This anchor has a name: " L'Espérance ".
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Check out the next episode right here on March 30 at 5 p.m. or on the Rocambole app for iOS or Android.
- Slavery
- Literature
- Books
- Investigation