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“You seem pensive, Margaux. Is anything worrying you?”
For Margaux’s progenitor to pick up on anything regarding his only child, it must mean the young woman has been looking particularly distracted. In the cold November nights of Normandy, candlelights are hardly enough to light up the inhabitants’ homes and hearts, and the already dull Gouvernay household is no exception.
“Not at all, Father. I was simply deep in thought,” she answers softly, letting only the faintest and most delicate of smiles form on her lips. Polite and subtle. And judging by the master of the house’s growing disinterest, convincing enough. His gaze lowers to focus once more on the dinner the servants brought and Margaux wishes the bitter bile forming in her throat would just vanish. She can already sense the deep fog of uncomfortable silence settling in and engulfing them both. Praying her sudden inhaling doesn’t arise any more of his suspicions, she opens her mouth before the fog conceals them from each other again.
“A-actually, there is something I have been meaning to discuss with you.”
Feeling quite daring, she lets her hand gently rest atop her father’s with all the filial piety she can muster. Guillaume Gouvernay’s brows furrow but he doesn’t interrupt her, illuminating Margaux with some little ray of hope. But she must not be too hasty. Thinking her words over carefully, she continues.
“The truth is, it is I who have been worried about you, Father. Ever since the tragedy of your last trip to Terre-Neuve -”
Not carefully enough, it appears. In the usually abysmally quiet manor, the man’s fist on their dining table echoes like thunder.
“Not a word of it, daughter .”
Despite the strength of his outburst, his eyes won’t meet hers. His fist starts to shake and the trembling spreads through his entire body. Here stands this mountain of a man, owner of the largest fleet of vessels in the harbour of Granville, shaking like a leaf, easily blown away by a mere breeze.
Margaux has stopped all motions, up until her breathing, awaiting. But of course, nothing comes. The fog is already there, clouding their senses. She lost her chance. Were it not for the ticking of the clock, it would be hard for either of them to assess how long this stalemate lasted. Eventually, Monsieur Gouvernay rises from his seat. He doesn’t spare his daughter a glance, or even a lecture. He is gone before affording her even the mercy of his anger. Only the distorted sound of his broken voice as he rushes out reaches her.
“No more words… no more sounds.. Lord, please… no more voices.”
~
“And that old bastard fled like a damn coward.”
A lady like Margaux, new money or not, shouldn’t normally take this much pleasure in throwing obscenities around. But hidden in that little creek under the cliffs of Granville, the sound of her words eaten by the noise of waves crashing on nearby rocks, she indulges in thinking there couldn’t be much harm in it.
“I’m not sure what you hoped to achieve there. From what you told me, your father is not the most talkative of men,” and the long fingers of her friend playing with her brown locks, as Margaux rests her head on said friend’s lap, are enough to distract her from the etiquette that was drilled into her mind. Mélusine always manages to soothe and tranquilize her on the spot, a peculiar gift of hers. And despite her modest appearance, the young woman has many of them.
“It wasn’t always that way…”
“The sea does things to men. I’ve met too many who had lost pieces of themselves over the years. You don’t notice it at first. It might take a lifetime. But with age comes a certain, hmm, how to call it…” she wonders, searching for her words. Margaux knows better than to fill in the gaps for her and settles on enjoying the sight of her pouty mouth, “melancholy? Yes, a melancholy that blooms in them and never lets go.”
“Melancholy? No, that’s not it. It’s too poetic, too romantic. I wouldn’t call my Father’s bizarre apathy melancholy.”
“The word doesn’t really matter,” Mélusine dismisses lightly, “What remains constant is the light in their eyes dimming more each time they come back.”
Margaux rolls her eyes, a barely hidden grin in the corner of her lips. The contrast between her friend’s ingenuousness and the strange, if not eerie, meaning of her words is a charming oddity part of her keeps looking for. For a moment, the two don’t speak, resting in their complicit silence. When Mélusine starts humming another melody of her seemingly endless repertoire, Margaux closes her eyes and lets herself be lulled. Relaxed, her worries dissipated, it doesn’t bother her when the other girl continues their gloomy conversation.
“I’ve seen it in the eyes of many men in my family,” she reminisces, “All fishermen embarking for half a year on ajourney across the ocean. In his last days, there was little my father could do but stare longingly at the horizon, an answer to its calling. For some reason, it was always more compelling than ours.”
Her voice remains even, maybe artificially so.
“It used to enrage my brother. But he left too. And never really came back.”
It seems layered with something else. A concealed bitterness, If Margaux were to guess.
“There is something out there that traps many of them. And all mighty man that your father is, the same might have happened to him.”
The words themselves can only sting, no matter how thick Margaux builds her skin to be. But the soft blue of the other girl’s eyes pierces her much more. All the vulnerability and honesty she refuses herself is stored in this concerned gaze and small smile directed at her, effortlessly pushing through her walls. Mélusine then looks to the sea, trying to find the right words.
“Except if maybe you noticed something strange?”
Taken aback, Margaux sits and ponders the question. No one … has really taken any of her concerns seriously before. What would a young girl know, or even understand, about an important and respected man’s troubles? How could she speak on whatever issue he may have? She might be well aware Mélusine is a different breed from her pompous relatives or equally pompous acquaintances, it doesn’t make genuine empathy any easier to get used to. Hesitantly, Margaux tries to put the results of her long ruminations into words.
“He has done trips like these for years. It’s not a necessity for a ship-owner to leave with his fleet and yet he often insisted on doing so. Something about looking after his property,” she laughs humorlessly, “I take it he’s always been controlling and untrusting that way. And with Mother gone… maybe… nothing here felt worth the stay.”
Mélusine tsk-tsks at this last sentence.
“And to desert you? What a cruel man…”
The hand she gently puts on Margaux’s cheek feels much more cruel to her friend.
“It was alright. Really,” she hurriedly counters, “I was alone, not lonely. And Father’s journeys would all eventually end. Even though no one in good faith would ever refer to him as warm, he was not devoid of paternal care. But when he returned from his last trip, something had changed. The force of nature he had always been was gone, replaced by an empty shell. His eyes, Mélusine, you didn’t see them that day. Bloodshot voids, both of them. A massive man that has been crouching ever since, barely leaving our home. And lost the little conversation he used to have… Except for the bizarre sentences he murmurs every now and then, completely unprompted.”
All through her explanation, Mélusine has kept on passing her thumb over the other’s cheek, in a circular and slow motion. Soothing patterns that always calm and comfort her. Yet at her last words, the motion stops. And for the first time in their months of friendship, a veil falls on Mélusine’s face, one Margaux cannot lift.
“Bizarre sentences?”
Brows furrowed at this mood shift, and slightly missing the softness, Margaux nods and continues.
“Yes. Faintly audible mentions of winds, or maybe storms, and voices that would not stop.”
In an instant, Mélusine is on her feet. She stares at Margaux for a moment, as if trying to decipher an unknown inscription.
“Voices…” she whispers to herself, her eyes filled with disbelief, locked on the ground. Increasingly lost, Margaux stands up to take her hands in hers.
“Mélusine?”
“Ah. It’s probably nothing.”
“Why are you so disturbed then?”
Her widened eyes haven’t moved from the ground and Margaux’s concern grows. Mélusine does not get deep in thought. Mélusine does not get lost in any labyrinth of the mind. From the moment she met her, she has always looked at her with the most disturbing sincerity, blowing away all problems with a simple and disarming common sense. Immune, it has always seemed, to the concept of internal trouble. The very thing that plagues Margaux and ties her down. And again, lost in her own thoughts, she doesn’t see Mélusine’s gaze slowly rise. Just like its poise evades her. She only gets a glimpse of it when Mélusine speaks once more.
“Many men of the region go on Monsieur Gouvernay’s ships, as you know well. Most of them leaving to catch cod on the shores of Terre-Neuve. And my brother, he was on one of them. It was his first time at sea. One time was enough. When he returned, my brother was gone. He wouldn’t eat, nor sleep, not even talk to us. He would just mumble. Things about voices that tormented him.”
Margaux can’t help it, she lets her friend's hands go and takes a few steps back, unknowingly shaking her head.
“Did he leave on Le Saint Elme ? On the 21st of February?”
“He did, I’m sure of it.”
“Then, could have something happened to them out there?”
To this, she gets no reply. Mélusine only turns to the sea, hugging herself. Her mouth remains slightly open, but Margaux already knows the answers she could wish for will not come. The sight of the girl that would always greet her complains with the same tranquil smile in that state shakes her more than she can comprehend. She’s already looking away, when Mélusine addresses her again. To her surprise, a smile is back on her face. Its usual warmth, however, has faded away.
“Maybe there is something we can do,” she calmly enunciates, “Say, Margaux, does your father keep any record of his trips?”
“I… I imagine he does, yes. He never went for long without his journals.”
Mélusine’s rictus grows larger as she approaches her friend, while Margaux stills ever more under her gaze.
“The answers we’re looking for could be there.”
Indignation is a feeling she knows too well, but it’s never appeared that way, not towards that person. Her own voice takes a tone she’s never heard herself use on Mélusine.
“... You want me to steal his journal?”
“Steal? Oh no, I’d never ask for such a thing. This is just about understanding what happened, there’d be no point in taking it away and he would surely notice soon enough. All we need is some time in his study.”
An easy and quick plan. Margaux’s imagination fills in the rest, and her reason quickly has to agree with its efficiency. And yet, an uneasy feeling rises in her, catching her by the throat.
“I … I don’t know, I’d need some time to think about it.”
This is no confirmation, but it is enough to get Mélusine’s smile to grow tender once more, hammering Margaux’s weakness deeper into her. Once she hears the first notes of a certain song, there’s no more denying her defeat.
~
She could feel her bare feet sliding on the gravel, the salt on her fresh wounds an aching reminder of her long forgotten shoes somewhere on her way to the shore. Despite her best efforts, clenching her jaw would not be enough to remain silent. But it wouldn’t matter anymore. If it ever had. From an empty mansion to an empty beach, her environment always paid her the same attention. Spreading her arms for some equilibrium, the girl slowly stood up, standing tall on a dark rock.
The water below her was perfectly still, not a ripple disturbing its tranquility. One could faintly distinguish the other rocks under the surface. As she had hoped, it wasn’t deep. A smile bloomed on her face, the first in months, with only the seagulls around to witness it. That would do, the girl thought. She indulged in their familiar cries, feeling no urge to rush. Perhaps a bit too long, or long enough for another soul to throw away all of her careful planning.
“À la claire fontaine m’en allant promener
J’ai trouvé l’eau si belle que je m’y suis baignée
Il y a longtemps que je t’aime, jamais je ne t’oublierai”
There had been no one around, that the girl had made sure of. And yet here was a voice. Someone singing.
“Sous les feuilles d’un chêne, je me suis faite sécher
Sur la plus haute branche, un rossignol chantait
Il y a longtemps que je t’aime, jamais je ne t’oublierai”
It made the seagulls, the waves, and even the wind disappear. It anchored her and froze her on the spot.
“Chante, rossignol, chante, toi qui as le coeur gai
Tu as le coeur à rire, moi je l’ai à pleurer
Il y a longtemps que je t’aime, jamais je ne t’oublierai”
All she could do was turn her head, in a trance, towards the unexpected singer. On a little alcove of sand, where no one had stood a minute ago, was now a girl her age looking straight ahead towards the horizon. Long and wavy black hair framed a rosy face where blue eyes appeared to reflect the ocean. A beauty that her plain beige dress strangely emphasized. A few shellfish filled the basket she kept in her hands.
“ J’ai perdu mon ami sans - Oh! Apologies, I hadn’t seen you there.”
As soon as she noticed her, she was noticed in return. The stranger was apparently unfazed by the bare feet girl with her torn but elegant gown. Said girl magically found some control over herself again.
“... What is your name?”
The singer’s small smile sent a warm wave coursing through her shivering body.
“Mélusine. Nice to meet you, Margaux.”
Had she introduced herself? She couldn’t remember. She must have.
“Mélusine? Like the fairy?”
It would seem fitting, especially with the clarity and purity of the laugh she got in return, resonating in her ears and her mind.
“Yes, like the fairy. My mother and older sisters loved her legend dearly.”
She looked back to the sea, a genuine fondness on her soft features. Margaux already missed her attention. She couldn’t hide her joy when the fairy-like girl focused on her again.
“Say, Margaux, do you want to come down and chat?”
~
“Alright. I accept. Let’s go with your plan.”
The little doubt remaining in her fades away when gentle lips press against her ear, words carving into her more than she could hear them.
“Thank you. You don’t know how grateful I am.”
~
With servants progressively leaving the disturbing Gouvernay household, it isn’t difficult to get an “inquiring local girl looking into a servant position” inside their home. The butler sighs at Margaux’s request, another one of her peculiar queries, but eventually settles on letting her show her around until he finds some time for an interview. With less and less help, the poor man’s busy schedule leaves him little time to think twice about her behavior. Besides, the mature serenity on said applicant’s face and her simple charm inspire trust. A few words from her and his hesitation melts away. Once he disappears to continue his tasks, the two young women stride across the corridors.
“Father often sleeps for an hour or so after lunch, especially lately. We should have half an hour,” Margaux quickly whispers.
“And how to get in?”
In one motion, the lady of the house takes a set of keys from her corset. A few iron keys dangle and clink one against the other.
“He always sleeps soundly. That much didn’t change.”
She can hear pride in her own voice and decides conspiracy might suit her in the end. Her friend’s subtle grin makes it increasingly more seducing.
“Well done. I’ll let you lead the way, then.”
All obstacles dealt with, Margaux does so easily. Even her previous concerns have completely vanished the moment they reach the study’s door. With Mélusine’s comforting hand on her shoulder, uncertainty is rendered irrelevant.
With no more than four keys to choose from, they swiftly enter the scarcely lit room. The little sunlight that managed to find its way in only shows a place in complete disarray, books and papers scattered around. A glimpse into her father’s psyche might not have differed by a lot, and that thought stops her for a moment. Mélusine does not deem important to pick up on the other's doubts. Free of Margaux's remorses, she makes her way towards the desk.
“I imagine that’s where his diaries should be.”
She starts her search, not paying attention to Margaux’s pointlessly nodding in what she thought was an answer. Ill-at-ease, and frustrated at herself for it, she merely observes the girl frantically looking around drawers.
“What do you expect us to discover?”
“If I knew I wouldn’t be going through all this trouble.”
Thanks to some pride left in Margaux, an “of course” dies on her lips before it is let out. That same pride pushes her to try again.
“I went to Granville yesterday. I wanted to look into the rest of the crew, in case they were able to shed some light on all of this. Naturally, I first asked for the captain. I was led to Notre-Dame’s cemetery.”
The same rummaging sound continues without any commentary from Mélusine.
“Concerning the rest of the men, I was advised not to waste my time on them. They were all of unknown identity and completely unaccounted for. No one in town apparently knew who had been part of this crew or where they had come from. Men from other provinces, I was told. Which puzzles me… how would your brother-”
A drawer being particularly loudly shut interrupts her.
“Would you be a darling and wait outside?” Margaux jumps at the clear and unbothered voice from this figure that still doesn’t face her, “Someone should keep watch.”
Margaux blinks, a sudden tiredness spreading through her limbs. She opens her mouth and words flow without any input from her brain.
“Of course.”
As she turns to open the door, her eye catches something at the periphery of her vision. A dirty notebook, placed under a chair as if to stabilize it, in the corner of the room. “Le Saint Elme ” can be distinguished on its cover.
Carefully, she goes to take it. She cannot prevent the chair from emitting a noise when it scratches the floor but her accomplice appears too busy to notice. Neither does she address her again when she exits the study.
Now alone in the corridor, Margaux presses her back to the door and remains still. The numbness that clouded her reasoning has evaporated, replaced with wild thoughts clashing left and right, leaving her paralyzed. Her gaze is the first to move, boring holes into the unassuming diary. Soon enough, her hand follows and tentatively proceeds to flip the pages. It doesn’t take her long until a lone letter, stuck within the pages, grabs her attention.
~
In Brest, January 9th, 1754
My friend, I must apologize in advance for the content of the following sentences. Were it in my power to refuse an explicit order from the Secretary, this letter would have never reached you. I stand here as one of the few men judged trustworthy enough to bear this cursed knowledge, and you one of the few men capable enough to remedy our situation. I trust that our years of friendship will not betray me in my understanding of your character; and if they do not, I suspect you already have an inkling of the reason for my agitation. Considering the difficult climate our country finds itself in on the seas, against our established enemies and our newly discovered ones, I fear I cannot allow myself to discuss this matter too overtly. I cannot allow what I have been sworn to secrecy over by the highest authorities to be revealed to the masses, in the hypothesis this letter were to fall in other hands. I can only confirm you already know too well what this is all about. Not any mortal or God fearing soul could forget what we heard from the witnesses of these events. Once again, I apologize, for what you and I first hoped to be the imagination of mentally shaken sailors has been corroborated by a handful of renown captains, from merchant vessels to the navy. For ancient legends to be possibly proven true in our rational age…
And yet, the more selfish part of me now wishes this all had been confined to drunken sea dogs’ stories or mere fairy tales. Because now, I am forced to send this official request to you to both elucidate and counter this threat to our already contested maritime power. Considering the nature of the matter, it would be a considerable risk to enlarge the circle of individuals in the know. As such, the Secretary has decided to rely on those with some knowledge of the matter, and would especially like you, among others, to put at use one of your ships to reach the target and eliminate it. Trusted soldiers from the Secretary’s forces will board your ship as crew. The locals should find the presence of these strangers peculiar, but you know as well as I do that Normans prefer not to ask too many questions. The Secretary fears english spies in his own ranks, he deemed a civil operation on a smaller scale to be more secure. Several ships from across the country should be deployed in this operation, to handle the several points where these incidents have been reported to happen, so rest assured you will not be alone in this fight. I will not insult you by asking for your prudence and discretion, dear friend, you already possess these virtues. Simply remember to muster the same strength and intelligence as Odysseus.
You will surely receive a visit from an official to directly discuss the details with you, but the Secretary, ever the wise man, thought being warned by a close one would put you more at ease.
Yours truly,
Admiral L.-A. de C.
~
A myriad of diverse feelings would be appropriate. She could easily enumerate them and go through all stages of grief and despair, but there’s hardly any point left in the childish whining she would always indulge herself in. The soft but firm hand pressed against her mouth and the vicious tongue whispering sweet witchcraft in her ear are too paralyzing to allow her any reaction. The surrounding smoke fills her lungs and any breath is a torture. The caress of the creature’s other hand on her cheek is her one comfort.
“Na Maria, pretz e fina valors”
Her senses are lost and scattered, replaced by a warm melody enveloping her, everything else gone and forgotten. Surrendered.
Ah… I was an easy prey, wasn’t I…
“E’l joi e’l sen e la fina beutatz””
Hush, don’t resist my voice, dear. You helped me greatly. It’s my turn now.
Help… like you helped these men… my father… your inexistent brother…
“E l’aculhir e’ l pretz e las onors”
All living beings need subsistence. It is no crime, love. And yet, they treated it as such. We only took lives we needed. They didn’t extend the same kindness.
And where has yours gone?
“E’l gent parlar e l’avinen solatz”
It is lost on your kind. I want all proof it could have of our existence gone, by the fire, a beautiful creation of your world. And I want the perpetrators gone.
… My father.
“E la doz car’e la gaia cuendensa”
Waste no tears on him. He never did for you.
…N-no.
“E’l dous esgart e l’amoros semblan”
Hush… Your home world has nothing to offer. Listen to me, listen to my song.
…. Ah….
“Que son en vos, don non avetz engansa”
Hush hush, the waves await us.
"Me fan traire vas vos ses cor truan"