Sous la révolution française, le glissement inexorable d'un "pur" vers l'abus de pouvoir et l'assassinat "légal" —puis la mort en Thermidor.
Sous la révolution française, le glissement inexorable d'un "pur" vers l'abus de pouvoir et l'assassinat "légal" —puis la mort en Thermidor.
évariste Gamelin, peintre, élève de David, membre de la section du Pont-Neuf, précédemment section Henri IV, s'était rendu de bon matin à l'ancienne église des Barnabites, qui depuis trois ans, depuis le 21 mai 1790, servait de siège à l'assemblée générale de la section. Cette église s'élevait sur une place étroite et sombre, près de la grille du Palais.
Sur la fa?ade, composée de deux ordres classiques, ornée de consoles renversées et de pots à feu, attristée par le temps, offensée par les hommes, les emblèmes religieux avaient été martelés et l'on avait inscrit en lettres noires au-dessus de la porte la devise républicaine: "Liberté, égalité, Fraternité ou la Mort." évariste Gamelin pénétra dans la nef: les vo?tes, qui avaient entendu les clercs de la congrégation de Saint-Paul chanter en rochet les offices divins, voyaient maintenant les patriotes en bonnet rouge assemblés pour élire les magistrats municipaux et délibérer sur les affaires de la section. Les saints avaient été tirés de leurs niches et remplacés par les bustes de Brutus, de Jean-Jacques et de Le Peltier. La table des Droits de l'Homme se dressait sur l'autel dépouillé.
C'est dans cette nef que, deux fois la semaine, de cinq heures du soir à onze heures, se tenaient les assemblées publiques. La chaire, ornée du drapeau aux couleurs de la nation, servait de tribune aux harangues. Vis-à-vis, du c?té de l'ép?tre, une estrade de charpentes grossières s'élevait, destinée à recevoir les femmes et les enfants, qui venaient en assez grand nombre à ces réunions. Ce matin-là, devant un bureau, au pied de la chaire, se tenait, en bonnet rouge et carmagnole, le menuisier de la place de Thionville, le citoyen Dupont a?né, l'un des douze du Comité de surveillance. Il y avait sur le bureau une bouteille et des verres, une écritoire et un cahier de papier contenant le texte de la pétition qui invitait la Convention à rejeter de son sein les vingt-deux membres indignes.
évariste Gamelin prit la plume et signa.
"Je savais bien, dit le magistrat artisan, que tu viendrais donner ton nom, citoyen Gamelin. Tu es un pur. Mais la section n'est pas chaude; elle manque de vertu. J'ai proposé au Comité de surveillance de ne point délivrer de certificat de civisme à quiconque ne signerait pas la pétition.
--Je suis prêt à signer de mon sang, dit Gamelin, la proscription des tra?tres fédéralistes. Ils ont voulu la mort de Marat: qu'ils périssent.
--Ce qui nous perd, répliqua Dupont a?né, c'est l'indifférentisme. Dans une section, qui contient neuf cents citoyens ayant droit de vote, il n'y en a pas cinquante qui viennent à l'assemblée. Hier nous étions vingt-huit.
--Eh bien! dit Gamelin, il faut obliger, sous peine d'amende, les citoyens à venir.
--Hé! Hé! fit le menuisier en fron?ant le sourcil, s'ils venaient tous, les patriotes seraient en minorité.... Citoyen Gamelin, veux-tu boire un verre de vin à la santé des bons sans-culottes?..."
Sur le mur de l'église, du c?té de l'évangile, on lisait ces mots accompagnés d'une main noire dont l'index montrait le passage conduisant au clo?tre: Comité civil, Comité de surveillance, Comité de bienfaisance. Quelques pas plus avant, on atteignait la porte de la ci-devant sacristie, que surmontait cette inscription: Comité militaire. Gamelin la poussa et trouva le secrétaire du Comité qui écrivait sur une grande table encombrée de livres, de papiers, de lingots d'acier, de cartouches et d'échantillons de terres salpêtrées.
"Salut, citoyen Trubert. Comment vas-tu?
--Moi?... je me porte à merveille."
Le secrétaire du Comité militaire, Fortuné Trubert, faisait invariablement cette réponse à ceux qui s'inquiétaient de sa santé, moins pour les instruire de son état que pour couper court à toute conversation sur ce sujet. Il avait, à vingt-huit ans, la peau aride, les cheveux rares, les pommettes rouges, le dos vo?té. Opticien sur le quai des Orfèvres, il était propriétaire d'une très ancienne maison qu'il avait cédée en 91 à un vieux commis pour se dévouer à ses fonctions municipales. Une mère charmante, morte à vingt ans et dont quelques vieillards, dans le quartier, gardaient le touchant souvenir, lui avait donné ses beaux yeux doux et passionnés, sa paleur, sa timidité. De son père, ingénieur opticien, fournisseur du roi, emporté par le même mal avant sa trentième année, il tenait un esprit juste et appliqué. Sans s'arrêter d'écrire:
"Et toi, citoyen, comment vas-tu?
--Bien. Quoi de nouveau?
--Rien, rien. Tu vois: tout est bien tranquille ici.
--Et la situation?
--La situation est toujours la même."
La situation était effroyable. La plus belle armée de la République investie dans Mayence; Valenciennes assiégée; Fontenay pris par les Vendéens; Lyon révolté; les Cévennes insurgées, la frontière ouverte aux Espagnols; les deux tiers des départements envahis ou soulevés; Paris sous les canons autrichiens, sans argent, sans pain.
Fortuné Trubert écrivait tranquillement. Les sections étant chargées par arrêté de la Commune d'opérer la levée de douze mille hommes pour la Vendée, il rédigeait des instructions relatives à l'enr?lement et l'armement du contingent que le "Pont-Neuf", ci-devant "Henri IV", devait fournir. Tous les fusils de munition devaient être délivrés aux réquisitionnaires. La garde nationale de la section serait armée de fusils de chasse et de piques.
"Je t'apporte, dit Gamelin, l'état des cloches qui doivent être envoyées au Luxembourg pour être converties en canons."
évariste Gamelin, bien qu'il ne possédat pas un sou, était inscrit parmi les membres actifs de la section: la loi n'accordait cette prérogative qu'aux citoyens assez riches pour payer une contribution de la valeur de trois journées de travail; et elle exigeait dix journées pour qu'un électeur f?t éligible. Mais la section du Pont-Neuf, éprise d'égalité et jalouse de son autonomie, tenait pour électeur et pour éligible tout citoyen qui avait payé de ses deniers son uniforme de garde national. C'était le cas de Gamelin, qui était citoyen actif de sa section et membre du Comité militaire.
Fortuné Trubert posa sa plume:
"Citoyen évariste, va donc à la Convention demander qu'on nous envoie des instructions pour fouiller le sol des caves, lessiver la terre et les moellons et recueillir le salpêtre. Ce n'est pas tout que d'avoir des canons, il faut aussi de la poudre."
Un petit bossu, la plume à l'oreille et des papiers à la main, entra dans la ci-devant sacristie. C'était le citoyen Beauvisage, du Comité de surveillance.
"Citoyens, dit-il, nous recevons de mauvaises nouvelles: Custine a évacué Landau.
--Custine est un tra?tre! s'écria Gamelin.
--Il sera guillotiné", dit Beauvisage.
Trubert, de sa voix un peu haletante, s'exprima avec son calme ordinaire:
"La Convention n'a pas créé un Comité de salut public pour des prunes. La conduite de Custine y sera examinée. Incapable ou tra?tre, il sera remplacé par un général résolu à vaincre, et ?a ira!"
Il feuilleta des papiers et y promena le regard de ses yeux fatigués:
"Pour que nos soldats fassent leur devoir sans trouble ni défaillance, il faut qu'ils sachent que le sort de ceux qu'ils ont laissés dans leur foyer est assuré. Si tu es de cet avis, citoyen Gamelin, tu demanderas avec moi, à la prochaine assemblée, que le Comité de bienfaisance se concerte avec le Comité militaire pour secourir les familles indigentes qui ont un parent à l'armée."
Il sourit et fredonna:
"?a ira! ?a ira!..."
Travaillant douze et quatorze heures par jour, devant sa table de bois blanc, à la défense de la patrie en péril, cet humble secrétaire d'un comité de section ne voyait point de disproportion entre l'énormité de la tache et la petitesse de ses moyens, tant il se sentait uni dans un commun effort à tous les patriotes, tant il faisait corps avec la nation, tant sa vie se confondait avec la vie d'un grand peuple. Il était de ceux qui, enthousiastes et patients, après chaque défaite, préparaient le triomphe impossible et certain. Aussi bien leur fallait-il vaincre. Ces hommes de rien, qui avaient détruit la royauté, renversé le vieux monde, ce Trubert, petit ingénieur opticien, cet évariste Gamelin, peintre obscur, n'attendaient point de merci de leurs ennemis. Ils n'avaient de choix qu'entre la victoire et la mort. De là leur ardeur et leur sérénité.
This is a pre-1923 historical reproduction that was curated for quality. Quality assurance was conducted on each of these books in an attempt to remove books with imperfections introduced by the digitization process. Though we have made best efforts - the books may have occasional errors that do not impede the reading experience. We believe this work is culturally important and have elected to bring the book back into print as part of our continuing commitment to the preservation of printed works worldwide.
In this timeless tale, French writer Anatole France recasts the life and works of the beloved 4th century saint who was the distant ancestor of our modern-day Santa Claus. Known for his eminently generous personality, St. Nicolas has also had a number of miracles attributed to him, including the resurrection of three children who had been murdered by a crazed butcher.
Winner of the 1921 Nobel Prize for Literature, Anatole France was a French poet, journalist and novelist, whose works were celebrated for their nobility of style and profound human sympathy. For the first time in publishing history, this comprehensive eBook presents France's complete fictional works, with numerous illustrations, many rare texts, informative introductions and the usual Delphi bonus material. (Version 1)Beautifully illustrated with images relating to France's life and worksConcise introductions to the novels and other textsALL 16 novels, with individual contents tablesImages of how the books were first published, giving your eReader a taste of the original textsAll the novels, including all four volumes of A CHRONICLE OF OUR OWN TIMES, available in no other collectionExcellent formatting of the textsAll the shorter fiction, with rare tales appearing here for the first time in digital printSpecial chronological and alphabetical contents tables for the poetry and the short storiesEasily locate the poems or short stories you want to readIncludes France's seminal historical study of Joan of ArcSpecial criticism section, with 8 essays and articles evaluating France's contribution to literatureScholarly ordering of texts into chronological order and literary genresPlease visit delphiclassics.com to browse through our range of exciting titlesCONTENTS:The NovelsTHE CRIME OF SYLVESTRE BONNARDTHE ASPIRATIONS OF JEAN SERVIENHONEY-BEETHAÏSAT THE SIGN OF THE REINE PÉDAUQUETHE OPINIONS OF JEROME COIGNARDTHE RED LILYA CHRONICLE OF OUR OWN TIMES I: THE ELM-TREE ON THE MALLA CHRONICLE OF OUR OWN TIMES II: THE WICKER-WORK WOMANA CHRONICLE OF OUR OWN TIMES III: THE AMETHYST RINGA CHRONICLE OF OUR OWN TIMES IV: MONSIEUR BERGERET IN PARISA MUMMER'S TALETHE WHITE STONEPENGUIN ISLANDTHE GODS ARE ATHIRSTTHE REVOLT OF THE ANGELSThe Shorter FictionJOCASTA AND THE FAMISHED CATBALTHASAR AND OTHER WORKSMOTHER OF PEARLTHE WELL OF SAINT CLARECLIOCRAINQUEBILLE, PUTOIS, RIQUET AND OTHER PROFITABLE TALESTHE MERRIE TALES OF JACQUES TOURNEBROCHETHE SEVEN WIVES OF BLUEBEARD AND OTHER MARVELLOUS TALESCHILD LIFE IN TOWN AND COUNTRYMISCELLANEOUS STORIESThe Short StoriesLIST OF SHORT STORIES IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDERLIST OF SHORT STORIES IN ALPHABETICAL ORDERThe PlaysCRAINQUEBILLETHE COMEDY OF A MAN WHO MARRIED A DUMB WIFECOME WHAT MAYThe PoetryLIST OF POETICAL WORKSThe Non-FictionTHE LIFE OF JOAN OF ARCThe CriticismANATOLE FRANCE — 1904 by Joseph ConradANATOLE FRANCE by Arnold BennettHOMAGE TO ANATOLE FRANCE by John GalsworthyANATOLE FRANCE by John Cowper PowysANATOLE FRANCE by Robert LyndTHE WISDOM OF ANATOLE FRANCE by John Middleton MurryANATOLE FRANCE by George BrandesANATOLE FRANCE by Winifred StephensPlease visit delphiclassics.com to browse through our range of exciting titles
This short story collection from eminent French writer Anatole France is a fitting introduction to his diverse body of work. With topics ranging from encounters with Satan to doomed romances, it's an engaging grab-bag of entertaining tales rendered in France's wry, ironic, understated tone.
"I heard you're going to marry Marcelo. Is this perhaps your revenge against me? It's very laughable, Renee. That man can barely function." Her foster family, her cheating ex, everyone thought Renee was going to live in pure hell after getting married to a disabled and cruel man. She didn't know if anything good would ever come out of it after all, she had always thought it would be hard for anyone to love her but this cruel man with dark secrets is never going to grant her a divorce because she makes him forget how to breathe.
My husband Julian celebrated our five-year anniversary by sleeping with his mistress. He thought I was a clueless trophy wife, too dim to notice the vanilla and tuberose scent on his expensive suits. He was wrong. For years, I played Mrs. Vance, hiding my brilliance while Julian claimed my patents. An anonymous email confirmed his ultimate betrayal: photos of him and Scarlett Kensington in ecstasy. My heart didn't break; it solidified into ice at five years wasted. I activated "The Protocol" for a new identity and escape countdown. Playing the doting wife, I plotted his downfall, catching him with his mistress selling my work, and publicly snapping his credit card. His betrayals and stolen work ignited a cold, calculated fury. He had no idea the monster he'd created. I was dismantling his empire. I shredded his patent papers, stripping him of his ill-gotten gains. With a final tap, I initiated "Identity Erasure." Mrs. Vance was dead. Dr. Evelyn Thorne had just begun her counterattack.
In the glittering world of high society and cutthroat ambition, a single sentence shatters a marriage: "Let's get a divorce." For three years, Claire Thompson has lived in exile, her marriage to the powerful Nelson Cooper a hollow shell existing only on paper. Shipped abroad on her wedding day and utterly forgotten, she returns only to be handed divorce papers. But Claire is no longer the timid, heartbroken girl she once was. Behind her quiet facade lies a woman transformed, secretly rejoicing at her newfound freedom. However, freedom comes with a price. As Claire signs the papers with relief, a chilling phone call reveals a dark truth: the threats she faced overseas were no accident, and the trail leads shockingly close to home-to the family that raised her and the husband who discarded her. Just as she prepares to sever all ties, a twist of fate pulls her back into the gilded cage. Nelson, for reasons unknown, suddenly stalls the divorce. Meanwhile, the family that disowned her and the fragile, manipulative sister who stole her life are determined to ruin her reputation and drive her out for good. But Claire is playing a different game now. With a mysterious new identity, powerful allies, and secrets of her own, she is no one's pawn. As hidden truths unravel and loyalties are tested, a stunning question emerges: In this high-stakes battle of love, betrayal, and revenge, who is truly trapping whom?
After hiding her true identity throughout her three-year marriage to Colton, Allison had committed wholeheartedly, only to find herself neglected and pushed toward divorce. Disheartened, she set out to rediscover her true self-a talented perfumer, the mastermind of a famous intelligence agency, and the heir to a secret hacker network. Realizing his mistakes, Colton expressed his regret. "I know I messed up. Please, give me another chance." Yet, Kellan, a once-disabled tycoon, stood up from his wheelchair, took Allison's hand, and scoffed dismissively, "You think she'll take you back? Dream on."
I'm a moaning mess as Antonio slams into me from behind. His hips hit me hard, and each deep thrust sends shockwaves through my body. My breasts bounce with every movement, my eyes roll back, and I moan his name without control. The pleasure he gives me is overwhelming-I can't hold it in. I feel my walls tighten around his thick length. The pressure builds fast, and then- I explode around him, my orgasm tearing through me. He groans loud and deep as he releases inside me, his hot seed spilling into me in thick pulses. Just when I think he's done, his grip shifts. He turns me over and lays me flat on the bed. His dark eyes stare into mine for a moment, filled with raw hunger. I glance down- He's still hard. Before I can react, he grabs my wrists, pins me down, and pushes himself inside me again. He fills me completely. My hips rise on instinct, meeting his rhythm. Our bodies move together, locked in a wild, uncontrollable dance. "You're fucking sweet," he groans, his voice rough and breathless. "I can't get enough of you... not after that night, Sol," he growls, slamming into me harder. The force of his words and his thrusts make my body shake. "Come for me," he commands, his voice low and full of heat. And just like that, my body trembles. Waves of pleasure crash over me. I cry out, shaking with the force of my orgasm. "Mine," he growls again, louder this time. His voice is feral, wild, like a beast claiming what belongs to him. The sound sends a shiver down my spine. *** Solene was betrayed, humiliated, and erased by Rowan Brook, the man she once called husband, Solene is left with nothing but her name and a burning hunger for revenge. She turns to the one man powerful enough to destroy the Brooks family from within: Rowan's estranged and dangerous uncle, Antonio Rodriguez. He's ruthless. A playboy who never sleeps with the same woman twice. But when Solene walks into his world, he doesn't just break the rules, he creates new ones just for her. What begins as a calculated game quickly spirals into obsession, power plays, and secrets too deadly to stay buried. Because Solene isn't just anyone's ex... she's the woman they should've never underestimated. Can she survive the price of revenge? Or will her heart become the next casualty? And when the truth comes out, will Antonio still choose her... or destroy her?
I was finally brought back to the billionaire Vance estate after years in the grimy foster system, but the luxury Lincoln felt more like a funeral procession. My biological family didn't welcome me with open arms; they looked at me like a stain on a silk shirt. They thought I was a "defective" mute with cognitive delays, a spare part to be traded away. Within hours of my arrival, my father decided to sell me to Julian Thorne, a bitter, paralyzed heir, just to secure a corporate merger. My sister Tiffany treated me like trash, whispering for me to "go back to the gutter" before pouring red wine over my dress in front of Manhattan's elite. When a drunk cousin tried to lay hands on me at the engagement gala, my grandmother didn't protect me-she raised her silver-topped cane to strike my face for "embarrassing the family." They called me a sacrificial lamb, laughing as they signed the prenuptial agreement that stripped me of my freedom. They had no idea I was E-11, the underground hacker-artist the world was obsessed with, or that I had already breached their private servers. I found the hidden medical records-blood types A, A, and B-a biological impossibility that proved my "parents" were harboring a scandal that could ruin them. Why bring me back just to discard me again? And why was Julian Thorne, the man supposedly bound to a wheelchair, secretly running miles at dawn on his private estate? Standing in the middle of the ballroom, I didn't plead for mercy. I used a text-to-speech app to broadcast a cold, synthetic threat: "I have the records, Richard. Do you want me to explain genetics to the press, or should we leave quietly?" With the "paralyzed" billionaire as my unexpected accomplice, I walked out of the Vance house and into a much more dangerous game.
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