Ariadne by Henry Gréville
Ariadne by Henry Gréville
La première classe était plongée dans les douceurs de l'étude, comme d'ailleurs l'institut tout entier. Le lourd soleil d'ao?t brillait sur les toits de t?le verte et se reflétait dans les vitres des immenses fenêtres à demi fermées; un souffle d'orage grondant au loin arrivait par bouffées, et la voix somnolente du professeur détaillait les causes de la décadence de la maison d'Autriche aux élèves à moitié endormies.
Les trois premières de la classe, les plus intelligentes, spécialement favorisées du ma?tre, griffonnaient assid?ment les brouillons qui devaient leur valoir des notes brillantes aux examens de fin d'année,-ceux qui précéderaient leur sortie de l'institut, et, par conséquent, leur retour dans la famille. La dame de classe, vieille fille pédante et guindée, continuait au crochet un interminable couvre-pieds dont personne dans l'établissement n'avait vu le commencement, et, de temps à autre, son ?il vigilant et soup?onneux parcourait les rangs de son troupeau juvénile.
Soudain, dans ce milieu somnolent, correct et routinier, il arriva un événement extraordinaire, dont n'avaient jamais été témoins les murailles de l'institut de demoiselles placé sous le patronage de S. A. I. madame la grande-duchesse X... Le professeur resta bouche bée, les élèves pouffèrent de rire, et la dame de la classe se leva de toute sa hauteur, surprise et indignée... pendant que les dernières vibrations d'une gamme chromatique, filée avec une douceur exquise par une belle voix de contralto, allaient s'éteindre sur les cartes murales frissonnantes d'indignation entre leurs rouleaux de bois noir.
-Ranine! tonna la dame de classe.
La jeune fille ainsi interpellée par son nom de famille, suivant l'usage des instituts, se tint debout, la tête basse, prête à recevoir sa mercuriale.
-Venez ici, Ranine, dit la dame de classe;-ici,-son index mena?ant indiquait la chaire en bois verni où tr?nait d'un air ahuri le professeur encore mal revenu de sa stupéfaction,-venez ici et faites vos excuses à M. le professeur.
La délinquante s'approcha à tout petits pas, les bras pendants, la tête baissée, écrasée, pour ainsi dire, sous le poids non de sa honte, mais de son opulente chevelure blond cendré, aux reflets dorés comme les épis lors de la moisson.
-Pourquoi vous permettez-vous de chanter pendant l'heure de la le?on? interrogea la dame de classe, sans attendre même que la coupable f?t arrivée auprès d'elle.
Celle-ci fit encore deux pas, s'arrêta devant la chaire, leva timidement ses yeux gris foncé sur le professeur, et sans répondre directement:
-Je vous prie, monsieur, dit-elle d'une riche voix de contralto, je vous prie sincèrement d'agréer mes excuses. Je ne voulais pas troubler la le?on, je ne l'ai pas fait exprès.
La classe entière avait attendu la fin de cette phrase dans le recueillement de la malignité qui espère,-recueillement auquel rien ne peut se comparer. Le dernier mot provoqua une tempête de fou rire, fort heureusement contenue par la présence de la redoutable dame de classe.
-Comment! pas exprès! s'écria celle-ci au comble de l'indignation. Est-ce qu'il arrive de ne pas chanter exprès? Vous vous moquez de vos supérieurs, Ranine, cela vous co?tera cher.
La jeune fille secoua légèrement ses épaules nues qu'encadrait à merveille la robe brune très-décolletée, uniforme des instituts de Russie.
-Je n'y peux rien, dit-elle; je regrette, mademoiselle et monsieur, d'avoir causé du scandale, mais ce n'est pas ma faute; quand j'ai envie de chanter, cela me fait mal ici,-elle porta la main à son cou rond et blanc comme de la crème,-et il faut que je chante; sans cela, j'étouffe.
Le professeur, de plus en plus ahuri, regarda la dame de classe comme pour s'assurer de la lucidité d'esprit de mademoiselle Ranine; mais la dame de classe avait fourré héro?quement son crochet au c?ur de sa pelote de coton, indice des plus grandes colères, et s'était croisé les bras par-dessus le couvre-pieds.
-C'est bien, mademoiselle, nous en reparlerons, proféra-t-elle majestueusement. Retournez à votre place.
Ariadne Ranine, en retournant à sa place, la dernière et la plus mauvaise, récolta sur son passage bon nombre de quolibets charitables.
-Je vous disais donc, mesdemoiselles, reprit le professeur en ajustant sur son nez camus un pince-nez récalcitrant, que, parmi les causes de la décadence de la maison d'Autriche, il faut mettre en première ligne...
Mais cette gamme chromatique, inopinément survenue au milieu des malheurs de la maison d'Autriche, l'avait si fort bouleversé, qu'il oublia deux causes importantes de cette fatale décadence; il s'en aper?ut, pataugea, fit une le?on déplorable et mit un zéro à mademoiselle Ranine;-or, le zéro et ?très-mal?, c'est absolument la même chose. La pauvre fille n'avait pourtant pas ouvert la bouche,-hormis pour chanter.
* * *
From childhood, Stephanie knew she was not her parents' real daughter, but out of gratitude, she turned their business into a powerhouse. Once the true daughter came back, Stephanie was cast out-only to be embraced by an even more powerful birth family, adored by three influential brothers. The second ruled the battlefield. "Stephanie's sweet and innocent; she would never commit such crimes. That name on the wanted list is just a coincidence." And the youngest controlled the markets. "Anyone who dares bully my sister will lose my investment." Her former family begged for forgiveness-even on TV. Stephanie stood firm. When the richest man proposed, she became the woman everyone envied. The eldest ran the boardroom. "Cancel the meeting. I need to set up the art exhibition for my sister!" The town was turned upside down.
"Stella once savored Marc's devotion, yet his covert cruelty cut deep. She torched their wedding portrait at his feet while he sent flirty messages to his mistress. With her chest tight and eyes blazing, Stella delivered a sharp slap. Then she deleted her identity, signed onto a classified research mission, vanished without a trace, and left him a hidden bombshell. On launch day she vanished; that same dawn Marc's empire crumbled. All he unearthed was her death certificate, and he shattered. When they met again, a gala spotlighted Stella beside a tycoon. Marc begged. With a smirk, she said, ""Out of your league, darling."
I spent four hours preparing a five-course meal for our fifth anniversary. When Jackson finally walked into the penthouse an hour late, he didn't even look at the table. He just dropped a thick Manila envelope in front of me and told me he was done. He said his stepsister, Davida, was getting worse and needed "stability." I wasn't his wife; I was a placeholder, a temporary fix he used until the woman he actually loved was ready to take my place. Jackson didn't just want a divorce; he wanted to erase me. He called me a "proprietary asset," claiming that every design I had created to save his empire belonged to him. He froze my bank accounts, cut off my phone, and told me I’d be nothing without his name. Davida even called me from her hospital bed to flaunt the family heirloom ring Jackson claimed was lost, mocking me for being "baggage" that was finally being cleared out. I stood in our empty home, realizing I had spent five years being a martyr for a man who saw me as a transaction. I couldn't understand how he could be so blind to the monster he was protecting, or how he could discard me so coldly after I had given him everything. I grabbed my hidden sketchbook, shredded our wedding portrait, and walked out into the rain. I dialed a number I hadn't touched in years—a dangerous man known as The Surgeon who dealt in debts and shadows. I told him I was ready to pay his price. Jackson and Davida wanted to steal my identity, but I was about to show the world the literal scars they had left behind.
The sterile white of the operating room blurred, then sharpened, as Skye Sterling felt the cold clawing its way up her body. The heart monitor flatlined, a steady, high-pitched whine announcing her end. Her uterus had been removed, a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding, but the blood wouldn't clot. It just kept flowing, warm and sticky, pooling beneath her. Through heavy eyes, she saw a trembling nurse holding a phone on speaker. "Mr. Kensington," the nurse's voice cracked, "your wife... she's critical." A pause, then a sweet, poisonous giggle. Seraphina Miller. "Liam is in the shower," Seraphina's voice purred. "Stop calling, Skye. It's pathetic. Faking a medical emergency on our anniversary? Even for you, that's low." Then, Liam's bored voice: "If she dies, call the funeral home. I have a meeting in the morning." Click. The line went dead. A second later, so did Skye. The darkness that followed was absolute, suffocating, a black ocean crushing her lungs. She screamed into the void, a silent, agonizing wail of regret for loving a man who saw her as a nuisance, for dying without ever truly living. Until she died, she didn't understand. Why was her life so tragically wasted? Why did her husband, the man she loved, abandon her so cruelly? The injustice of it all burned hotter than the fever in her body. Then, the air rushed back in. Skye gasped, her body convulsing violently on the mattress. Her eyes flew open, wide and terrified, staring blindly into the darkness. Her trembling hand reached for her phone. May 12th. Five years ago. She was back.
For five years, I believed I was living in a perfect marriage, only to discover it was all a sham! I discovered that my husband was coveting my bone marrow for his mistress! Right in front of me, he sent her flirtatious messages. To make matters worse, he even brought her into the company to steal my work! I finally understood, he never loved me. I stopped pretending, collected evidence of his infidelity, and reclaimed the research he had stolen from me. I signed the divorce papers and left without looking back. He thought I was just throwing a tantrum and would eventually return. But when we met again, I was holding the hand of a globally renowned tycoon, draped in a wedding dress and grinning with confidence. My ex-husband's eyes were red with regret. "Come back to me!" But my new groom wrapped his arm around my waist, and chuckled dismissively, "Get the hell out of here! She's mine now."
Sophie stepped in for her sister and married a man known for his disfigured looks and reckless past. On their wedding day, his family turned their backs on him, and the town laughed behind their hands, certain the marriage would collapse. But Sophie's career soared, and their love only deepened. Later, during a high-profile event, the CEO of some conglomerate took off his mask, revealing Sophie's husband to be a global sensation. *** Adrian had no interest in his arranged wife and had disguised himself in hopes she would bail. But when Sophie tried to walk away, Adrian broke down and whispered, "Please, Sophie, don't go. One kiss, and I'll give you the world."
© 2018-now CHANGDU (HK) TECHNOLOGY LIMITED
6/F MANULIFE PLACE 348 KWUN TONG ROAD KL
TOP
GOOGLE PLAY