Un Pélerin d'Angkor by Pierre Loti
Un Pélerin d'Angkor by Pierre Loti
Je ne sais pas si beaucoup d'hommes ont comme moi depuis l'enfance pressenti toute leur vie. Rien ne m'est arrivé que je n'aie obscurément prévu dès mes premières années.
Les ruines d'Angkor, je me souviens si bien de certain soir d'avril, un peu voilé, où en vision elles m'apparurent! Cela se passait dans mon ?musée? d'enfant, très petite pièce, en haut de ma maison familiale, où j'avais réuni beaucoup de coquillages, d'oiseaux des ?les, d'armes et de parures océaniennes, tout ce qui pouvait me parler des pays lointains. Or il était décidé tout à fait à cette époque, par mes parents, que je resterais près d'eux, que jamais je n'irais courir le monde, comme mon frère a?né qui venait de mourir là-bas en Extrême-Asie.
Ce soir-là donc, écolier toujours inattentif, j'étais allé m'enfermer au milieu de ces choses troublantes, pour flaner plut?t que de finir mes devoirs, et je feuilletais des papiers jaunis, revenus de l'Indo-Chine dans les bagages de mon frère mort. Des carnets de notes. Deux ou trois livres chinois. Ensuite un numéro de je ne sais quelle revue coloniale où était contée la découverte de ruines colossales perdues au fond des forêts du Siam; il y avait une image devant laquelle je m'arrêtai saisi de frisson: de grandes tours étranges que des ramures exotiques enla?aient de toutes parts, les temples de la mystérieuse Angkor! Pas un instant d'ailleurs je ne doutai que je les conna?trais, envers et contre tous, malgré les impossibilités, malgré les défenses.
Pour y songer mieux, j'allai m'accouder à la fenêtre de mon ?musée?, celle de toute la maison d'où l'on voyait le plus loin; il y avait d'abord les vieux toits du tranquille voisinage, puis les arbres centenaires des remparts, au delà enfin la rivière par où les navires s'en vont à l'Océan.
Et j'eus cette fois la prescience très nette d'une vie de voyages et d'aventures, avec des heures magnifiques, presque un peu fabuleuses comme pour quelque prince oriental, et aussi des heures misérables infiniment. Dans cet avenir de mystère, très agrandi par mon imagination enfantine, je me voyais devenant une sorte de héros de légende, idole aux pieds d'argile, fascinant des ames par milliers, adoré des uns, mais suspecté et honni des autres. Pour que mon personnage f?t plus romanesque, il fallait qu'il y e?t une ombre à la renommée telle que je la souhaitais... Cette ombre, que serait-ce bien?... Quoi de chimérique et d'effarant?... Pirate peut-être... Oui, il ne m'e?t pas trop déplu d'être soup?onné de piraterie, tout là-bas, sur des mers à peine connues...
Ensuite m'apparut mon propre déclin, mon retour au foyer, bien plus tard, le c?ur lassé et les cheveux blanchissants. Ma maison familiale serait restée pareille, pieusement conservée,--mais ?à et là, percées dans les murs, des portes clandestines conduiraient à un palais de Mille et une Nuits, plein des pierreries de Golconde, de tout mon butin fantastique. Et, comme la Bible était en ce temps-là mon livre quotidien, j'entendais murmurer dans ma tête des versets d'Ecclésiaste sur la vanité des choses. Rassasié des spectacles de ce monde, tout en rentrant, vieilli, dans ce même petit musée de mon enfance, je disais en moi-même: ?J'ai tout éprouvé, je suis allé partout, j'ai tout vu, etc...?--Et, parmi tant de phrases déjà tristement chantantes qui vinrent alors me bercer à cette fenêtre, l'une, je ne sais pourquoi, devait rester gravée dans mon souvenir, celle-ci: ?Au fond des forêts du Siam, j'ai vu l'étoile du soir se lever sur les grandes ruines d'Angkor...?
Un coup de sifflet, à la fois impérieux et doux, me fit soudain redevenir le petit enfant soumis qu'en réalité je n'avais pas cessé d'être. Il partait d'en bas, de la cour aux vieux murs enguirlandés de plantes. Je l'aurais reconnu entre mille: c'était l'appel coutumier de mon père, chaque fois que j'étais légèrement en faute. Et je répondis: ?Je suis là-haut dans mon musée. Que veux tu, bon père? Que je descende??
Il avait d? entrer dans mon bureau et jeter les yeux sur mes devoirs inachevés.
--Oui, descends vite, mon petit, finir ta version grecque, si tu veux être libre après d?ner pour aller au cirque.
(J'adorais le cirque; mais je peinais cette année-là sous la férule d'un professeur exécré que nous appelions le Grand-Singe-Noir, et mes devoirs trop longs n'étaient jamais finis.)
Donc, je descendis m'atteler à cette version. La cour, nullement triste pourtant, entre ses vieux petits murs garnis de rosiers et de jasmins, me sembla trop étroite, trop enclose, et je jugeai trop nébuleux, un peu sinistre même, le crépuscule d'avril qui y tombait à cette heure: j'avais en tête le ciel bleu, l'espace, les mers,--et les forêts du Siam où s'élèvent, parmi des banians, les tours de la prodigieuse Angkor.
Au Maroc est un reportage fort intéressant que Pierre Loti a écrit pendant sa mission dans ce pays, à la suite d'une délégation guidée par le ministre plénipotentiaire Patenôtre, invité par le Sultan de Fès. Nous sommes en pleine époque coloniale, mais l'écrivain, de par sa nature cosmopolite, était déjà arabophile, et de plus marocophile, et n'avait aucun préjugé à l'égard de l'Islam. Il produit ainsi un essai passionnant qui décrit les paysages, les villes, les villages, les gens, avec amour et passion, sans toutefois jamais céder à la banalité de la « carte postale », et, d'ailleurs, il décrit les inévitables misères avec un réalisme sans pitié. Un livre précieux à la fois pour ceux qui veulent revivre les atmosphères romantiques de l'exotisme de l'époque et ceux qui veulent comprendre une importante partie du monde arabe dans ses transformations complexes.
There is to-day a widely spread new interest in child life, a desire to get nearer to children and understand them. To be sure child study is not new; every wise parent and every sympathetic teacher has ever been a student of children; but there is now an effort to do more consciously and systematically what has always been done in some way.
Extrait : "En mer, aux environs de deux heures du matin, par une nuit calme, sous un ciel plein d'étoiles. Yves se tenait sur la passerelle auprès de moi, et nous causions du pays, absolument nouveau pour nous deux, où nous conduisaient cette fois les hasards de notre destinée. C'était le lendemain que nous devions atterrir ; cette attente nous amusait et nous formions mille projets."
The first appearance of Pierre Loti's works, twenty years ago, causeda sensation throughout those circles wherein the creations ofintellect and imagination are felt, studied, and discussed. The authorwas one who, with a power which no one had wielded before him, carriedoff his readers into exotic lands, and whose art, in appearance mostsimple, proved a genuine enchantment for the imagination. It was thetime when M. Zola and his school stood at the head of the literarymovement. There breathed forth from Loti's writings an all-penetratingfragrance of poesy, which liberated French literary ideals from theheavy and oppressive yoke of the Naturalistic school. Truth now soaredon unhampered pinions, and the reading world was completely won by theunsurpassed intensity and faithful accuracy with which he depicted thealluring charms of far-off scenes, and painted the naive soul of theraces that seem to endure in the isles of the Pacific as survivingrepresentatives of the world's infancy.
"Let's get married," Mia declares, her voice trembling despite her defiant gaze into Stefan's guarded brown eyes. She needs this, even if he seems untouchable. Stefan raises a skeptical brow. "And why would I do that?" His voice was low, like a warning, and it made her shiver even though she tried not to show it. "We both have one thing in common," Mia continues, her gaze unwavering. "Shitty fathers. They want to take what's ours and give it to who they think deserves it." A pointed pause hangs in the air. "The only difference between us is that you're an illegitimate child, and I'm not." Stefan studies her, the heiress in her designer armor, the fire in her eyes that matches the burn of his own rage. "That's your solution? A wedding band as a weapon?" He said ignoring the part where she just referred to him as an illegitimate child. "The only weapon they won't see coming." She steps closer, close enough for him to catch the scent of her perfume, gunpowder and jasmine. "Our fathers stole our birthrights. The sole reason they betrayed us. We join forces, create our own empire that'll bring down theirs." A beat of silence. Then, Stefan's mouth curves into something sharp. "One condition," he murmurs, closing the distance. "No divorces. No surrenders. If we're doing this, it's for life" "Deal" Mia said without missing a beat. Her father wants to destroy her life. She wouldn't give him the pleasure, she would destroy her life as she seems fit. ................ Two shattered heirs. One deadly vow. A marriage built on revenge. Mia Meyers was born to rule her father's empire (so she thought), until he named his bastard son heir instead. Stefan Sterling knows the sting of betrayal too. His father discarded him like trash. Now the rivals' disgraced children have a poisonous proposal: Marry for vengeance. Crush their fathers' legacies. Never speak of divorce. Whoever cracks first loses everything. Can these two rivals, united by their vengeful hearts, pull off a marriage of convenience to reclaim what they believe is rightfully theirs? Or will their fathers' animosity, and their own complicated pasts tear their fragile alliance apart?
Being second best is practically in my DNA. My sister got the love, the attention, the spotlight. And now, even her damn fiancé. Technically, Rhys Granger was my fiancé now-billionaire, devastatingly hot, and a walking Wall Street wet dream. My parents shoved me into the engagement after Catherine disappeared, and honestly? I didn't mind. I'd crushed on Rhys for years. This was my chance, right? My turn to be the chosen one? Wrong. One night, he slapped me. Over a mug. A stupid, chipped, ugly mug my sister gave him years ago. That's when it hit me-he didn't love me. He didn't even see me. I was just a warm-bodied placeholder for the woman he actually wanted. And apparently, I wasn't even worth as much as a glorified coffee cup. So I slapped him right back, dumped his ass, and prepared for disaster-my parents losing their minds, Rhys throwing a billionaire tantrum, his terrifying family plotting my untimely demise. Obviously, I needed alcohol. A lot of alcohol. Enter him. Tall, dangerous, unfairly hot. The kind of man who makes you want to sin just by existing. I'd met him only once before, and that night, he just happened to be at the same bar as my drunk, self-pitying self. So I did the only logical thing: I dragged him into a hotel room and ripped off his clothes. It was reckless. It was stupid. It was completely ill-advised. But it was also: Best. Sex. Of. My. Life. And, as it turned out, the best decision I'd ever made. Because my one-night stand isn't just some random guy. He's richer than Rhys, more powerful than my entire family, and definitely more dangerous than I should be playing with. And now, he's not letting me go.
For three years, Averie pushed herself through a secret marriage, waiting for the day she could finally wear a white dress and be seen as his wife. The night before she could finally walk down the aisle, he confessed without a hint of hesitation that he was marrying the woman who once rescued him instead. The "fake" divorce agreement she signed for him shattered into a real, icy breakup that finally freed her wounded heart. When he returned in remorse, begging for just one more chance, a ruthless business magnate pulled Averie close and muttered coldly, "You're too late. She's my woman now."
Trigger/Content Warning: This story contains mature themes and explicit content intended for adult audiences(18+). Reader discretion is advised. It includes elements such as BDSM dynamics, explicit sexual content, toxic family relationships, occasional violence and strong language. This is not a fluffy romance. It is intense, raw and messy, and explores the darker side of desire. ***** "Take off your dress, Meadow." "Why?" "Because your ex is watching," he said, leaning back into his seat. "And I want him to see what he lost." ••••*••••*••••* Meadow Russell was supposed to get married to the love of her life in Vegas. Instead, she walked in on her twin sister riding her fiance. One drink at the bar turned to ten. One drunken mistake turned into reality. And one stranger's offer turned into a contract that she signed with shaking hands and a diamond ring. Alaric Ashford is the devil in a tailored Tom Ford suit. Billionaire CEO, brutal, possessive. A man born into an empire of blood and steel. He also suffers from a neurological condition-he can't feel. Not objects, not pain, not even human touch. Until Meadow touches him, and he feels everything. And now he owns her. On paper and in his bed. She wants him to ruin her. Take what no one else could have. He wants control, obedience... revenge. But what starts as a transaction slowly turns into something Meadow never saw coming. Obsession, secrets that were never meant to surface, and a pain from the past that threatens to break everything. Alaric doesn't share what's his. Not his company. Not his wife. And definitely not his vengeance.
The acrid smell of smoke still clung to Evelyn in the ambulance, her lungs raw from the penthouse fire. She was alive, but the world around her felt utterly destroyed, a feeling deepened by the small TV flickering to life. On it, her husband, Julian Vance, thousands of miles away, publicly comforted his mistress, Serena Holloway, shielding her from paparazzi after *her* "panic attack." Julian's phone went straight to voicemail. Alone in the hospital with second-degree burns, Evelyn watched news replays, her heart rate spiking. He protected Serena from camera flashes while Evelyn burned. When he finally called, he demanded she handle insurance, dismissing the fire; Serena's voice faintly heard. The shallow family ties and pretense of marriage evaporated. A searing injustice and cold anger replaced pain; Evelyn knew Julian had chosen to let her burn. "Evelyn Vance died in that fire," she declared, ripping out her IV. Armed with a secret fortune as "The Architect," Hollywood's top ghostwriter, she walked out. She would divorce Julian, reclaim her name, and finally step into the spotlight as an actress.
Eliana reunited with her family, now ruined by fate: Dad jailed, Mom deathly ill, six crushed brothers, and a fake daughter who'd fled for richer prey. Everyone sneered. But at her command, Eliana summoned the Onyx Syndicate. Bars opened, sickness vanished, and her brothers rose-one walking again, others soaring in business, tech, and art. When society mocked the "country girl," she unmasked herself: miracle doctor, famed painter, genius hacker, shadow queen. A powerful tycoon held her close. "Country girl? She's my fiancée!" Eliana glared at him. "Dream on." Resolutely, he vowed never to let go.
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