Moliere - "The Pretentious Young Ladies"

M. E. Braddon - "Charlotte's Inheritance"

Harriet Stark - "The Bacillus of Beauty"

Franz Grillparzer - "Der arme Spielmann"

A  /  B  /  C  /  D  /  E  /   F  /  G  /  H  /  I  /  J  /   K  /  L  /  M  /  N  /  O   P  /  R  /  S  /  T  /  U  /  V  /  W  /  X  /  Y  /  Z

Les Indes Noires by Jules Verne

J >> Jules Verne >> Les Indes Noires




Au-dessus de sa tete, volait son enorme harfang, dont le plumage blanc
etait tache de points noirs.

Mais alors, un homme se precipita dans les eaux du lac, qui nagea
vigoureusement vers le canot.

C'etait Jack Ryan. Il s'efforcait d'atteindre le fou, avant que
celui-ci n'eut accompli son œuvre de destruction.

Silfax le vit venir. Il brisa le verre de sa lampe, et, apres avoir
arrache la meche allumee, il la promena dans l'air.

Un silence de mort planait sur toute l'assistance atterree.

James Starr, resigne, s'etonnait que l'explosion, inevitable, n'eut pas
deja aneanti la Nouvelle-Aberfoyle.

Silfax, les traits crispes, se rendit compte que le grisou, trop leger
pour se maintenir dans les basses couches, s'etait accumule vers les
hauteurs du dome.

Mais alors le harfang, sur un geste de Silfax, saisissant dans sa patte
la meche incendiaire, comme il faisait autrefois dans les galeries de
la fosse Dochart, commenca a monter vers la haute voute, que le
vieillard lui montrait de la main.

Encore quelques secondes, et la Nouvelle-Aberfoyle avait vecu !...

A ce moment, Nell s'echappa des bras d'Harry.

Calme et inspiree tout a la fois, elle courut vers la rive du lac,
jusqu'a la lisiere des eaux.

<< Harfang ! Harfang ! cria-t-elle d'une voix claire, a moi ! viens a
moi ! >>

L'oiseau fidele, etonne, avait hesite un instant. Mais soudain, ayant
reconnu la voix de Nell, il avait laisse tomber la meche enflammee dans
les eaux du lac, et, tracant un large cercle, il etait venu s'abattre
aux pieds de la jeune fille.

Les hautes couches explosives dans lesquelles le grisou s'etait melange
a l'air, n'avaient pas ete atteintes !

Alors un cri terrible retentit sous le dome. Ce fut le dernier que jeta
le vieux Silfax.

A l'instant ou Jack Ryan allait mettre la main sur le bordage du canot,
le vieillard, voyant sa vengeance lui echapper, s'etait precipite dans
les eaux du lac.

<< Sauvez-le ! sauvez-le ! >> s'ecria Nell d'une voix dechirante.

Harry l'entendit. Se jetant a son tour a la nage, il eut bientot
rejoint Jack Ryan et plongea a plusieurs reprises.

Mais ses efforts furent inutiles.

Les eaux du lac Malcolm ne rendirent pas leur proie. Elles s'etaient a
jamais refermees sur le vieux Silfax.

XXII

La legende du vieux Silfax

Six mois apres ces evenements, le mariage, si etrangement interrompu,
d'Harry Ford et de Nell, se celebrait dans la chapelle de Saint-Gilles.
Apres que le reverend Hobson eut beni leur union, les jeunes epoux,
encore vetus de noir, rentrerent au cottage.

James Starr et Simon Ford, desormais exempts de toute inquietude,
presiderent joyeusement a la fete qui suivit la ceremonie et se
prolongea jusqu'au lendemain.

Ce fut dans ces memorables circonstances que Jack Ryan, revetu de son
costume de piper, apres avoir gonfle d'air l'outre de sa cornemuse,
obtint ce triple resultat de jouer, de chanter et de danser tout a la
fois, aux applaudissements de toute l'assemblee.

Et, le lendemain, les travaux du jour et du fond recommencerent, sous
la direction de l'ingenieur James Starr.

Harry et Nell furent heureux, il est superflu de le dire. Ces deux
cœurs, tant eprouves, trouverent dans leur union le bonheur
qu'ils meritaient.

Quant a Simon Ford, l'overman honoraire de la Nouvelle Aberfoyle, il
comptait bien vivre assez pour celebrer sa cinquantaine avec la bonne
Madge, qui ne demandait pas mieux, d'ailleurs.

<< Et apres celle-la, pourquoi pas une autre ? disait Jack Ryan. Deux
cinquantaines, ce ne serait pas trop pour vous, monsieur Simon !

-- Tu as raison, mon garcon, repondit tranquillement le vieil overman.
Qu'y aurait-il d'etonnant a ce que sous le climat de la
Nouvelle-Aberfoyle, dans ce milieu qui ne connait pas les intemperies
du dehors, on devint deux fois centenaire ? >>

Les habitants de Coal-city devaient-ils jamais assister a cette seconde
ceremonie ? L'avenir le dira.

En tout cas, un oiseau, qui semblait devoir atteindre une longevite
extraordinaire, c'etait le harfang du vieux Silfax. Il hantait toujours
le sombre domaine. Mais apres la mort du vieillard, bien que Nell eut
essaye de le retenir, il s'etait enfui au bout de quelques jours. Outre
que la societe des hommes ne lui plaisait decidement pas plus qu'a son
ancien maitre, il semblait qu'il eut garde une sorte de rancune
particuliere a Harry, et que cet oiseau jaloux eut toujours reconnu et
deteste en lui le premier ravisseur de Nell, celui a qui il l'avait
disputee en vain dans l'ascension du gouffre.

Depuis ce temps, Nell ne le revoyait qu'a de longs intervalles, planant
au-dessus du lac Malcolm.

Voulait-il revoir son amie d'autrefois ? voulait-il plonger ses regards
penetrants jusqu'au fond de l'abime ou s'etait englouti Silfax ?

Les deux versions furent admises, car le harfang devint legendaire, et
il inspira a Jack Ryan plus d'une fantastique histoire.

C'est grace a ce joyeux compagnon qu'on chante encore dans les veillees
ecossaises la legende de l'oiseau du vieux Silfax, l'ancien penitent
des houilleres d'Aberfoyle.

The End

President Obama teams up with one of Marvel's greatest heroes, reports Alison Flood

Here's Michael Wolff, still doing the rounds promoting his Rupert Murdoch biography, The man who owns the news. This interview with Jon Stewart is fun. It starts off with Wolff saying: "You wanna start a rumour, tell Rupert. He's the biggest gossip I've ever met." And there's an amusing pay-off too. (Via Comedy Central/The E&P Pub)

guardian.co.uk © Guardian News & Media Limited 2009 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds

Poetry Workshop creature features

For many years my local corner shop displayed a large sign in its window telling local residents to "use us or lose us!" It always looked a rather toothless threat to me. After all, if I didn't use them, what difference would it make to me if they weren't there? And surely a corner shop, one that had been there for years, would have enough customers to survive without recourse to such apocalyptic warning? But it didn't and was soon converted into flats.

This community shop was destroyed not so much by the pressures of the supermarkets or people's commuting patterns, but simply by customer apathy. It's something to think about as crime writers and readers across the world mourn the imminent passing of Maxim Jakubowski's celebrated Charing Cross Road bookshop in London, Murder One.

Apathy is a strange word to connect to a bookstore that thrives on passion. It's noticeable when you walk through the door, when you speak to the friendly, knowledgeable staff, when you look at the shelves and see the vast range of titles on offer. This isn't your regular kind of bookstore: the first time I visited spent a whole lunch break looking up and down, from floor to ceiling from table to table; it was an hour that changed my perception of both crime writing and of bookselling.

Murder One was – and for a few weeks will remain – a shop that took crime seriously. Not in the sense that it intellectualised it, or made unsubstantiated claims for its importance, but in the way that it treated crime writing with the respect it was due. With a genre that has so many off-shoots, branches and sub-genres, it took a shop of Murder One's calibre to show just how diverse, interesting and mentally stimulating crime could be – far more than the guilty pleasure I had, until then, considered it.

Thanks to judicious recommendations, enticing table displays and hours of foraging among the stacks, I discovered writers that I would never have picked up, let alone read. You could always get the latest blockbuster, but delve a little deeper and you'd find books that were not stocked anywhere else, novels that, like the perfect crime, were hidden from public view. The Martin Beck novels by Sjöwall & Wahlöö – probably my favourite sequence of novels in any genre – were introduced to me via Murder One, as were Kem Nunn, Sue Grafton, and Henning Mankell. It's also the staff of Murder One who piqued my interest in the inimitable Fred Vargas, and I can't thank them enough for the introduction.

Inclusive and without snobbery, Murder One amply demonstrated that the best bookshops are places not just of commerce, but of community; places that make feel you belong. It's the kind of store that bibliophiles dream about: well-stocked, well-staffed and shabby enough to lose days browsing within. It's just unfortunate that such shops don't have enough paying customers to keep them afloat, or that these customers visit all too infrequently – something of which I'm certainly guilty.

These kinds of shops are facing a long, bloody battle – and one which, without significant reinforcements, they are likely to lose. As we hear of the travesty of another brilliant independent going down, we'll mourn the loss, wring our hands and damn Amazon and the supermarkets and Waterstone's. Yet perhaps the most important detail we'll probably keep under wraps: the last time we actually spent any money there.

Murder One closing its doors for the final time is undoubtedly a .38 shell for independent bookshops, but whether it's body blow or a warning shot all depends upon us, the consumers. No one, no matter how iconic or established, can exist on fond memories alone: just ask Woolworths. Use these shops now, because it doesn't take a master sleuth to deduce what will happen if we don't.

guardian.co.uk © Guardian News & Media Limited 2009 | Use of this content is subject to our Terms & Conditions | More Feeds

In focus: Liz Jobey looks at the work of photographic printer Richard Benson
From winged wonders to creepy crawlies, Mark Doty is impressed by the creatures that emerged from his workshop on encountering animals