Les Dieux ont soif

The Red Lily, Complete by Anatole France

Sur la pierre blanche by Anatole France

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 watched my husband sign the papers that would end our marriage while he was busy texting the woman he actually loved. He didn't even glance at the header. He just scribbled the sharp, jagged signature that had signed death warrants for half of New York, tossed the file onto the passenger seat, and tapped his screen again. "Done," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. That was Dante Moretti. The Underboss. A man who could smell a lie from a mile away but couldn't see that his wife had just handed him an annulment decree disguised beneath a stack of mundane logistics reports. For three years, I scrubbed his blood out of his shirts. I saved his family's alliance when his ex, Sofia, ran off with a civilian. In return, he treated me like furniture. He left me in the rain to save Sofia from a broken nail. He left me alone on my birthday to drink champagne on a yacht with her. He even handed me a glass of whiskey—her favorite drink—forgetting that I despised the taste. I was merely a placeholder. A ghost in my own home. So, I stopped waiting. I burned our wedding portrait in the fireplace, left my platinum ring in the ashes, and boarded a one-way flight to San Francisco. I thought I was finally free. I thought I had escaped the cage. But I underestimated Dante. When he finally opened that file weeks later and realized he had signed away his wife without looking, the Reaper didn't accept defeat. He burned down the world to find me, obsessed with reclaiming the woman he had already thrown away.

Blinded in a crash, Cary was rejected by every socialite—except Evelina, who married him without hesitation. Three years later, he regained his sight and ended their marriage. "We’ve already lost so many years. I won’t let her waste another one on me." Evelina signed the divorce papers without a word. Everyone mocked her fall—until they discovered that the miracle doctor, jewelry mogul, stock genius, top hacker, and the President's true daughter… were all her. When Cary came crawling back, a ruthless tycoon had him kicked out. "She's my wife now. Get lost."

I had been a wife for exactly six hours when I woke up to the sound of my husband’s heavy breathing. In the dim moonlight of our bridal suite, I watched Hardin, the man I had adored for years, intertwined with my sister Carissa on the chaise lounge. The betrayal didn't come with an apology. Hardin stood up, unashamed, and sneered at me. "You're awake? Get out, you frumpy mute." Carissa huddled under a throw, her fake tears already welling up as she played the victim. They didn't just want me gone; they wanted me erased to protect their reputations. When I refused to move, my world collapsed. My father didn't offer a shoulder to cry on; he threatened to have me committed to a mental asylum to save his business merger. "You're a disgrace," he bellowed, while the guards stood ready to drag me away. They had spent my life treating me like a stuttering, submissive pawn, and now they were done with me. I felt a blinding pain in my skull, a fracture that should have broken me. But instead of tears, something dormant and lethal flickered to life. The terrified girl who walked down the aisle earlier that day simply ceased to exist. In her place, a clinical system—the Valkyrie Protocol—booted up. My racing heart plummeted to a steady sixty beats per minute. I didn't scream. I stood up, my spine straightening for the first time in twenty years, and looked at Hardin with the detachment of a surgeon looking at a tumor. "Correction," I said, my voice stripped of its stutter. "You're in my light." By dawn, I had drained my father's accounts, vanished into a storm, and found a bleeding Crown Prince in a hidden safehouse. They thought they had broken a mute girl. They didn't realize they had just activated their own destruction.

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.

I sat in the gray, airless room of the New York State Department of Corrections, my knuckles white as the Warden delivered the news. "Parole denied." My father, Howard Sterling, had forged new evidence of financial crimes to keep me behind bars. He walked into the room, smelling of expensive cologne, and tossed a black folder onto the steel table. It was a marriage contract for Lucas Kensington, a billionaire currently lying in a vegetative state in the ICU. "Sign it. You walk out today." I laughed at the idea of being sold to a "corpse" until Howard slid a grainy photo toward me. It showed a toddler with a crescent-moon birthmark—the son Howard told me had died in an incubator five years ago. He smiled and told me the boy's safety depended entirely on my cooperation. I was thrust into the Kensington estate, where the family treated me like a "drowned rat." They dressed me in mothball-scented rags and mocked my status, unaware that I was monitoring their every move. I watched the cousin, Julian, openly waiting for Lucas to die to inherit the empire, while the doctors prepared to sign the death certificate. I didn't understand why my father would lie about my son’s death for years, or what kind of monsters would use a child as a bargaining chip. The injustice of it burned in my chest as I realized I was just a pawn in a game of old money and blood. As the monitors began to flatline and the family started to celebrate their inheritance, I locked the door and reached into the hem of my dress. I pulled out the sharpened silver wires I’d fashioned in the prison workshop. They thought they bought a submissive convict, but they actually invited "The Saint"—the world’s most dangerous underground surgeon—into their home. "Wake up, Lucas. You owe me a life." I wasn't there to be a bride; I was there to wake the dead and burn their empire to the ground.

After being kicked out of her home, Harlee learned she wasn't the biological daughter of her family. Rumors had it that her impoverished biological family favored sons and planned to profit from her return. Unexpectedly, her real father was a zillionaire, catapulting her into immense wealth and making her the most cherished member of the family. While they anticipated her disgrace, Harlee secretly held design patents worth billions. Celebrated for her brilliance, she was invited to mentor in a national astronomy group, drew interest from wealthy suitors, and caught the eye of a mysterious figure, ascending to legendary status.