There was a mighty1 stir in the streets of Paris, as Paris’s streets were in the olden time. A dense2 and eager mob had taken possession, at an early hour of the day, of all the environs of the Bastile, and lined the way which led thence to the Place de Grève in solid and almost impenetrable masses.
People of all conditions were there, except the very highest; but the great majority of the concourse was composed of the low populace, and the smaller bourgeoisie. Multitudes of women were there, too, from the girl of sixteen to the beldam of sixty, nor had mothers been ashamed to bring their infants in their arms into that loud and tumultuous assemblage.
Loud it was and tumultuous, as all great multitudes are, unless they are convened3 by purposes too resolutely4 dark and solemn to find any vent6 in noise. When that is the case, let rulers beware, for peril7 is at hand—perhaps the beginning of the end.
But this Parisian mob, although long before this period it had learned the use of barricades8, though noisy, turbulent, and sometimes even violent in the demonstrations9 of its impatience10, was anything but angry or excited.
222 On the contrary, it seemed to be on the very tip-toe of pleasurable expectation, and from the somewhat frequent allusions11 to notre bon roi, which circulated among the better order of spectators, it would appear that the government of the Fifteenth Louis was for the moment in unusually good odor with the good folks of the metropolis12.
What was the spectacle to which they were looking forward with so much glee—which had brought forth13 young delicate girls, and tender mothers, into the streets at so early an hour—which, as the day advanced toward ten o’clock of the morning, was tempting14 forth laced cloaks, and rapiers, and plumed15 hats, and here and there, in the cumbrous carriages of the day, the proud and luxurious16 ladies of the gay metropolis?
One glance toward the centre of the Place de Grève was sufficient to inform the dullest, for there uprose, black, grisly, horrible, a tall stout17 pile of some thirty feet in height, with a huge wheel affixed18 horizontally to the summit.
Around this hideous20 instrument of torture was raised a scaffold hung with black cloth, and strewd with saw-dust, for the convenience of the executioners, about three feet lower than the wheel which surmounted21 it.
Around this frightful22 apparatus23 were drawn24 up two companies of the French guard, forming a large hollow-square facing outward, with muskets25 loaded, and bayonets fixed19, as if they apprehended26 an attempt at rescue, although from the demeanor28 of the people, nothing appeared at that time to be further from their thoughts than anything of the kind.
Above was the executioner-in-chief, with two grim, truculent-looking assistants, making preparations for the fearful operation they were about to perform, or leaning indolently on the instruments of slaughter29.
By and by, as the day wore onward30, and the concourse kept still increasing both in numbers and in the respectability of those who composed it, something of irritation31 began to show223 itself, mingled33 with the eagerness and expectation of the populace, and from some murmurs34, which ran from time to time through their ranks, it would seem that they apprehended the escape of their victim.
By this time the windows of all the houses which overlooked the precincts of that fatal square on which so much of noble blood has been shed through so many ages, were occupied by persons of both sexes, all of the middle, and some even of the upper classes, as eager to behold37 the frightful and disgusting scene, which was about to ensue, as the mere38 rabble39 in the open streets below.
The same thing was manifest along the whole line of the thoroughfare by which the fatal procession would advance, with this difference alone, that many of the houses in that quarter belonging to the high nobility, and all with few exceptions being the dwellings40 of opulent persons, the windows, instead of being let like seats at the opera, to any who would pay the price, were occupied by the inhabitants, coming and going from their ordinary avocations41 to look out upon the noisy throng42, when any louder outbreak of voices called their attention to the busy scene.
Among the latter, in a large and splendid mansion43, not far from the Porte St. Antoine, and commanding a direct view of the Place de la Bastille, with its esplanade, drawbridge, and principal entrance, a group was collected at one of the windows, nearly overlooking the gate itself, which seemed to take the liveliest interest in the proceedings44 of the day, although that interest was entirely45 unmixed with anything like the brutal46 expectation, and morbid47 love of horrible excitement which characterized the temper of the multitude.
The most prominent persons of this group was a singularly noble-looking man, fast verging48 to his fiftieth year, if he had not yet attained49 it. His countenance50, though resolute5 and firm,224 with a clear, piercing eye, lighted up at times, for a moment, by a quick, fiery51 flash, was calm, benevolent52, and pensive53 in its ordinary mood, rather than energetical or active. Yet it was easy to perceive that the mind, which informed it, was of the highest capacity both of intellect and imagination.
The figure and carriage of this gentleman would have sufficiently54 indicated that, at some period of his life he had borne arms and led the life of a camp—which, indeed, at that day was only to say that he was a nobleman of France—but a long scar on his right brow, a little way above the eye, losing itself among the thick locks of his fine waving hair, and a small round cicatrix in the centre of his cheek, showing where a pistol ball had found entrance, proved that he had been where blows were falling thickest, and that he had not spared his own person in the melée.
His dress was very rich, according to the fashion of the day, though perhaps a fastidious eye might have objected that it partook somewhat of the past mode of the regency, which had just been brought to a conclusion as my tale commences, by the resignation of the witty55 and licentious56 Philip of Orleans.
If, however, this fine-looking gentleman was the most prominent, he certainly was not the most interesting person of the company, which consisted, besides himself, of an ecclesiastic57 of high rank in the French church, a lady, now somewhat advanced in years, but showing the remains58 of beauty which, in its prime, must have been extraordinary, and of a boy in his fifteenth or sixteenth year.
For notwithstanding the eminent60 distinction, and high intellect of the elder nobleman, the dignity of the abbé, not unsupported by all which men look for as the outward and visible signs of that dignity, and the grace and beauty of the lady, it was upon the boy alone that the eye of every spectator would225 have dwelt, from the instant of its first discovering him.
He was tall of his age, and very finely made, of proportions which gave promise of exceeding strength when he should arrive at maturity61, but strength uncoupled to anything of weight or clumsiness. He was unusually free, even at this early period, from that heavy and ungraceful redundance of flesh which not unfrequently is the forerunner63 of athletic64 power in boys just bursting into manhood; for he was already as conspicuous65 for the thinness of his flanks, and the shapely hollow of his back, as for the depth and roundness of his chest, the breadth of his shoulders, and the symmetry of his limbs.
His head was well set on, and his whole bearing was that of one who had learned ease, and grace, and freedom, combined with dignity of carriage, in no school of practice and mannerism66, but from the example of those with whom he had been brought up, and by familiar intercourse67 from his cradle upward with the high-born and gently nurtured68 of the land.
His long rich chestnut69 hair fell down in natural masses undisfigured as yet by the hideous art of the court hair-dresser, on either side his fine broad forehead, and curled, untortured by the crisping-irons, over the collar of his velvet70 jerkin. His eyes were large and very clear, of the deepest shade of blue, with dark lashes71, yet full of strong, tranquil72 light. All his features were regular and shapely, but it was not so much in the beauty of their form, or in the harmony of their coloring, that the attractiveness of his aspect consisted, as in the peculiarity73 and power of his expression.
For a boy of his age, the pensiveness74 and composure of that expression were indeed almost unnatural75, and they combined with a calm firmness and immobility of feature, which promised, I know not what of resolution and tenacity76 of purpose. It was not gravity, much less sternness, or sadness, that lent so powerful an expression to that young face; nor was there a226 single line which indicated coldness or hardness of heart, or which would have led to a suspicion that he had been schooled by those hard monitors, suffering and sorrow. No, it was pure thoughtfulness, and that of the highest and most intellectual order, which characterized the boy’s expression.
Yet, though it was so thoughtful, there was nothing in the aspect whence to forebode a want of the more masculine qualifications. It was the thoughtfulness of a worker, not of a dreamer—the thoughtfulness which prepares, not unfits a man for action. If the powers portrayed77 in that boy’s countenance were not deceptive78 to the last degree, high qualities were within and a high destiny before him.
But who, from the foreshowing and the bloom of sixteen years, may augur79 of the finish and the fruit of the threescore-and-ten, which are the sum of human toil80 and sorrow?
It was now nearly noon, when the outer drawbridge of the Bastile was lowered, and its gate opened; and forth rode, two abreast81, a troop of the musquetaires or lifeguard, in the bright steel casques and cuirases, with the musquetoons, from which they derived82 their name, unslung and ready for action. As they issued into the wider space beyond the bridge, the troopers formed themselves rapidly into a sort of hollow column, the front of which, some eight file deep, occupied the whole width of the street, two files in close order composing each flank, and leaving an open space in the centre completely surrounded by the horsemen.
Into this space, without a moment’s delay, there was driven a low, black cart, or hurdle83 as it was technically84 called, of the rudest construction, drawn by four powerful black horses—a savage85-faced official guiding them by the ropes which supplied the place of reins86. On this ill-omened vehicle there stood three persons—the prisoner, and two of the armed wardens87 of the Bastile—the former ironed very heavily, and the latter227 bristling88 with offensive weapons.
Immediately in the rear of this car followed another troop of the lifeguard, which closed up in the densest89 and most serried90 order around and behind the victim of the law, so as to render any attempt at rescue useless.
The person, to secure whose punishment so strong a military force had been produced, and to witness whose execution so vast a multitude was collected, was a tall, noble-looking man of forty or forty-five years, dressed in a rich mourning-habit of the day, but wearing neither hat nor mantle91. His dark hair, mixed at intervals92 with thin lines of silver, was cut short behind, contrary to the usage of the times, and his neck was bare, the collar of his superbly-laced shirt being folded broadly back over the cape36 of his pourpoint.
His face was very pale, and his complexion93 being naturally of the darkest, the hue94 of his flesh, from which all the healthful blood had receded95, was strangely livid and unnatural in its appearance. Still it did not seem that it was fear which had blanched96 his cheeks, and stolen all the color from his compressed lip, for his eye was full of a fierce, scornful light, and all his features were set and steady with an expression of the calmest and most iron resolution.
As the fatal vehicle which bore him made its appearance on the esplanade without the gates of the prison, a deep hum of satisfaction ran through the assembled concourse, rising and deepening gradually into a savage howl like that of a hungry tiger.
Then, then blazed out the haughty97 spirit, the indomitable pride of the French noble! Then shame, and fear, and death itself, which he was looking even now full in the face, were all forgotten, all absorbed, in his overwhelming scorn of the people!
228 The blood rushed in a torrent98 to his brow, his eye seemed to lighten forth actual fire, as he raised his right hand aloft—loaded although it was with such a mass of iron as a Greek athlete might have shunned99 to lift—and shook it at the clamorous100 mob, with a glare of scorn and fury that showed how, had he been at liberty, he would have dealt with the revilers of his fallen state.
“Sacré canaille!” he hissed102 through his hard-set teeth—“back to your gutters103 and your garbage; or follow, if you can, in silence, and learn, if ye lack not courage to look on, how a man should die!”
The reproof104 told: for, though at the contemptuous tone and fell insult of the first words, the clamor of the rabble-rout waxed wilder, there was so much true dignity in the last sentiment he uttered, and the fate to which he was going was so hideous, that a key was struck in the popular heart, and thenceforth the tone of the spectators was changed altogether.
It was the exultation106 of the people over the downfall and disgrace of a noble, that had found tongue in that savage conclamation; it was the apprehension107 that his dignity, and the interest of his great name, would win him pardon from the partial justice of the king, that had rendered them pitiless and savage: and now that their own cruel will was about to be gratified, as they beheld108 how dauntlessly the proud lord went to a death of torture, they were stricken with a sort of secret shame, and followed the dread109 train in sullen110 silence.
As the black car rolled onward, the haughty criminal turned his eyes upward—perchance from a sentiment of pride, which rendered it painful to him to meet the gaze, whether pitiful or triumphant111, of the Parisian populace; and as he did so, it chanced that his glance fell on the group which I have described as assembled at the windows of a mansion which he knew well, and in which, in happier days, he had passed gay and pleasant hours. Every eye of that group, with but one229 exception, was fixed upon himself, as he perceived on the instant; the lady alone having turned her head away, as unable to look upon one in such a strait, whom she had known under circumstances so widely different. There was nothing, however, in the gaze of all these earnest eyes that seemed to embarrass, much less to offend, the prisoner. Deep interest, earnestness, perhaps horror, was expressed by one and all; but that horror was not, nor in anywise partook of, the abhorrence112 which appeared to be the leading sentiment of the populace below. As he encountered their gaze, therefore, he drew himself up to his full height, and, laying his right hand upon his heart, bowed low and gracefully113 to the windows at which his friends of past days were assembled.
The boy turned his eye quickly toward his father, as if to note what return he should make to that strange salutation. If it were so, he did not remain in doubt a moment, for that nobleman bowed low and solemnly to his brother-peer with a very grave and sad aspect; and even the ecclesiastic inclined his head courteously115 to the condemned116 criminal.
The boy perhaps marvelled117, for a look of bewilderment crossed his ingenuous118 features; but it passed away in an instant, and, following the example of his seniors, he bent119 his ingenuous brow and sunny locks before the unhappy man, who never was again to interchange a salute120 with living mortal.
It would seem that the recipient121 of that last act of courtesy was gratified beyond the expectation of those who offered it, for a faint flush stole over his livid features, from which the momentary122 glow of indignation had now entirely faded, and a slight smile played upon his pallid123 lip, while a tear—the last he should ever shed—twinkled for an instant on his dark lashes. “True,” he muttered to himself approvingly; “the nobles are true ever to their order!”
230 The eyes of the mob likewise had been attracted to the group above, by what had passed, and at first it appeared as if they had taken umbrage124 at the sympathy showed to the criminal by his equals in rank; for there was manifested a little inclination125 to break out again into a murmured shout, and some angry words were bandied about, reflecting on the pride and party spirit of the proud lords.
But the inclination was checked instantly, before it had time to render itself audible, by a word which was circulated, no one knew whence or by whom, through the crowded ranks—“Hush126! hush! it is the good lord of St. Renan!” And therewith every voice was hushed—so fickle127 is the fancy of a crowd—although it is very certain that four fifths of those present knew not nor had ever heard the name of St. Renan, nor had the slightest suspicion what claims he who bore it had on either their respect or forbearance.
The death-train passed on its way, however, unmolested by any further show of temper on the part of the crowd; and the crowd itself, following the progress of the hurdle to the place of execution, was soon out of sight of the windows occupied by the family of the count de St. Renan.
“Alas128! unhappy Kerguelen!” exclaimed the count, with a deep and painful sigh, as the fearful procession was lost to sight in the distance. “He knows not yet half the bitterness of that which he has to undergo.”
The boy looked up into his father’s face with an inquiring glance, which he answered at once, still in the same subdued129 and solemn voice which he had used from the first.
“By the arrangement of his hair and dress I can see that he imagines he is to die as a nobleman, by the axe105. May Heaven support him when he sees the disgraceful wheel.”
“You seem to pity the wretch130, Louis,” cried the lady, who had not hitherto spoken, nor even looked toward the criminal as he was passing by the windows—“and yet he was assuredly231 a most atrocious criminal. A cool, deliberate, cold-blooded poisoner! Out upon it! out upon it! The wheel is fifty times too good for him!”
“He was all that you say, Marie,” replied her husband gravely; “and yet I do pity him with all my heart, and grieve for him. I knew him well, though we have not met for many years, when we were both young, and there was no braver, nobler, better man within the limits of fair France. I know, too, how he loved that woman, how he trusted that man—and then to be so betrayed! It seems to me but yesterday that he led her to the altar, all tears of happiness, and soft maiden132 blushes. Poor Kerguelen! he was sorely tried.”
“But still, my son, he was found wanting. Had he submitted him as a Christian133 to the punishment the good God laid upon him—”
“The world would have pronounced him a spiritless, dishonored slave, father,” said the count, answering the ecclesiastic’s speech before it was yet finished, “and gentlemen would have refused him the hand of fellowship.”
“Was he justified134 then, my father?” asked the boy eagerly, who had been listening with eager attention to every word that had yet been spoken. “Do you think, then, that he was in the right; that he could not do otherwise than to slay135 her? I can understand that he was bound to kill the man who had basely wronged his honor—but a woman!—a woman whom he had once loved too!—that seems to me most horrible; and the mode, by a slow poison! living with her while it took effect! eating at the same board with her! sleeping by her side! that seems even more than horrible, it was cowardly!”
“God forbid, my son,” replied the elder nobleman, “that I should say any man was justified who had murdered another in cold blood; especially, as you have said, a woman, and by a method so terrible as poison. I only mean exactly what I232 said, that he was tried very fearfully, and that under such trial the best and wisest of us here below can not say how he would act himself. Moreover, it would seem, that mistaken as he was perhaps in the course which he seems to have imagined that honor demanded at his hands, he was more mistaken in the mode which he took of accomplishing his scheme of vengeance136. It was made very evident upon his trial that he did nothing, even to that wretched traitress, in rage or revenge, but all as he thought in honor. He chose a drug which consumed her by a mild and gradual decay, without suffering or spasm137; he gave her time for repentance138, nay139, it is clearly proved that he convinced her of her sin, reconciled her to the part he had taken in her death, and exchanged forgiveness with her before she passed away. I do not think myself that to commit a crime himself can clear one from dishonor cast upon him by another’s act, but at the same time I can not look upon Kerguelen’s guilt140 as of that brutal and felonious nature which calls for such a punishment as this—to be broken alive on the wheel, like a hired stabber—much less can I assent141 to the stigma142 which is attached to him on all sides, while that base, low-lived, treacherous143, cogging miscreant144, who fell too honorably by his honorable sword, meets pity—God defend us from such justice and sympathy!—and is entombed with tears and honors, while the avenger145 is crushed, living, out of the very shape of humanity by the hands of the common hangman.”
The churchman’s lips moved for a moment, as if he were about to speak in reply to the false doctrines146 which he heard enunciated147 by that upright and honorable man, and good father, but, ere he spoke131, he reflected that those doctrines were held at that time, throughout Christian Europe, unquestioned, and confirmed by prejudice and pride beyond all the power of argument or of religion to set them aside, or invalidate them. The law of chivalry148, sterner and more inflexible149 than that Mosaic233 code requiring an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth, which demanded a human life as the sacrifice for every rash word, for every wrongful action, was the law paramount150 of every civilized151 land in that day, and in France perhaps most of all lands, as standing59 foremost in what was then deemed civilization. And the abbé well knew that discussion of this point would only tend to bring out the opinions of the count de St. Renan, in favor of the sanguinary code of honor, more decidedly, and consequently to confirm the mind of the young man more effectually in what he believed himself to be a fatal error.
The young man, who was evidently very deeply interested in the matter of the conversation, had devoured152 every word of his father, as if he had been listening to the oracles153 of a God; and, when he ceased, after a pause of some seconds, during which he was pondering very deeply on that which he had heard, he raised his intelligent face and said in an earnest voice—
“I see, my father, all that you have alleged154 in palliation of the count’s crime, and I fully114 understand you—though I still think it the most terrible thing I ever have heard tell of. But I do not perfectly155 comprehend wherefore you ransack156 our language of all the deepest terms of contempt which to heap upon the head of the chevalier de la Rochederrien? He was the count’s sworn friend, she was the count’s wedded157 wife; they both were forsworn and false, and both betrayed him. But in what was the chevalier’s fault the greater or the viler101?”
Those were strange days, in which such a subject could have been discussed between two wise and virtuous158 parents and a son, whom it was their chiefest aim in life to bring up to be a good and honorable man—that son, too, barely more than a boy in years and understanding. But the morality of those times was coarser and harder, and, if there was no more real234 vice159, there was far less superficial delicacy160 in the manners of society, and the relations between men and women, than there is now-a-days.
Perhaps the course lies midway; for certainly if there was much coarseness then, there is much cant161 and much squeamishness now, which could be excellently well dispensed162 with.
Beside this, boys were brought into the great world much earlier at that period, and were made men of at an age when they would have been learning Greek and Latin, had their birth been postponed163 by a single century.
Then, at fifteen, they held commissions, and carried colors in the battle’s front, and were initiated164 into all the license165 of the court, the camp, and the forum166.
So it came that the discussion of a subject such as that which I have described, was very naturally introduced even between parents and a beloved and only son by the circumstances of the day. Morals, as regards the matrimonial contract, and the intercourse between the sexes, have at all times been lower and far less rigid167 among the French, than in nations of northern origin; and never at any period of the world was the morality of any country, in this respect, at so low an ebb168 as was France under the reign169 of the Fifteenth Louis.
The count de St. Renan replied, therefore, to his son with as little restraint as if he had been his equal in age, and equally acquainted with the customs and vices170 of the world, although intrigue171 and crime were the topics of which he had to treat.
“It is quite true, Raoul,” replied the count, “that so far as the unhappy lord of Kerguelen was concerned, the guilt of the chevalier de la Rochederrien was, as you say, no deeper, perhaps less deep than that of the miserable172 lady. He was, indeed, bound to Kerguelen by every tie of friendship and honor; he had been aided by his purse, backed by his sword, nay, I have heard and believe, that he owed his life to him. Yet for235 all that he seduced173 his wife; and to make it worse, if worse it could be, Kerguelen had married her from the strongest affection, and till the chevalier brought misery174, and dishonor, and death upon them, there was no wedded couple in all France so virtuous or so happy.”
“Indeed, sir!” replied Raoul, in tones of great emotion, staring with his large, dark eyes as if some strange sight had presented itself to him on a sudden.
“I know well, Raoul, and if you have not heard it yet, you will soon do so, when you begin to mingle32 with men, that there are those in society, those whom the world regards, moreover, as honorable men, who affect to say that he who loves a woman, whether lawfully175 or sinfully, is at once absolved176 from all considerations except how he most easily may win—or in other words—ruin her; and consequently such men would speak slightly of the chevalier’s conduct toward his friend, Kerguelen, and affect to regard it as a matter of course, and a mere affair of gallantry! But I trust you will remember this, my son, that there is nothing gallant177, nor can be, in lying, or deceit, or treachery of any kind. And further, that to look with eyes of passion on the wife of a friend, is in itself both a crime, and an act of deliberate dishonor.”
“I should not have supposed, sir,” replied the boy, blushing very deeply, partly it might be from the nature of the subject under discussion, and partly from the strength of his emotions, “that any cavalier could have regarded it otherwise. It seems to me that to betray a friend’s honor is a far blacker thing than to betray his life—and surely no man with one pretension178 to honor would attempt to justify179 that.”
“I am happy to see, Raoul, that you think so correctly on this point. Hold to your creed180, my dear boy, for there are who shall try ere long to shake it. But be sure that it is the creed of honor. But, although I think La Rochederrien disgraced236 himself even in this, it was not for this only that I termed him, as I deem him, the very vilest181 and most infamous182 of mankind. For when he had led that poor lady into sin; when she had surrendered herself up wholly to his honor; when she had placed the greatest trust—although a guilty trust, I admit—in his faith and integrity that one human being can place in another, the base dog betrayed her. He boasted of her weakness, of Kerguelen’s dishonor, of his own infamy183.”
“And did not they to whom he boasted of it,” exclaimed the noble boy, his face flushing fiery red with excitement and indignation, “spurn him at once from their presence, as a thing unworthy and beyond the pale of law.”
“No, Raoul, they laughed at him, applauded his gallant success, and jeered184 at the lord of Kerguelen.”
“Great heaven! and these were gentlemen!”
“They were called such, at least; gentlemen by name and descent they were assuredly, but as surely not right gentlemen at heart. Many of them, however, in cooler moments, spoke of the traitor185 and the braggart186 with the contempt and disgust he merited. Some friend of Kerguelen’s heard what had passed, and deemed it his duty to inform him. The most unhappy husband called the seducer187 to the field, wounded him mortally, and—to increase yet more his infamy—even in the agony of death the slave confessed the whole, and craved188 forgiveness like a dog. Confessed the woman’s crime—you mark me, Raoul!—had he died mute, or died even with a falsehood in his mouth, as I think he was bound to do in such extremity189, affirming her innocence190 with his last breath, he had saved her, and perhaps spared her wretched lord the misery of knowing certainly the depth of his dishonor.”
The boy pondered for a moment or two without making any answer; and although he was evidently not altogether satisfied, probably would not have again spoken, had not his father, who237 read what was passing in his mind, asked him what it was that he desired to know further.
Raoul smiled at perceiving how completely his father understood him, and then said at once, without pause or hesitation:—
“I understand you to say, sir, that you thought the wretched man of whom we spoke was bound, under the extremity in which he stood, to die with a falsehood in his mouth. Can a gentleman ever be justified in saying the thing that is not? Much more, can it be his bounden duty to do so?”
“Unquestionably, as a rule of general conduct, he can not. Truth is the soul of honor; and without truth, honor can not exist. But this is a most intricate and tangled191 question. It never can arise without presupposing the commission of one guilty act—one act which no good or truly moral man would commit at all. It is, therefore, scarcely worth our while to examine it. But I do say, on my deliberate and grave opinion, that if a woman, previously192 innocent and pure, have sacrificed her honor to a man, that man is bound to sacrifice everything—his life without a question, and I think his truth also—in order to preserve her character, so far as he can, unscathed. But we will speak no more of this; it is an odious193 subject, and one of which I trust you, Raoul, will never have the sad occasion to consider.”
“Oh, never, father, never I!” cried the ingenuous boy; “I must first lose my senses, and become a madman.”
“All men are madmen, Raoul,” said the churchman—who stood in the relation of maternal194 uncle to the youth—“who suffer their passions to have the mastery of them. You must learn, therefore, to be their tyrant195; for if you be not, be well assured that they will be yours—and merciless tyrants196 they are to the wretches197 who become their subjects.”
“I will remember what you say, sir,” answered the boy, “and, indeed, I am not like to forget it, for altogether this is238 the saddest day I ever have passed; and this is the most horrible and appalling198 story that I have ever heard told. It was but just that the lord of Kerguelen should die, for he did a murder; and since the law punishes that in a peasant, it must do so likewise with a noble. But to break him upon the wheel!—it is atrocious! I should have thought all the nobles of the land would have applied199 to the king to spare him that horror.”
“Many of them did apply, Raoul; but the king, or his ministers in his name, made answer that during the regency the count Horn was broken on the wheel for murder, and therefore that to behead the lord of Kerguelen for the same offence, would be to admit that the count was wrongfully condemned.”
“Out on it! out on it! what sophistry200! Count Horn murdered a banker, like a common thief, for his gold; and this unhappy lord hath done the deed for which he must suffer in a mistaken sense of honor, and with all tenderness compatible with such a deed. There is nothing similar or parallel in the two cases; and if there were, what signifies it now to Count Horn, whether he were condemned rightfully or not? Are these men heathen, that they would offer a victim to the offended manes of the dead? But is there no hope, my father, that his sentence may be commuted201?”
“None whatever. Let us trust, therefore, that he has died penitent202, and that his sufferings are already over; and let us pray, ere we lay us down to sleep, that his sins may be forgiven to him, and that his soul may have rest.”
“Amen!” replied the boy, solemnly, at the same moment that the ecclesiastic repeated the same word—though he did so, as it would seem, less from the heart, and more as a matter of course.
Nothing further was said on that subject, and in truth the conversation ceased altogether. A gloom was cast over the spirits of all present, both by the imagination of the horrors239 which were in progress at that very moment, and by the recollection of the preceding enormities of which this was but the consummation; but the young viscount Raoul was so completely engrossed203 by the deep thoughts which that conversation had awakened204 in his mind, that his father, who was a very close observer, and correct judge of human nature, almost regretted that he had spoken, and determined205, if possible, to divert him from the gloomy revery into which he had fallen.
“Viscount,” said he, after a silence which had endured now for many minutes, “when did you last wait upon Mademoiselle Melanie d’Argenson?”
Raoul’s eyes brightened at the name, and again the bright blush, which I noticed before, crossed his ingenuous features; but this time it was pleasure, not embarrassment206, which colored his young face so vividly207.
“I called yesterday, sir,” he answered, “but she was abroad with the countess, her mother. In truth, I have not seen her since Friday last.”
“Why, that is an age, Raoul! Are you not dying to see her again by this time? At your age, I was far more gallant.”
“With your permission, sir, I will go now and make my compliments to her.”
“Not only my permission, Raoul, but my advice to make your best haste thither208. If you go straightways, you will be sure to find her at home, for the ladies are sure not to have ventured abroad with all this uproar209 in the streets. Take Martin the equerry with you, and three of the grooms210. What will you ride—the new Barb211 I bought for you last week! Yes! as well him as any; and, hark you, boy, tell them to send Martin to me first: I will speak to him while you are beautifying yourself to please the beaux yeux of Mademoiselle Melanie.”
“I am not sure that you are doing wisely, Louis,” said the lady—as her son left the saloon, her eye following him wistfully—“in240 bringing Raoul up as you are doing.”
“Nor I, Marie,” replied her husband, gravely; “we poor, blind mortals can not be sure of anything, least of all of anything the ends of which are incalculably distant. But in what particular do you doubt the wisdom of my method?”
“In talking to him as you do, as though he were a man already; in opening his eyes so widely to the sins and vices of the world; in discussing questions with him such as those you spoke of with him but now. He is a mere boy, you will remember, to hear tell of such things!”
“Boys hear of such things early enough, I assure you—far earlier than you ladies would deem possible. For the rest, he must hear of them one day; and I think it quite as well that he should hear of them, since hear he must, with the comments of an old man, and that old man his best friend, than find them out by the teachings and judge of them according to the light views of his young and excitable associates. He who is forewarned is fore-weaponed. I was kept pure, as it is termed—or, in other words, kept ignorant of myself and of the world I was destined212 to live in—until one fine day I was cut loose from the apron-strings of my lady-mother, and the tether of my abbé-tutor, and launched head-foremost into that vortex of temptation and iniquity213, the world of Paris, like a ship without a chart or a compass. A precious race I ran in consequence, for a time; and if I had not been so fortunate as to meet you, Marie—whose bright eyes brought me out, like a blessed beacon214, safe from that perilous215 ocean—I know not but I should have suffered shipwreck216, both in fortune, which is a trifle, and in character, which is everything. No, no; if that is all in which you doubt, your fears are causeless.”
“But that is not all. In this you may be right—I know not; at all events, you are a fitter judge than I! But are you wise in encouraging so very strongly his fancy for Melanie241 d’Argenson?”
“I’ faith, it is something more than a fancy, I think: the boy loves her!”
“I see that, Louis, clearly; and you encourage it.”
“And wherefore should I not? She is a good girl—as good as she is beautiful!”
“She is an angel!”
“And her mother, Marie, was your most intimate, your bosom217 friend.”
“And now a saint in heaven!”
“Well, what more? She is as noble as a De Rohan or a Montmorency; she is an heiress with superb estates adjoining our own lands of St. Renan; she is, like our Raoul, an only child; and what is the most of all, I think, although it is not the mode in this dear France of ours to attach much weight to that, it is no made-up match, no cradle-plighting between babes—to be made good, perhaps, by the breaking of hearts—but a genuine, natural, mutual218 affection between two young, sincere, innocent, artless persons; and a splendid couple they will make. What can you see to alarm you in that prospect219?”
“Her father.”
“The sieur d’Argenson! Well, I confess, he is not a very charming person; but we all have our own faults or weaknesses: and, after all, it is not he whom Raoul is about to marry.”
“I doubt his good faith, very sorely.”
“I should doubt it too, Marie, did I see any cause which should lead him to break it. But the match is in all respects more desirable for him than it is for us; for, though Mademoiselle d’Argenson is noble, rich, and handsome, the viscount de Douarnenez might be well justified in looking for a wife far higher than the daughter of a simple sieur of Bretagne. Besides, although the children loved before any one spoke of it—before242 any one saw it, indeed, save I—it was D’Argenson himself who broke the subject. What, then, should induce him to play false?”
“I do not know; yet I doubt—I fear him.”
“But that, Marie, is unworthy of your character—of your mind.”
“Louis, she is too beautiful!”
“I do not think Raoul will find fault with her on that score.”
“Nor would one greater than Raoul.”
“Whom do you mean?” cried the count, now for the first time startled.
“I have seen eyes fixed upon her in deadly admiration220, which never admire but they pollute the object of their admiration.”
“The king’s, Marie?”
“The king’s!”
“And then—?”
“And then I have heard it whispered that the baron221 de Beaulieu has asked her hand of the sieur d’Argenson.”
“The baron de Beaulieu! and who the devil is the baron de Beaulieu, that the sieur d’Argenson should doubt for the nine hundredth part of a minute between him and the viscount de Douarnenez for the husband of his daughter?”
“The baron de Beaulieu, count, is the very particular friend, the right-hand man, and most private minister, of his most Christian majesty222 King Louis XV.”
“Ha! is it possible? Do you mean that—”
“I mean even that—if, by that, you mean all that is most infamous and loathsome223 on the part of Beaulieu, all that is most licentious on the part of the king. I believe—nay, I am well-nigh sure—that there is such a scheme of villany on foot against that sweet, unhappy child; and therefore would I pause ere I urged too far my child’s love toward her, lest it prove243 most unhappy and disastrous224.”
“And do you think D’Argenson capable—” exclaimed her husband—
“Of anything,” she answered, interrupting him, “of anything that may serve his avarice225 or his ambition.”
“Ah! it may be so. I will look to it, Marie; I will look to it narrowly. But I fear that, if it be as you fancy, it is too late already; that our boy’s heart is devoted226 to her entirely; that any break now, in one word, would be a heart-break!”
“He loves her very dearly, beyond doubt,” replied the lady; “and she deserves it all, and is, I think, very fond of him likewise.”
“And can you suppose for a moment that she will lend herself to such a scheme of infamy?”
“Never! She would die sooner.”
“I do not apprehend27, then, that there will be so much difficulty as you seem to fear. This business which brought all of us Bretons up to Paris, as claimants of justice for our province, or courters of the king’s grace, as they phrase it, is finished happily; and there is nothing to detain any of us in this great wilderness227 of stone and mortar228 any longer. D’Argenson told me yesterday that he should set out homeward on Wednesday next; and it is but hurrying our own preparations a little to travel with them in one party. I will see him this evening, and arrange it.”
“Have you ever spoken with him concerning the contract, Louis?”
“Never, directly, or in the form of a solemn proposal. But we have spoken oftentimes of the evident attachment229 of the children, and he has ever expressed himself gratified, and seemed to regard it as a matter of course. But hush! here comes the boy: leave us a while, and I will speak with him.”
244 Almost before his words were ended the door was thrown open, and young Raoul entered, splendidly dressed, with his rapier at his side, and his plumed hat in his hand—as likely a youth to win a fair maid’s heart as ever wore the weapon of a gentleman.
“Martin is absent, sir. He went out soon after breakfast, they tell me, to look after a pair of fine English carriage-horses for the countess my mother, and has not yet returned. I ordered old Jean Fran?ois to attend me, with the four other grooms.”
“Very well, Raoul. But look you—your head is young, and your blood hot. You will meet, it is very like, all this canaille returning from the slaughter of poor Kerguelen. Now mark me, boy, there must be no vaporing230 on your part, or interfering231 with the populace; and even if they should, as very probably they may, be insolent232, and utter outcries and abuse against the nobility, even bear with them. On no account strike any person, nor let your servants do so, nor encroach upon their order; unless, indeed, they should so far forget themselves as to throw stones, or to strike the first blow.”
“And then, my father?”
“Oh, then, Raoul, you are at liberty to let your good sword feel the fresh air, and to give your horse a taste of those fine spurs you wear. But even in that case, I should advise you to use your edge rather than your point. There is not much harm done in wiping a saucy233 burgher across the face to mend his manners, but to pink him through the body makes it an awkward matter. And I need not tell you by no means to fire, unless you should be so beset234 and maltreated that you can not otherwise extricate235 yourself; yet you must have your pistols loaded. In these times it is necessary always to be provided against all things. I do not, however, tell you these things now because you are likely to be attacked; but such events are always possible, and one can not provide against such 245too early.”
“I will observe what you say, my father. Have I your permission now to depart?”
“Not yet, Raoul; I would speak with you first a few words. This Mademoiselle Melanie is very pretty, is she not?”
“She is the most beautiful lady I have ever seen,” replied the youth, not without some embarrassment.
“And as amiable236 and gentle as she is beautiful?”
“Oh, yes, indeed, sir. She is all gentleness and sweetness, yet is full of mirth, too, and graceful62 merriment.”
“In one word, then, she seems to you a very sweet and lovely creature.”
“Doubtless she does, my father.”
“And I beseech237 you tell me, viscount, in what light do you appear in the eyes of this very admirable young lady?”
“Oh, sir!” replied the youth, now very much embarrassed, and blushing actually from shame.
“Nay, Raoul, I did not ask the question lightly, I assure you, or in the least degree as a jest. It becomes very important that I should know on what terms you and this fair lady stand together. You have been visiting her now almost daily, I think, during these three months last past. Do you conceive that you are very disagreeable to her?”
“Oh! I hope not, sir. It would grieve me much if I thought so!”
“Well, I am to understand, then, that you think she is not blind to your merits, sir?”
“I am not aware, my dear father, that I have any merits which she should be called to observe.”
“Oh, yes, viscount! That is an excess of modesty238 which touches a little, I am afraid, on hypocrisy239. You are not altogether without merits. You are young, not ill-looking, nobly born, and will, in God’s good time, be rich. Then you can ride246 well, and dance gracefully, and are not generally ill-educated or unpolished. It is quite as necessary, my dear son, that a young man should not undervalue himself, as that he should not think of his deserts too highly. Now, that you have some merits, is certain—for the rest, I desire frankness of you just now, and beg that you will speak out plainly. I think you love this young girl: is it not so, Raoul?”
“I do love her sir, very dearly—with my whole heart and spirit!”
“And do you feel sure that this is not a mere transient liking—that it will last, Raoul?”
“So long as life lasts in my heart, so long will my love for her last, my father!”
“And you would wish to marry her?”
“Beyond all things in this world, my dear father.”
“And do you think that, were her tastes and views on the subject consulted, she would say likewise?”
“I hope she would, sir. But I have never asked her.”
“And her father—is he gracious when you meet him?”
“Most gracious, sir, and most kind; indeed, he distinguishes me above all the other young gentlemen who visit there.”
“You would not, then, despair of obtaining his consent.”
“By no means, my father, if you would be so kind as to ask it.”
“And you desire that I should do so?”
“You will make me the happiest man in all France, if you will!”
“Then go your way, sir, and make the best you can of it with the young lady. I will speak myself with the sieur d’Argenson to-night; and I do not despair any more than you do, Raoul. But look you, boy, you do not fancy, I hope, that you are going to church with your lady-love to-morrow or the next day! Two or three years hence, at the earliest, will be all in247 very good time. You must serve a campaign or two first, in order to show that you know how to use your sword.”
“In all things, my dear father, I shall endeavor to fulfil your wishes, knowing them to be as kindly240 as they are wise and prudent241. I owe you gratitude242 for every hour since I was born, but for none so much as for this, for indeed you are going to make me the happiest of men.”
“Away with you then, Sir Happiness! Betake yourself on the wings of love to your bright lady; and mind the advice of your favorite, Horace, to pluck the pleasures of the passing hour, mindful how short is the sum of mortal life!”
The young man embraced his father gayly, and left the room with a quick step and a joyous243 heart; and the jingling244 of his spurs, and the quick, merry clash of his scabbard on the marble staircase, told how joyously245 he descended246 its steps.
A moment afterward247 his father heard the clear, sonorous248 tones of his fine voice calling to his attendants, and yet a few seconds later the lively clatter249 of his horse’s hoofs250 on the resounding251 pavement.
“Alas for the happy days of youth, which are so quickly flown!” exclaimed the father, as he participated in the hopeful and exulting252 mood of his noble boy; “and alas for the promise of mortal happiness, which is so oft deceitful and a traitress!” He paused for a few moments, and seemed to ponder, and then added, with a confident and proud expression: “But I see not why one should forebode aught but success and happiness to this noble boy of mine. Thus far, everything has worked toward the end as I would wish it. They have fallen in love naturally and of their own accord, and D’Argenson, whether he like it or not, can not help himself. He must needs accede253 proudly and joyfully254, to my proposal; he knows his estates to be in my power far too deeply to resist. Nay, more—though he be somewhat selfish, and ambitious, and avaricious255, I know248 nothing of him that should justify me in believing that he would sell his daughter’s honor, even to a king, for wealth or title! My good wife is all too doubtful and suspicious.—But, hark! here comes the mob, returning from that unfortunate man’s execution! I wonder how he bore it?”
And with the words he moved toward the window, and, throwing it open, stepped out upon the spacious256 balcony. Here he learned speedily, from the conversation of the passing crowd, that, although dreadfully shocked and startled by the first intimation of the death he was to undergo, which he received from the sight of the fatal wheel, the lord of Kerguelen had died as becomes a proud, brave man, reconciled to the church, forgiving his enemies, without a groan257 or a murmur35, under the protracted258 agonies of that most horrible of deaths, the breaking on the wheel!
Meanwhile the day passed onward; and when evening came, and the last and most social meal of the day was laid on the domestic board, young Raoul had returned from his visit to the lady of his love, full of high hopes and happy anticipations259. Afterward, according to his promise, the count de St. Renan went forth and held debate until a late hour of the night with the sieur d’Argenson. Raoul had not retired260 when he came home, too restless in his youthful ardor261 even to think of sleep. His father brought good tidings: the father of the lady had consented, and on their arrival in Bretagne the marriage-contract was to be signed in form.
That was to Raoul an eventful day; and never did he forget it, or the teachings he drew from it. That day was his fate.
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1
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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2
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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3
convened
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| 召开( convene的过去式 )； 召集； （为正式会议而）聚集； 集合 | |
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4
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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6
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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7
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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barricades
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| 路障，障碍物( barricade的名词复数 ) | |
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demonstrations
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| 证明( demonstration的名词复数 )； 表明； 表达； 游行示威 | |
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10
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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11
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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12
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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plumed
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| 饰有羽毛的 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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18
affixed
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| adj.[医]附着的，附着的v.附加( affix的过去式和过去分词 )；粘贴；加以；盖（印章） | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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21
surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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24
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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muskets
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| n.火枪，（尤指）滑膛枪( musket的名词复数 ) | |
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apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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32
mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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34
murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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rabble
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| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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40
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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avocations
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| n.业余爱好，嗜好( avocation的名词复数 )；职业 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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47
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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48
verging
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| 接近，逼近（verge的现在分词形式） | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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50
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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51
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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52
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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53
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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54
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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55
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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56
licentious
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| adj.放纵的，淫乱的 | |
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57
ecclesiastic
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| n.教士，基督教会；adj.神职者的，牧师的，教会的 | |
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58
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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59
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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60
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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61
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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62
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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63
forerunner
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| n.前身，先驱（者），预兆，祖先 | |
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64
athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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65
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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66
mannerism
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| n.特殊习惯，怪癖 | |
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67
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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68
nurtured
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| 养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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69
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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70
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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71
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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72
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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73
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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74
pensiveness
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| n.pensive（沉思的）的变形 | |
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75
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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76
tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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77
portrayed
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| v.画像( portray的过去式和过去分词 )；描述；描绘；描画 | |
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78
deceptive
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| adj.骗人的，造成假象的，靠不住的 | |
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79
augur
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| n.占卦师；v.占卦 | |
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80
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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81
abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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82
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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83
hurdle
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| n.跳栏，栏架；障碍，困难；vi.进行跨栏赛 | |
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84
technically
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| adv.专门地，技术上地 | |
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85
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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86
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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87
wardens
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| n.看守人( warden的名词复数 )；管理员；监察员；监察官 | |
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88
bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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89
densest
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| 密集的( dense的最高级 )； 密度大的； 愚笨的； （信息量大得）难理解的 | |
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90
serried
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| adj.拥挤的；密集的 | |
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91
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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92
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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93
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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94
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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95
receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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96
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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97
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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98
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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99
shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100
clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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101
viler
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| adj.卑鄙的( vile的比较级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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102
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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103
gutters
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| （路边）排水沟( gutter的名词复数 )； 阴沟； （屋顶的）天沟； 贫贱的境地 | |
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104
reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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105
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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106
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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107
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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108
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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109
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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110
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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111
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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112
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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113
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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114
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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115
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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116
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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117
marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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119
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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120
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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121
recipient
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| a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
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122
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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123
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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124
umbrage
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| n.不快；树荫 | |
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125
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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126
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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127
fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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128
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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129
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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130
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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131
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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132
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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133
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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134
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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135
slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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136
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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137
spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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138
repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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139
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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140
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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141
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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142
stigma
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| n.耻辱，污名；(花的)柱头 | |
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143
treacherous
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|
| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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144
miscreant
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| n.恶棍 | |
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145
avenger
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| n. 复仇者 | |
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146
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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147
enunciated
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| v.（清晰地）发音( enunciate的过去式和过去分词 )；确切地说明 | |
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148
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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149
inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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150
paramount
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| a.最重要的，最高权力的 | |
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151
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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152
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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153
oracles
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| 神示所( oracle的名词复数 )； 神谕； 圣贤； 哲人 | |
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154
alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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155
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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156
ransack
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| v.彻底搜索，洗劫 | |
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157
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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158
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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159
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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160
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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161
cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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162
dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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163
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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164
initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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165
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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166
forum
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| n.论坛，讨论会 | |
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167
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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168
ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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169
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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170
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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171
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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172
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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173
seduced
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| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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174
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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175
lawfully
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| adv.守法地，合法地；合理地 | |
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176
absolved
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| 宣告…无罪，赦免…的罪行，宽恕…的罪行( absolve的过去式和过去分词 )； 不受责难，免除责任 [义务] ,开脱（罪责） | |
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177
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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178
pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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179
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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180
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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181
vilest
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| adj.卑鄙的( vile的最高级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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182
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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183
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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184
jeered
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| v.嘲笑( jeer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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185
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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186
braggart
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| n.吹牛者；adj.吹牛的，自夸的 | |
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187
seducer
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| n.诱惑者,骗子,玩弄女性的人 | |
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188
craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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189
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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190
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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191
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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192
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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193
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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194
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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195
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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196
tyrants
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| 专制统治者( tyrant的名词复数 )； 暴君似的人； （古希腊的）僭主； 严酷的事物 | |
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197
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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198
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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199
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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200
sophistry
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| n.诡辩 | |
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201
commuted
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| 通勤( commute的过去式和过去分词 )； 减（刑）； 代偿 | |
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202
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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203
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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204
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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205
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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206
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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207
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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208
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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209
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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210
grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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211
barb
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| n.（鱼钩等的）倒钩，倒刺 | |
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212
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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213
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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214
beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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216
shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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217
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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219
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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220
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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221
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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222
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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223
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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224
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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225
avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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226
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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227
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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228
mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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229
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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230
vaporing
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| n.说大话，吹牛adj.蒸发的，自夸的v.自夸，（使）蒸发( vapor的现在分词 ) | |
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231
interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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232
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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233
saucy
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| adj.无礼的；俊俏的；活泼的 | |
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234
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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235
extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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236
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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237
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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238
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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239
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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240
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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241
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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242
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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243
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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244
jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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245
joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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246
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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247
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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248
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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249
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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250
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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251
resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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252
exulting
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| vi. 欢欣鼓舞，狂喜 | |
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253
accede
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| v.应允，同意 | |
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254
joyfully
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| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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255
avaricious
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| adj.贪婪的，贪心的 | |
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256
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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257
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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258
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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259
anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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260
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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261
ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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