“Tournebroche, my son,” he asked me, “have you not just heard from the mouth of yonder good Monk10 how, for having loved a recruiting sergeant11, a clerk of M. Gaulot’s mercer at the sign of the Truie-qui-file, and the younger son of M. le Lieutenant-Criminel Leblanc, Mam’zelle Fanchon was clapped in hospital? Would you wish to be any of these,—sergeant or clerk or limb of the law?”
I answered I would indeed. My good master thanked me for my candid12 avowal13, and quoted some verses of Lucretius to persuade me that love is contrary to the tranquillity14 of a truly philosophical15 soul.
Thus discoursing16, we were come to the round-point of the Pont-Neuf. Leaning our elbows on the parapet, we looked over at the great tower of the Chatelet, which stood out black in the moonlight.
“There might be much to say,” sighed my good master, “on this justice of the civilized17 nations, the punishments whereof in retaliation18 are often more cruel than the crime itself I cannot believe that these tortures and penalties that men inflict19 on their fellows are necessary for the safeguarding of States, seeing how from time to time one and another legal cruelty is done away with without hurt to the commonweal. And I hold it likely that the severities they still maintain are no whit20 more useful than those they have abolished. But men are cruel. Come away, Tournebroche, my dear lad; it grieves me to think how unhappy prisoners are even now lying awake behind those walls in anguish21 and despair. I know they have done faultily, but this doth not hinder me from pitying them. Which of us is without offence?”
We went on our way. The bridge was deserted22 save for a beggarman and woman, who met on the causeway. The pair drew stealthily into one of the recesses23 over the piers25, where they lurked26 together on the door-step of a hucksters booth. They seemed well enough content, both of them, to mingle27 their joint28 wretchedness, and when we went by were thinking of quite other things than craving29 our charity. Nevertheless my good master, who was the most compassionate30 of men, threw them a half farthing, the last piece of money left in his breeches pocket.
“They will pick up our obol,” he said, “when they have come back to the consciousness of their misery32. I pray they may not quarrel then over fiercely for possession of the coin.”
We passed on without further rencounter till on the Quai des Oiseleurs we espied33 a young damsel striding along with a notable air of resolution. Hastening our pace to get a nearer view, we saw she had a slim waist and fair hair in which the moonbeams played prettily34. She was dressed like a citizen’s wife or daughter.
“There goes a pretty girl,” said the Abbé; “how comes it she is out of doors alone at this hour of night?”
“Truly,” I agreed, “‘tis not the sort one generally encounters on the bridges after curfew.”
Our surprise was changed to alarm when we saw her go down to the river bank by a little stairway the sailors use. We ran towards her; but she did not seem to hear us. She halted at the edge; the stream was running high, and the dull roar of the swollen35 waters could be heard some way off. She stood a moment motionless, her head thrown back and arms hanging, in an attitude of despair. Then, bending her graceful36 neck, she put her two hands over her face and kept it hid behind her fingers for some seconds. Next moment she suddenly grasped her skirts and dragged them forward with the gesture a woman always uses when she is going to jump. My good master and I came up with her just as she was taking the fatal leap, and we hauled her forcibly backward. She struggled to get free of our arms; and as the bank was all slimy and slippery with ooze37 deposited by the receding38 waters (for the river was already beginning to fall), M. l’Abbé Coignard came very near being dragged in too. I was losing my foothold myself. But as luck would have it, my feet lighted on a root which held me up as I crouched39 there with my arms round the best of masters and this despairing young thing. Presently, coming to the end of her strength and courage, she fell back on M. l’Abbé Coignard’s breast, and we managed all three to scramble40 to the top of the bank again. He helped her up daintily, with a certain easy grace that was always his. Then he led the way to a great beech41-tree at the foot of which was a wooden bench, on which he seated her.
Taking his place beside her:
“Mademoiselle,” he said gently, “you need have no fear. Say nothing just yet, but be assured it is a friend sits by you.”
Next, turning to me, my master went on:
“Tournebroche, my son, we may congratulate ourselves on having brought this strange adventure to a good end. But I have left my hat down yonder on the river bank; albeit42 it has lost pretty near all its lace and is thread-bare with long service, it was still good to guard my old head, sorely tried by years and labours, against sun and rain. Go see, my son, if it may still be found where I dropped it. And if you discover it, bring it me, I beg,—likewise one of my shoe buckles44, which I see I have lost. For my part I will stay by this damsel we have rescued and watch over her slumber45.”
I ran back to the spot we had just quitted and was lucky enough to find my good master’s hat. The buckle43 I could not espy46 anywhere. True, I did not take any very excessive pains to hunt for it, having never all my life seen my good master with more than one shoe buckle. When I returned to the tree, I found the damsel still in the same state, sitting quite motionless with her head leant against the trunk of the beech. I noticed now that she was of a very perfect beauty. She wore a silk mantle47 trimmed with lace, very neat and proper, and on her feet light shoes, the buckles of which caught the moonbeams.
I could not have enough of examining her. Suddenly she opened her drooping48 lids, and casting a look that was still misty50 at M. Coignard and me, she began in a feeble voice, but with the tone and accent, I thought, of a person of gentility:
“I am not ungrateful, sirs, for the service you have done me from feelings of humanity; but I cannot truthfully tell you I am glad, for the life to which you have restored me is a curse, a hateful, cruel torment51.”
At these sad words my good master, whose face wore a look of compassion31, smiled softly, for he could not really think life was to be for ever hateful to so young and pretty a creature.
“My child,” he told her, “things strike us in a totally different light according as they are near at hand or far off. It is no time for you to despair. Such as I am, and brought to this sorry plight52 by the buffets53 of time and fortune, I yet make shift to endure a life wherein my pleasures are to translate Greek and dine sometimes with sundry54 very worthy55 friends. Look at me, mademoiselle, and say,—would you consent to live in the same conditions as I?”
She looked him over; her eyes almost laughed, and she shook her head. Then, resuming her melancholy56 and mournfulness, she faltered57:
“There is not in all the world so unhappy a being as I am.”
“Mademoiselle,” returned my good master, “I am discreet58 both by calling and temperament59; I will not seek to force your confidence. But your looks betray you; any one can see you are sick of disappointed love. Well, ‘t is not an incurable61 complaint. I have had it myself, and I have lived many a long year since then.”
He took her hand, gave her a thousand tokens of his sympathy, and went on in these terms:
“There is only one thing I regret for the moment,—that I cannot offer you a refuge for the night, or what is left of it. My present lodging62 is in an old chateau63 a long way from here, where I am busy translating a Greek book along with young Master Tournebroche whom you see here.”
My master spoke64 the truth. We were living at the time with M. d’Astarac, at the Chateau des Sablons, in the village of Neuilly, and were in the pay of a great alchemist, who died later under tragic65 circumstances.
“At the same time, mademoiselle,” my master added, “if you should know of any place where you think you could go, I shall be happy to escort you thither66.”
To which the girl answered she appreciated all his kindness, that she lived with a kinswoman, to whose house she could count on being admitted at any hour; but that she had rather not return before daylight. She was fain, she said, not to disturb quiet folks’ sleep, and dreaded67 moreover to have her grief too painfully renewed by the sight of her old, familiar surroundings.
As she spoke thus, the tears rained down from her eyes. My good master bade her:
“Mademoiselle, give me your handkerchief, if you please, and I will wipe your eyes. Then I will take you to wait for daybreak under the archways of the Halles, where we can sit in comfort under shelter from the night dews.”
The girl smiled through her tears.
“I do not like,” she said, “to give you so much trouble. Go your way, sir, and rest assured you take my best thanks with you.”
For all that she laid her hand on the arm my good master offered her, and we set out, all the three of us, for the Halles. The night had turned much cooler. In the sky, which was beginning to assume a milky68 hue69, the stars were growing paler and fainter. We could hear the first of the market-gardeners’ carts rumbling70 along to the Halles, drawn71 by a slow-stepping horse, half asleep in the shafts72. Arrived at the archways, we chose a place in the recess24 of a porch distinguished73 by an image of St. Nicholas, and established ourselves all three on a stone step, on which M. l’Abbé Coignard took the precaution of spreading his cloak before he let his young charge sit down.
Thereupon my good master fell to discoursing on divers74 subjects, choosing merry and enlivening themes of set purpose to drive away the gloomy thoughts that might assail75 our companion’s mind. He told her he accounted this rencounter the most fortunate he had ever chanced on all his life, and that he should ever cherish a fond recollection of one who had so deeply touched him,—all this, however, without ever asking to know her name and story.
My good master thought no doubt that the unknown would presently tell him what he refrained from asking. She broke into a fresh flood of weeping, heaved a deep sigh and said:
“I should be churlish, sir, to reward your kindness with silence. I am not afraid to trust myself in your hands. My name is Sophie T———. You have guessed the truth; ‘tis the betrayal of a lover I was too fondly attached to has brought me to despair. If you deem my grief excessive, that is because you do not know how great was my assurance, how blind my infatuation, and you cannot realize how enchanting76 was the paradise I have lost.”
Then, raising her lovely eyes to our faces, she went on:
“Sirs, I am not such a woman as your meeting me thus at night time might lead you to suppose. My father was a merchant. He went, in the way of trade, to America, and was lost on his way home in a shipwreck77, he and his merchandise with him. My mother was so overwhelmed by these calamities that she fell into a decline and died, leaving me, while still a child, to the charge of an aunt, who brought me up. I was a good girl till the hour I met the man whose love was to afford me indescribable delights, ending in the despair wherein you now see me plunged78.”
So saying, Sophie hid her face in her handkerchief. Presently she resumed with a sigh:
“His worldly rank was so far above my own I could never expect to be his except in secret. I flattered myself he would be faithful to me. He swore he loved me, and easily overcame my scruples79. My aunt was aware of our feelings for one another, and raised no obstacles, for two reasons,—because her affection for me made her indulgent, and because my dear lover’s high position impressed her imagination. I lived a year of perfect happiness only equalled by the wretchedness I now endure. This morning he came to see me at my aunt’s, with whom I live. I was haunted by dark forebodings. As I dressed my hair but an hour or so before, I had broken a mirror he had given me. The sight of him only increased my misgivings80, for I noticed instantly that his face wore an unaccustomed look of constraint81... Oh! sir, was ever woman so unhappy as I?...”
Her eyes filled again with tears; but she kept them back under her lids, and was able to finish her tale, which my good master deemed as touching82, but by no means so unique, as she did herself.
“He informed me coldly, though not without signs of embarrassment83, that his father having bought him a Company, he was leaving to join the colours. First, however, he said, his family required him to plight his troth to the daughter of an Intendant of Finances; the connection was advantageous84 to his fortune and would bring him means adequate to support his rank and make a figure in the world. And the traitor85, never deigning86 to notice my pale looks, added in his soft, caressing87 voice which had made me so many vows88 of affection, that his new obligations would prevent his seeing me again, at least for some while. He assured me further that he was still my friend and begged me to accept a sum of money in memory of the days we had passed together.
“And with the words he held out a purse to me.
“I am telling you the truth, sirs, when I assure you I had always refused to listen to the offers he repeated again and again, to give me fine clothes, furniture, plate, an establishment, and to take me away from my aunt’s, where I lived in very narrow circumstances, and settle me in a most elegant little mansion89 he had in the Rue di Roule. My wish was that we should be united only by the ties of affection, and I was proud to have of his gift nothing but a few jewels whose sole value came from the fact of his being the donor90. My gorge91 rose at the sight of the purse he offered me, and the insult gave me strength to banish92 from my presence the impostor whom in one moment I had learnt to know and to despise. He faced my angry looks unabashed, and assured me with the utmost unconcern that I could know nothing of the paramount93 obligations that fill the existence of a man of quality, adding that he hoped eventually, when I looked at things quietly, I should come to see his behaviour in a better light. Then, returning the purse to his pocket, he declared he would readily find a way of putting the contents at my disposal in such a manner as to make it impossible for me to refuse his liberality. Thus leaving me with the odious94, the intolerable implication that he was going to make full amends95 by these sordid96 means, he made for the door to which I pointed60 without a word. When he was gone, I felt a calmness of mind that surprised myself. It arose from the resolution I had formed to die. I dressed with some care, wrote a letter to my aunt asking her forgiveness for the pain I was about to cause her by my death, and went out into the streets. There I roamed about all the afternoon and evening and a part of the night, moving from busy thoroughfare to deserted lane without a trace of fatigue97, postponing98 the execution of my purpose to make it more sure and certain under the favouring conditions of darkness and solitude99. Possibly too I found a certain weak pleasure in dallying100 with the thought of dying and tasting the mournful satisfaction of my coming release from my troubles. At two o’clock in the morning, I went down to the river’s brink101. Sirs, you know the rest,—you snatched me from a watery102 grave. I thank you for your goodness,—though I am sorry you saved my life. The world is full of forsaken103 women. I did not wish to add another to the number.”
Sophie then fell silent and began weeping afresh. My good master took her hand with the greatest delicacy104.
“My child,” he said, “I have listened with a tender interest to the story of your life, and I own ‘tis a sad tale. But I am happy to discern that your case is curable. Not only was your lover unworthy of the favours you showed him and has proved himself on trial a selfish, cruel-hearted libertine105, but I see plainly your love for him was only an impulse of the senses and the effect of your own sensibility, the particular object of which mattered far less than you imagine. What there was rare and excellent in the liaison106 came from you. Well then, nothing is lost, since the source still remains107. Your eyes, which have thrown a glamour108 of the fairest hues109 over, I doubt not, a very ordinary individual, will not cease to go on shedding abroad elsewhere the same bright rays of charming self-delusion.”
My good master said more in the same strain, dropping from his lips the finest words ever heard anent the tribulations110 of the senses and the errors lovers are prone111 to. But, as he talked on, Sophie, who for some while had let her pretty head droop49 on the shoulder of this best of men, fell softly asleep. When M. l’Abbé Coignard saw his young friend was wrapped in a sound slumber, he congratulated himself on having discoursed112 in a vein113 so meet to afford repose114 and peace to a suffering soul.
Not to disturb Mademoiselle’s slumbers116, he took a thousand pretty precautions, amongst others constraining117 himself to talk on uninterruptedly, not unreasonably118 apprehensive119 that a sudden silence might awake her.
“Tournebroche, my son,” he said, turning to me, “look, all her sorrows are vanished away with the consciousness she had of them. You must see they were all of the imagination and resided in her own thought. You must understand likewise they sprang from a certain pride and overweening conceit120 that goes along with love and makes it very exacting121. For, in truth, if only we loved in humbleness122 of spirit and forgetfulness of self, or merely with a simple heart, we should be content with what is vouchsafed123 us and should not straightway cry treason when some slight is put on us. And if some power of loving were left us still, after our lover had deserted us, we should await the issue in calmness of mind to make what use of it God should please to grant.”
But the day was just breaking by this time, and the song of the birds grew so loud it drowned my good master’s voice. He made no complaint on this score.
“Hearken,” he said, “to the sparrows. They make love more wisely than men do.”
Sophie awoke in the white light of dawn, and I admired her lovely eyes, which fatigue and grief had ringed with a delicate pearly-grey. She seemed somewhat reconciled to life, and did not refuse a cup of chocolate which my good master made her drink at Mathurine’s door, the pretty chocolate-seller of the Halles.
But as the poor child came into more complete possession of her wits, she began to trouble about sundry practical difficulties she had not thought of till then.
“What will my aunt say? And whatever can I tell her?” she asked distractedly.
The aunt lived just opposite Saint-Eustache, less than a hundred yards from Mathurine’s archway. Thither we escorted her niece; and M. l’Abbé Coignard, who had quite a venerable look, though one shoe was unbuckled, accompanied the fair Sophie to the door of her aunt’s lodging and pitched that lady a fine tale:
“I had the happy fortune,” he informed her, “to encounter your good niece at the very moment when she was assailed124 by four footpads armed with pistols, and I shouted for the watch so lustily that the thieves took to their heels in a panic. But they were not quick enough to escape the sergeants125 who, by the rarest chance, ran up in answer to my outcries. They arrested the villains126 after a desperate tussle127. I took my share of the rough and tumble, and I thought at first I had lost my hat in the fray128. When all was over, we were all taken, your niece, the four footpads and myself, before his Honour the Lieutenant-Criminel, who treated us with much consideration and detained us till daylight in his cabinet, taking down our evidence.” The aunt answered drily:
“I thank you, sir, for having saved my niece from a peril129 which, to say the truth, is not the risk a girl of her age need fear the most, when she is out alone at night in the streets of Paris.”
My good master made no answer to this; but Mademoiselle Sophie spoke up and said in a voice of deep feeling:
“I do assure you, Aunt, Monsieur l’Abbé saved my life.”
Some years after this singular adventure, my master made the fatal journey to Lyons from which he never returned. He was foully130 murdered, and I had the ineffable131 grief of seeing him expire in my arms. The incidents of his death have no connexion with the matter I speak of here. I have taken pains to record them elsewhere; they are indeed memorable132, and will never, I think, be forgotten. I may add that this journey was in all ways unfortunate, for after losing the best of masters on the road, I was likewise forsaken by a mistress who loved me, but did not love me alone, and whose loss nearly broke my heart, coming after that of my good master. It is a mistake to suppose that a man who has received one cruel blow grows callous133 to succeeding strokes of calamity134. Far otherwise; he suffers agonies from the smallest contrarieties. I returned to Paris in a state of dejection almost beyond belief.
Well, one evening, by way of enlivening my spirits, I went to the Comédie, where they were playing Bajazet, one of Racine’s excellent pieces. I was particularly struck by the charm and beauty, no less than the originality135 and talent, of the actress who took the part of Roxane. She expressed with a delightful136 naturalness the passion animating137 that character, and I shuddered138 as I heard her declaim in accents that were harmonious139 and yet terrible the line:
écoutez Bajazet, je sens que je vous aime.{*}
* “Hearken, Bajazet, I feel I love you.”
I never wearied of gazing at her all the time she occupied the stage, and admiring the beauty of her eyes that gleamed below a brow as pure as marble and crowned by powdered locks all spangled with pearls. Her slender waist too, which her hoop140 showed off to perfection, did not fail to make a vivid impression on my heart. I had the better leisure to scrutinize141 these adorable charms as she happened to face in my direction to deliver several important portions of her r?le. And the more I looked, the more I felt convinced I had seen her before, though I found it impossible to recall anything connected with our previous meeting. My neighbour in the theatre, who was a constant frequenter of the Comédie, told me the beautiful actress was Mademoiselle B———, the idol142 of the pit. He added that she was as great a favourite in society as on the boards, that M. le Duc de La ——— had made her the fashion and that she was on the highroad to eclipse Mademoiselle Lecouvreur.
I was just leaving my seat after the performance when a “femme de chambre” handed me a note in which I found written in pencil the words:
“Mademoiselle Roxane is waiting for you in her coach at the theatre door.”
I could not believe the missive was intended for me; and I asked the abigail who had delivered it if she was not mistaken in the recipient143.
“If I am mistaken,” she replied confidently, “then you cannot be Monsieur de Tournebroche, that is all.”
I ran to the coach which stood waiting in front of the House, and inside I recognized Mademoiselle B———, her head muffled144 in a black satin hood145.
“Do you not,” she asked me, “recognize Sophie, whom you rescued from drowning on the banks of the Seine?”
“What! you! Sophie—Roxane—Mademoiselle B———, is it possible?—”
“I saw you,” she went on, “in one corner of the pit. I knew you instantly and played for you. Say, did I play well? I am so glad to see you again!—”
She asked me news of M. l’Abbé Coignard, and when I told her my good master had just perished miserably148, she burst into tears.
She was good enough to inform me of the chief events of her life:
“My aunt,” she said, “used to mend her laces for Madame de Saint-Remi, who, as you must know, is an admirable actress. A short while after the night when you did me such yeoman service, I went to her house to take home some pieces of lace. The lady told me I had a face that interested her. She then asked me to read some verses, and concluded I was not without wits. She had me trained. I made my first appearance at the Comédie last year. I interpret passions I have felt myself, and the public credits me with some talent. M. le Duc de La ——— exhibits a very dear friendship for me, and I think he will never cause me pain and disappointment, because I have learnt to ask of men only what they can give. At this moment he is expecting me at supper. I must not break my word.”
But, reading my vexation in my eyes, she added:
“However, I have told my people to go the longest way round and to drive slowly.”
The End
The End
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1
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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precariously
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| adv.不安全地；危险地；碰机会地；不稳定地 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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7
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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verity
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| n.真实性 | |
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fables
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| n.寓言( fable的名词复数 )；神话，传说 | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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discoursing
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| 演说（discourse的现在分词形式） | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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retaliation
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| n.报复，反击 | |
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inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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recess
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piers
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lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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33
espied
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| v.看到( espy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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35
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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37
ooze
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| n.软泥，渗出物；vi.渗出，泄漏；vt.慢慢渗出，流露 | |
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38
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；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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39
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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41
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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42
albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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43
buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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44
buckles
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| 搭扣，扣环( buckle的名词复数 ) | |
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45
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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46
espy
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| v.（从远处等）突然看到 | |
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47
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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48
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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49
droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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50
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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51
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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52
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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53
buffets
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| （火车站的）饮食柜台( buffet的名词复数 )； （火车的）餐车； 自助餐 | |
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54
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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55
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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56
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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57
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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58
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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59
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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60
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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61
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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62
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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63
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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64
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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65
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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66
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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67
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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68
milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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69
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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70
rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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71
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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72
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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73
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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74
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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75
assail
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| v.猛烈攻击，抨击，痛斥 | |
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76
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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77
shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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78
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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79
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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80
misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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81
constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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82
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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83
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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84
advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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85
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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86
deigning
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的现在分词 ) | |
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87
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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88
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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89
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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90
donor
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| n.捐献者；赠送人；(组织、器官等的)供体 | |
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91
gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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92
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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93
paramount
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| a.最重要的，最高权力的 | |
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94
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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95
amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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96
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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97
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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98
postponing
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| v.延期，推迟( postpone的现在分词 ) | |
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99
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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100
dallying
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| v.随随便便地对待( dally的现在分词 )；不很认真地考虑；浪费时间；调情 | |
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101
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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102
watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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103
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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104
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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105
libertine
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| n.淫荡者；adj.放荡的，自由思想的 | |
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106
liaison
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| n.联系，（未婚男女间的）暖昧关系，私通 | |
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107
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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108
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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109
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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110
tribulations
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| n.苦难( tribulation的名词复数 )；艰难；苦难的缘由；痛苦 | |
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111
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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112
discoursed
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| 演说（discourse的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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113
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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114
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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115
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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116
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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117
constraining
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| 强迫( constrain的现在分词 )； 强使； 限制； 约束 | |
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118
unreasonably
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| adv. 不合理地 | |
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119
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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120
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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121
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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122
humbleness
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| n.谦卑，谦逊；恭顺 | |
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123
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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124
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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125
sergeants
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| 警官( sergeant的名词复数 )； （美国警察）警佐； （英国警察）巡佐； 陆军（或空军）中士 | |
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126
villains
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| n.恶棍( villain的名词复数 )；罪犯；（小说、戏剧等中的）反面人物；淘气鬼 | |
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127
tussle
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| n.&v.扭打，搏斗，争辩 | |
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128
fray
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| v.争吵；打斗；磨损，磨破；n.吵架；打斗 | |
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129
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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130
foully
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| ad.卑鄙地 | |
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131
ineffable
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| adj.无法表达的，不可言喻的 | |
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132
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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133
callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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134
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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135
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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136
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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137
animating
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| v.使有生气( animate的现在分词 )；驱动；使栩栩如生地动作；赋予…以生命 | |
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138
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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139
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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140
hoop
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| n.（篮球）篮圈，篮 | |
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141
scrutinize
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| n.详细检查，细读 | |
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142
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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143
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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144
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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145
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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146
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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147
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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148
miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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