Raymond the count when walking one day through the streets of Grasse came upon a pilgrim. The pious4 man was dressed in the robe of his brotherhood5. In his hand was a long staff; upon his feet were sandals and in his hat the cockleshell. The count was struck by his carriage and by the nobility of his appearance. He stopped him and questioned him as to his pilgrimage, as to the things that he had seen and learned in his journey through many countries and by way of many roads. The answers that the pilgrim gave pleased him. He was impressed by his intelligence, by the gentleness of his manner and the graceful6 sentiment that accompanied his talk. It was agreeable to converse7 with a man who had seen strange cities and who had gleaned8 such curious grains of wisdom in his tramp through valley and wood, by stony9 paths and smooth.
The count talked longer with the pilgrim than the courtiers liked. They frowned and fidgeted, scuffled with their feet, assumed attitudes of weariness and talked among themselves rather audibly about “this fellow.” Finally the count asked the pilgrim if he would come into his service and the worthy11 man, after some hesitation12 and with proper expressions of respect, consented.
Romée had not been long under the castle roof before Raymond recognised his ability and his absolute uprightness. The count and the pilgrim became more than master and servant; they became friends. Many a time the two would sit in a corner of the terrace when the heat of the day was over and Romée would tell of the wonders of the Eternal City, of the street fighting he had seen in Florence between the Amidei and the Buondelmonte, of the new church of San Giovanni at Pistoia, of the wonderful bell tower they were building at Pisa, and of the ruins of the palace of Theodoric the Great that he had wandered among at Ravenna. He would talk too of strange things, of the savage13, mist-enveloped island of England where the cliffs were white, of the flight of birds, of wondrous14 flowers that bloomed among the snow, of the hiving of bees, of the curious ways of women.
Year by year the pilgrim rose in power; year by year he took a wider part in the affairs of state; and year by year the affection that bound the two men together deepened and gained in strength. Romée became the count’s most trusted counsellor and confidant, and, in due course, was raised to the position of premier ministre and seneschal of Grasse.
This was a terrible blow to the courtiers, the last straw that broke the back of their restraint. They had always been jealous of this interloper and hated him heartily15 and openly. To see the most dignified16 office that the Court of Provence could grant bestowed17 upon a stranger, a man stumbled upon in the street, was beyond endurance. The count was bewitched and befooled, they said, and must be awakened18 from his evil dream.
The courtiers took the matter of the enlightenment of their prince in hand. They began to hint at things, to sow suspicions, to raise subjects for inquiry19. Did the count know anything of this man, anything of his parentage or antecedents? The count knew only that Romée was a man noble in heart and mind, his trusted counsellor and esteemed20 friend.
No seed grows so quickly as the seed of doubt. No hint but gains strength by repetition. Those about the Court, judging that the count’s confidence must be shaken by their efforts, ventured to go beyond hinting and whispering and the shrugging of shoulders. They came one day boldly before him and said that Romée was taking money from the treasury21, was in fact robbing the State. The count was furious that so disgraceful a charge should be made against his favourite, told the informers that they lied and demanded instant grounds for their base charges. The spokesman of the party replied that the minister kept, in his private room, a coffer which he allowed no one to touch and which no one had ever seen open. From sounds heard at night by listeners outside the door there was little doubt that in this chest Romée was hoarding22 money pilfered23 from the treasury.
The speaker, with a bow, humbly24 suggested that his lordship should come with them at once to the minister’s room and request him to open the coffer. The count stamped and swore. He would never subject his friend to such an indignity25. De Villeneuve was as far above suspicion as himself. The proposal was monstrous26. Some soft-voiced officer then hinted that the minister would be glad to put an end to these unfortunate but persistent27 rumours28 by simply opening the box. This seemed reasonable to the count, but someone, more wily still, whispered in his ear, “Would he be so glad?” The seed of doubt, long sown in the prince’s mind, was beginning to break into baneful29 blossom. He cried, “No more of this! Come with me, and we will bring this foul30 matter to an issue.”
They all made for the minister’s room. Romée was sitting alone. He rose with extreme surprise to see the count, flushed and hard of face, enter with this company of solemn men—enemies all—who eyed him like a pack of wolves. The count, avoiding the gaze of his favourite, pointed31 at once to the coffer and said, “I beg you to open that chest.” To this Romée replied, “My lord, I would prefer, by your grace, not to open it.” “Why?” demanded the prince. “Because it contains a treasure of mine that is dear to me and to no one else.” The courtiers began to whisper, to laugh, to jeer32 under their breath. The count, stung by their scoffing33 murmurs34, lost his head, and turning to his minister said with some sternness, “I bid you to open that chest.” Romée, looking with sadness into his master’s eyes, said gently, “My lord, since you no longer trust me, I will open the box.” He withdrew a key from his gown, undid35 the lock, and threw wide the lid. The chest was empty but for a few sorry things—a dusty, tattered36 pilgrim’s frock, two worn sandals, a coarse shirt and a weather-stained hat with a cockleshell in it. These were the things he wore when Raymond Berenger met him in the street. After a moment of dreadful silence the count, turning to his courtiers, said in a voice of thunder, “Leave my presence, you scoundrels too mean to live.”
When the two were alone the prince, placing his hands upon Romée’s shoulders, said, “Dear friend! I am humbled37 to the dust. I am more sorry than any words of mine can tell. Can you ever forgive me?” To which the one-time pilgrim replied, “My lord, I forgive you a thousand times over; but you have broken my heart, and now, in God’s name, leave me and let me be alone.”
There and then Romée de Villeneuve took off his robes of office and, having donned the pilgrim’s dress in which he had arrived at the castle, made his way out of the gate into the open road. Raymond Berenger never saw him again. Where the pilgrim wandered no one knows. All that the chronicle relates is that he died in the castle of Vence and that his will was dated 1250—five years after the death of the count, his master.
Many a time in the days that followed Romée’s disappearance39 Count Raymond would be found standing40 alone in a certain deserted41 room gazing at an empty coffer.
Queen Jeanne.—As has been said in the previous chapter, there was in the Place aux Aires at Grasse a palace of Queen Jeanne, who died in 1382. When Jeanne took refuge in Provence with her second husband—after the murder of her first—she caused this palace to be built. All that is left of it, at the present day, is the kitchen stair and a few mouldings, but, writes Miss Dempster, “there is not a bare-foot child but can tell you that those steps belonged to the palace of Queen Jeanne.”[19]
There is no evidence that this meteoric42 lady ever lived in this house that she had built, although she was Countess of Provence as well as Queen of Naples. It was from no indisposition to travel on her part, for she was never quiet and never in one place long, not even when she was in prison. Flitting about from Provence to Naples took up no little of her time, and when she was not occupied on these journeys she was either pursuing her enemies or being, in turn, pursued by them.
In the language of the history book she “flourished” in the fourteenth century. The expression is ineffective, for she “blazed” rather than flourished. She was the political fidget of her time. A beautiful and passionate woman, she traversed the shores of the Mediterranean43 like a whirlwind. Her adventures would occupy the longest film of the most sensational44 picture theatre. Tragedy and violent domestic scenes became her most; but wherever she went there circled around her the makings of a drama of some kind. All the materials for a moving story were present. The scene was laid in feudal45 times when the license46 of the great was unrestrained. The heroine was a pretty woman who fascinated everyone who came in her path. She was, moreover, a wayward lady of ability and wide ambitions who was quite unscrupulous, who felt herself never called upon to keep her word and who was determined47 to get whatever she wanted.
She had a somewhat immoderate taste for matrimony, since she was a widow four times and would probably have married a fifth husband had not a friend of her youth strangled her when she was in prison. Her selection of husbands was catholic, as the list of men she chose will show. They were, in the order in which they died, Andrew of Hungary, Louis of Tarentum, James of Majorca, and Otto of Brunswick.
She was charged with having murdered her first husband. The charge was pressed by popular clamour and she was tried, in great state, in her own town of Avignon, in Provence, in the year 1348. The Pope himself presided. At the trial she is said to have made a deep impression on the court. She startled this august assembly of solemn men. They saw in her a woman full of the tenderest charm. They were moved by her grace, by her ease of manner, by the sweetness of her voice, by her pathos48-stirring eloquence49, and—strangest of all—by her remarkable50 knowledge of Latin. She was acquitted52 and then publicly blessed by the Pope.
Her loyal subjects at Naples were not satisfied with this tribunal. They wanted their queen tried over again. They were rather proud of her and they liked revelations of palace life. Probably too they knew a little more than had “come out” at Avignon. Anyhow, the Pope was compelled again to proclaim her innocent, and, being a man of the world and anxious to put himself in the right, he added that even if she had murdered her husband she had been the victim of witchcraft53 and sorcery and so was not responsible for her actions.
Queen Jeanne the Unquiet was one of the most obstinate54 women that ever lived. The only way to influence her was to put her in prison and her experience of prisons was large. At one time she was disposed to hand over Provence, or some part of it, to the King of France or other neighbouring potentate55. To stop this recklessness she was arrested by the barons56 of Les Baux and of adjacent Proven?al towns and locked up. Having promised never to alienate58 Provence or any part of it, she was let out of jail; but she had not long been free before she sold Avignon, the chief town of Provence, to the Pope for 80,000 gold florins. As an excuse she said, with a smile, that she was rather short of money.
The obstinacy59 of this irrepressible lady led to her dramatic ending. She took a very decided60 part in the controversy61 known as the Great Schism62 of the West. Her determined attitude led to many and varied63 troubles. Finally she was besieged64 in Castel Nuovo and there had to surrender to her kinsman65 and one time friend, Charles of Durazzo. He attempted to make her renounce66 the errors—or reputed errors—to which she clung. He failed, and “finding that nothing could bend her indomitable spirit, he strangled her in prison on May 12th, 1382.”[20]
Louise de Cabris.—On a certain day, in the year 1769, there was great commotion67 in and around the mansion68 of the Marquis de Cabris in the Rue du Cours. The young marquis was bringing home his bride. The de Cabris represented the pinnacle69 of society in Grasse. They were the great people of the town. To know them was in itself a distinction. The bride belonged to a family even more eminent70, for she was the daughter of the Marquis de Mirabeau, of Mirabeau, near Aix en Provence. She was a mere71 girl, being only seventeen years of age.
The nice, worthy people of Grasse received her with effusive72 kindness. They were sorry for her, because they knew the husband. He was young, weak and vicious and came from a stock deeply tainted73 with insanity74. They took the gentle little marquise under their motherly wing. They petted her, made much of her and comforted her in a warm, caressing75 way. They knew as little what kind of innocent they were fussing over as does a hen who fosters a pretty ball of yellow down that turns into a duckling.
When Louise, Marquise de Cabris, reached her full stature76, those who had mothered her viewed with amazement77 the product of their care. They beheld78 a lady who was not only the terror of Grasse, but a subject for scandal far beyond anything that the virtuous79 town had ever dreamed of. Louise, the full-grown woman, was beautiful to look at, was an adept80 in the arts of seduction, was brilliant in speech and possessed81 of a dazzling but dangerous wit. She was a woman of great vitality82 who loved excitement and cared little of what kind it was. She was depraved in a genial83 kind of way, picturesquely84 wicked, had a lover, of course—a feeble youth named Brian?on—had no heart and no principles. She could claim, as one writer says, “the Mirabeau madness and badness and all the Mirabeau brains.”[21]
When the good old ladies of Grasse gossiped together they no longer discussed what they could do to help the poor marquise. Their sole anxiety was to know “what on earth she would do next.” She did a great deal. Incidentally she challenged another lady to fight a duel85 with pistols. Think of it! The timid, clinging bride of a few years taking to fighting with firearms! What next indeed!
Louise was much attached to her famous brother, the great Mirabeau, the orator86, statesman and roué. Whenever this illustrious man was in a mess—and he was very often in a mess—he always came for help and sympathy to his nimble-minded and wicked sister. Louise was the only member of the Mirabeau family who attended his wedding with Mademoiselle Marignane, and she had always regarded his shortcomings with indulgence and even with admiration87.
One visit that Mirabeau paid to his sister at Grasse became memorable88. The brother was in some trouble again. The affair had to do with his wife’s lover and he came to his sister as to an expert in the treatment of lovers.
Now shortly before his arrival the sober city of Grasse had passed through a species of convulsion. Placards had been mysteriously posted all over the town in which the characters of the ladies of Grasse were attacked in the coarsest and plainest language. It was curious that one lady’s name was not touched upon. Of all names the name of the Marquise de Cabris alone was wanting. The inference naturally followed that the libels had been propagated by the de Cabris. There was a violent and confused uproar89 which was hushed at last by the payment to the injured parties of a large sum by the foolish Marquis de Cabris. Louise, on the other hand, who had no doubt written the abusive lampoons90 herself, placidly91 disclaimed92 all knowledge of the matter. She said, with hauteur93, that they were beneath her notice and, at the same time, wished it to be known that she was very cross with those who had the audacity94 to suspect her.
Among the society folk who had “said things” about Madame de Cabris in connection with the libels was her next-door neighbour, a certain Baron57 de Villeneuve-Monans.
The gardens of the baron and the lady touched. These gardens ended in two terraces one above the other, like two steps. On the upper terrace the marquise had built a summer house which she called Le Pavillon des Indes. It was her Petit Trianon, her quiet corner, and was surmounted96 by a gilded97 goat’s head, the goat’s head being the “canting” arms of the Cabris (cabri).
On the occasion of her brother’s visit Louise gave a quiet dinner in her pavilion. The party consisted of her brother and herself, her lover Brian?on and an unnamed lady who was invited, no doubt, to entertain Mirabeau. Before the meal was over the baron appeared on the upper terrace of his garden, in order to take the air before the sun went down. Louise pointed him out to her brother, told him what the baron had done and what she would do with that nobleman if she had the strength. Mirabeau at once jumped up from the table, stepped over into the baron’s garden and fell upon the unsuspecting man with explosive violence.
GRASSE: RUE SANS PEUR.
Now to introduce a comic element into a conflict of this kind it is essential that at least one of the combatants should be elderly and corpulent and that, by some means or another, an umbrella should be brought into the affair. All these factors were present. The baron was over fifty; he was very fat and, as the evening was hot, he carried an umbrella. Excessive perspiration98, also, is considered to be conducive99 to humour.
Mirabeau, the statesman, flew at the fat man, bashed in his hat and, seizing the umbrella, proceeded to beat him on the head with it. Further he made the baron’s nose bleed and tore his clothes, especially about the neck.
He also kicked him. The fat baron, who was shaped like a melon, clung to the agile100 politician, with the result that they both rolled off the terrace on to the ledge51 below, where sober gardeners, with bent101 backs, were busy with the soil. These honest men were surprised to see two members of the aristocracy drop from a wall and roll along the ground, with an umbrella serving as a kind of axle, snarling102 like cats and using language that would have brought a blush to the cheek of a pirate.
Louise, on the terrace above, was beside herself with joy. She screamed, she clapped her hands, she stamped, she jumped with pure delight. She was in an ecstasy103; and when a fresh rent appeared in the baron’s coat or when fresh mud appeared on his face as he rolled over and over, or when Mirabeau’s fist sounded upon him like a drum she was bent double with laughter.
Mirabeau was of course arrested for his part in this entertainment and was sentenced to two years’ imprisonment104. The prison to which he was sent was the famous Chateau105 d’If. In his confinement106, however, he was consoled by thinking that he had given his sister the merriest day in her life.
The Mirabeau family was a peculiar107 one. The Marquis de Mirabeau hated his daughter and she, as cordially, hated him. The basis of the enmity was the fact that Louise sided with her mother in the constant quarrels upon which her parents were engaged. The marquis, who called his daughter Rongelime after the serpent in the fable108, contrived109 to have her sent to the Ursuline convent at Sisteron, as a punishment for her many and scandalous misdeeds. The sisters were, no doubt, pleased to receive so noble a lady; but their pleasure was short-lived, for at the dinner table the marquise used such unusual language and told such improper110 stories that the convent was soon divided into two parties—those who were too horrified111 to associate with her and those who could not withstand the lure112 of the beautiful woman who said such thrillingly dreadful things.
Exile to Sisteron was rather a severe measure for the flighty Louise. Although it is one of the most picturesque towns in this part of France it lies far away among the hills, no less than 118 miles from Nice by the Grenoble road. This road, which is as full of wonders and enchantment113 as any road in an adventurous114 romance, did not exist in the days of Madame de Cabris.
Sisteron stands in a narrow gorge115 through which rushes the Durance river. The pass is bounded on either side by a towering precipice116. The town, which has only room for one long dim street, clings to a ledge some few yards above the torrent117 and at the foot of the loftier cliff. On the summit of this height stood the castle, the place of which is now occupied by a modern military work. In the town, besides the exquisite118 church of Notre Dame95 of the eleventh and twelfth centuries, are four isolated119 and very lonely round towers. They were built about the year 1364. They are put to no purpose, but simply stand in a row on vacant ground, looking disconsolate120, as if they had been accidentally left behind when the other ancient properties of the city were removed.
Across the river, at the foot of the gentler cliff, is a little wizen, sun-bleached place called the Old Town. It is made up of gaunt houses which show many traces of grandeur121 and of haughty122 bearing; but which are now tenanted by a colony of poor and picturesquely untidy folk. At the far end of this row of ghostly buildings is Louise’s convent, where she chafed123 and fumed124, said terrible things and told un-nun125-like stories.
It was a bustling126 place in its day but it is now deserted and falling into ruin. Those who would realise the pathos and the beauty of the last days of an old convent should make a pilgrimage to Sisteron. The convent buildings are tenanted by a few humble38 families who seem to have settled here in the half-hearted mood of diffident intruders. There cannot be many habitable rooms left in the rambling127 building, although there is much space for hoarding rubbish. At one end is the little chapel128, still almost intact, but in a state of lamentable129 neglect. It is low, has a curious rounded apse and a bell gable with two bells in it. One wonders who was the last to ring these bells, for their ropes are gone and they must have been silent for many years. The ringer may have been some bent, grey-haired nun who loved the bells and, hearing them sound for the last time with infinite sorrow, would have dropped the rope with tears in her eyes.
The chapel is built of a warm, yellow stone and has a roof of rounded tiles of such exquisite tints130 of ashen-grey, of dull red and of chestnut131 brown that it may be covered with a rippled132 thatch133 of autumn leaves. At the other end of the convent is a fine campanile of sturdy mason’s work. It is still proud and commanding, although its base is occupied by a stable and is stuffed with that dusty rubbish, that mouldy hay and those fragments of farm implements134 that the poor seem never to have the heart to destroy.
Behind the chapel is a tiny graveyard135 which is symbolic136 of the place; for it is so overgrown that its few sad monuments are almost hidden by weeds and scrubby bushes. The view from the convent is one of enchanting137 beauty. It looks down the valley of the Bu?ch which joins the main river just above the town. It might be a glade138 in Paradise.
The place is very silent. The only sounds to be heard are the same as would have fallen upon the ears of the restless marquise—the child-like chuckle139 of the river, the song of a shepherd on the hill, the clang of a black-smith’s hammer far away and the tolling140 of the old church bell across the stream.
Before long the illustrious Mirabeau was in another mess and needed once more the help of his experienced sister. This time he was running away with Madame de Monnier, the wife of a friend. Louise was still in the convent; but she could not resist the temptation of assisting her brother in this laudable and exciting enterprise. So she bolted from the convent, assumed a man’s attire141, armed herself and started on horseback with her lover Brian?on to join the runaway142 couple. The movements of the party are a little difficult to follow. They went to Geneva, to Thonon and to Lyons. They had difficulties at the frontier and other mishaps143. In some way Louise and Brian?on failed Mirabeau at a critical moment. The lady seems to have lost her nerve and to have unwittingly given a clue as to her brother’s whereabouts, so that he narrowly escaped capture.
Brian?on and Mirabeau quarrelled, flew at one another’s throats, and were parted, with difficulty, by the panting marquise. This episode led to a coolness between brother and sister, a coolness which in time ended in bitter enmity.
Then came the French Revolution which brought complete ruin to the de Cabris family and destruction to their house. Louise and her husband fled from the country during the Terror. When they returned to France they found their home at Grasse gone and their affairs in a state of dissolution. To add to the troubles of the irrepressible lady her husband had lapsed144 into a state of hopeless insanity.
The once gay marquise, having lost estate, position and friends, retired145 to a small appartement in Paris with her sick husband. She had one daughter who was married and had children.
The moralist may ask what was the end of this wild, rollicking and reckless woman. She did not end her days—as some may surmise—in a poor-house, a lunatic asylum146 or a jail. On the contrary she devoted147 the last years of her life to the care of her poor imbecile husband whom she nursed with a tenderness that the most loving wife could not exceed. More than that she applied148 her fine talents to the teaching of her grandchildren; so that the last we see of the flighty marquise is a sweet-faced old lady, with white hair, who guides the finger of a child, standing at her knee, across the pages of a book of prayer.
[18]
“Contes Populaires des Proven?aux,” by Beranger-Feraud, 1887.
[19]
[20]
“Old Provence,” by T. A. Cook, 1914, vol. 2, p. 298.
[21]
“Life of Mirabeau,” by S. G. Tallentyre. “Les Mirabeau,” by L. de Lomenie.
CAGNES.
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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premier
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| adj.首要的；n.总理，首相 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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gleaned
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| v.一点点地收集（资料、事实）( glean的过去式和过去分词 )；（收割后）拾穗 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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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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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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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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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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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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esteemed
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| adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 )；敬重；认为；以为 | |
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treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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hoarding
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| n.贮藏；积蓄；临时围墙；囤积v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的现在分词 ) | |
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pilfered
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| v.偷窃（小东西），小偷( pilfer的过去式和过去分词 )；偷窃（一般指小偷小摸） | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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indignity
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| n.侮辱，伤害尊严，轻蔑 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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baneful
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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32
jeer
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| vi.嘲弄，揶揄；vt.奚落；n.嘲笑，讥评 | |
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33
scoffing
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| n. 嘲笑, 笑柄, 愚弄 v. 嘲笑, 嘲弄, 愚弄, 狼吞虎咽 | |
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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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35
Undid
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| v. 解开, 复原 | |
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36
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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37
humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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38
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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39
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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40
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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41
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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42
meteoric
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| adj.流星的，转瞬即逝的，突然的 | |
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43
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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44
sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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45
feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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46
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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47
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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48
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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49
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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50
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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51
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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52
acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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53
witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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54
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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55
potentate
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| n.统治者；君主 | |
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56
barons
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| 男爵( baron的名词复数 )； 巨头； 大王； 大亨 | |
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57
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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58
alienate
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| vt.使疏远，离间；转让(财产等) | |
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59
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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60
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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61
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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62
schism
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| n.分派，派系，分裂 | |
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63
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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64
besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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66
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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67
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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68
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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69
pinnacle
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| n.尖塔，尖顶，山峰；(喻)顶峰 | |
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70
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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71
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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72
effusive
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| adj.热情洋溢的；感情(过多)流露的 | |
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73
tainted
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| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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74
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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75
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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76
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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77
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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78
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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79
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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80
adept
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| adj.老练的，精通的 | |
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81
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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82
vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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83
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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84
picturesquely
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85
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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86
orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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87
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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88
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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89
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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90
lampoons
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| n.讽刺文章或言辞( lampoon的名词复数 )v.冷嘲热讽，奚落( lampoon的第三人称单数 ) | |
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91
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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92
disclaimed
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| v.否认( disclaim的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
hauteur
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| n.傲慢 | |
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94
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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95
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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96
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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97
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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98
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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99
conducive
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| adj.有益的，有助的 | |
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100
agile
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| adj.敏捷的，灵活的 | |
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101
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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102
snarling
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的现在分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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103
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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104
imprisonment
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| n.关押，监禁，坐牢 | |
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105
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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106
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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107
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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108
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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109
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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110
improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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111
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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112
lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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113
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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114
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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115
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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116
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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117
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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118
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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119
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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120
disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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121
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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122
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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123
chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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124
fumed
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| 愤怒( fume的过去式和过去分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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125
nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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126
bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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127
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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128
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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129
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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130
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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131
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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132
rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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133
thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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134
implements
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| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
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135
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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136
symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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137
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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138
glade
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| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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139
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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140
tolling
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| [财]来料加工 | |
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141
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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142
runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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143
mishaps
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| n.轻微的事故，小的意外( mishap的名词复数 ) | |
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144
lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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145
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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146
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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147
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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148
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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149
maritime
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| adj.海的，海事的，航海的，近海的，沿海的 | |
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