Nicolette, urged thereto by Micheline, had at last consented to come over to the château in order to be formally introduced to Bertrand’s fiancée.
It was Whit-Sunday, and a glorious afternoon. When Nicolette arrived she found the entire family assembled on the terrace. A table, spread with a beautiful lace cloth, was laden1 with all kinds of delicacies2, such as even Margaï over at the mas could not have known how to bake: gâteaux and brioches, and babas, and jars of cream and cups of chocolate. The old Comtesse sat at the head of the table, her white hair dressed high above her head in the stately mode of forty years ago, and embellished3 with a magnificent jewelled comb.
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Her dress was of rich, purple brocade, made after the fashion which prevailed before the Revolution, with hoops4 and panniers, and round her neck she wore a magnificent rope of pearls. There were rings on her fingers set with gems5 that sparkled in the sunlight as she raised the silver jug6 and poured some chocolate out into a delicate porcelain7 cup.
Nicolette could scarce believe her eyes. There was such an air of splendour about old Madame to-day!
Micheline, too, looked different. She had discarded the plain, drab stuff gown she always wore, and had on a prettily8 made, dainty muslin frock which made her look younger, less misshapen somehow than usual. Her mother alone appeared out of key in the highly coloured picture. Though she, too, had on a silk gown, it was of the same unrelieved black which she had never discarded since Nicolette could remember anything. But the chair in which she reclined was covered in rich brocade, and her poor, tired head rested upon gorgeously embroidered9 cushions. The centre of interest in this family group, however, was that delicate figure of loveliness that reclined in an elegant bergère in the midst of a veritable cloud of muslin and lace, all adorned10 with ribbons
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less blue than her eyes. With a quick glance, even as she approached, Nicolette took in every detail of the dainty apparition11: from the exquisite12 head with its wealth of golden curls, modishly13 dressed with a high tortoiseshell comb, down to the tiny feet in transparent14 silk stockings and sandal shoes that rested on a cushion of crimson15 velvet16, on the corner of which Bertrand sat, or rather crouched17, with arms folded and head raised to gaze unhindered on his beloved.
Micheline was the first to catch sight of her friend.
“Nicolette,” she cried, and struggled to her feet, “come quick! We are waiting for you.”
She ran to Nicolette as fast as her poor lame18 leg would allow, and Nicolette, who a moment ago had been assailed19 with the terrible temptation to play the coward and to run away, away from this strange scene, was compelled to come forward to greet the older ladies by kissing their hands as was customary, and to mix with all these people who, she vaguely20 felt, were hostile to her. The Comtesse Marcelle had given her a friendly kiss. But she felt like an intruder, a dependent who is tolerated, without being very welcome in the family circle. All her pride rebelled against the feeling,
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even though she could not combat it. It was Bertrand who made her feel so shy. He had risen very slowly and very deliberately21 to his feet, and it was with a formal bow and affected22 manner that he approached Nicolette and took her hand, then formally presented her to his fiancée.
“Mademoiselle Nicolette Deydier,” he said, “our neighbour’s daughter.”
He did not say “my oldest friend” this time. And Mademoiselle de Peyron-Bompar tore herself away from the contemplation of a box of bonbons23 in order to gaze on Nicolette with languid interest. There was quite a measure of impertinence in the glance which she bestowed25 on the girl’s plain muslin gown, on the priceless fichu of old Mechlin which she wore round her graceful26 shoulders and on the string of rare pearls around her neck. Nicolette felt tongue-tied and was furious with herself for her awkwardness; she, who was called little chatter-box by her father and by Margaï, could find nothing to say but “Yes!” or “No!” or short, prim27 answers to Rixende’s supercilious28 queries29.
“Was the harvesting of orange-blossom finished?”
“Not quite.”
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“What ennui30! The smell of the flowers is enough to give one the migraine. How long would it last?”
“Another week perhaps.”
“And does that noisy dance always accompany the harvesting?”
“Always when the boys and girls are merry.”
“What ennui! the noise of those abominable31 tambourines32 could be heard as far as the château yesterday. One could not get one’s afternoon siesta33.”
“Have a cup of chocolate, Nicolette!” Micheline suggested by way of a diversion as the conversation threatened to drop altogether.
“No, thank you, Micheline!” Nicolette replied, “I had some chocolate before I came.”
It was all so awkward, and so very, very unreal. To Nicolette it seemed as if she were in a dream: the old Comtesse’s jewelled comb, the brocade chair, the silver on the table, it could not be real. The old château of Ventadour was the home of old tradition, not of garish34 modernity, it lived in a rarefied old-world atmosphere that had rendered it very dear to Nicolette, and all this rich paraphernalia35 of good living and fine clothes threw a mantle36 of falsehood almost of vulgarity over the place.
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Nicolette found nothing more to say, and Micheline looked hurt and puzzled that her friend did not enter into the spirit of this beautiful unreality. She appeared to be racking her brain for something to say: but no one helped her out. The old Comtesse had not opened her lips since Nicolette had come upon the scene. Bertrand was too busily engaged in devouring37 his beautiful fiancée with his eyes to pay heed38 to any one else, and the lovely Rixende was even at this moment smothering39 a yawn behind her upraised fan.
It was the Comtesse Marcelle, anxious and gentle, who relieved the tension:
“Micheline,” she said, “why don’t you take Nicolette into the boudoir and show her——?” Then she smiled and added with a pathetic little air of gaiety: “you know what?”
This suggestion delighted Micheline.
“Of course,” she cried excitedly. “I was forgetting. Come, Nicolette, and I will show you something that will surprise you.”
She had assumed a mysterious mien40 and now led the way into the house. Nicolette followed her, ready to fall in with anything that would take her away from here. The two girls went across the terrace together, and the last words which struck Nicolette’s ears before
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they went into the house came from Mademoiselle de Peyron-Bompar.
“The wench is quite pretty,” she was saying languidly, “in a milkmaid fashion, of course. You never told me, Bertrand, that you had a rustic41 beauty in these parts. She represents your calf-love, I presume.”
Nicolette actually felt hot tears rising to her eyes, but she succeeded in swallowing them, whilst Micheline exclaimed with naïve enthusiasm:
“Isn’t Rixende beautiful? How can you wonder, Nicolette, that Bertrand loves her so?”
Fortunately Nicolette was not called upon to make a reply. She had followed Micheline through the tall French window in the drawing-room and in very truth she was entirely42 dumb with surprise. The room was transformed in a manner which she would not have thought possible. It is true that she had not been inside the château for many months, but even so, it seemed as if a fairy godmother had waved her magic wand and changed the faded curtains into gorgeous brocades, the tattered44 carpets into delicate Aubussons, the broken-down chairs with protruding45 stuffing into luxurious46 fauteuils, covered in elegant tapestries47. There were flowers in cut-glass bowls, books
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laid negligently48 on the tables; an open escritoire displayed a silver-mounted inkstand, whilst like a crowning ornament49 to this beautifully furnished room, a spinet50 in inlaid rosewood case stood in the corner beside the farthest window, with a pile of music upon it.
Micheline had come to a halt in the centre of the room watching with glee the look of utter surprise and bewilderment on her friend’s face, and when Nicolette stood there, dumb, looking about her as she would on a dream picture, Micheline clapped her hands with joy.
“Nicolette,” she cried, “do sing something, then you will know that it is all real.”
And Nicolette sat down at the spinet and her fingers wandered for awhile idly over the keys. Surely it must all be a dream. A spook had gone by and transformed the dear old château into an ogre’s palace: it had cast a spell over poor, trusting Micheline, and set up old Madame as a presiding genius over this new world which was so unlike, so pathetically unlike the old; whilst through this ogre’s palace there flitted a naughty, mischief51 making sprite, with blue eyes and golden curls, a sprite all adorned with lace and ribbons and exquisite to behold52, who held dainty, jewelled fingers
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right over Bertrand’s eyes so that he could no longer see.
Gradually the dream-mood took stronger and yet stronger hold of Nicolette’s spirit: and she was hardly conscious of what her fingers were doing. Instinctively53 they had wandered and wandered over the keys, playing a few bars of one melody and then of another, the player’s mind scarcely following them. But now they settled down to the one air that is always the dearest of all to every heart in Provence: “lou Roussignou!”
“Lou Roussignou che volà, volà!”
Nicolette’s sweet young voice rose to the accompaniment of the soft-toned spinet. She sang, hardly knowing that she did so, certainly not noticing Micheline’s rapt little face of admiration54, or that the tall window was open and allowed the rasping voice of Rixende to penetrate55 so far.
Micheline heard it, and tiptoed as far as the window. Rixende had jumped to her feet. She stood in the middle of the terrace, with all her laces and ribbons billowing around her and her hands held up to her ears:
“Oh! that stupid song!” she cried, “that
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monotonous56, silly refrain gets on my nerves. Bertrand, take me away where I cannot hear it, or I vow57 that I shall scream.”
Micheline stepped out through the window, from a safe distance she gazed in utter bewilderment at Rixende whom she had hitherto admired so whole-heartedly and who at this moment looked like an angry little vixen. Bertrand, on the other hand, tried to make a joke of the whole thing.
“The sooner you accustom58 your sweet ears to that song,” he said with a laugh, “the sooner will you become a true Queen of Provence.”
“But I have no desire to become a Queen of Provence,” Rixende retorted dryly, “I hate this dull, dreary59 country——”
“Rixende!” Bertrand protested, suddenly sobered by an utterance60 which appeared to him nothing short of blasphemy61.
“Eh! what,” she retorted tartly62, “you do not suppose, my dear Bertrand, that I find this place very entertaining? Or did you really see me with your mind’s eye finding delectation in rushing round orange trees in the company of a lot of perspiring63 louts?”
“No,” Bertrand replied gently, “I can only picture you in my mind’s eye as the exquisite fairy that you are. But I must confess that I
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also see you as the Queen ruling over these lands that are the birthright of our race.”
“Very prettily said,” Rixende riposted with a sarcastic64 curl of her red lips, “you were always a master of florid diction, my dear. But let me assure you that I much prefer to queen it over a Paris salon65 than over a half-empty barrack like this old château.”
Bertrand threw a rapid, comprehensive glance over the old pile that held all his family pride, all the glorious traditions of his forbears. There was majesty66 even in its ruins: whole chapters of the history of France had been unfolded within its walls.
“I find the half-empty barrack beautiful,” he murmured with a quick, sharp sigh.
“Of course it is beautiful, Bertrand,” Rixende rejoined, with that quick transition from petulance67 to coquetry which seemed one of her chief characteristics. “It is beautiful to me, because it is dear to you.”
She clasped her two tiny hands around his arm and turned her gentian-blue eyes up to him. He looked down at the dainty face, rendered still more exquisite by the flush which still lingered on her cheeks. She looked so frail68, so fairy-like, such a perfect embodiment of all that was most delicate, most appealing in
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womanhood; she was one of those women who have the secret of rousing every instinct of protection and chivalry69 in a man, and command love and devotion where a more self-reliant, more powerful personality fails even to attract. A look of infinite tenderness came into Bertrand’s face as he gazed on the lovely upturned face, and into those blue eyes wherein a few tears were slowly gathering70. He felt suddenly brutish and coarse beside this ethereal being, whose finger-tips he was not worthy71 to touch. He felt that there was nothing which he could do, no act of worship or of self-abnegation, that would in any way repay her marvellous condescension72 in stepping out of her kingdom amongst the clouds, in order to come down to his level.
And she, quick to notice the varying moods expressed in his face, felt that she had gone yet another step in her entire conquest of him. She gave a little sigh of content, threw him one more ravishing look, then said lightly:
“Let us wander away together, Bertrand, shall we? We seem never to have any time all to ourselves.”
Bertrand, wholly subjugated73, captured Rixende’s little hand, and drawing it under his
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arm, led her away in the direction of the wood. Micheline continued to gaze after them, a puzzled frown between her brows. Neither her mother nor her grandmother had joined in the short sparring match between the two lovers, but Micheline, whom infirmity had rendered keenly observant, was quick to note the look of anxiety which her mother cast in the direction where Rixende’s dainty gown was just disappearing among the trees.
“That girl will never be happy here——” she murmured as if to herself.
Old Madame who still sat erect74 and stiff at the head of the table broke in sharply:
“Once she is married to Bertrand,” she said, “Rixende will have to realise that she represents a great name, and that her little bourgeois75 ideas of pleasure and pomp are sadly out of key in this place where her husband’s ancestors have been the equal of kings.”
The Comtesse Marcelle sighed drearily76.
“Yes, when she is married—but——”
“But what,” grandmama queried77 sharply.
“I sometimes wonder if that marriage will make for Bertrand’s happiness.”
“Bertrand’s happiness,” the old Comtesse echoed with a harsh laugh, “Hark at the sentimental78 schoolgirl! My dear Marcelle! to
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hear you talk, one would think you had not lived through twenty-five years of grinding poverty. In Heaven’s name have you not yet realised that the only possible happiness for Bertrand lies in a brilliant marriage. We have plunged79 too deeply into the stream now, we cannot turn back, we must swim with the tide—or sink—there is no middle-way.”
“I know, I know,” the younger woman replied meekly80. “Debts, more debts! more debts! O, my God!” she moaned and buried her face in her hands; “as if they had not wrought81 enough mischief already. More debts, and if——”
“And now you talk like a fool,” the old Comtesse broke in tartly. “Would you have had the girl come here and find that all your carpets were in rags, your cushions moth-eaten, the family silver turned to lead or brass82? Would you have had her find the Comtesse de Ventadour in a patched and darned gown, waited on by a lad from the village in sabots and an unwashed shirt that reeked83 of manure84? Yes,” she went on in that firm, decisive tone against which no one at the château had ever dared to make a stand, “yes, I did advise Bertrand to borrow a little more money, in order that his family should not be shamed before his
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fiancée. But you may rest assured, my good Marcelle, that the usurers who lent him the money would not have done it were they not satisfied that he would in the very near future be able to meet all his liabilities. You live shut away from all the civilised world, but every one in Paris knows that M. le Comte de Ventadour is co-heir with his fiancée, Mlle. de Peyron-Bompar, to the Mont-Pahon millions. Bertrand had no difficulty in raising the money, he will have none in repaying it, and Jaume Deydier is already regretting, I make no doubt, the avarice85 which prompted him to refuse to help his seigneurs in their short-lived difficulty.”
The Comtesse Marcelle uttered a cry, almost of horror.
“Deydier!” she exclaimed, “surely, Madame, you did not ask him to——?”
“I asked him to lend me five thousand louis, until the marriage contract between Bertrand and Mlle. Peyron-Bompar was signed. I confess that I did him too much honour, for he refused. Bah! those louts!” grandmama added with lofty scorn, “they have no idea of honour.”
The Comtesse Marcelle said nothing more, only a deep flush rose to her wan43 cheeks, and to hide it from the scathing86 eyes of her motherin-law
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she buried her face in her hands. Micheline’s heart was torn between the desire to run and comfort her mother and her fear of grandmama’s wrath87 if she did so. Instinctively she looked behind her, and then gave a gasp88. Nicolette was standing89 in the window embrasure, her hands clasped in front of her; Micheline could not conjecture90 how much she had heard of the conversation that had been carried on on the terrace this past quarter of an hour. The girl’s face wore a strange expression of detachment as if her spirit were not here at all; her eyes seemed to be gazing inwardly, into her own soul.
“Nicolette,” Micheline exclaimed.
Nicolette started, as if in truth she were waking from a dream.
“I was just thinking,” she said quietly, “that it is getting late; I must be going. Margaï will be anxious.”
She stepped over the window sill on to the terrace, and threw her arms round Micheline who was obviously struggling with insistent91 tears. Then she went over to the table, where the two ladies were sitting. She dropped the respectful curtsy which usage demanded from young people when taking leave of their elders. The Comtesse Marcelle extended a friendly
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hand to her, which Nicolette kissed affectionately, but old Madame only nodded her head with stately aloofness92: and Nicolette was thankful to escape from this atmosphere of artificiality and hostility93 which gave her such a cruel ache in her heart.
Micheline offered to accompany her part of the way home, but in reality the girl longed to be alone, and she knew that Micheline would understand.
Nicolette wandered slowly down the dusty road. She had purposely avoided the pretty descent down the terraced gradients through the woods; somehow she felt as if they too must be changed, as if the malignant94 fairy had also waved a cruel wand over the shady olive trees, and the carob to which captive maidens96, long since passed away, were wont97 to be tethered whilst gallant98 knights99 slew100 impossible dragons and tinged101 the grass with the monster’s blood. Surely, surely, all that had changed too! Perhaps it had never been. Perhaps childhood had been a dream and the carob tree was as much a legend as the dragons and the fiery102 chargers of old. Nicolette had a big heart-ache, because she was young and because life had revealed itself to her whilst she
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was still a child, showed her all the beauty, the joy, the happiness that it could bestow24 if it would; it had drawn103 aside the curtain which separated earth from heaven, and then closed them again leaving her on the wrong side, all alone, shivering, pining, longing104, not understanding why God could be so cruel when the sky was so blue, His world so fair, and she, Nicolette, possessed105 of an infinite capacity for love.
Whilst she had sat at the spinet and sung “lou Roussignou” she had gazed abstractedly through the open window before her, and seen that exquisite being, all lace and ribbons and loveliness, wielding106 little poison-darts that she flung at Bertrand, hurting him horribly in his pride, in his love of the old home: and Nicolette, whose pretty head held a fair amount of shrewd common sense, marvelled107 what degree of happiness the future held for those two, who were so obviously unsuited to one another. Rixende de Peyron-Bompar, petulant108, spoilt, pleasure-loving, and Tan-tan the slayer109 of dragons, the intrepid110 Paul of the Paul et Virginie days on the desert island. Rixende, the butterfly Queen of a Paris salon, and Bertrand, Comte de Ventadour, the descendant of troubadours, the idealist, the
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dreamer, the weak vessel111 filled to the brim with all that was most lovable, most reprehensible112, most sensitive, most certainly doomed113 to suffer.
If only she thought that he would be happy, Nicolette felt that she could go about with a lighter114 heart. She had a happy home: a father who idolised her: she loved this land where she was born, the old mas, the climbing rose, the vine arbour, the dark cypresses115 that stood sentinel beside the outbuildings of the mas. In time, perhaps, loving these things, she would forget that other, that greater love, that immeasurably greater love that now threatened to break her heart.
How beautiful the world was! and how beautiful was Provence! the trees, the woods, Luberon and its frowning crags, the orange trees that sent their intoxicating116 odour through the air. Already the sun had hidden his splendour behind Luberon, and had lit that big crimson fire behind the mountain tops that had seemed the end of the world to Nicolette in the days of old. The silence of evening had fallen on these woods where bird-song was always scarce. Nicolette walked very slowly: she felt tired to-night, and she never liked a road when terraced gradients through rows of olive trees
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were so much more inviting117. The road was a very much longer way to the mas than the woods. Nicolette paused, debating what she should do. The crimson fire behind Luberon had paled to rose and then to lemon-gold, and to right and left the sky was of a pale turquoise118 tint119, with tiny clouds lingering above the stony120 peaks of Luberon, tiny, fluffy121 grey clouds edged with madder that slowly paled.
The short twilight122 spread its grey mantle over the valley and the mountain-side; the tiny clouds were now of a uniform grey: grey were the crags and the boulders123, the tree-tops and the roof of the distant mas. Only the dark cypresses stood out like long, inky blotches124 against that translucent125 grey. And from the valley there rose that intoxicating fragrance126 of the blossom-laden orange trees. Way down on the road below a cart rattled127 by, the harness jingling128, the axles groaning129, the driver, with a maiden95 beside him, singing a song of Provence. For a few minutes these sounds filled the air with their insistence130 on life, movement, toil131, their testimony132 to the wheels of destiny that never cease to grind. Then all was still again, and the short twilight faded into evening.
And as Nicolette deliberately turned from the road into the wood, a nightingale began to
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sing. The soft little trills went rolling and echoing through the woods like a call from heaven itself to partake of the joy, the beauty, the fulness of the earth and all its loveliness. And suddenly, as Nicolette worked her way down the terraced gradients, she spied, standing upon a grass-covered knoll133, two forms interlaced: Bertrand had his arms around Rixende, his face was buried in the wealth of her golden curls, and she lay quite passive, upon his breast.
Nicolette dared not move, for fear she should be seen, for fear, too, that she should break upon this, surely the happiest hour in Tan-tan’s life. They paid no heed of what went on around them: Bertrand held his beloved in his arms with an embrace that was both passionate134 and yearning135, whilst overhead the nightingale trilled its sweet, sad melody. Nicolette stood quite still, dry-eyed and numb136. Awhile ago she had been sure that if only she could think that Tan-tan was happy, she could go through life with a lighter heart. Well! she had her wish! there was happiness, absolute, radiant happiness expressed in that embrace. Tan-tan was happy, and his loved one lay passive in his arms, whilst the song of the nightingale spoke137 unto his soul promises of
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greater happiness still. And Nicolette closed her eyes, because the picture before her seemed to sear her very heart-strings and wrench138 them out of her breast. She stuffed her handkerchief into her mouth, because a desperate cry of pain had risen to her throat. Then, turning suddenly, she ran and ran down the slope, away, away as far away as she could from that haunting picture of Tan-tan and his happiness.
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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embellished
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| v.美化( embellish的过去式和过去分词 )；装饰；修饰；润色 | |
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hoops
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| n.箍( hoop的名词复数 )；（篮球）篮圈；（旧时儿童玩的）大环子；（两端埋在地里的）小铁弓 | |
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gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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modishly
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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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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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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bonbons
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| n.小糖果( bonbon的名词复数 ) | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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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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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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supercilious
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| adj.目中无人的，高傲的；adv.高傲地；n.高傲 | |
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queries
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| n.问题( query的名词复数 )；疑问；询问；问号v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的第三人称单数 )；询问 | |
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ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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31
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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32
tambourines
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| n.铃鼓，手鼓( tambourine的名词复数 )；（鸣声似铃鼓的）白胸森鸠 | |
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33
siesta
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| n.午睡 | |
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34
garish
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| adj.华丽而俗气的，华而不实的 | |
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35
paraphernalia
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| n.装备；随身用品 | |
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36
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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37
devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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38
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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39
smothering
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的现在分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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40
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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41
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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42
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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43
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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44
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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45
protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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46
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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47
tapestries
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| n.挂毯( tapestry的名词复数 )；绣帷，织锦v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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48
negligently
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49
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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50
spinet
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| n.小型立式钢琴 | |
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51
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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52
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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53
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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54
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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55
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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56
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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57
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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58
accustom
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| vt.使适应，使习惯 | |
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59
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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60
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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61
blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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62
tartly
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| adv.辛辣地，刻薄地 | |
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63
perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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64
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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65
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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66
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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67
petulance
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| n.发脾气，生气，易怒，暴躁，性急 | |
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68
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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69
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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70
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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71
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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72
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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73
subjugated
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| v.征服，降伏( subjugate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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75
bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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76
drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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77
queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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78
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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79
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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80
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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81
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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82
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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83
reeked
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的过去式和过去分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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84
manure
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| n.粪，肥，肥粒；vt.施肥 | |
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85
avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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86
scathing
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| adj.（言词、文章）严厉的，尖刻的；不留情的adv.严厉地，尖刻地v.伤害，损害（尤指使之枯萎）( scathe的现在分词) | |
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87
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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88
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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89
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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90
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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91
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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92
aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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93
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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94
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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95
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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96
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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97
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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98
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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99
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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100
slew
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| v.（使）旋转；n.大量，许多 | |
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101
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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103
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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104
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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105
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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106
wielding
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的现在分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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107
marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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109
slayer
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| n. 杀人者，凶手 | |
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110
intrepid
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| adj.无畏的，刚毅的 | |
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111
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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112
reprehensible
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| adj.该受责备的 | |
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113
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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114
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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115
cypresses
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| n.柏属植物，柏树( cypress的名词复数 ) | |
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116
intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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117
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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118
turquoise
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| n.绿宝石；adj.蓝绿色的 | |
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119
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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120
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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121
fluffy
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| adj.有绒毛的，空洞的 | |
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122
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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123
boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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124
blotches
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| n.（皮肤上的）红斑，疹块( blotch的名词复数 )；大滴 [大片]（墨水或颜色的）污渍 | |
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125
translucent
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| adj.半透明的；透明的 | |
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126
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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127
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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128
jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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129
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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130
insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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131
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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132
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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133
knoll
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| n.小山，小丘 | |
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134
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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135
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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136
numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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137
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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138
wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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