"Ah! M. Andre, what an awful misfortune!"
"Go back into your room—go back at once!"
Before I could answer, he caught me up in his arms, rather threw than placed me on the upper step of my staircase, locked the door of the corridor, and walked rapidly away.
"No, no," I cried, flinging myself against the door, "tell me all; I will, I must know." No answer. I shook the lock, I struck the panel with my clenched8 fists, I dashed my shoulder against the door. Vain was my frenzy9! Then, sitting upon the lowest step, I listened, in an agony of fear, to the coming and going of people outside, who knew of "the awful misfortune," but what was it they knew? Child as I was, I understood the terrible signification which the servant's exclamation10 bore under the actual circumstances. Two days previously11, my father had gone out after breakfast, according to custom, to the place of business which he had occupied for over four years, in the Rue de la Victoire. He had been thoughtful during breakfast, indeed for some months past he had lost his accustomed cheerfulness. When he rose to go out, my mother, myself, and one of the habitual12 frequenters of our house, M. Jacques Termonde, a fellow student of my father's at the Ecole de Droit, were at table. My father left his seat before breakfast was over, having looked at the clock, and inquired whether it was quite right.
"Are you in such a hurry, Cornelis?" asked Termonde.
"Yes," answered my father, "I have an appointment with a client who is ill—a foreigner—I have to call on him at his hotel to procure13 some important papers. He is an odd sort of man, and I shall not be sorry to see something of him at closer quarters. I have taken certain steps on his behalf, and I am almost tempted14 to regret them."
And since then, no news! In the evening of that day, when dinner, which had been put off for one quarter of an hour after another, was over, and my father, who was always so methodical, so punctual, had not come in, my mother began to betray increasing uneasiness, and could not conceal15 from me that his last words dwelt upon her mind. It was a rare occurrence for him to speak with misgiving16 of his undertakings17!
The night passed, then the next morning and afternoon, and once more it was evening. My mother and I were once more seated at the square table, where the cover laid for my father in front of his empty chair gave, as it were, a form to our nameless dread18.
My mother had written to M. Jacques Termonde, and he came after dinner. I was sent away immediately, but not without my having had time to remark the extraordinary brightness of M. Termonde's eyes, which were blue, and usually shone coldly in his thin, sharp face. He had fair hair and a beard best described as pale. Thus do children take note of small details, which are speedily effaced19 from their minds, but afterwards reappear, at the contact of life, just as certain invisible marks come out upon paper when it is held to the fire.
While begging to be allowed to remain, I was mechanically observing the hurried and agitated20 turning and returning of a light cane21—I had long coveted22 it—held behind his back in his remarkably23 beautiful hands. If I had not admired the cane so much, and the fighting centaurs24 on its handle—a fine piece of Renaissance25 work— this symptom of extreme disturbance26 might have escaped me. But, how could M. Termonde fail to be disturbed by the disappearance27 of his best friend? Nevertheless, his voice, a soft voice which made all his phrases melodious28, was quite calm.
"To-morrow," he said, "I will have every inquiry29 made, if Cornelis has not returned; but he will come back, and all will be explained. Depend on it, he went away somewhere on the business he told you of, and left a letter for you to be sent by a commissionaire who has not delivered it."
"Ah!" said my mother, "you think that is possible?"
How often, in my dark hours, have I recalled this dialogue, and the room in which it took place—a little salon30, much liked by my mother, with hangings and furniture of some foreign stuff all striped in red and white, black and yellow, that my father had brought from Morocco; and how plainly have I seen my mother in my mind's eye, with her black hair, her brown eyes, her quivering lips. She was as white as the summer gown she wore that evening. M. Termonde was dressed with his usual correctness, and I remember well his slender and elegant figure.
I attended the two classes at the Lycee, if not with a light, at least with a relieved heart. But, while I was sitting upon the lower step of my little staircase, all my uneasiness revived. I hammered at the door again, I called as loudly as I could; but no one answered me, until the good woman who had been my nurse came into my room.
"My father!" I cried, "where is my father?"
"Poor child, poor child," said nurse, and took me in her arms.
She had been sent to tell me the awful truth, but her strength failed her. I escaped from her, ran out into the corridor, and reached my father's bedroom before anyone could stop me. Ah! upon the bed lay a rigid31 form covered by a white sheet, upon the pillow a bloodless, motionless face, with fixed32, wide-open eyes, for the lids had not been closed; the chin was supported by a bandage, a napkin was bound around the forehead; at the bed's foot knelt a woman, still dressed in her white summer gown, crushed and helpless with grief. These were my father and my mother.
I flung myself madly upon her, and she clasped me passionately33, with the piercing cry, "My Andre, my Andre!" In that cry there was such intense grief, in that embrace there was such frenzied34 tenderness, her heart was then so big with tears, that it warms my own even now to think of it. The next moment she rose and carried me out of the room, that I might see the dreadful sight no more. She did this easily, her terrible excitement had doubled her strength. "God punishes me! God punishes me!" she said over and over again taking no heed35 of her words. She had always been given, by fits and starts, to mystical piety36. Then she covered my face, my neck, and my hair with kisses and tears. May all that we suffered, the dead and I, be forgiven you, poor mother, for the sincerity37 of those tears at that moment!
点击收听单词发音
1 shutters | |
百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 ); (照相机的)快门 | |
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2 rue | |
n.懊悔,芸香,后悔;v.后悔,悲伤,懊悔 | |
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3 prettily | |
adv.优美地;可爱地 | |
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4 compartments | |
n.间隔( compartment的名词复数 );(列车车厢的)隔间;(家具或设备等的)分隔间;隔层 | |
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5 instinctively | |
adv.本能地 | |
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6 linen | |
n.亚麻布,亚麻线,亚麻制品;adj.亚麻布制的,亚麻的 | |
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7 regaining | |
复得( regain的现在分词 ); 赢回; 重回; 复至某地 | |
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8 clenched | |
v.紧握,抓紧,咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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9 frenzy | |
n.疯狂,狂热,极度的激动 | |
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10 exclamation | |
n.感叹号,惊呼,惊叹词 | |
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11 previously | |
adv.以前,先前(地) | |
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12 habitual | |
adj.习惯性的;通常的,惯常的 | |
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13 procure | |
vt.获得,取得,促成;vi.拉皮条 | |
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14 tempted | |
v.怂恿(某人)干不正当的事;冒…的险(tempt的过去分词) | |
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15 conceal | |
v.隐藏,隐瞒,隐蔽 | |
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16 misgiving | |
n.疑虑,担忧,害怕 | |
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17 undertakings | |
企业( undertaking的名词复数 ); 保证; 殡仪业; 任务 | |
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18 dread | |
vt.担忧,忧虑;惧怕,不敢;n.担忧,畏惧 | |
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19 effaced | |
v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 );抹去;超越;使黯然失色 | |
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20 agitated | |
adj.被鼓动的,不安的 | |
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21 cane | |
n.手杖,细长的茎,藤条;v.以杖击,以藤编制的 | |
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22 coveted | |
adj.令人垂涎的;垂涎的,梦寐以求的v.贪求,觊觎(covet的过去分词);垂涎;贪图 | |
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23 remarkably | |
ad.不同寻常地,相当地 | |
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24 centaurs | |
n.(希腊神话中)半人半马怪物( centaur的名词复数 ) | |
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25 renaissance | |
n.复活,复兴,文艺复兴 | |
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26 disturbance | |
n.动乱,骚动;打扰,干扰;(身心)失调 | |
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27 disappearance | |
n.消失,消散,失踪 | |
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28 melodious | |
adj.旋律美妙的,调子优美的,音乐性的 | |
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29 inquiry | |
n.打听,询问,调查,查问 | |
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30 salon | |
n.[法]沙龙;客厅;营业性的高级服务室 | |
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31 rigid | |
adj.严格的,死板的;刚硬的,僵硬的 | |
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32 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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33 passionately | |
ad.热烈地,激烈地 | |
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34 frenzied | |
a.激怒的;疯狂的 | |
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35 heed | |
v.注意,留意;n.注意,留心 | |
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36 piety | |
n.虔诚,虔敬 | |
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37 sincerity | |
n.真诚,诚意;真实 | |
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