My poor aunt! She thought me made of sterner stuff than I really was. There was no need of her advice to prevent my being consumed by the desire for vengeance which had been the fixed6 star of my early youth, the blood-colored beacon7 aflame in my night. Ah! the resolutions of boyhood, the "oaths of Hannibal" taken to ourselves, the dream of devoting all our strength to one single and unchanging aim—life sweeps all that away, together with our generous illusions, ardent8 enthusiasm, and noble hopes. What a difference there is—what a falling off—between the boy of fifteen, unhappy indeed, but so bold and proud in 1870, and the young man of eight years later, in 1878! And to think, only to think, that but for chance occurrences, impossible to foresee, I should still be, at this hour, the young man whose portrait hangs upon the wall above the table at which I am writing. Of a surety, the visitors to the Salon9 of that year (1878) who looked at this portrait among so many others, had no suspicion that it represented the son of a father who had come to so tragic10 an end. And I, when I look at that commonplace image of an ordinary Parisian, with eyes unlit by any fire or force of will, complexion11 paled by the fatigues12 of fashion, hair cut in the mode of the day, strictly13 correct dress and attitude, I am astonished to think that I could have lived as I actually did live at that period. Between the misfortunes that saddened my childhood, and those of quite recent date which have finally laid waste my life, the course of my existence was colorless, monotonous14, vulgar, just like that of anybody else. I shall merely note the stages of it.
In the second half of 1870, the Franco-Prussian war takes place. The invasion finds me at Compiegne, where I am passing my holidays with my aunt. My stepfather and my mother remain in Paris during the siege. I go on with my studies under the tuition of an old priest belonging to the little town, who prepared my father for his first communion. In the autumn of 1871 I return to Versailles; in August, 1873, I take my bachelor's degree, and then I do my one year's voluntary service in the army at Angers under the easiest possible conditions. My colonel was the father of my old schoolfellow, Rocquin. In 1874 I am set free from tutelage by my stepfather's advice. This was the moment at which my task was to have been begun, the time appointed with my own soul; yet, four years afterwards, in 1878, not only was the vengeance that had been the tragic romance, and, so to speak, the religion of my childhood, unfulfilled, but I did not trouble myself about it.
I was cruelly ashamed of my indifference16 when I thought about it; but I am now satisfied that it was not so much the result of weakness of character as of causes apart from myself which would have acted in the same way upon any young man placed in my situation. From the first, and when I faced my task of vengeance, an insurmountable obstacle arose before me. It is equally easy and sublime17 to strike an attitude and exclaim: "I swear that I will never rest until I have punished the guilty one." In reality, one never acts except in detail, and what could I do? I had to proceed in the same way as justice had proceeded, to reopen the inquiry18 which had been pushed to its extremity19 without any result.
I began with the Judge of Instruction,* who had had the carriage of the matter, and who was now a Counsellor of the Court. He was a man of fifty, very quiet and plain in his way, and he lived in the Ile de Paris, on the first floor of an ancient house, from whose windows he could see Notre Dame20, primitive21 Paris, and the Seine, which is as narrow as a canal at that place.
* The translator renders literally22 those terms and phrases relating to the French criminal law and procedure which have no analogous23 expression in English.
M. Massol, so he was named, was quite willing to resume with me the analysis of the data which had been furnished by the Instruction. No doubt existed either as to the personality of the assassin, or the hour at which the crime was committed. My father had been killed between two and three o'clock in the day, without a struggle, by that tall, broad-shouldered personage whose extraordinary disguise indicated, according to the magistrate24, "an amateur." Excess of complication is always an imprudence, for it multiplies the chances of failure. Had the assassin dyed his skin and worn a wig25 because my father knew him by sight?
To this M. Massol said "No; for M. Cornelis, who was very observant, and who, besides, was on his guard—this is evident from his last words when he left you—would have recognized him by his voice, his glance, and his attitude. A man cannot change his height and his figure, although he may change his face."
M. Massol's theory of this disguise was that the wearer had adopted it in order to gain time to get out of France, should the corpse26 be discovered on the day of the murder. Supposing that a description of a man with a very brown complexion and a black beard had been telegraphed in every direction, the assassin, having washed off his paint, laid aside his wig and beard, and put on other clothes, might have crossed the frontier without arousing the slightest suspicion. There was reason to believe that the pretended Rochdale lived abroad. He had spoke in English at the hotel, and the people there had taken him for an American; it was therefore presumable either that he was a native of the United States, or that he habitually27 resided there. The criminal was, then, a foreigner, American or English, or perhaps a Frenchman settled in America. As for the motive29 of so complicated a crime, it was difficult to admit that it could be robbery alone. "And yet," observed the Judge of Instruction, "we do not know what the note-case carried off by the assassin contained. But," he added, "the hypothesis of robbery seems to me to be utterly30 routed by the fact that, while Rochdale stripped the dead man of his watch, he left a ring, which was much more valuable, on his finger. From this I conclude that he took the watch merely as a precaution to throw the police off the scent31. My supposition is that the man killed M. Cornelis for revenge.
Then the former Judge of Instruction gave me some singular examples of the resentment32 cherished against medical experts employed in legal cases, Procureurs of the Republic, and Presidents of Assize. His theory was, that in the course of his practice at the bar my father might have excited resentment of a fierce and implacable kind; for he had won many suits of importance, and no doubt had made enemies of those against whom he employed his great powers. Supposing one of those persons, being ruined by the result, had attributed that ruin to my father, there would be an explanation of all the apparatus33 of this deadly vengeance.
M. Massol begged me to observe that the assassin, whether he were a foreigner or not, was known in Paris. Why, if this were not so, should the man have so carefully avoided being seen in the street? He had been traced out during his first stay in Paris, when he bought the wig and the beard, and that time he put up at a small hotel in the Rue15 d'Aboukir under the name of Rochdale, and invariably went out in a cab. "Observe also," said the Judge, "that he kept his room on the day before the murder, and on the morning of the actual day. He breakfasted in his apartment, having breakfasted and dined there the day before. But, when he was in London, and when he lived at the hotel to which your father addressed his first letters, he came and went without any precautions."
And this was all. The addresses of three hotels—such were the meagre particulars that formed the whole of the information to which I listened with passionate34 eagerness; the magistrate had no more to tell me. He had small, twinkling, very light eyes, and his smooth face wore an expression of extreme keenness. His language was measured, his general demeanor35 was cold, obliging, and mild, he was always closely shaven, and in him one recognized at once the well-balanced and methodical mind which had given him great professional weight. He acknowledged that he had been unable to discover anything, even after a close analysis of the whole existing situation of my father, as well as his past.
"Ah, I have thought a great deal about this said he, adding that before he resigned his post as Judge of Instruction he had carefully reperused the notes of the case. He had again questioned the concierge36 of the Imperial Hotel and other persons. Since he had become Counsellor to the Court, he had indicated to his successor what he believed to be a clue; a robbery committed by a carefully made-up Englishman had led him to believe the thief to be identical with the pretended Rochdale. Then there was nothing more.
These steps had, however, been of use inasmuch as they barred the rule of limitation, and he laid stress on that fact. I consulted him then as to how much time still remained for me to seek out the truth on my own account. The last Act of Instruction dated from 1873, so that I had until 1883 to discover the criminal and deliver him up to public justice. What madness! Ten years had already elapsed since the crime, and I, all alone, insignificant37, not possessed38 of the vast resources at the disposal of the police, I presumed to imagine that I should triumph, where so skillful a ferret as he had failed! Folly39! Yes; it was so.
And still there was nothing, no indication whatever. Nevertheless,
I tried.
I began a thorough and searching investigation40 of all the dead man's papers. With that unbounded tenderness of hers for my stepfather, which made me so miserable41, my mother had placed all these papers in M. Termonde's keeping. Alas42! Why should she have understood those niceties of feeling on my part, which rendered the fusion43 of her present with her past so repugnant to me, any more clearly on this point than on any other? M. Termonde had at least scrupulously44 respected the whole of those papers, from plans of association and prospectuses45 to private letters. Among the latter were several from M. Termonde himself, which bore testimony46 to the friendship that had formerly47 subsisted48 between my mother's first husband and her second. Had I not known this always? Why should I suffer from the knowledge?
And still there was nothing, no indication whatever to put me on the track of a suspicion.
I evoked49 the image of my father as he lived, just as I had seen him for the last time; I heard him replying to M. Termonde's question in the dining-room of the Rue Tronchet, and speaking of the man who awaited him to kill him: "A singular man whom I shall not be sorry to observe more closely." And then he had gone out and was walking towards his death while I was playing in the little salon, and my mother was talking to the friend who was one day to be her master and mine. What a happy home-picture, while in that hotel room— Ah! was I never to find the key of the terrible enigma50? Where was I to go? What was I to do? At what door was I to knock?
At the same time that a sense of the responsibility of my task disheartened me, the novel facilities of my new way of life contributed to relax the tension of my will. During my school days, the sufferings I underwent from jealousy51 of my stepfather, the disappointment of my repressed affections, the meanness and penury52 of my surroundings, many grievous influences, had maintained the restless ardor53 of my feelings; but this also had undergone a change. No doubt I still continued to love my mother deeply and painfully, but I now no longer asked her for what I knew she would not give me, my unshared place, a separate shrine54 in her heart. I accepted her nature instead of rebelling against it.
Neither had I ceased to regard my stepfather with morose55 antipathy56; but I no longer hated him with the old vehemence57. His conduct to me after I had left school was irreproachable58. Just as in my childhood, he had made it a point of honor never to raise his voice in speaking to me, so he now seemed to pique59 himself upon an entire absence of interference in my life as a young man. When, having passed my baccalaureate, I announced that I did not wish to adopt any profession, but without a reason—the true one was my resolution to devote myself entirely60 to the fulfillment of my task of justice—he had not a word to say against that strange decision; nay61, more, he brought my mother to consent to it.
When my fortune was handed over to me, I found that my mother, who had acted as my guardian62, and my stepfather, her co-trustee, had agreed not to touch my funds during the whole period of my education; the interest had been re-invested, and I came into possession, not of 750,000 francs, but of more than a million. Painful as I felt the obligation of gratitude63 towards the man whom I had for years regarded as my enemy, I was bound to acknowledge that he had acted an honorable part towards me. I was well aware that no real contradiction existed between these high-minded actions and the harshness with which he had imprisoned64 me at school, and, so to speak, relegated65 me to exile. Provided that I renounced66 all attempts to form a third between him and his wife, he would have no relations with me but those of perfect courtesy; but I must not be in my mother's house. His will was to reign28 entirely alone over the heart and life of the woman who bore his name.
How could I have contended with him? Why, too, should I have blamed him, since I knew so well that in his place, jealous as I was, my own conduct would have been exactly similar?
I yielded, therefore, because I was powerless to contend with a love which made my mother happy; because I was weary of keeping up the daily constraint67 of my relations with her and him, and also because I hoped that when once I was free I should be better fitted for my task as a doer of justice. I myself asked to be permitted to leave the house, so that at nineteen I possessed absolute independence, an apartment of my own in the Avenue Montaigne, close to the round-point in the Champs Elysees, a yearly income of 50,000 francs, the entree68 to all the salons69 frequented by my mother, and the entree, too, to all the places at which one may amuse one's self. How could I have resisted the influences of such a position?
Yes, I had dreamed of being an avenger70, a justiciary, and I allowed myself to be caught up almost instantly into the whirlwind of that life of pleasure whose destructive power those who see it only from the outside cannot measure. It is a futile71 and exacting72 existence which fritters away your hours as it fritters away your mind, raveling out the stuff of time thread by thread with irreparable loss, and also the more precious stuff of mental and moral strength.
With respect to that task of mine, my task as an avenger, I was incapable73 of immediate74 action—what and whom was I to attack?
And so I availed myself of all the opportunities that presented themselves of disguising my inaction by movement, and soon the days began to hurry on, and press one upon the other, amid those innumerable amusements of which the idle rich make a code of duties to be performed. What with the morning ride in the Bois, afternoon calls, dinner parties, parties to the theater and after midnight, play at the club, or the pursuit of pleasure elsewhere—how was I to find leisure for the carrying out of a project? I had horses, intrigues75, an absurd duel76 in which I acquitted77 myself well, because, as I believe, the tragic ideas that were always at the bottom of my life favored me.
A woman of forty persuaded me that I was her first love; then I persuaded myself that I was in love with a Russian great lady, who was living in Paris. The latter was—indeed she still is—one of those incomparable actresses in society, who, in order to surround themselves with a sort of court, composed of admirers who are more or less rewarded, employ all the allurements78 of luxury, wit, and beauty, but who have not a particle of either imagination or heart, although they fascinate by a display of the most refined fancies and the most vivid emotions. I led the life of a slave to the caprices of this soulless coquette for nearly six months, and learned that women of the fashionable world and women of "the half- world" are very much alike in point of worth. The former are intolerable on account of their lies, their assumption, and their vanity; the others are equally odious79 by reason of their vulgarity, their stupidity, and their sordid80 love of lucre81.
I forgot all my absurd relations with women of both orders in the excitement of play, and yet I was well aware of the meanness of that diversion, which only ceases to be insipid82 when it becomes odious, because it is a clever calculation upon money to be gained without working for it. There was in me something at once wildly dissipated and yet disgusted, which drove me to excess, and at the same time inspired me with bitter self-contempt. In the innermost recesses83 of my being the memory of my father dwelt, and poisoned my thoughts at their source. An impression of dark fatalism invaded my sick mind; it was so strange that I should live as I was living, nevertheless, I did live thus, and the visible "I" had but little likeness84 to the real.
Upon me, then, poor creature that I was, as upon the whole universe, a fate rested. "Let it drive me," I said, and yielded myself up to it. I went to sleep, pondering upon ideas of the most somber85 philosophy, and I awoke to resume an existence without worth or dignity, in which I was losing not only my power of carrying out my design of reparation towards the phantom86 which haunted my dreams but all self-esteem, and all conscience.
Who could have helped me reascend this fatal stream? My mother? She saw nothing but the fashionable exterior87 of my life, and she congratulated herself that I had "ceased to be a savage88." My stepfather? But he had been, voluntarily or not, favorable to my disorderly life. Had he not made me master of my fortune at the most dangerous age? Had he not procured89 me admission, at the earliest moment, to the clubs to which he belonged, and in every way facilitated my entrance into society? My aunt? Ah, yes, my aunt was grieved by my mode of life; and yet, was she not glad that at any rate I had forgotten the dark resolution of hate that had always frightened her? And, besides, I hardly ever saw her now. My visits to Compiegne were few, for I was at the age when one always finds time for one's pleasures, but never has any for one's nearest duties. If, indeed, there was a voice that was constantly lifted up against the waste of my life in vulgar pleasures, it was that of the dead, who slept in the day, unavenged; that voice rose, rose, rose unceasingly, from the depths of all my musings, but I had accustomed myself to pay it no heed90, to make it no answer. Was it my fault that everything, from the most important to the smallest circumstance, conspired91 to paralyze my will? And so I existed, in a sort of torpor92 which was not dispelled93 even by the hurly-burly of my mock passions and my mock pleasures.
The falling of a thunderbolt awoke me from this craven slumber94 of the will. My Aunt Louise was seized with paralysis95, towards the end of the sad year 1878, in the month of December. I had come in at night, or rather in the morning, having won a large sum at play. Several letters and also a telegram awaited me. I tore open the blue envelope, while I hummed the air of a fashionable song, with a cigarette between my lips, untroubled by an idea that I was about to be apprised96 of an event which would become, after my father's death and my mother's second marriage, the third great date in my life. The telegram was signed by Julie, my former nurse, and it told me that my aunt had been taken ill quite suddenly, also that I must come at once, although there was a hope of her recovery.
This bad news was the more terrible to me because I had received a letter from my aunt just a week previously97, and in it the dear old lady complained, as usual, that I did not come to see her. My answer to her letter was lying half-written upon my writing-table. I had not finished it; God knows for what futile reason. It needs the advent98 of that dread99 visitant, Death, to make us understand that we ought to make good haste and love WELL those whom we do love, if we would not have them pass away from us forever, before we have loved them enough.
Bitter remorse100, in that I had not proved to her sufficiently101 how dear she was to me, increased my anxiety about my aunt's state. It was two o'clock a. m., the first train for Compiegne did not start until six; in the interval102 she might die. Those were very long hours of waiting, which I killed by turning over in my mind all my shortcomings towards my father's only sister, my sole kinswoman. The possibility of an irrevocable parting made me regard myself as utterly ungrateful! My mental pain grew keener when I was in the train speeding through the cold dawn of a winter's day, along the road I knew so well.
As I recognized each familiar feature of the way, I became once more the schoolboy whose heart was full of unuttered tenderness, and whose brain was laden103 with the weight of a terrible mission. My thoughts outstripped104 the engine, moving too slowly, to my impatient fancy, which summoned up that beloved face, so frank and so simple, the mouth with its thickish lips and its perfect kindliness105, the eyes out of which goodness looked, with their wrinkled, tear-worn lids, the flat bands of grizzled hair. In what state should I find her? Perhaps, if on that night of repentance106, wretchedness, and mental disturbance107, my nerves had not been strained to the utmost—yes, perhaps I should not have experienced those wild impulses when by the side of my aunt's deathbed, which rendered me capable of disobeying the dying woman. But how can I regret my disobedience, since it was the one thing that set me on the track of the truth? No, I do not regret anything, I am better pleased to have done what I have done.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
vow
|
|
| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
vengeance
|
|
| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
pious
|
|
| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
precept
|
|
| n.戒律；格言 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
fixed
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
beacon
|
|
| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
ardent
|
|
| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
salon
|
|
| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
tragic
|
|
| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
complexion
|
|
| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
fatigues
|
|
| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
strictly
|
|
| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
monotonous
|
|
| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
rue
|
|
| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
indifference
|
|
| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
sublime
|
|
| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
inquiry
|
|
| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
extremity
|
|
| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
dame
|
|
| n.女士 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
primitive
|
|
| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
literally
|
|
| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
analogous
|
|
| adj.相似的；类似的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
magistrate
|
|
| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
wig
|
|
| n.假发 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
corpse
|
|
| n.尸体，死尸 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
habitually
|
|
| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
reign
|
|
| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
motive
|
|
| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
utterly
|
|
| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
scent
|
|
| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
resentment
|
|
| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
apparatus
|
|
| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
passionate
|
|
| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
demeanor
|
|
| n.行为；风度 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
concierge
|
|
| n.管理员；门房 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
insignificant
|
|
| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
possessed
|
|
| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
folly
|
|
| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
investigation
|
|
| n.调查，调查研究 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
miserable
|
|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
alas
|
|
| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
fusion
|
|
| n.溶化；熔解；熔化状态，熔和；熔接 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
scrupulously
|
|
| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
prospectuses
|
|
| n.章程，简章，简介( prospectus的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
testimony
|
|
| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
formerly
|
|
| adv.从前，以前 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
subsisted
|
|
| v.（靠很少的钱或食物）维持生活，生存下去( subsist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
evoked
|
|
| [医]诱发的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
enigma
|
|
| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
jealousy
|
|
| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
penury
|
|
| n.贫穷，拮据 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
ardor
|
|
| n.热情，狂热 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
shrine
|
|
| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
morose
|
|
| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
56
antipathy
|
|
| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
vehemence
|
|
| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
irreproachable
|
|
| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
pique
|
|
| v.伤害…的自尊心，使生气 n.不满，生气 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
entirely
|
|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
nay
|
|
| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
guardian
|
|
| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
gratitude
|
|
| adj.感激，感谢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
imprisoned
|
|
| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
relegated
|
|
| v.使降级( relegate的过去式和过去分词 )；使降职；转移；把…归类 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
renounced
|
|
| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
constraint
|
|
| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
entree
|
|
| n.入场权，进入权 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
salons
|
|
| n.（营业性质的）店( salon的名词复数 )；厅；沙龙（旧时在上流社会女主人家的例行聚会或聚会场所）；（大宅中的）客厅 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
avenger
|
|
| n. 复仇者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
futile
|
|
| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
exacting
|
|
| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
incapable
|
|
| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
immediate
|
|
| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
intrigues
|
|
| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
duel
|
|
| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
acquitted
|
|
| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
allurements
|
|
| n.诱惑( allurement的名词复数 )；吸引；诱惑物；有诱惑力的事物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
odious
|
|
| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
sordid
|
|
| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
lucre
|
|
| n.金钱，财富 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
insipid
|
|
| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
recesses
|
|
| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
likeness
|
|
| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
somber
|
|
| adj.昏暗的，阴天的，阴森的，忧郁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
phantom
|
|
| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
exterior
|
|
| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
savage
|
|
| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
procured
|
|
| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
heed
|
|
| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
conspired
|
|
| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
torpor
|
|
| n.迟钝；麻木；（动物的）冬眠 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
dispelled
|
|
| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
slumber
|
|
| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
paralysis
|
|
| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
apprised
|
|
| v.告知，通知( apprise的过去式和过去分词 )；评价 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
previously
|
|
| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
advent
|
|
| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
dread
|
|
| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
remorse
|
|
| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
sufficiently
|
|
| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
interval
|
|
| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
laden
|
|
| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
outstripped
|
|
| v.做得比…更好，（在赛跑等中）超过( outstrip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
kindliness
|
|
| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
repentance
|
|
| n.懊悔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
disturbance
|
|
| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |