It could not be an assault to commit robbery, for it was hardly ten o’clock in the evening. I ran to the corner of the place whence the sounds proceeded, and by the light of the moon, just then breaking through the clouds, I beheld3 a woman in the midst of a patrol of sans-culottes.
The lady observed me at the same instant, and seeing, by the character of my dress, that I did not belong to the common order of people, she ran toward me, exclaiming:
“There is M. Albert! He knows me! He will tell you that I am the daughter of Mme. Ledieu, the laundress.”
With these words the poor creature, pale and trembling with excitement, seized my arm and clung to me as a shipwrecked sailor to a spar.
“No matter whether you are the daughter of Mme. Ledieu or some one else, as you have no pass, you must go with us to the guard-house.”
The young girl pressed my arm. I perceived in this pressure the expression of her great distress4 of mind. I understood it.
“So it is you, my poor Solange?” I said. “What are you doing here?”
“There, messieurs!” she exclaimed in tones of deep anxiety; “do you believe me now?”
“You might at least say ‘citizens!’”
“Ah, sergeant5, do not blame me for speaking that way,” said the pretty young girl; “my mother has many customers among the great people, and taught me to be polite. That’s how I acquired this bad habit—the habit of the aristocrats6; and, you know, sergeant, it’s so hard to shake off old habits!”
This answer, delivered in trembling accents, concealed8 a delicate irony9 that was lost on all save me. I asked myself, who is this young woman? The mystery seemed complete. This alone was clear; she was not the daughter of a laundress.
“How did I come here, Citizen Albert?” she asked. “Well, I will tell you. I went to deliver some washing. The lady was not at home, and so I waited; for in these hard times every one needs what little money is coming to him. In that way it grew dark, and so I fell among these gentlemen—beg pardon, I would say citizens. They asked for my pass. As I did not have it with me, they were going to take me to the guard-house. I cried out in terror, which brought you to the scene; and as luck would have it, you are a friend. I said to myself, as M. Albert knows my name to be Solange Ledieu, he will vouch10 for me; and that you will, will you not, M. Albert?”
“Certainly, I will vouch for you.”
“Very well,” said the leader of the patrol; “and who, pray, will vouch for you, my friend?”
“Oh, if Danton will vouch for you, I have nothing to say.”
“Well, there is a session of the Cordeliers to-day. Let us go there.”
“Good,” said the leader. “Citizens, let us go to the Cordeliers.”
The club of the Cordeliers met at the old Cordelier monastery12 in the Rue l’Observance. We arrived there after scarce a minute’s walk. At the door I tore a page from my note-book, wrote a few words upon it with a lead pencil, gave it to the sergeant, and requested him to hand it to Danton, while I waited outside with the men.
The sergeant entered the clubhouse and returned with Danton.
“What!” said he to me; “they have arrested you, my friend? You, the friend of Camilles—you, one of the most loyal republicans? Citizens,” he continued, addressing the sergeant, “I vouch for him. Is that sufficient?”
“You vouch for him. Do you also vouch for her?” asked the stubborn sergeant.
“For her? To whom do you refer?”
“This girl.”
“For everything; for everybody who may be in his company. Does that satisfy you?”
“Yes,” said the man; “especially since I have had the privilege of seeing you.”
With a cheer for Danton, the patrol marched away. I was about to thank Danton, when his name was called repeatedly within.
“Pardon me, my friend,” he said; “you hear? There is my hand; I must leave you—the left. I gave my right to the sergeant. Who knows, the good patriot may have scrofula?”
“I’m coming!” he exclaimed, addressing those within in his mighty13 voice with which he could pacify14 or arouse the masses. He hastened into the house.
“And now, my lady,” I said, “whither would you have me escort you? I am at your disposal.”
“Why, to Mme. Ledieu,” she said with a laugh. “I told you she was my mother.”
“And where does Mme. Ledieu reside?”
“Rue Ferou, 24.”
“Then, let us proceed to Rue Ferou, 24.”
On the way neither of us spoke16 a word. But by the light of the moon, enthroned in serene17 glory in the sky, I was able to observe her at my leisure. She was a charming girl of twenty or twenty-two—brunette, with large blue eyes, more expressive18 of intelligence than melancholy19—a finely chiseled20 nose, mocking lips, teeth of pearl, hands like a queen’s, and feet like a child’s; and all these, in spite of her costume of a laundress, betokened21 an aristocratic air that had aroused the sergeant’s suspicions not without justice.
Arrived at the door of the house, we looked at each other a moment in silence.
“Well, my dear M. Albert, what do you wish?” my fair unknown asked with a smile.
“I was about to say, my dear Mlle. Solange, that it was hardly worth while to meet if we are to part so soon.”
“Oh, I beg ten thousand pardons! I find it was well worth the while; for if I had not met you, I should have been dragged to the guard-house, and there it would have been discovered that I am not the daughter of Mme. Ledieu—in fact, it would have developed that I am an aristocrat7, and in all likelihood they would have cut off my head.”
“You admit, then, that you are an aristocrat?”
“I admit nothing.”
“At least you might tell me your name.”
“Solange.”
“I know very well that this name, which I gave you on the inspiration of the moment, is not your right name.”
“No matter; I like it, and I am going to keep it—at least for you.”
“Why should you keep it for me? if we are not to meet again?”
“I did not say that. I only said that if we should meet again it will not be necessary for you to know my name any more than that I should know yours. To me you will be known as Albert, and to you I shall always be Solange.”
“So be it, then; but I say, Solange,” I began.
“I am listening, Albert,” she replied.
“You are an aristocrat—that you admit.”
“If I did not admit it, you would surmise22 it, and so my admission would be divested23 of half its merit.”
“And you were pursued because you were suspected of being an aristocrat?”
“I fear so.”
“And you are hiding to escape persecution24?”
“In the Rue Ferou, No. 24, with Mme. Ledieu, whose husband was my father’s coachman. You see, I have no secret from you.”
“And your father?”
“I shall make no concealment25, my dear Albert, of anything that relates to me. But my fathers secrets are not my own. My father is in hiding, hoping to make his escape. That is all I can tell you.”
“And what are you going to do?”
“Go with my father, if that be possible. If not, allow him to depart without me until the opportunity offers itself to me to join him.”
“Were you coming from your father when the guard arrested you to-night?”
“Yes.”
“Listen, dearest Solange.”
“I am all attention.”
“You observed all that took place to-night?”
“Yes. I saw that you had powerful influence.”
“I regret my power is not very great. However, I have friends.”
“I made the acquaintance of one of them.”
“And you know he is not one of the least powerful men of the times.”
“No, I reserve him for you.”
“But my father?”
“Other ways?” exclaimed Solange, seizing my hands and studying me with an anxious expression.
“Oh, I shall all my life hold you in grateful remembrance!”
She uttered these words with an enchanting29 expression of devotion. Then she looked at me beseechingly30 and said:
“But will that satisfy you?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Ah, I was not mistaken. You are kind, generous. I thank you for my father and myself. Even if you should fail, I shall be grateful for what you have already done!”
“When shall we meet again, Solange?”
“When do you think it necessary to see me again?”
“To-morrow, when I hope to have good news for you.”
“Well, then, to-morrow.”
“Where?”
“Here.”
“Here in the street?”
“Well, mon Dieu!” she exclaimed. “You see, it is the safest place. For thirty minutes, while we have been talking here, not a soul has passed.”
“Why may I not go to you, or you come to me?”
“Because it would compromise the good people if you should come to me, and you would incur31 serious risk if I should go to you.”
“Oh, I would give you the pass of one of my relatives.”
“And send your relative to the guillotine if I should be accidentally arrested!”
“True. I will bring you a pass made out in the name of Solange.”
“Charming! You observe Solange is my real name.”
“And the hour?”
“The same at which we met to-night—ten o’clock, if you please.”
“All right; ten o’clock. And how shall we meet?”
“That is very simple. Be at the door at five minutes of ten, and at ten I will come down.”
“Then, at ten to-morrow, dear Solange.”
“To-morrow at ten, dear Albert.”
I wanted to kiss her hand; she offered me her brow.
The next day I was in the street at half past nine. At a quarter of ten Solange opened the door. We were both ahead of time.
With one leap I was by her side.
“I see you have good news,” she said.
“Excellent! First, here is a pass for you.”
“First my father!”
“Your father is saved, if he wishes.”
“Wishes, you say? What is required of him?”
“He must trust me.”
“That is assured.”
“Have you seen him?”
“Yes.”
“You have discussed the situation with him?”
“It was unavoidable. Heaven will help us.”
“Did you tell your father all?”
“I told him you had saved my life yesterday, and that you would perhaps save his to-morrow.”
“To-morrow! Yes, quite right; to-morrow I shall save his life, if it is his will.”
“How? What? Speak! Speak! If that were possible, how fortunately all things have come to pass!”
“However—” I began hesitatingly.
“Well?”
“It will be impossible for you to accompany him.”
“First tell me about my father; my own distress is less important.”
“Well, I told you I had friends, did I not?”
“Yes.”
“To-day I sought out one of them.”
“Proceed.”
“A man whose name is familiar to you; whose name is a guarantee of courage and honor.”
“And this man is?”
“Marceau.”
“General Marceau?”
“Yes.”
“True, he will keep a promise.”
“Well, he has promised.”
“Mon Dieu! How happy you make me! What has he promised? Tell me all.”
“He has promised to help us.”
“In what manner?”
“In a very simple manner. Kléber has just had him promoted to the command of the western army. He departs to-morrow night.”
“To-morrow night! We shall have no time to make the smallest preparation.”
“There are no preparations to make.”
“I do not understand.”
“He will take your father with him.”
“My father?”
“Yes, as his secretary. Arrived in the Vendée, your father will pledge his word to the general to undertake nothing against France. From there he will escape to Brittany, and from Brittany to England. When he arrives in London, he will inform you; I shall obtain a passport for you, and you will join him in London.”
“To-morrow,” exclaimed Solange; “my father departs tomorrow!”
“There is no time to waste.”
“My father has not been informed.”
“Inform him.”
“To-night?”
“To-night.”
“But how, at this hour?”
“You have a pass and my arm.”
“True. My pass.”
“Now? your arm?”
I gave her my arm, and we walked away. When we arrived at the Place Turenne—that is, the spot where we had met the night before—she said: “Await me here.”
I bowed and waited.
She disappeared around the corner of what was formerly36 the Hôtel Malignon. After a lapse37 of fifteen minutes she returned.
“Come,” she said, “my father wishes to receive and thank you.”
She took my arm and led me up to the Rue St. Guillaume, opposite the Hôtel Mortemart. Arrived here, she took a bunch of keys from her pocket, opened a small, concealed door, took me by the hand, conducted me up two flights of steps, and knocked in a peculiar38 manner.
A man of forty-eight or fifty years opened the door. He was dressed as a working man and appeared to be a bookbinder. But at the first utterance39 that burst from his lips, the evidence of the seigneur was unmistakable.
“Monsieur,” he said, “Providence has sent you to us. I regard you an emissary of fate. Is it true that you can save me, or, what is more, that you wish to save me?”
I admitted him completely to my confidence. I informed him that Marceau would take him as his secretary, and would exact no promise other than that he would not take up arms against France.
“I cheerfully promise it now, and will repeat it to him.”
“I thank you in his name as well as in my own.”
“But when does Marceau depart?”
“To-morrow.”
“Shall I go to him to-night?”
“Whenever you please; he expects you.”
Father and daughter looked at each other.
“I think it would be wise to go this very night,” said Solange.
“I am ready; but if I should be arrested, seeing that I have no permit?”
“Here is mine.”
“But you?”
“Oh, I am known.”
“Where does Marceau reside?”
“Rue de l’Université, 40, with his sister, Mlle. Dégraviers-Marceau.”
“Will you accompany me?”
“I shall follow you at a distance, to accompany mademoiselle home when you are gone.”
“How will Marceau know that I am the man of whom you spoke to him?”
“You will hand him this tri-colored cockade; that is the sign of identification.”
“By allowing him to save your daughter also.”
“Very well.”
He put on his hat and extinguished the lights, and we descended41 by the gleam of the moon which penetrated42 the stair-windows.
At the foot of the steps he took his daughter’s arm, and by way of the Rue des Saints Pères we reached Rue de l’Université. I followed them at a distance of ten paces. We arrived at No. 40 without having met any one. I rejoined them there.
“That is a good omen,” I said; “do you wish me to go up with you?”
“No. Do not compromise yourself any further. Await my daughter here.”
I bowed.
“And now, once more, thanks and farewell,” he said, giving me his hand. “Language has no words to express my gratitude43. I pray that heaven may some day grant me the opportunity of giving fuller expression to my feelings.”
I answered him with a pressure of the hand.
He entered the house. Solange followed him; but she, too, pressed my hand before she entered.
In ten minutes the door was reopened.
“Well?” I asked.
“Your friend,” she said, “is worthy44 of his name; he is as kind and considerate as yourself. He knows that it will contribute to my happiness to remain with my father until the moment of departure. His sister has ordered a bed placed in her room. To-morrow at three o’clock my father will be out of danger. To-morrow evening at ten I shall expect you in the Rue Ferou, if the gratitude of a daughter who owes her father’s life to you is worth the trouble.”
“Oh, be sure I shall come. Did your father charge you with any message for me?”
“He thanks you for your pass, which he returns to you, and begs you to join him as soon as possible.”
“Whenever it may be your desire to go,” I said, with a strange sensation at my heart.
“At least, I must know where I am to join him,” she said. “Ah, you are not yet rid of me!”
I seized her hand and pressed it against my heart, but she offered me her brow, as on the previous evening, and said: “Until to-morrow.”
I kissed her on the brow; but now I no longer strained her hand against my breast, but her heaving bosom, her throbbing45 heart.
I went home in a state of delirious46 ecstasy47 such as I had never experienced. Was it the consciousness of a generous action, or was it love for this adorable creature? I know not whether I slept or woke. I only know that all the harmonies of nature were singing within me; that the night seemed endless, and the day eternal; I know that though I wished to speed the time, I did not wish to lose a moment of the days still to come.
The next day I was in the Rue Ferou at nine o’clock. At half-past nine Solange made her appearance.
She approached me and threw her arms around my neck.
“Saved!” she said; “my father is saved! And this I owe you. Oh, how I love you!”
Two weeks later Solange received a letter announcing her father’s safe arrival in England.
The next day I brought her a passport.
When Solange received it she burst into tears.
“You do not love me!” she exclaimed.
“I love you better than my life,” I replied; “but I pledged your father my word, and I must keep it.”
“Then, I will break mine,” she said. “Yes, Albert; if you have the heart to let me go, I have not the courage to leave you.”
Three months had passed since that night on which we talked of her escape, and in all that time not a word of parting had passed her lips.
Solange had taken lodgings in the Rue Turenne. I had rented them in her name. I knew no other, while she always addressed me as Albert. I had found her a place as teacher in a young ladies’ seminary solely49 to withdraw her from the espionage50 of the revolutionary police, which had become more scrutinizing51 than ever.
Sundays we passed together in the small dwelling52, from the bedroom of which we could see the spot where we had first met. We exchanged letters daily, she writing to me under the name of Solange, and I to her under that of Albert.
Those three months were the happiest of my life.
In the meantime I was making some interesting experiments suggested by one of the guillotiniers. I had obtained permission to make certain scientific tests with the bodies and heads of those who perished on the scaffold. Sad to say, available subjects were not wanting. Not a day passed but thirty or forty persons were guillotined, and blood flowed so copiously53 on the Place de la Révolution that it became necessary to dig a trench54 three feet deep around the scaffolding. This trench was covered with deals. One of them loosened under the feet of an eight-year-old lad, who fell into the abominable55 pit and was drowned.
For self-evident reasons I said nothing to Solange of the studies that occupied my attention during the day. In the beginning my occupation had inspired me with pity and loathing56, but as time wore on I said: “These studies are for the good of humanity,” for I hoped to convince the lawmakers of the wisdom of abolishing capital punishment.
The Cemetery58 of Clamart had been assigned to me, and all the heads and trunks of the victims of the executioner had been placed at my disposal. A small chapel59 in one corner of the cemetery had been converted into a kind of laboratory for my benefit. You know, when the queens were driven from the palaces, God was banished60 from the churches.
Every day at six the horrible procession filed in. The bodies were heaped together in a wagon61, the heads in a sack. I chose some bodies and heads in a haphazard62 fashion, while the remainder were thrown into a common grave.
In the midst of this occupation with the dead, my love for Solange increased from day to day; while the poor child reciprocated63 my affection with the whole power of her pure soul.
Often I had thought of making her my wife; often we had mutually pictured to ourselves the happiness of such a union. But in order to become my wife, it would be necessary for Solange to reveal her name; and this name, which was that of an emigrant64, an aristocrat, meant death.
Her father had repeatedly urged her by letter to hasten her departure, but she had informed him of our engagement. She had requested his consent, and he had given it, so that all had gone well to this extent.
The trial and execution of the queen, Marie Antoinette, had plunged65 me, too, into deepest sadness. Solange was all tears, and we could not rid ourselves of a strange feeling of despondency, a presentiment66 of approaching danger, that compressed our hearts. In vain I tried to whisper courage to Solange. Weeping, she reclined in my arms, and I could not comfort her, because my own words lacked the ring of confidence.
We passed the night together as usual, but the night was even more depressing than the day. I recall now that a dog, locked up in a room below us, howled till two o’clock in the morning. The next day we were told that the dog’s master had gone away with the key in his pocket, had been arrested on the way, tried at three, and executed at four.
The time had come for us to part. Solange’s duties at the school began at nine o’clock in the morning. Her school was in the vicinity of the Botanic Gardens. I hesitated long to let her go; she, too, was loath57 to part from me. But it must be. Solange was prone67 to be an object of unpleasant inquiries68.
I called a conveyance69 and Accompanied her as far as the Rue des Fosses-Saint-Bernard, where I got out and left her to pursue her way alone. All the way we lay mutely wrapped in each other’s arms, mingling70 tears with our kisses.
After leaving the carriage, I stood as if rooted to the ground. I heard Solange call me, but I dared not go to her, because her face, moist with tears, and her hysterical71 manner were calculated to attract attention.
Utterly72 wretched, I returned home, passing the entire day in writing to Solange. In the evening I sent her an entire volume of love-pledges.
My letter had hardly gone to the post when I received one from her.
She had been sharply reprimanded for coming late; had been subjected to a severe cross-examination, and threatened with forfeiture73 of her next holiday. But she vowed74 to join me even at the cost of her place. I thought I should go mad at the prospect75 of being parted from her a whole week. I was more depressed76 because a letter which had arrived from her father appeared to have been tampered77 with.
The next day the weather was appalling79. Nature seemed to be dissolving in a cold, ceaseless rain—a rain like that which announces the approach of winter. All the way to the laboratory my ears were tortured with the criers announcing the names of the condemned80, a large number of men, women, and children. The bloody81 harvest was over-rich. I should not lack subjects for my investigations82 that day.
The day ended early. At four o’clock I arrived at Clamart; it was almost night.
The view of the cemetery, with its large, new-made graves; the sparse83, leafless trees that swayed in the wind, was desolate84, almost appalling.
A large, open pit yawned before me. It was to receive to-day’s harvest from the Place de la Révolution. An exceedingly large number of victims was expected, for the pit was deeper than usual.
Mechanically I approached the grave. At the bottom the water had gathered in a pool; my feet slipped; I came within an inch of falling in. My hair stood on end. The rain had drenched85 me to the skin. I shuddered87 and hastened into the laboratory.
It was, as I have said, an abandoned chapel. My eyes searched—I know not why—to discover if some traces of the holy purpose to which the edifice88 had once been devoted89 did not still adhere to the walls or to the altar; but the walls were bare, the altar empty.
I struck a light and deposited the candle on the operating-table on which lay scattered90 a miscellaneous assortment91 of the strange instruments I employed. I sat down and fell into a reverie. I thought of the poor queen, whom I had seen in her beauty, glory, and happiness, yesterday carted to the scaffold, pursued by the execrations of a people, to-day lying headless on the common sinners’ bier—she who had slept beneath the gilded92 canopy93 of the throne of the Tuileries and St. Cloud.
As I sat thus, absorbed in gloomy meditation94, wind and rain without redoubled in fury. The rain-drops dashed against the window-panes, the storm swept with melancholy moaning through the branches of the trees. Anon there mingled95 with the violence of the elements the sound of wheels.
It was the executioner’s red hearse with its ghastly freight from the Place de la Révolution.
The door of the little chapel was pushed ajar, and two men, drenched with rain, entered, carrying a sack between them.
“There, M. Ledru,” said the guillotinier; “there is what your heart longs for! Be in no hurry this night! We’ll leave you to enjoy their society alone. Orders are not to cover them up till to-morrow, and so they’ll not take cold.”
With a horrible laugh, the two executioners deposited the sack in a corner, near the former altar, right in front of me. Thereupon they sauntered out, leaving open the door, which swung furiously on its hinges till my candle flashed and flared96 in the fierce draft.
I heard them unharness the horse, lock the cemetery, and go away.
I was strangely impelled97 to go with them, but an indefinable power fettered98 me in my place. I could not repress a shudder86. I had no fear; but the violence of the storm, the splashing of the rain, the whistling sounds of the lashing99 branches, the shrill100 vibration101 of the atmosphere, which made my candle tremble—all this filled me with a vague terror that began at the roots of my hair and communicated itself to every part of my body.
Suddenly I fancied I heard a voice! A voice at once soft and plaintive102; a voice within the chapel, pronouncing the name of “Albert!”
I was startled.
“Albert!”
But one person in all the world addressed me by that name!
Slowly I directed my weeping eyes around the chapel, which, though small, was not completely lighted by the feeble rays of the candle, leaving the nooks and angles in darkness, and my look remained fixed103 on the blood-soaked sack near the altar with its hideous104 contents.
At this moment the same voice repeated the same name, only it sounded fainter and more plaintive.
“Albert!”
I bolted out of my chair, frozen with horror.
The voice seemed to proceed from the sack!
I touched myself to make sure that I was awake; then I walked toward the sack with my arms extended before me, but stark105 and staring with horror. I thrust my hand into it. Then it seemed to me as if two lips, still warm, pressed a kiss upon my fingers!
I had reached that stage of boundless106 terror where the excess of fear turns into the audacity107 of despair. I seized the head and collapsing108 in my chair, placed it in front of me.
Then I gave vent109 to a fearful scream. This head, with its lips still warm, with the eyes half closed, was the head of Solange!
I thought I should go mad.
Three times I called:
“Solange! Solange! Solange!”
At the third time she opened her eyes and looked at me. Tears trickled110 down her cheeks; then a moist glow darted111 from her eyes, as if the soul were passing, and the eyes closed, never to open again.
I sprang to my feet a raving112 maniac113, I wanted to fly; I knocked against the table; it fell. The candle was extinguished; the head rolled upon the floor, and I fell prostrate114, as if a terrible fever had stricken me down—an icy-shudder convulsed me, and, with a deep sigh, I swooned.
The following morning at six the grave-diggers found me, cold as the flagstones on which I lay.
Solange, betrayed by her father’s letter, had been arrested the same day, condemned, and executed.
The head that had called me, the eyes that had looked at me, were the head, the eyes, of Solange!
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收听单词发音
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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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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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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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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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aristocrats
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| n.贵族( aristocrat的名词复数 ) | |
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7
aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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vouch
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| v.担保；断定；n.被担保者 | |
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patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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pacify
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| vt.使(某人)平静(或息怒)；抚慰 | |
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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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16
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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17
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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19
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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chiseled
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| adj.凿刻的，轮廓分明的v.凿，雕，镌( chisel的过去式 ) | |
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21
betokened
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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23
divested
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| v.剥夺( divest的过去式和过去分词 )；脱去（衣服）；2。从…取去…；1。（给某人）脱衣服 | |
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24
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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25
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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26
enlist
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| vt.谋取(支持等)，赢得；征募；vi.入伍 | |
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27
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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28
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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29
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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30
beseechingly
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| adv. 恳求地 | |
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31
incur
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| vt.招致，蒙受，遭遇 | |
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32
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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33
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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34
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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35
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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36
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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37
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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38
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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39
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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40
liberator
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| 解放者 | |
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41
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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42
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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43
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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44
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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45
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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46
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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47
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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48
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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49
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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50
espionage
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| n.间谍行为，谍报活动 | |
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51
scrutinizing
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的现在分词 ) | |
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52
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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53
copiously
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| adv.丰富地，充裕地 | |
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54
trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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55
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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56
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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57
loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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58
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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59
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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60
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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63
reciprocated
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| v.报答，酬答( reciprocate的过去式和过去分词 )；（机器的部件）直线往复运动 | |
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emigrant
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| adj.移居的，移民的；n.移居外国的人，移民 | |
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65
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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presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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67
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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68
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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69
conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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70
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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71
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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72
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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73
forfeiture
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| n.（名誉等）丧失 | |
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74
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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75
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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76
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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tampered
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| v.窜改( tamper的过去式 )；篡改；（用不正当手段）影响；瞎摆弄 | |
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78
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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79
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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80
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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81
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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82
investigations
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| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
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83
sparse
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| adj.稀疏的，稀稀落落的，薄的 | |
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84
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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85
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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86
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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87
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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88
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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89
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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90
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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91
assortment
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| n.分类，各色俱备之物，聚集 | |
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92
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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93
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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94
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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95
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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96
Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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97
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98
fettered
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| v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
lashing
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| n.鞭打；痛斥；大量；许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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100
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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101
vibration
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| n.颤动，振动；摆动 | |
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102
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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103
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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104
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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105
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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106
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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107
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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108
collapsing
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| 压扁[平]，毁坏，断裂 | |
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109
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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110
trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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111
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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112
raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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113
maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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114
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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