TWO more years went by, and during those two years yet another child, this time a boy, was born to Mathieu and Marianne. And on this occasion, at the same time as the family increased, the estate of Chantebled was increased also by all the heatherland extending to the east as far as the village of Vieux-Bourg. And this time the last lot was purchased, the conquest of the estate was complete. The 1250 acres of uncultivated soil which Seguin's father, the old army contractor1, had formerly2 purchased in view of erecting4 a palatial5 residence there were now, thanks to unremitting effort, becoming fruitful from end to end. The enclosure belonging to the Lepailleurs, who stubbornly refused to sell it, alone set a strip of dry, stony6, desolate7 land amid the broad green plain. And it was all life's resistless conquest; it was fruitfulness spreading in the sunlight; it was labor8 ever incessantly9 pursuing its work of creation amid obstacles and suffering, making good all losses, and at each succeeding hour setting more energy, more health, and more joy in the veins10 of the world.
Blaise, now the father of a little girl some ten months old, had been residing at the Beauchene works since the previous winter. He occupied the little pavilion where his mother had long previously11 given birth to his brother Gervais. His wife Charlotte had conquered the Beauchenes by her fair grace, her charming, bouquet-like freshness, to such a point, indeed, that even Constance had desired to have her near her. The truth was that Madame Desvignes had made adorable creatures of her two daughters, Charlotte and Marthe. At the death of her husband, a stockbroker's confidential12 clerk, who had died, leaving her at thirty years of age in very indifferent circumstances, she had gathered her scanty13 means together and withdrawn14 to Janville, her native place, where she had entirely16 devoted17 herself to her daughters' education. Knowing that they would be almost portionless, she had brought them up extremely well, in the hope that this might help to find them husbands, and it so chanced that she proved successful.
Affectionate intercourse18 sprang up between her and the Froments; the children played together; and it was, indeed, from those first games that came the love-romance which was to end in the marriage of Blaise and Charlotte. By the time the latter reached her eighteenth birthday and married, Marthe her sister, then fourteen years old, had become the inseparable companion of Rose Froment, who was of the same age and as pretty as herself, though dark instead of fair. Charlotte, who had a more delicate, and perhaps a weaker, nature than her gay, sensible sister, had become passionately19 fond of drawing and painting, which she had learnt at first simply by way of accomplishment20. She had ended, however, by painting miniatures very prettily21, and, as her mother remarked, her proficiency22 might prove a resource to her in the event of misfortune. Certainly there was some of the bourgeois23 respect and esteem24 for a good education in the fairly cordial greeting which Constance extended to Charlotte, who had painted a miniature portrait of her, a good though a flattering likeness25.
On the other hand, Blaise, who was endowed with the creative fire of the Froments, ever striving, ever hard at work, became a valuable assistant to Maurice as soon as a brief stay in Morange's office had made him familiar with the business of the firm. Indeed it was Maurice who, finding that his father seconded him less and less, had insisted on Blaise and Charlotte installing themselves in the little pavilion, in order that the former's services might at all times be available. And Constance, ever on her knees before her son, could in this matter only obey respectfully. She evinced boundless26 faith in the vastness of Maurice's intellect. His studies had proved fairly satisfactory; if he was somewhat slow and heavy, and had frequently been delayed by youthful illnesses, he had, nevertheless, diligently27 plodded28 on. As he was far from talkative, his mother gave out that he was a reflective, concentrated genius, who would astonish the world by actions, not by speech. Before he was even fifteen she said of him, in her adoring way: "Oh! he has a great mind." And, naturally enough, she only acknowledged Blaise to be a necessary lieutenant29, a humble30 assistant, one whose hand would execute the sapient31 young master's orders. The latter, to her thinking, was now so strong and so handsome, and he was so quickly reviving the business compromised by the father's slow collapse32, that surely he must be on the high-road to prodigious34 wealth, to that final great triumph, indeed, of which she had been dreaming so proudly, so egotistically, for so many years.
But all at once the thunderbolt fell. It was not without some hesitation35 that Blaise had agreed to make the little pavilion his home, for he knew that there was an idea of reducing him to the status of a mere36 piece of machinery37. But at the birth of his little girl he bravely decided38 to accept the proposal, and to engage in the battle of life even as his father had engaged in it, mindful of the fact that he also might in time have a large family. But it so happened that one morning, when he went up to the house to ask Maurice for some instructions, he heard from Constance herself that the young man had spent a very bad night, and that she had therefore prevailed on him to remain in bed. She did not evince any great anxiety on the subject; the indisposition could only be due to a little fatigue40. Indeed, for a week past the two cousins had been tiring themselves out over the delivery of a very important order, which had set the entire works in motion. Besides, on the previous day Maurice, bareheaded and in perspiration41, had imprudently lingered in a draught43 in one of the sheds while a machine was being tested.
That evening he was seized with intense fever, and Boutan was hastily summoned. On the morrow, alarmed, though he scarcely dared to say it, by the lightning-like progress of the illness, the doctor insisted on a consultation44, and two of his colleagues being summoned, they soon agreed together. The malady45 was an extremely infectious form of galloping46 consumption, the more violent since it had found in the patient a field where there was little to resist its onslaught. Beauchene was away from home, travelling as usual. Constance, for her part, in spite of the grave mien47 of the doctors, who could not bring themselves to tell her the brutal48 truth, remained, in spite of growing anxiety, full of a stubborn hope that her son, the hero, the demi-god necessary for her own life, could not be seriously ill and likely to die. But only three days elapsed, and during the very night that Beauchene returned home, summoned by a telegram, the young fellow expired in her arms.
In reality his death was simply the final decomposition49 of impoverished50, tainted51, bourgeois blood, the sudden disappearance52 of a poor, mediocre53 being who, despite a facade54 of seeming health, had been ailing55 since childhood. But what an overwhelming blow it was both for the mother and for the father, all whose dreams and calculations it swept away! The only son, the one and only heir, the prince of industry, whom they had desired with such obstinate56, scheming egotism, had passed away like a shadow; their arms clasped but a void, and the frightful57 reality arose before them; a moment had sufficed, and they were childless.
Blaise was with the parents at the bedside at the moment when Maurice expired. It was then about two in the morning, and as soon as possible he telegraphed the news of the death to Chantebled. Nine o'clock was striking when Marianne, very pale, quite upset, came into the yard to call Mathieu.
"Maurice is dead!... _Mon Dieu_! an only son; poor people!"
They stood there thunderstruck, chilled and trembling. They had simply heard that the young man was poorly; they had not imagined him to be seriously ill.
"Let me go to dress," said Mathieu; "I shall take the quarter-past ten o'clock train. I must go to kiss them."
Although Marianne was expecting her eleventh child before long, she decided to accompany her husband. It would have pained her to be unable to give this proof of affection to her cousins, who, all things considered, had treated Blaise and his young wife very kindly58. Moreover, she was really grieved by the terrible catastrophe59. So she and her husband, after distributing the day's work among the servants, set out for Janville station, which they reached just in time to catch the quarter-past ten o'clock train. It was already rolling on again when they recognized the Lepailleurs and their son Antonin in the very compartment60 where they were seated.
Seeing the Froments thus together in full dress, the miller61 imagined that they were going to a wedding, and when he learnt that they had a visit of condolence to make, he exclaimed: "Oh! so it's just the contrary. But no matter, it's an outing, a little diversion nevertheless."
Since Mathieu's victory, since the whole of the estate of Chantebled had been conquered and fertilized62, Lepailleur had shown some respect for his bourgeois rival. Nevertheless, although he could not deny the results hitherto obtained, he did not altogether surrender, but continued sneering63, as if he expected that some rending64 of heaven or earth would take place to prove him in the right. He would not confess that he had made a mistake; he repeated that he knew the truth, and that folks would some day see plainly enough that a peasant's calling was the very worst calling there could be, since the dirty land had gone bankrupt and would yield nothing more. Besides, he held his revenge--that enclosure which he left barren, uncultivated, by way of protest against the adjoining estate which it intersected. The thought of this made him ironical65.
"Well," he resumed in his ridiculously vain, scoffing66 way, "we are going to Paris too. Yes, we are going to install this young gentleman there."
He pointed68 as he spoke69 to his son Antonin, now a tall, carroty fellow of eighteen, with an elongated70 head. A few light-colored bristles71 were already sprouting73 on his chin and cheeks, and he wore town attire74, with a silk hat and gloves, and a bright blue necktie. After astonishing Janville by his success at school, he had displayed so much repugnance75 to manual work that his father had decided to make "a Parisian" of him.
"So it is decided; you have quite made up your mind?" asked Mathieu in a friendly way.
"Why, yes; why should I force him to toil76 and moil without the least hope of ever enriching himself? Neither my father nor I ever managed to put a copper77 by with that wretched old mill of ours. Why, the mill-stones wear away with rot more than with grinding corn. And the wretched fields, too, yield far more pebbles78 than crowns. And so, as he's now a scholar, he may as well try his fortune in Paris. There's nothing like city life to sharpen a man's wits."
Madame Lepailleur, who never took her eyes from her son, but remained in admiration79 before him as formerly before her husband, now exclaimed with an air of rapture80: "Yes, yes, he has a place as a clerk with Maitre Rousselet, the attorney. We have rented a little room for him; I have seen about the furniture and the linen81, and to-day's the great day; he will sleep there to-night, after we have dined, all three, at a good restaurant. Ah! yes, I'm very pleased; he's making a start now."
"And he will perhaps end by being a minister of state," said Mathieu, with a smile; "who knows? Everything is possible nowadays."
It all typified the exodus82 from the country districts towards the towns, the feverish83 impatience84 to make a fortune, which was becoming general. Even the parents nowadays celebrated85 their child's departure, and accompanied the adventurer on his way, anxious and proud to climb the social ladder with him. And that which brought a smile to the lips of the farmer of Chantebled, the bourgeois who had become a peasant, was the thought of the double change: the miller's son going to Paris, whereas he had gone to the earth, the mother of all strength and regeneration.
Antonin, however, had also begun to laugh with the air of an artful idler who was more particularly attracted by the free dissipation of Paris life. "Oh! minister?" said he, "I haven't much taste for that. I would much sooner win a million at once so as to rest afterwards."
Delighted with this display of wit, the Lepailleurs burst into noisy merriment. Oh! their boy would do great things, that was quite certain!
Marianne, her heart oppressed by thought of the mourning which awaited her, had hitherto kept silent. She now asked, however, why little Therese did not form one of the party. Lepailleur dryly replied that he did not choose to embarrass himself with a child but six years old, who did not know how to behave. Her arrival had upset everything in the house; things would have been much better if she had never been born. Then, as Marianne began to protest, saying that she had seldom seen a more intelligent and prettier little girl, Madame Lepailleur answered more gently: "Oh! she's sharp; that's true enough; but one can't send girls to Paris. She'll have to be put somewhere, and it will mean a lot of trouble, a lot of money. However, we mustn't talk about all that this morning, since we want to enjoy ourselves."
At last the train reached Paris, and the Lepailleurs, leaving the Northern terminus, were caught and carried off by the impetuously streaming crowd.
When Mathieu and Marianne alighted from their cab on the Quai d'Orsay, in front of the Beauchenes' residence, they recognized the Seguins' brougham drawn15 up beside the foot pavement. And within it they perceived the two girls, Lucie and Andree, waiting mute and motionless in their light-colored dresses. Then, as they approached the door, they saw Valentine come out, in a very great hurry as usual. On recognizing them, however, she assumed an expression of deep pity, and spoke the words required by the situation:
"What a frightful misfortune, is it not? an only son!"
Then she burst out into a flood of words: "You have hastened here, I see, as I did; it is only natural. I heard of the catastrophe only by chance less than an hour ago. And you see my luck! My daughters were dressed, and I myself was dressing87 to take them to a wedding--a cousin of our friend Santerre is marrying a diplomatist. And, in addition, I am engaged for the whole afternoon. Well, although the wedding is fixed88 for a quarter-past eleven, I did not hesitate, but drove here before going to the church. And naturally I went upstairs alone. My daughters have been waiting in the carriage. We shall no doubt be a little late for the wedding. But no matter! You will see the poor parents in their empty house, near the body, which, I must say, they have laid out very nicely on the bed. Oh! it is heartrending."
Mathieu was looking at her, surprised to see that she did not age. The fiery89 flame of her wild life seemed to scorch90 and preserve her. He knew that her home was now completely wrecked91. Seguin openly lived with Nora, the governess, for whom he had furnished a little house. It was there even that he had given Mathieu an appointment to sign the final transfer of the Chantebled property. And since Gaston had entered the military college of St. Cyr, Valentine had only her two daughters with her in the spacious92, luxurious93 mansion94 of the Avenue d'Antin, which ruin was slowly destroying.
"I think," resumed Madame Seguin, "that I shall tell Gaston to obtain permission to attend the funeral. For I am not sure whether his father is in Paris. It's just the same with our friend Santerre; he's starting on a tour to-morrow. Ah! not only do the dead leave us, but it is astonishing what a number of the living go off and disappear! Life is very sad, is it not, dear madame?"
As she spoke a little quiver passed over her face; the dread95 of the coming rupture96, which she had felt approaching for several months past, amid all the skilful97 preparations of Santerre, who had been long maturing some secret plan, which she did not as yet divine. However, she made a devout98 ecstatic gesture, and added: "Well, we are in the hands of God."
Marianne, who was still smiling at the ever-motionless girls in the closed brougham, changed the subject. "How tall they have grown, how pretty they have become! Your Andree looks adorable. How old is your Lucie now? She will soon be of an age to marry."
"Oh! don't let her hear you," retorted Valentine; "you would make her burst into tears! She is seventeen, but for sense she isn't twelve. Would you believe it, she began sobbing99 this morning and refusing to go to the wedding, under the pretence100 that it would make her ill? She is always talking of convents; we shall have to come to a decision about her. Andree, though she is only thirteen, is already much more womanly. But she is a little stupid, just like a sheep. Her gentleness quite upsets me at times; it jars on my nerves."
Then Valentine, on the point of getting into her carriage, turned to shake hands with Marianne, and thought of inquiring after her health. "Really," said she, "I lose my head at times. I was quite forgetting. And the baby you're expecting will be your eleventh child, will it now? How terrible! Still it succeeds with you. And, ah! those poor people whom you are going to see, their house will be quite empty now."
When the brougham had rolled away it occurred to Mathieu and Marianne that before seeing the Beauchenes it might be advisable for them to call at the little pavilion, where their son or their daughter-in-law might be able to give them some useful information. But neither Blaise nor Charlotte was there. They found only a servant who was watching over the little girl, Berthe. This servant declared that she had not seen Monsieur Blaise since the previous day, for he had remained at the Beauchenes' near the body. And as for Madame, she also had gone there early that morning, and had left instructions that Berthe was to be brought to her at noon, in order that she might not have to come back to give her the breast. Then, as Marianne in surprise began to put some questions, the girl explained matters: "Madame took a box of drawing materials with her. I fancy that she is painting a portrait of the poor young man who is dead."
As Mathieu and Marianne crossed the courtyard of the works, they felt oppressed by the grave-like silence which reigned101 in that great city of labor, usually so full of noise and bustle102. Death had suddenly passed by, and all the ardent103 life had at once ceased, the machinery had become cold and mute, the workshops silent and deserted104. There was not a sound, not a soul, not a puff105 of that vapor106 which was like the very breath of the place. Its master dead, it had died also. And the distress107 of the Froments increased when they passed from the works into the house, amid absolute solitude108; the connecting gallery was wrapt in slumber109, the staircase quivered amid the heavy silence, all the doors were open, as in some uninhabited house, long since deserted. They found no servant in the antechamber, and even the dim drawing-room, where the blinds of embroidered111 muslin were lowered, while the armchairs were arranged in a circle, as on reception days, when numerous visitors were expected, at first seemed to them to be empty. But at last they detected a shadowy form moving slowly to and fro in the middle of the room. It was Morange, bareheaded and frock-coated; he had hastened thither112 at the first news with the same air as if he had been repairing to his office. He seemed to be at home; it was he who received the visitors in a scared way, overcome as he was by this sudden demise113, which recalled to him his daughter's abominable114 death. His heart-wound had reopened; he was livid, all in disorder115, with his long gray beard streaming down, while he stepped hither and thither without a pause, making all the surrounding grief his own.
As soon as he recognized the Froments he also spoke the words which came from every tongue: "What a frightful misfortune, an only son!"
Then he pressed their hands, and whispered and explained that Madame Beauchene, feeling quite exhausted116, had withdrawn for a few moments, and that Beauchene and Blaise were making necessary arrangements downstairs. And then, resuming his maniacal118 perambulations, he pointed towards an adjoining room, the folding doors of which were wide open.
"He is there, on the bed where he died. There are flowers; it looks very nice. You may go in."
This room was Maurice's bedchamber. The large curtains had been closely drawn, and tapers119 were burning near the bed, casting a soft light on the deceased's face, which appeared very calm, very white, the eyes closed as if in sleep. Between the clasped hands rested a crucifix, and with the roses scattered120 over the sheet the bed was like a couch of springtide. The odor of the flowers, mingling121 with that of the burning wax, seemed rather oppressive amid the deep and tragic122 stillness. Not a breath stirred the tall, erect3 flames of the tapers, burning in the semi-obscurity, amid which the bed alone showed forth123.
When Mathieu and Marianne had gone in, they perceived their daughter-in-law, Charlotte, behind a screen near the door. Lighted by a little lamp, she sat there with a sketching-block on her knees, making a drawing of Maurice's head as it rested among the roses. Hard and anguish-bringing as was such work for one with so young a heart, she had nevertheless yielded to the mother's ardent entreaties125. And for three hours past, pale, looking wondrously126 beautiful, her face showing all the flower of youth, her blue eyes opening widely under her fine golden hair, she had been there diligently working, striving to do her best. When Mathieu and Marianne approached her she would not speak, but simply nodded. Still a little color came to her cheeks, and her eyes smiled. And when the others, after lingering there for a moment in sorrowful contemplation, had quietly returned to the drawing-room, she resumed her work alone, in the presence of the dead, among the roses and the tapers.
Morange was still walking the drawing-room like a lost, wandering phantom127. Mathieu remained standing128 there, while Marianne sat down near the folding doors. Not another word was exchanged; the spell of waiting continued amid the oppressive silence of the dim, closed room. When some ten minutes had elapsed, two other visitors arrived, a lady and a gentleman, whom the Froments could not at first recognize. Morange bowed and received them in his dazed way. Then, as the lady did not release her hold of the gentleman's hand, but led him along, as if he were blind, between the articles of furniture, so that he might not knock against them, Marianne and Mathieu realized that the new comers were the Angelins.
Since the previous winter they had sold their little house at Janville to fix themselves in Paris, for a last misfortune had befallen them--the failure of a great banking129 house had carried away almost the whole of their modest fortune. The wife had fortunately secured a post as one of the delegates of the Poor Relief Board, an inspectorship130 with various duties, such as watching over the mothers and children assisted by the board, and reporting thereon. And she was wont131 to say, with a sad smile, that this work of looking after the little ones was something of a consolation132 for her, since it was now certain that she would never have a child of her own. As for her husband, whose eyesight was failing more and more, he had been obliged to relinquish133 painting altogether, and he dragged out his days in morose134 desolation, his life wrecked, annihilated135.
With short steps, as if she were leading a child, Madame Angelin brought him to an armchair near Marianne and seated him in it. He had retained the lofty mien of a musketeer, but his features had been ravaged137 by anxiety, and his hair was white, though he was only forty-four years of age. And what memories arose at the sight of that sorrowful lady leading that infirm, aged39 man, for those who had known the young couple, all tenderness and good looks, rambling138 along the secluded139 paths of Janville, amid the careless delights of their love.
As soon as Madame Angelin had clasped Marianne's hands with her own trembling fingers, she also uttered in low, stammering140 accents, those despairing words: "Ah! what a frightful misfortune, an only son!"
Her eyes filled with tears, and she would not sit down before going for a moment to see the body in the adjoining room. When she came back, sobbing in her handkerchief, she sank into an armchair between Marianne and her husband. He remained there motionless, staring fixedly141 with his dim eyes. And silence fell again throughout the lifeless house, whither the rumble142 of the works, now deserted, fireless and frozen, ascended143 no longer.
But Beauchene, followed by Blaise, at last made his appearance. The heavy blow he had received seemed to have made him ten years older. It was as if the heavens had suddenly fallen upon him. Never amid his conquering egotism, his pride of strength and his pleasures, had he imagined such a downfall to be possible. Never had he been willing to admit that Maurice might be ill--such an idea was like casting a doubt upon his own strength; he thought himself beyond the reach of thunderbolts; misfortune would never dare to fall on him. And at the first overwhelming moment he had found himself weak as a woman, weary and limp, his strength undermined by his dissolute life, the slow disorganization of his faculties144. He had sobbed145 like a child before his dead son, all his vanity crushed, all his calculations destroyed. The thunderbolt had sped by, and nothing remained. In a minute his life had been swept away; the world was now all black and void. And he remained livid, in consternation146 at it all, his bloated face swollen147 with grief, his heavy eyelids148 red with tears.
When he perceived the Froments, weakness again came upon him, and he staggered towards them with open arms, once more stifling149 with sobs150.
"Ah! my dear friends, what a terrible blow! And I wasn't here! When I got here he had lost consciousness; he did not recognize me--. Is it possible? A lad who was in such good health! I cannot believe it. It seems to me that I must be dreaming, and that he will get up presently and come down with me into the workshops!"
They kissed him, they pitied him, struck down like this upon his return from some carouse151 or other, still intoxicated152, perhaps, and tumbling into the midst of such an awful disaster, his prostration153 increased by the stupor154 following upon debauchery. His beard, moist with his tears, still stank155 of tobacco and musk136.
Although he scarcely knew the Angelins, he pressed them also in his arms. "Ah! my poor friends, what a terrible blow! What a terrible blow!"
Then Blaise in his turn came to kiss his parents. In spite of his grief, and the horrible night he had spent, his face retained its youthful freshness. Yet tears coursed down his cheeks, for, working with Maurice day by day, he had conceived real friendship for him.
The silence fell again. Morange, as if unconscious of what went on around him, as if he were quite alone there, continued walking softly hither and thither like a somnambulist. Beauchene, with haggard mien, went off, and then came back carrying some little address-books. He turned about for another moment, and finally sat down at a writing-table which had been brought out of Maurice's room. Little accustomed as he was to grief, he instinctively156 sought to divert his mind, and began searching in the little address-books for the purpose of drawing up a list of the persons who must be invited to the funeral. But his eyes became blurred157, and with a gesture he summoned Blaise, who, after going into the bedchamber to glance at his wife's sketch124, was now returning to the drawing-room. Thereupon the young man, standing erect beside the writing-table, began to dictate158 the names in a low voice; and then, amid the deep silence sounded a low and monotonous159 murmur160.
The minutes slowly went by. The visitors were still waiting for Constance. At last a little door of the death-chamber110 slowly opened, and she entered that chamber noiselessly, without anybody knowing that she was there. She looked like a spectre emerging out of the darkness into the pale light of the tapers. She had not yet wept; her face was livid, contracted, hardened by cold rage. Her little figure, instead of bending, seemed to have grown taller beneath the injustice161 of destiny, as if borne up by furious rebellion. Yet her loss did not surprise her. She had immediately felt that she had expected it, although but a minute before the death she had stubbornly refused to believe it possible. But the thought of it had remained latent within her for long months, and frightful evidence thereof now burst forth. She suddenly heard the whispers of the unknown once more, and understood them; she knew the meaning of those shivers which had chilled her, those vague, terror-fraught regrets at having no other child! And that which had been threatening her had come; irreparable destiny had willed it that her only son, the salvation162 of the imperilled home, the prince of to-morrow, who was to share his empire with her, should be swept away like a withered163 leaf. It was utter downfall; she sank into an abyss. And she remained tearless; fury dried her tears within her. Yet, good mother that she had always been, she suffered all the torment164 of motherliness exasperated165, poisoned by the loss of her child.
She drew near to Charlotte and paused behind her, looking at the profile of her dead son resting among the flowers. And still she did not weep. She slowly gazed over the bed, filled her eyes with the dolorous166 scene, then carried them again to the paper, as if to see what would be left her of that adored son--those few pencil strokes--when the earth should have taken him forever. Charlotte, divining that somebody was behind her, started and raised her head. She did not speak; she had felt frightened. But both women exchanged a glance. And what a heart pang167 came to Constance, amid that display of death, in the presence of the void, the nothingness that was hers, as she gazed on the other's face, all love and health and beauty, suggesting some youthful star, whence promise of the future radiated through the fine gold of wavy168 hair.
But yet another pang came to Constance at that moment: words which were being whispered in the drawing-room, near the door of the bedchamber, reached her distinctly. She did not move, but remained erect behind Charlotte, who had resumed her work. And eagerly lending ear, she listened, not showing herself as yet, although she had already seen Marianne and Madame Angelin seated near the doorway169, almost among the folds of the hangings.
"Ah!" Madame Angelin was saying, "the poor mother had a presentiment170 of it, as it were. I saw that she felt very anxious when I told her my own sad story. There is no hope for me; and now death has passed by, and no hope remains171 for her."
Silence ensued once more; then, prompted by some connecting train of thought, she went on: "And your next child will be your eleventh, will it not? Eleven is not a number; you will surely end by having twelve!"
As Constance heard those words she shuddered172 in another fit of that fury which dried up her tears. By glancing sideways she could see that mother of ten children, who was now expecting yet an eleventh child. She found her still young, still fresh, overflowing173 with joy and health and hope. And she was there, like the goddess of fruitfulness, nigh to the funeral bier at that hour of the supreme174 rending, when she, Constance, was bowed down by the irretrievable loss of her only child.
But Marianne was answering Madame Angelin: "Oh I don't think that at all likely. Why, I'm becoming an old woman. You forget that I am already a grandmother. Here, look at that!"
So saying, she waved her hand towards the servant of her daughter-in-law, Charlotte, who, in accordance with the instructions she had received, was now bringing the little Berthe in order that her mother might give her the breast. The servant had remained at the drawing-room door, hesitating, disliking to intrude175 on all that mourning; but the child good-humoredly waved her fat little fists, and laughed lightly. And Charlotte, hearing her, immediately rose and tripped across the salon176 to take the little one into a neighboring room.
"What a pretty child!" murmured Madame Angelin. "Those little ones are like nosegays; they bring brightness and freshness wherever they come."
Constance for her part had been dazzled. All at once, amid the semi-obscurity, starred by the flames of the tapers, amid the deathly atmosphere, which the odor of the roses rendered the more oppressive, that laughing child had set a semblance177 of budding springtime, the fresh, bright atmosphere of a long promise of life. And it typified the victory of fruitfulness; it was the child's child, it was Marianne reviving in her son's daughter. A grandmother already, and she was only forty-one years old! Marianne had smiled at that thought. But the hatchet-stroke rang out yet more frightfully in Constance's heart. In her case the tree was cut down to its very root, the sole scion178 had been lopped off, and none would ever sprout72 again.
For yet another moment she remained alone amid that nothingness, in that room where lay her son's remains. Then she made up her mind and passed into the drawing-room, with the air of a frozen spectre. They all rose, kissed her, and shivered as their lips touched her cold cheeks, which her blood was unable to warm. Profound compassion179 wrung180 them, so frightful was her calmness. And they sought kind words to say to her, but she curtly181 stopped them.
"It is all over," said she; "there is nothing to be said. Everything is ended, quite ended."
Madame Angelin sobbed, Angelin himself wiped his poor fixed, blurred eyes. Marianne and Mathieu shed tears while retaining Constance's hands in theirs. And she, rigid182 and still unable to weep, refused consolation, repeating in monotonous accents: "It is finished; nothing can give him back to me. Is it not so? And thus there remains nothing; all is ended, quite ended."
She needed to be brave, for visitors would soon be arriving in a stream. But a last stab in the heart was reserved for her. Beauchene, who since her arrival had begun to cry again, could no longer see to write. Moreover, his hand trembled, and he had to leave the writing-table and fling himself into an armchair, saying to Blaise: "There sit down there, and continue to write for me."
Then Constance saw Blaise seat himself at her son's writing-table, in his place, dip his pen in the inkstand and begin to write with the very same gesture that she had so often seen Maurice make. That Blaise, that son of the Froments! What! her dear boy was not yet buried, and a Froment already replaced him, even as vivacious183, fast-growing plants overrun neighboring barren fields. That stream of life flowing around her, intent on universal conquest, seemed yet more threatening; grandmothers still bore children, daughters suckled already, sons laid hands upon vacant kingdoms. And she remained alone; she had but her unworthy, broken-down, worn-out husband beside her; while Morange, the maniac117, incessantly walking to and fro, was like the symbolical185 spectre of human distress, one whose heart and strength and reason had been carried away in the frightful death of his only daughter. And not a sound came from the cold and empty works; the works themselves were dead.
The funeral ceremony two days later was an imposing186 one. The five hundred workmen of the establishment followed the hearse, notabilities of all sorts made up an immense cortege. It was much noticed that an old workman, father Moineaud, the oldest hand of the works, was one of the pall-bearers. Indeed, people thought it touching187, although the worthy184 old man dragged his legs somewhat, and looked quite out of his element in a frock coat, stiffened188 as he was by thirty years' hard toil. In the cemetery189, near the grave, Mathieu felt surprised on being approached by an old lady who alighted from one of the mourning-coaches.
"I see, my friend," said she, "that you do not recognize me."
He made a gesture of apology. It was Seraphine, still tall and slim, but so fleshless, so withered that one might have thought she was a hundred years old. Cecile had warned Mathieu of it, yet if he had not seen her himself he would never have believed that her proud insolent190 beauty, which had seemed to defy time and excesses, could have faded so swiftly. What frightful, withering191 blast could have swept over her?
"Ah! my friend," she continued, "I am more dead than the poor fellow whom they are about to lower into that grave. Come and have a chat with me some day. You are the only person to whom I can tell everything."
The coffin67 was lowered, the ropes gave out a creaking sound, and there came a little thud--the last. Beauchene, supported by a relative, looked on with dim, vacant eyes. Constance, who had had the bitter courage to come, and had now wept all the tears in her body, almost fainted. She was carried away, driven back to her home, which would now forever be empty, like one of those stricken fields that remain barren, fated to perpetual sterility192. Mother earth had taken back her all.
And at Chantebled Mathieu and Marianne founded, created, increased, and multiplied, again proving victorious193 in the eternal battle which life wages against death, thanks to that continual increase, both of offspring and of fertile land, which was like their very existence, their joy and their strength. Desire passed like a gust194 of flame, desire divine and fruitful, since they possessed195 the power of love, kindliness196, and health. And their energy did the rest--that will of action, that quiet bravery in the presence of the labor that is requisite197, the labor that has made and that regulates the world.
Still, during those two years it was not without constant battling that victory remained to them. At last it was complete. Piece by piece Seguin had sold the entire estate, of which Mathieu was now king, thanks to his prudent42 system of conquest, that of increasing his empire by degrees as he gradually felt himself stronger. The fortune which the idler had disdained198 and dissipated had passed into the hands of the toiler199, the creator. There were 1250 acres, spreading from horizon to horizon; there were woods intersected by broad meadows, where flocks and herds200 pastured; there was fat land overflowing with harvests, in the place of marshes201 that had been drained; there was other land, each year of increasing fertility, in the place of the moors202 which the captured springs now irrigated203. The Lepailleurs' uncultivated enclosure alone remained, as if to bear witness to the prodigy204, the great human effort which had quickened that desert of sand and mud, whose crops would henceforth nourish so many happy people. Mathieu devoured205 no other man's share; he had brought his share into being, increasing the common wealth, subjugating206 yet another small portion of this vast world, which is still so scantily207 peopled and so badly utilized208 for human happiness. The farm, the homestead, had sprung up and grown in the centre of the estate like a prosperous township, with inhabitants, servants, and live stock, a perfect focus of ardent triumphal life. And what sovereign power was that of the happy fruitfulness which had never wearied of creating, which had yielded all these beings and things that had been increasing and multiplying for twelve years past, that invading town which was but a family's expansion, those trees, those plants, those grain crops, those fruits whose nourishing stream ever rose under the dazzling sun! All pain and all tears were forgotten in that joy of creation, the accomplishment of due labor, the conquest of the future conducting to the infinite of Action.
Then, while Mathieu completed his work of conquest, Marianne during those two years had the happiness of seeing a daughter born to her son Blaise, even while she herself was expecting another child. The branches of the huge tree had begun to fork, pending209 the time when they would ramify endlessly, like the branches of some great royal oak spreading afar over the soil. There would be her children's children, her grandchildren's children, the whole posterity210 increasing from generation to generation. And yet how carefully and lovingly she still assembled around her her own first brood, from Blaise and Denis the twins, now one-and-twenty, to the last born, the wee creature who sucked in life from her bosom211 with greedy lips. There were some of all ages in the brood--a big fellow, who was already a father; others who went to school; others who still had to be dressed in the morning; there were boys, Ambroise, Gervais, Gregoire, and another; there were girls, Rose, nearly old enough to marry; Claire, Louise, Madeleine, and Marguerite, the last of whom could scarcely toddle212. And it was a sight to see them roam over the estate like a troop of colts, following one another at varied213 pace, according to their growth. She knew that she could not keep them all tied to her apron-strings; it would be sufficient happiness if the farm kept two or three beside her; she resigned herself to seeing the younger ones go off some day to conquer other lands. Such was the law of expansion; the earth was the heritage of the most numerous race. Since they had number on their side, they would have strength also; the world would belong to them. The parents themselves had felt stronger, more united at the advent86 of each fresh child. If in spite of terrible cares they had always conquered, it was because their love, their toil, the ceaseless travail214 of their heart and will, gave them the victory. Fruitfulness is the great conqueress; from her come the pacific heroes who subjugate215 the world by peopling it. And this time especially, when at the lapse33 of those two years Marianne gave birth to a boy, Nicolas, her eleventh child, Mathieu embraced her passionately, triumphing over every sorrow and every pang. Yet another child; yet more wealth and power; yet an additional force born into the world; another field ready for to-morrow's harvest.
And 'twas ever the great work, the good work, the work of fruitfulness spreading, thanks to the earth and thanks to woman, both victorious over destruction, offering fresh means of subsistence each time a fresh child was born, and loving, willing, battling, toiling216 even amid suffering, and ever tending to increase of life and increase of hope.
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1
contractor
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| n.订约人，承包人，收缩肌 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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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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erecting
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| v.使直立，竖起( erect的现在分词 )；建立 | |
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palatial
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| adj.宫殿般的，宏伟的 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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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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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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proficiency
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| n.精通，熟练，精练 | |
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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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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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plodded
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| v.沉重缓慢地走（路）( plod的过去式和过去分词 )；努力从事；沉闷地苦干；缓慢进行（尤指艰难枯燥的工作） | |
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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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sapient
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| adj.有见识的，有智慧的 | |
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collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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33
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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prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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42
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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43
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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46
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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decomposition
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| n. 分解, 腐烂, 崩溃 | |
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impoverished
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| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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51
tainted
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| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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52
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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mediocre
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| adj.平常的，普通的 | |
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54
facade
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| n.(建筑物的)正面，临街正面；外表 | |
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ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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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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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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Fertilized
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| v.施肥( fertilize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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scoffing
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| n. 嘲笑, 笑柄, 愚弄 v. 嘲笑, 嘲弄, 愚弄, 狼吞虎咽 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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69
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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elongated
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| v.延长，加长( elongate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bristles
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| 短而硬的毛发，刷子毛( bristle的名词复数 ) | |
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sprout
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| n.芽，萌芽；vt.使发芽，摘去芽；vi.长芽，抽条 | |
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sprouting
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| v.发芽( sprout的现在分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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80
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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81
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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exodus
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| v.大批离去，成群外出 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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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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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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scorch
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| v.烧焦，烤焦；高速疾驶；n.烧焦处，焦痕 | |
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wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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96
rupture
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| n.破裂；(关系的)决裂；v.(使)破裂 | |
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97
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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98
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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99
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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100
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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101
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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102
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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103
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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104
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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105
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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106
vapor
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| n.蒸汽，雾气 | |
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107
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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108
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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109
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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110
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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111
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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112
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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113
demise
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| n.死亡；v.让渡，遗赠，转让 | |
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114
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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115
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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116
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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117
maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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118
maniacal
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| adj.发疯的 | |
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119
tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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120
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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121
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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122
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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123
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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124
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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125
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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126
wondrously
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| adv.惊奇地，非常，极其 | |
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127
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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128
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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129
banking
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| n.银行业，银行学，金融业 | |
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130
inspectorship
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| n.检查员的地位 | |
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131
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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132
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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133
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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134
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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135
annihilated
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的过去式和过去分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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136
musk
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| n.麝香, 能发出麝香的各种各样的植物，香猫 | |
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137
ravaged
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| 毁坏( ravage的过去式和过去分词 )； 蹂躏； 劫掠； 抢劫 | |
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138
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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139
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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140
stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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141
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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142
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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143
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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144
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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145
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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146
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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147
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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148
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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149
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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150
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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151
carouse
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| v.狂欢；痛饮；n.狂饮的宴会 | |
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152
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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153
prostration
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| n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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154
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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155
stank
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| n. (英)坝，堰，池塘 动词stink的过去式 | |
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156
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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157
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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158
dictate
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| v.口授；(使)听写；指令，指示，命令 | |
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159
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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160
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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161
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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162
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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163
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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164
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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165
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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166
dolorous
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| adj.悲伤的；忧愁的 | |
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167
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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168
wavy
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| adj.有波浪的，多浪的，波浪状的，波动的，不稳定的 | |
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169
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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170
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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171
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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172
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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173
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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174
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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175
intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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176
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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177
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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178
scion
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| n.嫩芽，子孙 | |
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179
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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180
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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181
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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182
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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183
vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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184
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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185
symbolical
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| a.象征性的 | |
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186
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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187
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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188
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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189
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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190
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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191
withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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192
sterility
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| n.不生育，不结果，贫瘠，消毒，无菌 | |
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193
victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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194
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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195
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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196
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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197
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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198
disdained
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| 鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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199
toiler
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| 辛劳者，勤劳者 | |
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200
herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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201
marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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202
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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203
irrigated
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| [医]冲洗的 | |
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204
prodigy
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| n.惊人的事物，奇迹，神童，天才，预兆 | |
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205
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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206
subjugating
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| v.征服，降伏( subjugate的现在分词 ) | |
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207
scantily
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| adv.缺乏地；不充足地；吝啬地；狭窄地 | |
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208
utilized
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| v.利用，使用( utilize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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209
pending
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| prep.直到，等待…期间；adj.待定的；迫近的 | |
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210
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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211
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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212
toddle
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| v.（如小孩）蹒跚学步 | |
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213
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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214
travail
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| n.阵痛；努力 | |
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215
subjugate
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| v.征服；抑制 | |
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216
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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