ONE Sunday morning Norine and Cecile--who, though it was rightly a day of rest, were, nevertheless, working on either side of their little table, pressed as they were to deliver boxes for the approaching New Year season--received a visit which left them pale with stupor1 and fright.
Their unknown hidden life had hitherto followed a peaceful course, the only battle being to make both ends meet every week, and to put by the rent money for payment every quarter. During the eight years that the sisters had been living together in the Rue2 de la Federation3 near the Champ de Mars, occupying the same big room with cheerful windows, a room whose coquettish cleanliness made them feel quite proud, Norine's child had grown up steadily4 between his two affectionate mothers. For he had ended by confounding them together: there was Mamma Norine and there was Mamma Cecile; and he did not exactly know whether one of the two was more his mother than the other. It was for him alone that they both lived and toiled5, the one still a fine, good-looking woman at forty years of age, the other yet girlish at thirty.
Now, at about ten o'clock that Sunday, there came in succession two loud knocks at the door. When the latter was opened a short, thick-set fellow, about eighteen, stepped in. He was dark-haired, with a square face, a hard prominent jaw7, and eyes of a pale gray. And he wore a ragged8 old jacket and a gray cloth cap, discolored by long usage.
"Excuse me," said he; "but isn't it here that live Mesdames Moineaud, who make cardboard boxes?"
Norine stood there looking at him with sudden uneasiness. Her heart had contracted as if she were menaced. She had certainly seen that face somewhere before; but she could only recall one old-time danger, which suddenly seemed to revive, more formidable than ever, as if threatening to spoil her quiet life.
"Yes, it is here," she answered.
Without any haste the young man glanced around the room. He must have expected more signs of means than he found, for he pouted9 slightly. Then his eyes rested on the child, who, like a well-behaved little boy, had been amusing himself with reading, and had now raised his face to examine the newcomer. And the latter concluded his examination by directing a brief glance at the other woman who was present, a slight, sickly creature who likewise felt anxious in presence of that sudden apparition10 of the unknown.
"I was told the left-hand door on the fourth floor," the young man resumed. "But, all the same, I was afraid of making a mistake, for the things I have to say can't be said to everybody. It isn't an easy matter, and, of course, I thought it well over before I came here."
He spoke11 slowly in a drawling way, and after again making sure that the other woman was too young to be the one he sought, he kept his pale eyes steadily fixed12 on Norine. The growing anguish13 with which he saw her quivering, the appeal that she was evidently making to her memory, induced him to prolong things for another moment. Then he spoke out: "I am the child who was put to nurse at Rougemont; my name is Alexandre-Honore."
There was no need for him to say anything more. The unhappy Norine began to tremble from head to foot, clasped and wrung14 her hands, while an ashen15 hue16 came over her distorted features. Good heavens--Beauchene! Yes, it was Beauchene whom he resembled, and in so striking a manner, with his eyes of prey17, his big jaw which proclaimed an enjoyer consumed by base voracity18, that she was now astonished that she had not been able to name him at her first glance. Her legs failed her, and she had to sit down.
"So it's you," said Alexandre.
As she continued shivering, confessing the truth by her manner, but unable to articulate a word, to such a point did despair and fright clutch her at the throat, he felt the need of reassuring19 her a little, particularly if he was to keep that door open to him.
"You must not upset yourself like that," said he; "you have nothing to fear from me; it isn't my intention to give you any trouble. Only when I learnt at last where you were I wished to know you, and that was natural, wasn't it? I even fancied that perhaps you might be pleased to see me.. .. Then, too, the truth is that I'm precious badly off. Three years ago I was silly enough to come back to Paris, where I do little more than starve. And on the days when one hasn't breakfasted, one feels inclined to look up one's parents, even though they may have turned one into the street, for, all the same, they can hardly be so hard-hearted as to refuse one a plateful of soup."
Tears rose to Norine's eyes. This was the finishing stroke, the return of that wretched cast-off son, that big suspicious-looking fellow who accused her and complained of starving. Annoyed at being unable to elicit20 from her any response but shivers and sobs22, Alexandre turned to Cecile: "You are her sister, I know," said he; "tell her that it's stupid of her to go on like that. I haven't come to murder her. It's funny how pleased she is to see me! Yet I don't make any noise, and I said nothing whatever to the door-porter downstairs, I assure you."
Then as Cecile, without answering him, rose to go and comfort Norine, he again became interested in the child, who likewise felt frightened and turned pale on seeing the grief of his two mammas.
"So that lad is my brother?"
Thereupon Norine suddenly sprang to her feet and set herself between the child and him. A mad fear had come to her of some catastrophe23, some great collapse24 which would crush them all. Yet she did not wish to be harsh, she even sought kind words, but amid it all she lost her head, carried away by feelings of revolt, rancor25, instinctive26 hostility27.
"You came, I can understand it. But it is so cruel. What can I do? After so many years one doesn't know one another, one has nothing to say. And, besides, as you can see for yourself, I'm not rich."
Alexandre glanced round the room for the second time. "Yes, I see," he answered; "and my father, can't you tell me his name?"
She remained thunderstruck by this question and turned yet paler, while he continued: "Because if my father should have any money I should know very well how to make him give me some. People have no right to fling children into the gutter28 like that."
All at once Norine had seen the past rise up before her: Beauchene, the works, and her father, who now had just quitted them owing to his infirmities, leaving his son Victor behind him.
And a sort of instinctive prudence29 came to her at the thought that if she were to give up Beauchene's name she might compromise all her happy life, since terrible complications might ensue. The dread30 she felt of that suspicious-looking lad, who reeked31 of idleness and vice32, inspired her with an idea: "Your father? He has long been dead," said she.
He could have known nothing, have learnt nothing on that point, for, in presence of the energy of her answer, he expressed no doubt whatever of her veracity33, but contented34 himself with making a rough gesture which indicated how angry he felt at seeing his hungry hopes thus destroyed.
Norine, utterly36 distracted, was possessed37 by one painful desire--a desire that he might take himself away, and cease torturing her by his presence, to such a degree did remorse38, and pity, and fright, and horror now wring39 her bleeding heart. She opened a drawer and took from it a ten-franc piece, her savings40 for the last three months, with which she had intended to buy a New Year's present for her little boy. And giving those ten francs to Alexandre, she said: "Listen, I can do nothing for you. We live all three in this one room, and we scarcely earn our bread. It grieves me very much to know that you are so unfortunately circumstanced. But you mustn't rely on me. Do as we do--work."
He pocketed the ten francs, and remained there for another moment swaying about, and saying that he had not come for money, and that he could very well understand things. For his part he always behaved properly with people when people behaved properly with him. And he repeated that since she showed herself good-natured he had no idea of creating any scandal. A mother who did what she could performed her duty, even though she might only give a ten-sous piece. Then, as he was at last going off, he inquired: "Won't you kiss me?"
She kissed him, but with cold lips and lifeless heart, and the two smacking42 kisses which, with noisy affectation, he gave her in return, left her cheeks quivering.
"And au revoir, eh?" said he. "Although one may be poor and unable to keep together, each knows now that the other's in the land of the living. And there is no reason why I shouldn't come up just now and again to wish you good day when I'm passing."
When he had at last disappeared long silence fell amid the infinite distress43 which his short stay had brought there. Norine had again sunk upon a chair, as if overwhelmed by this catastrophe. Cecile had been obliged to sit down in front of her, for she also was overcome. And it was she who, amid the mournfulness of that room, which but a little while ago had held all their happiness, spoke out the first to complain and express her astonishment44.
"But you did not ask him anything; we know nothing about him," said she. "Where has he come from? What is he doing? What does he want? And, in particular, how did he manage to discover you? These were the interesting things to learn."
"Oh! what would you have!" replied Norine. "When he told me his name he knocked all the strength out of me; I felt as cold as ice! Oh! it's he, there's no doubt of it. You recognized his likeness45 to his father, didn't you? But you are right; we know nothing, and now we shall always be living with that threat over our heads, in fear that everything will crumble46 down upon us."
All her strength, all her courage was gone, and she began to sob21, stammering47 indistinctly: "To think of it! a big fellow of eighteen falling on one like that without a word of warning! And it's quite true that I don't love him, since I don't even know him. When he kissed me I felt nothing. I was icy cold, as if my heart were frozen. O God! O God! what trouble to be sure, and how horrid48 and cruel it all is!"
Then, as her little boy, on seeing her weep, ran up and flung himself; frightened and tearful, against her bosom49, she wildly caught him in her arms. "My poor little one! my poor little one! if only you don't suffer by it; if only my sin doesn't fall on you! Ah! that would be a terrible punishment. Really the best course is for folks to behave properly in life if they don't want to have a lot of trouble afterwards!"
In the evening the sisters, having grown somewhat calmer, decided50 that their best course would be to write to Mathieu. Norine remembered that he had called on her a few years previously51 to ask if Alexandre had not been to see her. He alone knew all the particulars of the business, and where to obtain information. And, indeed, as soon as the sisters' letter reached him Mathieu made haste to call on them in the Rue de la Federation, for he was anxious with respect to the effect which any scandal might have at the works, where Beauchene's position was becoming worse every day. After questioning Norine at length, he guessed that Alexandre must have learnt her address through La Couteau, though he could not say precisely52 how this had come about. At last, after a long month of discreet53 researches, conversations with Madame Menoux, Celeste, and La Couteau herself, he was able in some measure to explain things. The alert had certainly come from the inquiry54 intrusted to the nurse-agent at Rougemont, that visit which she had made to the hamlet of Saint-Pierre in quest of information respecting the lad who was supposed to be in apprenticeship55 with Montoir the wheelwright. She had talked too much, said too much, particularly to the other apprentice56, that Richard, another foundling, and one of such bad instincts, too, that seven months later he had taken flight, like Alexandre, after purloining57 some money from his master. Then years elapsed, and all trace of them was lost. But later on, most assuredly they had met one another on the Paris pavement, in such wise that the big carroty lad had told the little dark fellow the whole story how his relatives had caused a search to be made for him, and perhaps, too, who his mother was, the whole interspersed58 with tittle-tattle and ridiculous inventions. Still this did not explain everything, and to understand how Alexandre had procured59 his mother's actual address, Mathieu had to presume that he had secured it from La Couteau, whom Celeste had acquainted with so many things. Indeed, he learnt at Broquette's nurse-agency that a short, thickset young man with pronounced jaw-bones had come there twice to speak to La Couteau. Nevertheless, many points remained unexplained; the whole affair had taken place amid the tragic60, murky61 gloom of Parisian low life, whose mire62 it is not healthy to stir. Mathieu ended by resting content with a general notion of the business, for he himself felt frightened at the charges already hanging over those two young bandits, who lived so precariously63, dragging their idleness and their vices64 over the pavement of the great city. And thus all his researches had resulted in but one consoling certainty, which was that even if Norine the mother was known, the father's name and position were certainly not suspected by anybody.
When Mathieu saw Norine again on the subject he terrified her by the few particulars which he was obliged to give her.
"Oh! I beg you, I beg you, do not let him come again," she pleaded. "Find some means; prevent him from coming here. It upsets me too dreadfully to see him."
Mathieu, of course, could do nothing in this respect. After mature reflection he realized that the great object of his efforts must be to prevent Alexandre from discovering Beauchene. What he had learnt of the young man was so bad, so dreadful, that he wished to spare Constance the pain and scandal of being blackmailed65. He could see her blanching67 at the thought of the ignominy of that lad whom she had so passionately68 desired to find, and he felt ashamed for her sake, and deemed it more compassionate69 and even necessary to bury the secret in the silence of the grave. Still, it was only after a long fight with himself that he came to this decision, for he felt that it was hard to have to abandon the unhappy youth in the streets. Was it still possible to save him? He doubted it. And besides, who would undertake the task, who would know how to instil70 honest principles into that waif by teaching him to work? It all meant yet another man cast overboard, forsaken71 amid the tempest, and Mathieu's heart bled at the thought of condemning72 him, though he could think of no reasonable means of salvation73.
"My opinion," he said to Norine, "is that you should keep his father's name from him for the present. Later on we will see. But just now I should fear worry for everybody."
She eagerly acquiesced74. "Oh! you need not be anxious," she responded. "I have already told him that his father is dead. If I were to speak out everything would fall on my shoulders, and my great desire is to be left in peace in my corner with my little one."
With sorrowful mien75 Mathieu continued reflecting, unable to make up his mind to utterly abandon the young man. "If he would only work, I would find him some employment. And I would even take him on at the farm later, when I should no longer have cause to fear that he might contaminate my people. However, I will see what can be done; I know a wheelwright who would doubtless employ him, and I will write to you in order that you may tell him where to apply, when he comes back to see you."
"What? When he comes back!" she cried in despair. "So you think that he will come back. O God! O God! I shall never be happy again."
He did, indeed, come back. But when she gave him the wheelwright's address he sneered76 and shrugged77 his shoulders. He knew all about the Paris wheelwrights! A set of sweaters, a parcel of lazy rogues78, who made poor people toil6 and moil for them. Besides, he had never finished his apprenticeship; he was only fit for running errands, in which capacity he was willing to accept a post in a large shop. When Mathieu had procured him such a situation, he did not remain in it a fortnight. One fine evening he disappeared with the parcels of goods which he had been told to deliver. In turn he tried to learn a baker's calling, became a mason's hodman, secured work at the markets, but without ever fixing himself anywhere. He simply discouraged his protector, and left all sorts of roguery behind him for others to liquidate80. It became necessary to renounce81 the hope of saving him. When he turned up, as he did periodically, emaciated82, hungry, and in rags, they had to limit themselves to providing him with the means to buy a jacket and some bread.
Thus Norine lived on in a state of mortal disquietude. For long weeks Alexandre seemed to be dead, but she, nevertheless, started at the slightest sound that she heard on the landing. She always felt him to be there, and whenever he suddenly rapped on the door she recognized his heavy knock and began to tremble as if he had come to beat her. He had noticed how his presence reduced the unhappy woman to a state of abject83 terror, and he profited by this to extract from her whatever little sums she hid away. When she had handed him the five-franc piece which Mathieu, as a rule, left with her for this purpose, the young rascal84 was not content, but began searching for more. At times he made his appearance in a wild, haggard state, declaring that he should certainly be sent to prison that evening if he did not secure ten francs, and talking the while of smashing everything in the room or else of carrying off the little clock in order to sell it. And it was then necessary for Cecile to intervene and turn him out of the place; for, however puny85 she might be, she had a brave heart. But if he went off it was only to return a few days later with fresh demands, threatening that he would shout his story to everybody on the stairs if the ten francs were not given to him. One day, when his mother had no money in the place and began to weep, he talked of ripping up the mattress86, where, said he, she probably kept her hoard87. Briefly88, the sisters' little home was becoming a perfect hell.
The greatest misfortune of all, however, was that in the Rue de la Federation Alexandre made the acquaintance of Alfred, Norine's youngest brother, the last born of the Moineaud family. He was then twenty, and thus two years the senior of his nephew. No worse prowler than he existed. He was the genuine rough, with pale, beardless face, blinking eyes, and twisted mouth, the real gutter-weed that sprouts89 up amid the Parisian manure-heaps. At seven years of age he robbed his sisters, beating Cecile every Saturday in order to tear her earnings90 from her. Mother Moineaud, worn out with hard work and unable to exercise a constant watch over him, had never managed to make him attend school regularly, or to keep him in apprenticeship. He exasperated91 her to such a degree that she herself ended by turning him into the streets in order to secure a little peace and quietness at home. His big brothers kicked him about, his father was at work from morning till evening, and the child, thus morally a waif, grew up out of doors for a career of vice and crime among the swarms92 of lads and girls of his age, who all rotted there together like apples fallen on the ground. And as Alfred grew he became yet more corrupt93; he was like the sacrificed surplus of a poor man's family, the surplus poured into the gutter, the spoilt fruit which spoils all that comes into contact with it.
Like Alexandre, too, he nowadays only lived chancewise, and it was not even known where he had been sleeping, since Mother Moineaud had died at a hospital exhausted94 by her long life of wretchedness and family cares which had proved far too heavy for her. She was only sixty at the time of her death, but was as bent95 and as worn out as a centenarian. Moineaud, two years older, bent like herself, his legs twisted by paralysis96, a lamentable97 wreck98 after fifty years of unjust toil, had been obliged to quit the factory, and thus the home was empty, and its few poor sticks had been cast to the four winds of heaven.
Moineaud fortunately received a little pension, for which he was indebted to Denis's compassionate initiative. But he was sinking into second childhood, worn out by his long and constant efforts, and not only did he squander99 his few coppers101 in drink, but he could not be left alone, for his feet were lifeless, and his hands shook to such a degree that he ran the risk of setting all about him on fire whenever he tried to light his pipe. At last he found himself stranded102 in the home of his daughters, Norine and Cecile, the only two who had heart enough to take him in. They rented a little closet for him, on the fifth floor of the house, over their own room, and they nursed him and bought him food and clothes with his pension-money, to which they added a good deal of their own. As they remarked in their gay, courageous103 way, they now had two children, a little one and a very old one, which was a heavy burden for two women who earned but five francs a day, although they were ever making boxes from morn till night, There was a touch of soft irony104 in the circumstance that old Moineaud should have been unable to find any other refuge than the home of his daughter Norine--that daughter whom he had formerly105 turned away and cursed for her misconduct, that hussy who had dishonored him, but whose very hands he now kissed when, for fear lest he should set the tip of his nose ablaze106, she helped him to light his pipe.
All the same, the shaky old nest of the Moineauds was destroyed, and the whole family had flown off, dispersed107 chancewise. Irma alone, thanks to her fine marriage with a clerk, lived happily, playing the part of a lady, and so full of vanity that she no longer condescended108 to see her brothers and sisters. Victor, meantime, was leading at the factory much the same life as his father had led, working at the same mill as the other, and in the same blind, stubborn way. He had married, and though he was under six-and-thirty, he already had six children, three boys and three girls, so that his wife seemed fated to much the same existence as his mother La Moineaude. Both of them would finish broken down, and their children in their turn would unconsciously perpetuate109 the swarming110 and accursed starveling race.
At Euphrasie's, destiny the inevitable111 showed itself more tragic still. The wretched woman had not been lucky enough to die. She had gradually become bedridden, quite unable to move, though she lived on and could hear and see and understand things. From that open grave, her bed, she had beheld112 the final break-up of what remained of her sorry home. She was nothing more than a thing, insulted by her husband and tortured by Madame Joseph, who would leave her for days together without water, and fling her occasional crusts much as they might be flung to a sick animal whose litter is not even changed. Terror-stricken, and full of humility113 amid her downfall, Euphrasie resigned herself to everything; but the worst was that her three children, her twin daughters and her son, being abandoned to themselves, sank into vice, the all-corrupting life of the streets. Benard, tired out, distracted by the wreck of his home, had taken to drinking with Madame Joseph; and afterwards they would fight together, break the furniture, and drive off the children, who came home muddy, in rags, and with their pockets full of stolen things. On two occasions Benard disappeared for a week at a time. On the third he did not come back at all. When the rent fell due, Madame Joseph in her turn took herself off. And then came the end. Euphrasie had to be removed to the hospital of La Salpetriere, the last refuge of the aged79 and the infirm; while the children, henceforth without a home in name, were driven into the gutter. The boy never turned up again; it was as if he had been swallowed by some sewer114. One of the twin girls, found in the streets, died in a hospital during the ensuing year; and the other, Toinette, a fair-haired scraggy hussy, who, however puny she might look, was a terrible little creature with the eyes and the teeth of a wolf, lived under the bridges, in the depths of the stone quarries115, in the dingy116 garrets of haunts of vice, so that at sixteen she was already an expert thief. Her fate was similar to Alfred's; here was a girl morally abandoned, then contaminated by the life of the streets, and carried off to a criminal career. And, indeed, the uncle and the niece having met by chance, ended by consorting117 together, their favorite refuge, it was thought, being the limekilns in the direction of Les Moulineaux.
One day then it happened that Alexandre upon calling at Norine's there encountered Alfred, who came at times to try to extract a half-franc from old Moineaud, his father. The two young bandits went off together, chatted, and met again. And from that chance encounter there sprang a band. Alexandre was living with Richard, and Alfred brought Toinette to them. Thus they were four in number, and the customary developments followed: begging at first, the girl putting out her hand at the instigation of the three prowlers, who remained on the watch and drew alms by force at nighttime from belated bourgeois118 encountered in dark corners; next came vulgar vice and its wonted attendant, blackmail66; and then theft, petty larceny120 to begin with, the pilfering121 of things displayed for sale by shopkeepers, and afterwards more serious affairs, premeditated expeditions, mapped out like real war plans.
The band slept wherever it could; now in suspicious dingy doss-houses, now on waste ground. In summer time there were endless saunters through the woods of the environs, pending122 the arrival of night, which handed Paris over to their predatory designs. They found themselves at the Central Markets, among the crowds on the boulevards, in the low taverns123, along the deserted124 avenues--indeed, wherever they sniffed125 the possibility of a stroke of luck, the chance of snatching the bread of idleness, or the pleasures of vice. They were like a little clan126 of savages127 on the war-path athwart civilization, living outside the pale of the laws. They suggested young wild beasts beating the ancestral forest; they typified the human animal relapsing into barbarism, forsaken since birth, and evincing the ancient instincts of pillage128 and carnage. And like noxious129 weeds they grew up sturdily, becoming bolder and bolder each day, exacting130 a bigger and bigger ransom131 from the fools who toiled and moiled, ever extending their thefts and marching along the road to murder.
Never should it be forgotten that the child, born chancewise, and then cast upon the pavement, without supervision132, without prop41 or help, rots there and becomes a terrible ferment133 of social decomposition134. All those little ones thrown to the gutter, like superfluous135 kittens are flung into some sewer, all those forsaken ones, those wanderers of the pavement who beg, and thieve, and indulge in vice, form the dung-heap in which the worst crimes germinate136. Childhood left to wretchedness breeds a fearful nucleus137 of infection in the tragic gloom of the depths of Paris. Those who are thus imprudently cast into the streets yield a harvest of brigandage--that frightful138 harvest of evil which makes all society totter139.
When Norine, through the boasting of Alexandre and Alfred, who took pleasure in astonishing her, began to suspect the exploits of the band, she felt so frightened that she had a strong bolt placed upon her door. And when night had fallen she no longer admitted any visitor until she knew his name. Her torture had been lasting140 for nearly two years; she was ever quivering with alarm at the thought of Alexandre rushing in upon her some dark night. He was twenty now; he spoke authoritatively141, and threatened her with atrocious revenge whenever he had to retire with empty hands. One day, in spite of Cecile, he threw himself upon the wardrobe and carried off a bundle of linen142, handkerchiefs, towels, napkins, and sheets, intending to sell them. And the sisters did not dare to pursue him down the stairs. Despairing, weeping, overwhelmed by it all, they had sunk down upon their chairs.
That winter proved a very severe one; and the two poor workwomen, pillaged143 in this fashion, would have perished in their sorry home of cold and starvation, together with the dear child for whom they still did their best, had it not been for the help which their old friend, Madame Angelin, regularly brought them. She was still a lady-delegate of the Poor Relief Service, and continued to watch over the children of unhappy mothers in that terrible district of Grenelle, whose poverty is so great. But for a long time past she had been unable to do anything officially for Norine. If she still brought her a twenty-franc piece every month, it was because charitable people intrusted her with fairly large amounts, knowing that she could distribute them to advantage in the dreadful inferno144 which her functions compelled her to frequent. She set her last joy and found the great consolation145 of her desolate146, childless life in thus remitting147 alms to poor mothers whose little ones laughed at her joyously148 as soon as they saw her arrive with her hands full of good things.
One day when the weather was frightful, all rain and wind, Madame Angelin lingered for a little while in Norine's room. It was barely two o'clock in the afternoon, and she was just beginning her round. On her lap lay her little bag, bulging149 out with the gold and the silver which she had to distribute. Old Moineaud was there, installed on a chair and smoking his pipe, in front of her. And she felt concerned about his needs, and explained that she would have greatly liked to obtain a monthly relief allowance for him.
"But if you only knew," she added, "what suffering there is among the poor during these winter months. We are quite swamped, we cannot give to everybody, there are too many. And after all you are among the fortunate ones. I find some lying like dogs on the tiled floors of their rooms, without a scrap150 of coal to make a fire or even a potato to eat. And the poor children, too, good Heavens! Children in heaps among vermin, without shoes, without clothes, all growing up as if destined151 for prison or the scaffold, unless consumption should carry them off."
Madame Angelin quivered and closed her eyes as if to escape the spectacle of all the terrifying things that she evoked152, the wretchedness, the shame, the crimes that she elbowed during her continual perambulations through that hell of poverty, vice, and hunger. She often returned home pale and silent, having reached the uttermost depths of human abomination, and never daring to say all. At times she trembled and raised her eyes to Heaven, wondering what vengeful cataclysm153 would swallow up that accursed city of Paris.
"Ah!" she murmured once more; "their sufferings are so great, may their sins be forgiven them."
Moineaud listened to her in a state of stupor, as if he were unable to understand. At last with difficulty he succeeded in taking his pipe from his mouth. It was, indeed, quite an effort now for him to do such a thing, and yet for fifty years he had wrestled154 with iron--iron in the vice or on the anvil155.
Then he wished to set his pipe between his lips once more, but was unable to do so. His hand, deformed158 by the constant use of tools, trembled too violently. So it became necessary for Norine to rise from her chair and help him.
"Poor father!" exclaimed Cecile, who had not ceased working, cutting out the cardboard for the little boxes she made: "What would have become of him if we had not given him shelter? It isn't Irma, with her stylish159 hats and her silk dresses who would have cared to have him at her place."
Meantime Norine's little boy had taken his stand in front of Madame Angelin, for he knew very well that, on the days when the good lady called, there was some dessert at supper in the evening. He smiled at her with the bright eyes which lit up his pretty fair face, crowned with tumbled sunshiny hair. And when she noticed with what a merry glance he was waiting for her to open her little bag, she felt quite moved.
"Come and kiss me, my little friend," said she.
She knew no sweeter reward for all that she did than the kisses of the children in the poor homes whither she brought a little joy. When the youngster had boldly thrown his arms round her neck, her eyes filled with tears; and, addressing herself to his mother, she repeated: "No, no, you must not complain; there are others who are more unhappy than you. I know one who if this pretty little fellow could only be her own would willingly accept your poverty, and paste boxes together from morning till night and lead a recluse's life in this one room, which he suffices to fill with sunshine. Ah! good Heavens, if you were only willing, if we could only change."
For a moment she became silent, afraid that she might burst into sobs. The wound dealt her by her childlessness had always remained open. She and her husband were now growing old in bitter solitude160 in three little rooms overlooking a courtyard in the Rue de Lille. In this retirement161 they subsisted162 on the salary which she, the wife, received as a lady-delegate, joined to what they had been able to save of their original fortune. The former fan-painter of triumphant163 mien was now completely blind, a mere157 thing, a poor suffering thing, whom his wife seated every morning in an armchair where she still found him in the evening when she returned home from her incessant164 peregrinations through the frightful misery165 of guilty mothers and martyred children. He could no longer eat, he could no longer go to bed without her help, he had only her left him, he was her child as he would say at times with a despairing irony which made them both weep.
A child? Ah, yes! she had ended by having one, and it was he! An old child, born of disaster; one who appeared to be eighty though he was less than fifty years old, and who amid his black and ceaseless night ever dreamt of sunshine during the long hours which he was compelled to spend alone. And Madame Angelin did not only envy that poor workwoman her little boy, she also envied her that old man smoking his pipe yonder, that infirm relic166 of labor167 who at all events saw clearly and still lived.
"Don't worry the lady," said Norine to her son; for she felt anxious, quite moved indeed, at seeing the other so disturbed, with her heart so full. "Run away and play."
She had learnt a little of Madame Angelin's sad story from Mathieu. And with the deep gratitude168 which she felt towards her benefactress was blended a sort of impassioned respect, which rendered her timid and deferent each time that she saw her arrive, tall and distinguished169, ever clad in black, and showing the remnants of her former beauty which sorrow had wrecked170 already, though she was barely six-and-forty years of age. For Norine, the lady-delegate was like some queen who had fallen from her throne amid frightful and undeserved sufferings.
"Run away, go and play, my darling," Norine repeated to her boy: "you are tiring madame."
"Tiring me, oh no!" exclaimed Madame Angelin, conquering her emotion. "On the contrary, he does me good. Kiss me, kiss me again, my pretty fellow."
Then she began to bestir and collect herself.
"Well, it is getting late, and I have so many places to go to between now and this evening! This is what I can do for you."
She was at last taking a gold coin from her little bag, but at that very moment a heavy blow, as if dealt by a fist, resounded171 on the door. And Norine turned ghastly pale, for she had recognized Alexandre's brutal172 knock. What could she do? If she did not open the door, the bandit would go on knocking, and raise a scandal. She was obliged to open it, but things did not take the violent tragical173 turn which she had feared. Surprised at seeing a lady there, Alexandre did not even open his mouth. He simply slipped inside, and stationed himself bolt upright against the wall. The lady-delegate had raised her eyes and then carried them elsewhere, understanding that this young fellow must be some friend, probably some relative. And without thought of concealment175, she went on:
"Here are twenty francs, I can't do more. Only I promise you that I will try to double the amount next month. It will be the rent month, and I've already applied176 for help on all sides, and people have promised to give me the utmost they can. But shall I ever have enough? So many applications are made to me."
Her little bag had remained open on her knees, and Alexandre, with his glittering eyes, was searching it, weighing in fancy all the treasure of the poor that it contained, all the gold and silver and even the copper100 money that distended177 its sides. Still in silence, he watched Madame Angelin as she closed it, slipped its little chain round her wrist, and then finally rose from her chair.
"Well, au revoir, till next month then," she resumed. "I shall certainly call on the 5th; and in all probability I shall begin my round with you. But it's possible that it may be rather late in the afternoon, for it happens to be my poor husband's name-day. And so be brave and work well."
Norine and Cecile had likewise risen, in order to escort her to the door. Here again there was an outpouring of gratitude, and the child once more kissed the good lady on both cheeks with all his little heart. The sisters, so terrified by Alexandre's arrival, at last began to breathe again.
In point of fact the incident terminated fairly well, for the young man showed himself accommodating. When Cecile returned from obtaining change for the gold, he contented himself with taking one of the four five-franc pieces which she brought up with her. And he did not tarry to torture them as was his wont119, but immediately went off with the money he had levied178, whistling the while the air of a hunting-song.
The 5th of the ensuing month, a Saturday, was one of the gloomiest, most rainy days of that wretched, mournful winter. Darkness fell rapidly already at three o'clock in the afternoon, and it became almost night. At the deserted end of Rue de la Federation there was an expanse of waste ground, a building site, for long years enclosed by a fence, which dampness had ended by rotting. Some of the boards were missing, and at one part there was quite a breach179. All through that afternoon, in spite of the constantly recurring180 downpours, a scraggy girl remained stationed near that breach, wrapped to her eyes in the ragged remnants of an old shawl, doubtless for protection against the cold. She seemed to be waiting for some chance meeting, the advent181 it might be of some charitably disposed wayfarer182. And her impatience183 was manifest, for while keeping close to the fence like some animal lying in wait, she continually peered through the breach, thrusting out her tapering184 weasel's head and watching yonder, in the direction of the Champ de Mars.
Hours went by, three o'clock struck, and then such dark clouds rolled over the livid sky, that the girl herself became blurred185, obscured, as if she were some mere piece of wreckage186 cast into the darkness. At times she raised her head and watched the sky darken, with eyes that glittered as if to thank it for throwing so dense187 a gloom over that deserted corner, that spot so fit for an ambuscade. And just as the rain had once more begun to fall, a lady could be seen approaching, a lady clad in black, quite black, under an open umbrella. While seeking to avoid the puddles189 in her path, she walked on quickly, like one in a hurry, who goes about her business on foot in order to save herself the expense of a cab.
From some precise description which she had obtained, Toinette, the girl, appeared to recognize this lady from afar off. She was indeed none other than Madame Angelin, coming quickly from the Rue de Lille, on her way to the homes of her poor, with the little chain of her little bag encircling her wrist. And when the girl espied190 the gleaming steel of that little chain, she no longer had any doubts, but whistled softly. And forthwith cries and moans arose from a dim corner of the vacant ground, while she herself began to wail191 and call distressfully.
Astonished, disturbed by it all, Madame Angelin stopped short.
"What is the matter, my girl?" she asked.
"Oh! madame, my brother has fallen yonder and broken his leg."
"What, fallen? What has he fallen from?"
"Oh! madame, there's a shed yonder where we sleep, because we haven't any home, and he was using an old ladder to try to prevent the rain from pouring in on us, and he fell and broke his leg."
Thereupon the girl burst into sobs, asking what was to become of them, stammering that she had been standing174 there in despair for the last ten minutes, but could see nobody to help them, which was not surprising with that terrible rain falling and the cold so bitter. And while she stammered all this, the calls for help and the cries of pain became louder in the depths of the waste ground.
Though Madame Angelin was terribly upset, she nevertheless hesitated, as if distrustful.
"You must run to get a doctor, my poor child," said she, "I can do nothing."
"Oh! but you can, madame; come with me, I pray you. I don't know where there's a doctor to be found. Come with me, and we will pick him up, for I can't manage it by myself; and at all events we can lay him in the shed, so that the rain sha'n't pour down on him."
This time the good woman consented, so truthful192 did the girl's accents seem to be. Constant visits to the vilest193 dens188, where crime sprouted194 from the dunghill of poverty, had made Madame Angelin brave. She was obliged to close her umbrella when she glided195 through the breach in the fence in the wake of the girl, who, slim and supple196 like a cat, glided on in front, bareheaded, in her ragged shawl.
"Give me your hand, madame," said she. "Take care, for there are some trenches197.... It's over yonder at the end. Can you hear how he's moaning, poor brother?... Ah! here we are!"
Then came swift and overwhelming savagery198. The three bandits, Alexandre, Richard, and Alfred, who had been crouching199 low, sprang forward and threw themselves upon Madame Angelin with such hungry, wolfish violence that she was thrown to the ground. Alfred, however, being a coward, then left her to the two others, and hastened with Toinette to the breach in order to keep watch. Alexandre, who had a handkerchief rolled up, all ready, thrust it into the poor lady's mouth to stifle200 her cries. Their intention was to stun201 her only and then make off with her little bag.
But the handkerchief must have slipped out, for she suddenly raised a shriek202, a loud and terrible shriek. And at that moment the others near the breach gave the alarm whistle: some people were, doubtless, drawing near. It was necessary to finish. Alexandre knotted the handkerchief round the unhappy woman's neck, while Richard with his fist forced her shriek back into her throat. Red madness fell upon them, they both began to twist and tighten203 the handkerchief, and dragged the poor creature over the muddy ground until she stirred no more. Then, as the whistle sounded again, they took the bag, left the body there with the handkerchief around the neck, and galloped204, all four of them, as far as the Grenelle bridge, whence they flung the bag into the Seine, after greedily thrusting the coppers, and the white silver, and the yellow gold into their pockets.
When Mathieu read the particulars of the crime in the newspapers, he was seized with fright and hastened to the Rue de la Federation. The murdered woman had been promptly205 identified, and the circumstance that the crime had been committed on that plot of vacant ground but a hundred yards or so from the house where Norine and Cecile lived upset him, filled him with a terrible presentiment206. And he immediately realized that his fears were justified207 when he had to knock three times at Norine's door before Cecile, having recognized his voice, removed the articles with which it had been barricaded208, and admitted him inside. Norine was in bed, quite ill, and as white as her sheets. She began to sob and shuddered209 repeatedly as she told him the story: Madame Angelin's visit the previous month, and the sudden arrival of Alexandre, who had seen the bag and had heard the promise of further help, at a certain hour on a certain date. Besides, Norine could have no doubts, for the handkerchief found round the victim's neck was one of hers which Alexandre had stolen: a handkerchief embroidered210 with the initial letters of her Christian211 name, one of those cheap fancy things which are sold by thousands at the big linendrapery establishments. That handkerchief, too, was the only clew to the murderers, and it was such a very vague one that the police were still vainly seeking the culprits, quite lost amid a variety of scents212 and despairing of success.
Mathieu sat near the bed listening to Norine and feeling icy cold. Good God! that poor, unfortunate Madame Angelin! He could picture her in her younger days, so gay and bright over yonder at Janville, roaming the woods there in the company of her husband, the pair of them losing themselves among the deserted paths, and lingering in the discreet shade of the pollard willows213 beside the Yeuse, where their love kisses sounded beneath the branches like the twittering of song birds. And he could picture her at a later date, already too severely214 punished for her lack of foresight215, in despair at remaining childless, and bowed down with grief as by slow degrees her husband became blind, and night fell upon the little happiness yet left to them. And all at once Mathieu also pictured that wretched blind man, on the evening when he vainly awaited the return of his wife, in order that she might feed him and put him to bed, old child that he was, now motherless, forsaken, forever alone in his dark night, in which he could only see the bloody216 spectre of his murdered helpmate. Ah! to think of it, so bright a promise of radiant life, followed by such destiny, such death!
"We did right," muttered Mathieu, as his thoughts turned to Constance, "we did right to keep that ruffian in ignorance of his father's name. What a terrible thing! We must bury the secret as deeply as possible within us."
Norine shuddered once more.
"Oh! have no fear," she answered, "I would die rather than speak."
Months, years, flowed by; and never did the police discover the murderers of the lady with the little bag. For years, too, Norine shuddered every time that anybody knocked too roughly at her door. But Alexandre did not reappear there. He doubtless feared that corner of the Rue de la Federation, and remained as it were submerged in the dim unsoundable depths of the ocean of Paris.
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1
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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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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3
federation
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| n.同盟，联邦，联合，联盟，联合会 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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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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7
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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pouted
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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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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12
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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13
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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14
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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15
ashen
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| adj.灰的 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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18
voracity
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| n.贪食，贪婪 | |
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19
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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elicit
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| v.引出,抽出,引起 | |
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21
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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rancor
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| n.深仇，积怨 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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27
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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28
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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30
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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31
reeked
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的过去式和过去分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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32
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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33
veracity
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| n.诚实 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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35
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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38
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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39
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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40
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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41
prop
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| vt.支撑；n.支柱，支撑物；支持者，靠山 | |
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42
smacking
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| 活泼的，发出响声的，精力充沛的 | |
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43
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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44
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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45
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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46
crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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47
stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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48
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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49
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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50
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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51
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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52
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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53
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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54
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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55
apprenticeship
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| n.学徒身份；学徒期 | |
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56
apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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57
purloining
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| v.偷窃( purloin的现在分词 ) | |
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58
interspersed
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| adj.[医]散开的；点缀的v.intersperse的过去式和过去分词 | |
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59
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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60
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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61
murky
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| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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62
mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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63
precariously
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| adv.不安全地；危险地；碰机会地；不稳定地 | |
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64
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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65
blackmailed
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| 胁迫，尤指以透露他人不体面行为相威胁以勒索钱财( blackmail的过去式 ) | |
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blackmail
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| n.讹诈，敲诈，勒索，胁迫，恫吓 | |
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67
blanching
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| adj.漂白的n.热烫v.使变白( blanch的现在分词 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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68
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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69
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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70
instil
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| v.逐渐灌输 | |
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71
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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72
condemning
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的现在分词 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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73
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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74
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75
mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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76
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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78
rogues
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| n.流氓( rogue的名词复数 )；无赖；调皮捣蛋的人；离群的野兽 | |
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79
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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80
liquidate
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| v.偿付，清算，扫除；整理，破产 | |
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81
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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82
emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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83
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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84
rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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85
puny
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| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
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86
mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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87
hoard
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| n./v.窖藏，贮存，囤积 | |
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88
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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89
sprouts
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|
| n.新芽，嫩枝( sprout的名词复数 )v.发芽( sprout的第三人称单数 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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90
earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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91
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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92
swarms
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| 蜂群，一大群( swarm的名词复数 ) | |
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93
corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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94
exhausted
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|
| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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95
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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96
paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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97
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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98
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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99
squander
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| v.浪费，挥霍 | |
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100
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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101
coppers
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| 铜( copper的名词复数 )； 铜币 | |
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102
stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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103
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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104
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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105
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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106
ablaze
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| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
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107
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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108
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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109
perpetuate
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| v.使永存，使永记不忘 | |
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110
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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111
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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112
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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113
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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114
sewer
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| n.排水沟，下水道 | |
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115
quarries
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| n.（采）石场( quarry的名词复数 )；猎物（指鸟，兽等）；方形石；（格窗等的）方形玻璃v.从采石场采得( quarry的第三人称单数 )；从（书本等中）努力发掘（资料等）；在采石场采石 | |
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116
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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117
consorting
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| v.结伴( consort的现在分词 )；交往；相称；调和 | |
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118
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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119
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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120
larceny
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| n.盗窃（罪） | |
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121
pilfering
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| v.偷窃（小东西），小偷( pilfer的现在分词 )；偷窃（一般指小偷小摸） | |
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122
pending
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| prep.直到，等待…期间；adj.待定的；迫近的 | |
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123
taverns
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| n.小旅馆，客栈，酒馆( tavern的名词复数 ) | |
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124
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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125
sniffed
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|
| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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126
clan
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| n.氏族，部落，宗族，家族，宗派 | |
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127
savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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128
pillage
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| v.抢劫；掠夺；n.抢劫，掠夺；掠夺物 | |
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129
noxious
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| adj.有害的，有毒的；使道德败坏的，讨厌的 | |
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130
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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131
ransom
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| n.赎金，赎身；v.赎回，解救 | |
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132
supervision
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| n.监督，管理 | |
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133
ferment
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|
| vt.使发酵；n./vt.（使）激动，（使）动乱 | |
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134
decomposition
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| n. 分解, 腐烂, 崩溃 | |
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135
superfluous
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| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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136
germinate
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| v.发芽；发生；发展 | |
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137
nucleus
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| n.核，核心，原子核 | |
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138
frightful
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|
| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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139
totter
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| v.蹒跚， 摇摇欲坠；n.蹒跚的步子 | |
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140
lasting
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|
| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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141
authoritatively
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| 命令式地，有权威地，可信地 | |
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142
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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143
pillaged
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|
| v.抢劫，掠夺( pillage的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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144
inferno
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| n.火海；地狱般的场所 | |
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145
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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146
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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147
remitting
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| v.免除（债务），宽恕( remit的现在分词 )；使某事缓和；寄回，传送 | |
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148
joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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149
bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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150
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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151
destined
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|
| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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152
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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153
cataclysm
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| n.洪水，剧变，大灾难 | |
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154
wrestled
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|
| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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155
anvil
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| n.铁钻 | |
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156
stammered
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|
| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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157
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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158
deformed
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|
| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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159
stylish
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| adj.流行的，时髦的；漂亮的，气派的 | |
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160
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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161
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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162
subsisted
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| v.（靠很少的钱或食物）维持生活，生存下去( subsist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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163
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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164
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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165
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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166
relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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167
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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168
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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169
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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170
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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171
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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172
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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173
tragical
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| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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174
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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175
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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176
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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177
distended
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| v.（使）膨胀，肿胀( distend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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178
levied
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| 征（兵）( levy的过去式和过去分词 )； 索取； 发动（战争）； 征税 | |
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179
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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180
recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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181
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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182
wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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183
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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184
tapering
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| adj.尖端细的 | |
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185
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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186
wreckage
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| n.（失事飞机等的）残骸，破坏，毁坏 | |
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187
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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188
dens
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| n.牙齿，齿状部分；兽窝( den的名词复数 )；窝点；休息室；书斋 | |
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189
puddles
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| n.水坑， （尤指道路上的）雨水坑( puddle的名词复数 ) | |
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190
espied
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| v.看到( espy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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191
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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192
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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193
vilest
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| adj.卑鄙的( vile的最高级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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194
sprouted
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| v.发芽( sprout的过去式和过去分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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195
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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196
supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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197
trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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198
savagery
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| n.野性 | |
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199
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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200
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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201
stun
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| vt.打昏，使昏迷，使震惊，使惊叹 | |
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202
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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203
tighten
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| v.(使)变紧；(使)绷紧 | |
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204
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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205
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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206
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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207
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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208
barricaded
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| 设路障于，以障碍物阻塞( barricade的过去式和过去分词 )； 设路障[防御工事]保卫或固守 | |
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209
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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210
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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211
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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212
scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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213
willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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214
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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215
foresight
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| n.先见之明，深谋远虑 | |
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216
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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