DURING the ten years which followed, the vigorous sprouting1 of the Froments, suggestive of some healthy vegetation of joy and strength, continued in and around the ever and ever richer domain2 of Chantebled. As the sons and the daughters grew up there came fresh marriages, and more and more children, all the promised crop, all the promised swarming3 of a race of conquerors4.
First it was Gervais who married Caroline Boucher, daughter of a big farmer of the region, a fair, fine-featured, gay, strong girl, one of those superior women born to rule over a little army of servants. On leaving a Parisian boarding-school she had been sensible enough to feel no shame of her family's connection with the soil. Indeed she loved the earth and had set herself to win from it all the sterling6 happiness of her life. By way of dowry she brought an expanse of meadow-land in the direction of Lillebonne, which enlarged the estate by some seventy acres. But she more particularly brought her good humor, her health, her courage in rising early, in watching over the farmyard, the dairy, the whole home, like an energetic active housewife, who was ever bustling7 about, and always the last to bed.
Then came the turn of Claire, whose marriage with Frederic Berthaud, long since foreseen, ended by taking place. There were tears of soft emotion, for the memory of her whom Berthaud had loved and whom he was to have married disturbed several hearts on the wedding day when the family skirted the little cemetery8 of Janville as it returned to the farm from the municipal offices. But, after all, did not that love of former days, that faithful fellow's long affection, which in time had become transferred to the younger sister, constitute as it were another link in the ties which bound him to the Froments? He had no fortune, he brought with him only his constant faithfulness, and the fraternity which had sprung up between himself and Gervais during the many seasons when they had ploughed the estate like a span of tireless oxen drawing the same plough. His heart was one that could never be doubted, he was the helper who had become indispensable, the husband whose advent10 would mean the best of all understandings and absolute certainty of happiness.
From the day of that wedding the government of the farm was finally settled. Though Mathieu was barely five-and-fifty he abdicated12, and transferred his authority to Gervais, that son of the earth as with a laugh he often called him, the first of his children born at Chantebled, the one who had never left the farm, and who had at all times given him the support of his arm and his brain and his heart. And now Frederic in turn would think and strive as Gervais's devoted13 lieutenant14, in the great common task. Between them henceforth they would continue the father's work, and perfect the system of culture, procuring16 appliances of new design from the Beauchene works, now ruled by Denis, and ever drawing from the soil the largest crops that it could be induced to yield. Their wives had likewise divided their share of authority; Claire surrendered the duties of supervision17 to Caroline, who was stronger and more active than herself, and was content to attend to the accounts, the turnover18 of considerable sums of money, all that was paid away and all that was received. The two couples seemed to have been expressly and cleverly selected to complete one another and to accomplish the greatest sum of work without ever the slightest fear of conflict. And, indeed, they lived in perfect union, with only one will among them, one purpose which was ever more and more skilfully19 effected--the continual increase of the happiness and wealth of Chantebled under the beneficent sun.
At the same time, if Mathieu had renounced20 the actual exercise of authority, he none the less remained the creator, the oracle21 who was consulted, listened to, and obeyed. He dwelt with Marianne in the old shooting-box which had been transformed and enlarged into a very comfortable house. Here they lived like the founders22 of a dynasty who had retired23 in full glory, setting their only delight in beholding24 around them the development and expansion of their race, the birth and growth of their children's children. Leaving Claire and Gervais on one side, there were as yet only Denis and Ambroise--the first to wing their flight abroad--engaged in building up their fortunes in Paris. The three girls, Louise, Madeleine, and Marguerite, who would soon be old enough to marry, still dwelt in the happy home beside their parents, as well as the three youngest boys, Gregoire, the free lance, Nicolas, the most stubborn and determined25 of the brood, and Benjamin, who was of a dreamy nature. All these finished growing up at the edge of the nest, so to say, with the window of life open before them, ready for the day when they likewise would take wing.
With them dwelt Charlotte, Blaise's widow, and her two children, Berthe and Guillaume, the three of them occupying an upper floor of the house where the mother had installed her studio. She was becoming rich since her little share in the factory profits, stipulated26 by Denis, had been increasing year by year; but nevertheless, she continued working for her dealer27 in miniatures. This work brought her pocket-money, she gayly said, and would enable her to make her children a present whenever they might marry. There was, indeed, already some thought of Berthe marrying; and assuredly she would be the first of Mathieu and Marianne's grandchildren to enter into the state of matrimony. They smiled softly at the idea of becoming great-grandparents before very long perhaps.
After the lapse28 of four years, Gregoire, first of the younger children, flew away. There was a great deal of trouble, quite a little drama in connection with the affair, which Mathieu and Marianne had for some time been anticipating. Gregoire was anything but reasonable. Short, but robust29, with a pert face in which glittered the brightest of eyes, he had always been the turbulent member of the family, the one who caused the most anxiety. His childhood had been spent in playing truant30 in the woods of Janville, and he had afterwards made a mere31 pretence32 of studying in Paris, returning home full of health and spirits, but unable or unwilling33 to make up his mind with respect to any particular trade or profession. Already four-and-twenty, he knew little more than how to shoot and fish, and trot34 about the country on horseback. He was certainly not more stupid or less active than another, but he seemed bent35 on living and amusing himself according to his fancy. The worst was that for some months past all the gossips of Janville had been relating that he had renewed his former boyish friendship with Therese Lepailleur, the miller36's daughter, and that they were to be met of an evening in shady nooks under the pollard-willows by the Yeuse.
One morning Mathieu, wishing to ascertain37 if the young coveys of partridges were plentiful38 in the direction of Mareuil, took Gregoire with him; and when they found themselves alone among the plantations39 of the plateau, he began to talk to him seriously.
"You know I'm not pleased with you, my lad," said he. "I really cannot understand the idle life which you lead here, while all the rest of us are hard at work. I shall wait till October since you have positively40 promised me that you will then come to a decision and choose the calling which you most fancy. But what is all this tittle-tattle which I hear about appointments which you keep with the daughter of the Lepailleurs? Do you wish to cause us serious worry?"
Gregoire quietly began to laugh.
"Oh, father! You are surely not going to scold a son of yours because he happens to be on friendly terms with a pretty girl! Why, as you may remember, it was I who gave her her first bicycle lesson nearly ten years ago. And you will recollect41 the fine white roses which she helped me to secure in the enclosure by the mill for Denis' wedding."
Gregoire still laughed at the memory of that incident, and lived afresh through all his old time sweethearting--the escapades with Therese along the river banks, and the banquets of blackberries in undiscoverable hiding-places, deep in the woods. And it seemed, too, that the love of childhood had revived, and was now bursting into consuming fire, so vividly42 did his cheeks glow, and so hotly did his eyes blaze as he thus recalled those distant times.
"Poor Therese! We had been at daggers43 drawn44 for years, and all because one evening, on coming back from the fair at Vieux-Bourg, I pushed her into a pool of water where she dirtied her frock. It's true that last spring we made it up again on finding ourselves face to face in the little wood at Monval over yonder. But come, father, do you mean to say that it's a crime if we take a little pleasure in speaking to one another when we meet?"
Rendered the more anxious by the fire with which Gregoire sought to defend the girl, Mathieu spoke45 out plainly.
"A crime? No, if you just wish one another good day and good evening. Only folks relate that you are to be seen at dusk with your arms round each other's waist, and that you go stargazing through the grass alongside the Yeuse."
Then, as Gregoire this time without replying laughed yet more loudly, with the merry laugh of youth, his father gravely resumed:
"Listen, my lad, it is not at all to my taste to play the gendarme46 behind my sons. But I won't have you drawing some unpleasant business with the Lepailleurs on us all. You know the position, they would be delighted to give us trouble. So don't give them occasion for complaining, leave their daughter alone."
"Oh! I take plenty of care," cried the young man, thus suddenly confessing the truth. "Poor girl! She has already had her ears boxed because somebody told her father that I had been met with her. He answered that rather than give her to me he would throw her into the river."
"Ah! you see," concluded Mathieu. "It is understood, is it not? I shall rely on your good behavior."
Thereupon they went their way, scouring47 the fields as far as the road to Mareuil. Coveys of young partridges, still weak on the wing, started up both to the right and to the left. The shooting would be good. Then as the father and the son turned homeward, slackening their pace, a long spell of silence fell between them. They were both reflecting.
"I don't wish that there should be any misunderstanding between us," Mathieu suddenly resumed; "you must not imagine that I shall prevent you from marrying according to your tastes and that I shall require you to take an heiress. Our poor Blaise married a portionless girl. And it was the same with Denis; besides which I gave your sister, Claire, in marriage to Frederic, who was simply one of our farm hands. So I don't look down on Therese. On the contrary, I think her charming. She's one of the prettiest girls of the district--not tall, certainly, but so alert and determined, with her little pink face shining under such a wild crop of fair hair, that one might think her powdered with all the flour in the mill."
"Yes, isn't that so, father?" interrupted Gregoire enthusiastically. "And if you only knew how affectionate and courageous48 she is! She's worth a man any day. It's wrong of them to smack49 her, for she will never put up with it. Whenever she sets her mind on anything she's bound to do it, and it isn't I who can prevent her."
Absorbed in some reflections of his own, Mathieu scarcely heard his son.
"No, no," he resumed; "I certainly don't look down on their mill. If it were not for Lepailleur's stupid obstinacy50 he would be drawing a fortune from that mill nowadays. Since corn-growing has again been taken up all over the district, thanks to our victory, he might have got a good pile of crowns together if he had simply changed the old mechanism51 of his wheel which he leaves rotting under the moss52. And better still, I should like to see a good engine there, and a bit of a light railway line connecting the mill with Janville station."
In this fashion he continued explaining his ideas while Gregoire listened, again quite lively and taking things in a jesting way.
"Well, father," the young man ended by saying, "as you wish that I should have a calling, it's settled. If I marry Therese, I'll be a miller."
Mathieu protested in surprise: "No, no, I was merely talking. And besides, you have promised me, my lad, that you will be reasonable. So once again, for the sake of the peace and quietness of all of us, leave Therese alone, for we can only expect to reap worry with the Lepailleurs."
The conversation ceased and they returned to the farm. That evening, however, the father told the mother of the young man's confession53, and she, who already entertained various misgivings54, felt more anxious than ever. Still a month went by without anything serious happening.
Then, one morning Marianne was astounded55 at finding Gregoire's bedroom empty. As a rule he came to kiss her. Perhaps he had risen early, and had gone on some excursion in the environs. But she trembled slightly when she remembered how lovingly he had twice caught her in his arms on the previous night when they were all retiring to bed. And as she looked inquisitively56 round the room she noticed on the mantelshelf a letter addressed to her--a prettily57 worded letter in which the young fellow begged her to forgive him for causing her grief, and asked her to excuse him with his father, for it was necessary that he should leave them for a time. Of his reasons for doing so and his purpose, however, no particulars were given.
This family rending58, this bad conduct on the part of the son who had been the most spoilt of all, and who, in a fit of sudden folly59 was the first to break the ties which united the household together, was a very painful blow for Marianne and Mathieu. They were the more terrified since they divined that Gregoire had not gone off alone. They pieced together the incidents of the deplorable affair. Charlotte remembered that she had heard Gregoire go downstairs again, almost immediately after entering his bedroom, and before the servants had even bolted the house-doors for the night. He had certainly rushed off to join Therese in some coppice, whence they must have hurried away to Vieux-Bourg station which the last train to Paris quitted at five-and-twenty minutes past midnight. And it was indeed this which had taken place. At noon the Froments already learnt that Lepailleur was creating a terrible scandal about the flight of Therese. He had immediately gone to the gendarmes60 to shout the story to them, and demand that they should bring the guilty hussy back, chained to her accomplice61, and both of them with gyves about their wrists.
He on his side had found a letter in his daughter's bedroom, a plucky62 letter in which she plainly said that as she had been struck again the previous day, she had had enough of it, and was going off of her own free will. Indeed, she added that she was taking Gregoire with her, and was quite big and old enough, now that she was two-and-twenty, to know what she was about. Lepailleur's fury was largely due to this letter which he did not dare to show abroad; besides which, his wife, ever at war with him respecting their son Antonin, not only roundly abused Therese, but sneeringly63 declared that it might all have been expected, and that he, the father, was the cause of the gad-about's misconduct. After that, they engaged in fisticuffs; and for a whole week the district did nothing but talk about the flight of one of the Chantebled lads with the girl of the mill, to the despair of Mathieu and Marianne, the latter of whom in particular grieved over the sorry business.
Five days later, a Sunday, matters became even worse. As the search for the runaways64 remained fruitless Lepailleur, boiling over with rancor65, went up to the farm, and from the middle of the road--for he did not venture inside--poured forth15 a flood of ignoble66 insults. It so happened that Mathieu was absent; and Marianne had great trouble to restrain Gervais as well as Frederic, both of whom wished to thrust the miller's scurrilous67 language back into his throat. When Mathieu came home in the evening he was extremely vexed68 to hear of what had happened.
"It is impossible for this state of things to continue," he said to his wife, as they were retiring to rest. "It looks as if we were hiding, as if we were guilty in the matter. I will go to see that man in the morning. There is only one thing, and a very simple one, to be done, those unhappy children must be married. For our part we consent, is it not so? And it is to that man's advantage to consent also. To-morrow the matter must be settled."
On the following day, Monday, at two o'clock in the afternoon, Mathieu set out for the mill. But certain complications, a tragic69 drama, which he could not possibly foresee, awaited him there. For years now a stubborn struggle had been going on between Lepailleur and his wife with respect to Antonin. While the farmer had grown more and more exasperated70 with his son's idleness and life of low debauchery in Paris, the latter had supported her boy with all the obstinacy of an illiterate71 woman, who was possessed72 of a blind faith in his fine handwriting, and felt convinced that if he did not succeed in life it was simply because he was refused the money necessary for that purpose. In spite of her sordid73 avarice74 in some matters, the old woman continued bleeding herself for her son, and even robbed the house, promptly75 thrusting out her claws and setting her teeth ready to bite whenever she was caught in the act, and had to defend some twenty-franc piece or other, which she had been on the point of sending away. And each time the battle began afresh, to such a point indeed that it seemed as if the shaky old mill would some day end by falling on their heads.
Then, all at once, Antonin, a perfect wreck76 at thirty-six years of age, fell seriously ill. Lepailleur forthwith declared that if the scamp had the audacity77 to come home he would pitch him over the wheel into the water. Antonin, however, had no desire to return home; he held the country in horror and feared, too, that his father might chain him up like a dog. So his mother placed him with some people of Batignolles, paying for his board and for the attendance of a doctor of the district. This had been going on for three months or so, and every fortnight La Lepailleur went to see her son. She had done so the previous Thursday, and on the Sunday evening she received a telegram summoning her to Batignolles again. Thus, on the morning of the day when Mathieu repaired to the mill, she had once more gone to Paris after a frightful78 quarrel with her husband, who asked if their good-for-nothing son ever meant to cease fooling them and spending their money, when he had not the courage even to turn a spit of earth.
Alone in the mill that morning Lepailleur did not cease storming. At the slightest provocation80 he would have hammered his plough to pieces, or have rushed, axe82 in hand, and mad with hatred83, on the old wheel by way of avenging84 his misfortunes. When he saw Mathieu come in he believed in some act of bravado85, and almost choked.
"Come, neighbor," said the master of Chantebled cordially, "let us both try to be reasonable. I've come to return your visit, since you called upon me yesterday. Only, bad words never did good work, and the best course, since this misfortune has happened, is to repair it as speedily as possible. When would you have us marry off those bad children?"
Thunderstruck by the quiet good nature of this frontal attack, Lepailleur did not immediately reply. He had shouted over the house roofs that he would have no marriage at all, but rather a good lawsuit86 by way of sending all the Froments to prison. Nevertheless, when it came to reflection, a son of the big farmer of Chantebled was not to be disdained87 as a son-in-law.
"Marry them, marry them," he stammered88 at the first moment. "Yes, by fastening a big stone to both their necks and throwing them together into the river. Ah! the wretches89! I'll skin them, I will, her as well as him."
At last, however, the miller grew calmer and was even showing a disposition90 to discuss matters, when all at once an urchin91 of Janville came running across the yard.
"Please, Monsieur Lepailleur, it's a telegram."
"All right, give it here."
The lad, well pleased with the copper93 he received as a gratuity94, had already gone off, and still the miller, instead of opening the telegram, stood examining the address on it with the distrustful air of a man who does not often receive such communications. However, he at last had to tear it open. It contained but three words: "Your son dead"; and in that brutal95 brevity, that prompt, hasty bludgeon-blow, one could detect the mother's cold rage and eager craving96 to crush without delay the man, the father yonder, whom she accused of having caused her son's death, even as she had accused him of being responsible for her daughter's flight. He felt this full well, and staggered beneath the shock, stunned97 by the words that appeared on that strip of blue paper, reading them again and again till he ended by understanding them. Then his hands began to tremble and he burst into oaths.
"Thunder and blazes! What again is this? Here's the boy dying now! Everything's going to the devil!"
But his heart dilated98 and tears appeared in his eyes. Unable to remain standing11, he sank upon a chair and again obstinately99 read the telegram; "Your son dead--Your son dead," as if seeking something else, the particulars, indeed, which the message did not contain. Perhaps the boy had died before his mother's arrival. Or perhaps she had arrived just before he died. Such were his stammered comments. And he repeated a score of times that she had taken the train at ten minutes past eleven and must have reached Batignolles about half-past twelve. As she had handed in the telegram at twenty minutes past one it seemed more likely that she had found the lad already dead.
"Curse it! curse it!" he shouted; "a cursed telegram, it tells you nothing, and it murders you! She might, at all events, have sent somebody. I shall have to go there. Ah the whole thing's complete, it's more than a man can bear!"
Lepailleur shouted those words in such accents of rageful despair that Mathieu, full of compassion100, made bold to intervene. The sudden shock of the tragedy had staggered him, and he had hitherto waited in silence. But now he offered his services and spoke of accompanying the other to Paris. He had to retreat, however, for the miller rose to his feet, seized with wild exasperation102 at perceiving him still there in his house.
"Ah! yes, you came; and what was it you were saying to me? That we ought to marry off those wretched children? Well, you can see that I'm in proper trim for a wedding! My boy's dead! You've chosen your day well. Be off with you, be off with you, I say, if you don't want me to do something dreadful!"
He raised his fists, quite maddened as he was by the presence of Mathieu at that moment when his whole life was wrecked104. It was terrible indeed that this bourgeois105 who had made a fortune by turning himself into a peasant should be there at the moment when he so suddenly learnt the death of Antonin, that son whom he had dreamt of turning into a Monsieur by filling his mind with disgust of the soil and sending him to rot of idleness and vice101 in Paris! It enraged106 him to find that he had erred9, that the earth whom he had slandered107, whom he had taxed with decrepitude108 and barrenness was really a living, youthful, and fruitful spouse109 to the man who knew how to love her! And nought110 but ruin remained around him, thanks to his imbecile resolve to limit his family: a foul111 life had killed his only son, and his only daughter had gone off with a scion112 of the triumphant113 farm, while he was now utterly114 alone, weeping and howling in his deserted115 mill, that mill which he had likewise disdained and which was crumbling116 around him with old age.
"You hear me!" he shouted. "Therese may drag herself at my feet; but I will never, never give her to your thief of a son! You'd like it, wouldn't you? so that folks might mock me all over the district, and so that you might eat me up as you have eaten up all the others!"
This finish to it all had doubtless appeared to him, confusedly, in a sudden threatening vision: Antonin being dead, it was Gregoire who would possess the mill, if he should marry Therese. And he would possess the moorland also, that enclosure, hitherto left barren with such savage117 delight, and so passionately119 coveted120 by the farm. And doubtless he would cede121 it to the farm as soon as he should be the master. The thought that Chantebled might yet be increased by the fields which he, Lepailleur, had withheld122 from it brought the miller's delirious123 rage to a climax124.
"Your son, I'll send him to the galleys125! And you, if you don't go, I'll throw you out! Be off with you, be off!"
Mathieu, who was very pale, slowly retired before this furious madman. But as he went off he calmly said: "You are an unhappy man. I forgive you, for you are in great grief. Besides, I am quite easy, sensible things always end by taking place."
Again, a month went by. Then, one rainy morning in October, Madame Lepailleur was found hanging in the mill stable. There were folks at Janville who related that Lepailleur had hung her there. The truth was that she had given signs of melancholia ever since the death of Antonin. Moreover, the life led at the mill was no longer bearable; day by day the husband and wife reproached one another for their son's death and their daughter's flight, battling ragefully together like two abandoned beasts shut up in the same cage. Folks were merely astonished that such a harsh, avaricious126 woman should have been willing to quit this life without taking her goods and chattels127 with her.
As soon as Therese heard of her mother's death she hastened home, repentant128, and took her place beside her father again, unwilling as she was that he should remain alone in his two-fold bereavement129. At first it proved a terrible time for her in the company of that brutal old man who was exasperated by what he termed his bad luck. But she was a girl of sterling courage and prompt decision; and thus, after a few weeks, she had made her father consent to her marriage with Gregoire, which, as Mathieu had said, was the only sensible course. The news gave great relief at the farm whither the prodigal130 son had not yet dared to return. It was believed that the young couple, after eloping together, had lived in some out of the way district of Paris, and it was even suspected that Ambroise, who was liberally minded, had, in a brotherly way, helped them with his purse. And if, on the one hand, Lepailleur consented to the marriage in a churlish, distrustful manner--like one who deemed himself robbed, and was simply influenced by the egotistical dread103 of some day finding himself quite alone again in his gloomy house--Mathieu and Marianne, on the other side, were delighted with an arrangement which put an end to an equivocal situation that had caused them the greatest suffering, grieved as they were by the rebellion of one of their children.
Curiously131 enough, it came to pass that Gregoire, once married and installed at the mill in accordance with his wife's desire, agreed with his father-in-law far better than had been anticipated. This resulted in particular from a certain discussion during which Lepailleur had wished to make Gregoire swear, that, after his death, he would never dispose of the moorland enclosure, hitherto kept uncultivated with peasant stubbornness, to any of his brothers or sisters of the farm. Gregoire took no oath on the subject, but gayly declared that he was not such a fool as to despoil132 his wife of the best part of her inheritance, particularly as he proposed to cultivate those moors133 and, within two or three years' time, make them the most fertile land in the district. That which belonged to him did not belong to others, and people would soon see that he was well able to defend the property which had fallen to his lot. Things took a similar course with respect to the mill, where Gregoire at first contented134 himself with repairing the old mechanism, for he was unwilling to upset the miller's habits all at once, and therefore postponed135 until some future time the installation of an engine, and the laying down of a line of rails to Janville station--all those ideas formerly136 propounded137 by Mathieu which henceforth fermented138 in his audacious young mind.
In this wise, then, people found themselves in presence of a new Gregoire. The madcap had become wise, only retaining of his youthful follies139 the audacity which is needful for successful enterprise. And it must be said that he was admirably seconded by the fair and energetic Therese. They were both enraptured140 at now being free to love each other in the romantic old mill, garlanded with ivy141, pending79 the time when they would resolutely142 fling it to the ground to install in its place the great white meal stores and huge new mill-stones, which, with their conquering ambition, they often dreamt of.
During the years that followed, Mathieu and Marianne witnessed other departures. The three daughters, Louise, Madeleine, and Marguerite, in turn took their flight from the family nest. All three found husbands in the district. Louise, a plump brunette, all gayety and health, with abundant hair and large laughing eyes, married notary143 Mazaud of Janville, a quiet, pensive144 little man, whose occasional silent smiles alone denoted the perfect satisfaction which he felt at having found a wife of such joyous145 disposition. Then Madeleine, whose chestnut146 tresses were tinged147 with gleaming gold, and who was slimmer than her sister, and of a more dreamy style of beauty, her character and disposition refined by her musical tastes, made a love match which was quite a romance. Herbette, the architect, who became her husband, was a handsome, elegant man, already celebrated148; he owned near Monvel a park-like estate, where he came to rest at times from the fatigue149 of his labors151 in Paris.
At last, Marguerite, the least pretty of the girls--indeed, she was quite plain, but derived152 a charm from her infinite goodness of heart--was chosen in marriage by Dr. Chambouvet, a big, genial153, kindly154 fellow, who had inherited his father's practice at Vieux-Bourg, where he lived in a large white house, which had become the resort of the poor. And thus the three girls being married, the only ones who remained with Mathieu and Marianne in the slowly emptying nest were their two last boys, Nicolas and Benjamin.
At the same time, however, as the youngsters flew away and installed themselves elsewhere, there came other little ones, a constant swarming due to the many family marriages. In eight years, Denis, who reigned155 at the factory in Paris, had been presented by his wife with three children, two boys, Lucien and Paul, and a girl, Hortense. Then Leonce, the son of Ambroise, who was conquering such a high position in the commercial world, now had a brother, Charles, and two little sisters, Pauline and Sophie. At the farm, moreover, Gervais was already the father of two boys, Leon and Henri, while Claire, his sister, could count three children, a boy, Joseph, and two daughters, Lucile and Angele. There was also Gregoire, at the mill, with a big boy who had received the name of Robert; and there were also the three last married daughters--Louise, with a girl two years old; Madeleine, with a boy six months of age; and Marguerite, who in anticipation156 of a happy event, had decided157 to call her child Stanislas, if it were a boy, and Christine, if it should be a girl.
Thus upon every side the family oak spread out its branches, its trunk forking and multiplying, and boughs158 sprouting from boughs at each successive season. And withal Mathieu was not yet sixty, and Marianne not yet fifty-seven. Both still possessed flourishing health, and strength, and gayety, and were ever in delight at seeing the family, which had sprung from them, thus growing and spreading, invading all the country around, even like a forest born from a single tree.
But the great and glorious festival of Chantebled at that period was the birth of Mathieu and Marianne's first great-grandchild--a girl, called Angeline, daughter of their granddaughter, Berthe. In this little girl, all pink and white, the ever-regretted Blaise seemed to live again. So closely did she resemble him that Charlotte, his widow, already a grandmother in her forty-second year, wept with emotion at the sight of her. Madame Desvignes had died six months previously159, passing away, even as she had lived, gently and discreetly160, at the termination of her task, which had chiefly consisted in rearing her two daughters on the scanty162 means at her disposal. Still it was she, who, before quitting the scene, had found a husband for her granddaughter, Berthe, in the person of Philippe Havard, a young engineer who had recently been appointed assistant-manager at a State factory near Mareuil. It was at Chantebled, however, that Berthe's little Angeline was born; and on the day of the churching, the whole family assembled together there once more to glorify163 the great-grandfather and great-grandmother.
"Ah! well," said Marianne gayly, as she stood beside the babe's cradle, "if the young ones fly away there are others born, and so the nest will never be empty."
"Never, never!" repeated Mathieu with emotion, proud as he felt of that continual victory over solitude164 and death. "We shall never be left alone!"
Yet there came another departure which brought them many tears. Nicolas, the youngest but one of their boys, who was approaching his twentieth birthday, and thus nigh the cross-roads of life, had not yet decided which one he would follow. He was a dark, sturdy young man, with an open, laughing face. As a child, he had adored tales of travel and far-away adventure, and had always evinced great courage and endurance, returning home enraptured from interminable rambles165, and never uttering complaints, however badly his feet might be blistered166. And withal he possessed a most orderly mind, ever carefully arranging and classifying his little belongings167 in his drawers, and looking down with contempt on the haphazard168 way in which his sisters kept their things.
Later on, as he grew up, he became thoughtful, as if he were vainly seeking around him some means of realizing his two-fold craving, that of discovering some new land and organizing it properly. One of the last-born of a numerous family, he no longer found space enough for the amplitude169 and force of his desires. His brothers and sisters had already taken all the surrounding lands, and he stifled170, threatened also, as it were, with famine, and ever sought the broad expanse that he dreamt of, where he might grow and reap his bread. No more room, no more food! At first he knew not in which direction to turn, but groped and hesitated for some months. Nevertheless, his hearty172 laughter continued to gladden the house; he wearied neither his father nor his mother with the care of his destiny, for he knew that he was already strong enough to fix it himself.
There was no corner left for him at the farm where Gervais and Claire took up all the room. At the Beauchene works Denis was all sufficient, reigning173 there like a conscientious174 toiler175, and nothing justified176 a younger brother in claiming a share beside him. At the mill, too, Gregoire was as yet barely established, and his kingdom was so small that he could not possibly cede half of it. Thus an opening was only possible with Ambroise, and Nicolas ended by accepting an obliging offer which the latter made to take him on trial for a few months, by way of initiating177 him into the higher branches of commerce. Ambroise's fortune was becoming prodigious178 since old uncle Du Hordel had died, leaving him his commission business. Year by year the new master increased his trade with all the countries of the world. Thanks to his lucky audacity and broad international views, he was enriching himself with the spoils of the earth. And though Nicolas again began to stifle171 in Ambroise's huge store-houses, where the riches of distant countries, the most varied179 climes, were collected together, it was there that his real vocation81 came to him; for a voice suddenly arose, calling him away yonder to dim, unknown regions, vast stretches of country yet sterile180, which needed to be populated, and cleared and sowed with the crops of the future.
For two months Nicolas kept silent respecting the designs which he was now maturing. He was extremely discreet161, as are all men of great energy, who reflect before they act. He must go, that was certain, since neither space nor sufficiency of sunlight remained for him in the cradle of his birth; but if he went off alone, would that not be going in an imperfect state, deficient181 in the means needed for the heroic task of populating and clearing a new land? He knew a girl of Janville, one Lisbeth Moreau, who was tall and strong, and whose robust health, seriousness, and activity had charmed him. She was nineteen years of age, and, like Nicolas, she stifled in the little nook to which destiny had confined her; for she craved182 for the free and open air, yonder, afar off. An orphan183, and long dependent on an aunt, who was simply a little village haberdasher, she had hitherto, from feelings of affection, remained cloistered184 in a small and gloomy shop. But her aunt had lately died, leaving her some ten thousand francs, and her dream was to sell the little business, and go away and really live at last. One October evening, when Nicolas and Lisbeth told one another things that they had never previously told anybody, they came to an understanding. They resolutely took each other's hand and plighted185 their troth for life, for the hard battle of creating a new world, a new family, somewhere on the earth's broad surface, in those mysterious, far away climes of which they knew so little. 'Twas a delightful186 betrothal187, full of courage and faith.
Only then, everything having been settled, did Nicolas speak out, announcing his departure to his father and mother. It was an autumn evening, still mild, but fraught188 with winter's first shiver, and the twilight189 was falling. Intense grief wrung190 the parents' hearts as soon as they understood their son. This time it was not simply a young one flying from the family nest to build his own on some neighboring tree of the common forest; it was flight across the seas forever, severance191 without hope of return. They would see their other children again, but this one was breathing an eternal farewell. Their consent would be the share of cruel sacrifice, that life demands, their supreme192 gift to life, the tithe193 levied194 by life on their affection and their blood. To pursue its victory, life, the perpetual conqueror5, demanded this portion of their flesh, this overplus of the numerous family, which was overflowing195, spreading, peopling the world. And what could they answer, how could they refuse? The son who was unprovided for took himself off; nothing could be more logical or more sensible. Far beyond the fatherland there were vast continents yet uninhabited, and the seed which is scattered196 by the breezes of heaven knows no frontiers. Beyond the race there is mankind with that endless spreading of humanity that is leading us to the one fraternal people of the accomplished197 times, when the whole earth shall be but one sole city of truth and justice.
Moreover, quite apart from the great dream of those seers, the poets, Nicolas, like a practical man, whatever his enthusiasm, gayly gave his reasons for departing. He did not wish to be a parasite198; he was setting off to the conquest of another land, where he would grow the bread he needed, since his own country had no field left for him. Besides, he took his country with him in his blood; she it was that he wished to enlarge afar off with unlimited199 increase of wealth and strength. It was ancient Africa, the mysterious, now explored, traversed from end to end, that attracted him. In the first instance he intended to repair to Senegal, whence he would doubtless push on to the Soudan, to the very heart of the virgin201 lands where he dreamt of a new France, an immense colonial empire, which would rejuvenate202 the old Gallic race by endowing it with its due share of the earth. And it was there that he had the ambition of carving203 out a kingdom for himself, and of founding with Lisbeth another dynasty of Froments, and a new Chantebled, covering under the hot sun a tract200 ten times as extensive as the old one, and peopled with the people of his own children. And he spoke of all this with such joyous courage that Mathieu and Marianne ended by smiling amid their tears, despite the rending of their poor hearts.
"Go, my lad, we cannot keep you back. Go wherever life calls you, wherever you may live with more health and joy and strength. All that may spring from you yonder will still be health and joy and strength derived from us, of which we shall be proud. You are right, one must not weep, your departure must be a fete, for the family does not separate, it simply extends, invades, and conquers the world."
Nevertheless, on the day of farewell, after the marriage of Nicolas and Lisbeth there was an hour of painful emotion at Chantebled. The family had met to share a last meal all together, and when the time came for the young and adventurous204 couple to tear themselves from the maternal205 soil there were those who sobbed206 although they had vowed207 to be very brave. Nicolas and Lisbeth were going off with little means, but rich in hopes. Apart from the ten thousand francs of the wife's dowry they had only been willing to take another ten thousand, just enough to provide for the first difficulties. Might courage and labor150 therefore prove sturdy artisans of conquest.
Young Benjamin, the last born of the brothers Froment, was particularly upset by this departure. He was a delicate, good-looking child not yet twelve years old, whom his parents greatly spoiled, thinking that he was weak. And they were quite determined that they would at all events keep him with them, so handsome did they find him with his soft limpid208 eyes and beautiful curly hair. He was growing up in a languid way, dreamy, petted, idle among his mother's skirts, like the one charming weakling of that strong, hardworking family.
"Let me kiss you again, my good Nicolas," said he to his departing brother. "When will you come back?"
"Never, my little Benjamin."
"Never, never!" he repeated. "Oh! that's too long. Come back, come back some day, so that I may kiss you again."
"Never," repeated Nicolas, turning pale himself. "Never, never."
He had lifted up the lad, whose tears were raining fast; and then for all came the supreme grief, the frightful moment of the hatchet-stroke, of the separation which was to be eternal.
"Good-by, little brother! Good-by, good-by, all of you!"
While Mathieu accompanied the future conqueror to the door for the last time wishing him victory, Benjamin in wild grief sought a refuge beside his mother who was blinded by her tears. And she caught him up with a passionate118 clasp, as if seized with fear that he also might leave her. He was the only one now left to them in the family nest.
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1
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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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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3
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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conquerors
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| 征服者，占领者( conqueror的名词复数 ) | |
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conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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sterling
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| adj.英币的(纯粹的，货真价实的)；n.英国货币(英镑) | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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erred
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| 犯错误，做错事( err的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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12
abdicated
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| 放弃（职责、权力等）( abdicate的过去式和过去分词 )； 退位，逊位 | |
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13
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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14
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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15
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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16
procuring
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的现在分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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17
supervision
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| n.监督，管理 | |
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18
turnover
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| n.人员流动率，人事变动率；营业额，成交量 | |
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19
skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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20
renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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21
oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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founders
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| n.创始人( founder的名词复数 ) | |
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23
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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24
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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25
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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26
stipulated
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| vt.& vi.规定；约定adj.[法]合同规定的 | |
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27
dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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28
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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29
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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30
truant
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| n.懒惰鬼，旷课者；adj.偷懒的，旷课的，游荡的；v.偷懒，旷课 | |
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31
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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32
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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33
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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34
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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35
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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36
miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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37
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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38
plentiful
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| adj.富裕的，丰富的 | |
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39
plantations
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| n.种植园，大农场( plantation的名词复数 ) | |
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40
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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41
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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42
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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43
daggers
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| 匕首，短剑( dagger的名词复数 ) | |
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44
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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45
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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46
gendarme
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| n.宪兵 | |
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47
scouring
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| 擦[洗]净，冲刷，洗涤 | |
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48
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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49
smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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50
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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51
mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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52
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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53
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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54
misgivings
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕；疑虑，担心，恐惧( misgiving的名词复数 )；疑惧 | |
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55
astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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56
inquisitively
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| 过分好奇地； 好问地 | |
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57
prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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58
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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59
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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60
gendarmes
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| n.宪兵，警官( gendarme的名词复数 ) | |
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61
accomplice
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| n.从犯，帮凶，同谋 | |
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62
plucky
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| adj.勇敢的 | |
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63
sneeringly
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| 嘲笑地，轻蔑地 | |
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64
runaways
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| （轻而易举的）胜利( runaway的名词复数 ) | |
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65
rancor
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| n.深仇，积怨 | |
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66
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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67
scurrilous
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| adj.下流的，恶意诽谤的 | |
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68
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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69
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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70
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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71
illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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72
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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73
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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74
avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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75
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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76
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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77
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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78
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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79
pending
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| prep.直到，等待…期间；adj.待定的；迫近的 | |
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80
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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81
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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82
axe
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| n.斧子；v.用斧头砍，削减 | |
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83
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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84
avenging
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| adj.报仇的，复仇的v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的现在分词 )；为…报复 | |
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85
bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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86
lawsuit
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| n.诉讼，控诉 | |
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87
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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88
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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89
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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90
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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91
urchin
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| n.顽童；海胆 | |
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92
premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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93
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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94
gratuity
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| n.赏钱，小费 | |
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95
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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96
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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97
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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98
dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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100
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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101
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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102
exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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103
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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104
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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105
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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106
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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107
slandered
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| 造谣中伤( slander的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
decrepitude
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| n.衰老；破旧 | |
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109
spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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110
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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111
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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112
scion
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| n.嫩芽，子孙 | |
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113
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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114
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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115
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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116
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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117
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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118
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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119
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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120
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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121
cede
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| v.割让，放弃 | |
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122
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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123
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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124
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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125
galleys
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| n.平底大船，战舰( galley的名词复数 )；（船上或航空器上的）厨房 | |
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126
avaricious
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| adj.贪婪的，贪心的 | |
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127
chattels
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| n.动产，奴隶( chattel的名词复数 ) | |
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128
repentant
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| adj.对…感到悔恨的 | |
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129
bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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130
prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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131
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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132
despoil
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| v.夺取，抢夺 | |
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133
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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134
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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135
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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136
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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137
propounded
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| v.提出（问题、计划等）供考虑[讨论]，提议( propound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
fermented
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| v.（使）发酵( ferment的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）激动；骚动；骚扰 | |
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139
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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140
enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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141
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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142
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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143
notary
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| n.公证人，公证员 | |
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144
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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145
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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146
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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147
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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148
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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149
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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150
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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151
labors
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| v.努力争取(for)( labor的第三人称单数 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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152
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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153
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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154
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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155
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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156
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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157
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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158
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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159
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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160
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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161
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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162
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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163
glorify
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| vt.颂扬，赞美，使增光，美化 | |
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164
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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165
rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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166
blistered
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| adj.水疮状的，泡状的v.（使）起水泡( blister的过去式和过去分词 )；（使表皮等）涨破，爆裂 | |
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167
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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168
haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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169
amplitude
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| n.广大；充足；振幅 | |
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170
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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171
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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172
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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173
reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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174
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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175
toiler
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| 辛劳者，勤劳者 | |
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176
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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177
initiating
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| v.开始( initiate的现在分词 )；传授；发起；接纳新成员 | |
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178
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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179
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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180
sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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181
deficient
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| adj.不足的，不充份的，有缺陷的 | |
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182
craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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183
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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184
cloistered
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| adj.隐居的，躲开尘世纷争的v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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185
plighted
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| vt.保证，约定（plight的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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186
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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187
betrothal
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| n. 婚约, 订婚 | |
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188
fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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189
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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190
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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191
severance
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| n.离职金；切断 | |
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192
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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193
tithe
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| n.十分之一税；v.课什一税，缴什一税 | |
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194
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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195
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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196
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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197
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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198
parasite
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| n.寄生虫；寄生菌；食客 | |
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199
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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200
tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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201
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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202
rejuvenate
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| v.(使)返老还童；(使)恢复活力 | |
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203
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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204
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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205
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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206
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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207
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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208
limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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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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