The small engine attached to the Neuilly steam-tram whistled as it passed the Porte Maillot to warn all obstacles to get out of its way and puffed1 like a person out of breath as it sent out its steam, its pistons2 moving rapidly with a noise as of iron legs running. The train was going along the broad avenue that ends at the Seine. The sultry heat at the close of a July day lay over the whole city, and from the road, although there was not a breath of wind stirring, there arose a white, chalky, suffocating3, warm dust, which adhered to the moist skin, filled the eyes and got into the lungs. People stood in the doorways4 of their houses to try and get a breath of air.
The windows of the steam-tram were open and the curtains fluttered in the wind. There were very few passengers inside, because on warm days people preferred the outside or the platforms. They consisted of stout6 women in peculiar7 costumes, of those shopkeepers' wives from the suburbs, who made up for the distinguished8 looks which they did not possess by ill-assumed dignity; of men tired from office-work, with yellow faces, stooped shoulders, and with one shoulder higher than the other, in consequence of, their long hours of writing at a desk. Their uneasy and melancholy9 faces also spoke10 of domestic troubles, of constant want of money, disappointed hopes, for they all belonged to the army of poor, threadbare devils who vegetate11 economically in cheap, plastered houses with a tiny piece of neglected garden on the outskirts12 of Paris, in the midst of those fields where night soil is deposited.
A short, corpulent man, with a puffy face, dressed all in black and wearing a decoration in his buttonhole, was talking to a tall, thin man, dressed in a dirty, white linen13 suit, the coat all unbuttoned, with a white Panama hat on his head. The former spoke so slowly and hesitatingly that it occasionally almost seemed as if he stammered14; he was Monsieur Caravan15, chief clerk in the Admiralty. The other, who had formerly16 been surgeon on board a merchant ship, had set up in practice in Courbevoie, where he applied17 the vague remnants of medical knowledge which he had retained after an adventurous18 life, to the wretched population of that district. His name was Chenet, and strange rumors19 were current as to his morality.
Monsieur Caravan had always led the normal life of a man in a Government office. For the last thirty years he had invariably gone the same way to his office every morning, and had met the same men going to business at the same time, and nearly on the same spot, and he returned home every evening by the same road, and again met the same faces which he had seen growing old. Every morning, after buying his penny paper at the corner of the Faubourg Saint Honore, he bought two rolls, and then went to his office, like a culprit who is giving himself up to justice, and got to his desk as quickly as possible, always feeling uneasy; as though he were expecting a rebuke20 for some neglect of duty of which he might have been guilty.
Nothing had ever occurred to change the monotonous21 order of his existence, for no event affected22 him except the work of his office, perquisites23, gratuities24, and promotion25. He never spoke of anything but of his duties, either at the office, or at home—he had married the portionless daughter of one of his colleagues. His mind, which was in a state of atrophy26 from his depressing daily work, had no other thoughts, hopes or dreams than such as related to the office, and there was a constant source of bitterness that spoilt every pleasure that he might have had, and that was the employment of so many naval27 officials, tinsmiths, as they were called because of their silver-lace as first-class clerks; and every evening at dinner he discussed the matter hotly with his wife, who shared his angry feelings, and proved to their own satisfaction that it was in every way unjust to give places in Paris to men who ought properly to have been employed in the navy.
He was old now, and had scarcely noticed how his life was passing, for school had merely been exchanged for the office without any intermediate transition, and the ushers28, at whom he had formerly trembled, were replaced by his chiefs, of whom he was terribly afraid. When he had to go into the rooms of these official despots, it made him tremble from head to foot, and that constant fear had given him a very awkward manner in their presence, a humble29 demeanor30, and a kind of nervous stammering31.
He knew nothing more about Paris than a blind man might know who was led to the same spot by his dog every day; and if he read the account of any uncommon32 events or scandals in his penny paper, they appeared to him like fantastic tales, which some pressman had made up out of his own head, in order to amuse the inferior employees. He did not read the political news, which his paper frequently altered as the cause which subsidized it might require, for he was not fond of innovations, and when he went through the Avenue of the Champs-Elysees every evening, he looked at the surging crowd of pedestrians33, and at the stream of carriages, as a traveller might who has lost his way in a strange country.
As he had completed his thirty years of obligatory34 service that year, on the first of January, he had had the cross of the Legion of Honor bestowed35 upon him, which, in the semi-military public offices, is a recompense for the miserable37 slavery—the official phrase is, loyal services—of unfortunate convicts who are riveted38 to their desk. That unexpected dignity gave him a high and new idea of his own capacities, and altogether changed him. He immediately left off wearing light trousers and fancy waistcoats, and wore black trousers and long coats, on which his ribbon, which was very broad, showed off better. He got shaved every morning, manicured his nails more carefully, changed his linen every two days, from a legitimate40 sense of what was proper, and out of respect for the national Order, of which he formed a part, and from that day he was another Caravan, scrupulously41 clean, majestic42 and condescending43.
At home, he said, “my cross,” at every moment, and he had become so proud of it, that he could not bear to see men wearing any other ribbon in their button-holes. He became especially angry on seeing strange orders: “Which nobody ought to be allowed to wear in France,” and he bore Chenet a particular grudge44, as he met him on a tram-car every evening, wearing a decoration of one kind or another, white, blue, orange, or green.
The conversation of the two men, from the Arc de Triomphe to Neuilly, was always the same, and on that day they discussed, first of all, various local abuses which disgusted them both, and the Mayor of Neuilly received his full share of their censure45. Then, as invariably happens in the company of medical men, Caravan began to enlarge on the chapter of illness, as in that manner, he hoped to obtain a little gratuitous46 advice, if he was careful not to show his hand. His mother had been causing him no little anxiety for some time; she had frequent and prolonged fainting fits, and, although she was ninety, she would not take care of herself.
Caravan grew quite tender-hearted when he mentioned her great age, and more than once asked Doctor Chenet, emphasizing the word doctor—although he was not fully39 qualified47, being only an Offcier de Sante—whether he had often met anyone as old as that. And he rubbed his hands with pleasure; not, perhaps, that he cared very much about seeing the good woman last forever here on earth, but because the long duration of his mother's life was, as it were an earnest of old age for himself, and he continued:
“In my family, we last long, and I am sure that, unless I meet with an accident, I shall not die until I am very old.”
The doctor looked at him with pity, and glanced for a moment at his neighbor's red face, his short, thick neck, his “corporation,” as Chenet called it to himself, his two fat, flabby legs, and the apoplectic48 rotundity of the old official; and raising the white Panama hat from his head, he said with a snigger:
“I am not so sure of that, old fellow; your mother is as tough as nails, and I should say that your life is not a very good one.”
This rather upset Caravan, who did not speak again until the tram put them down at their destination, where the two friends got out, and Chenet asked his friend to have a glass of vermouth at the Cafe du Globe, opposite, which both of them were in the habit of frequenting. The proprietor49, who was a friend of theirs, held out to them two fingers, which they shook across the bottles of the counter; and then they joined three of their friends, who were playing dominoes, and who had been there since midday. They exchanged cordial greetings, with the usual question: “Anything new?” And then the three players continued their game, and held out their hands without looking up, when the others wished them “Good-night,” and then they both went home to dinner.
Caravan lived in a small two-story house in Courbevaie, near where the roads meet; the ground floor was occupied by a hair-dresser. Two bed rooms, a dining-room and a kitchen, formed the whole of their apartments, and Madame Caravan spent nearly her whole time in cleaning them up, while her daughter, Marie-Louise, who was twelve, and her son, Phillip-Auguste, were running about with all the little, dirty, mischievous51 brats53 of the neighborhood, and playing in the gutter54.
Caravan had installed his mother, whose avarice55 was notorious in the neighborhood, and who was terribly thin, in the room above them. She was always cross, and she never passed a day without quarreling and flying into furious tempers. She would apostrophize the neighbors, who were standing56 at their own doors, the coster-mongers, the street-sweepers, and the street-boys, in the most violent language; and the latter, to have their revenge, used to follow her at a distance when she went out, and call out rude things after her.
A little servant from Normandy, who was incredibly giddy and thoughtless, performed the household work, and slept on the second floor in the same room as the old woman, for fear of anything happening to her in the night.
When Caravan got in, his wife, who suffered from a chronic57 passion for cleaning, was polishing up the mahogany chairs that were scattered58 about the room with a piece of flannel59. She always wore cotton gloves, and adorned60 her head with a cap ornamented61 with many colored ribbons, which was always tilted62 over one ear; and whenever anyone caught her polishing, sweeping63, or washing, she used to say:
“I am not rich; everything is very simple in my house, but cleanliness is my luxury, and that is worth quite as much as any other.”
As she was gifted with sound, obstinate64, practical common sense, she led her husband in everything. Every evening during dinner, and afterwards when they were in their room, they talked over the business of the office for a long time, and although she was twenty years younger than he was, he confided65 everything to her as if she took the lead, and followed her advice in every matter.
She had never been pretty, and now she had grown ugly; in addition to that, she was short and thin, while her careless and tasteless way of dressing66 herself concealed67 her few small feminine attractions, which might have been brought out if she had possessed68 any taste in dress. Her skirts were always awry69, and she frequently scratched herself, no matter on what part of her person, totally indifferent as to who might see her, and so persistently70, that anyone who saw her might think that she was suffering from something like the itch50. The only adornments that she allowed herself were silk ribbons, which she had in great profusion71, and of various colors mixed together, in the pretentious72 caps which she wore at home.
As soon as she saw her husband she rose and said, as she kissed his whiskers:
“Did you remember Potin, my dear?”
He fell into a chair, in consternation73, for that was the fourth time on which he had forgotten a commission that he had promised to do for her.
“It is a fatality,” he said; “it is no good for me to think of it all day long, for I am sure to forget it in the evening.”
But as he seemed really so very sorry, she merely said, quietly:
“You will think of it to-morrow, I dare say. Anything new at the office?”
“Yes, a great piece of news; another tinsmith has been appointed second chief clerk.” She became very serious, and said:
“So he succeeds Ramon; this was the very post that I wanted you to have. And what about Ramon?”
“He retires on his pension.”
She became furious, her cap slid down on her shoulder, and she continued:
“There is nothing more to be done in that shop now. And what is the name of the new commissioner74?”
“Bonassot.”
She took up the Naval Year Book, which she always kept close at hand, and looked him up.
“'Bonassot-Toulon. Born in 1851. Student Commissioner in 1871. Sub-Commissioner in 1875.' Has he been to sea?” she continued. At that question Caravan's looks cleared up, and he laughed until his sides shook.
“As much as Balin—as much as Baffin, his chief.” And he added an old office joke, and laughed more than ever:
“It would not even do to send them by water to inspect the Point-du-Jour, for they would be sick on the penny steamboats on the Seine.”
But she remained as serious as if she had not heard him, and then she said in a low voice, as she scratched her chin:
“If we only had a Deputy to fall back upon. When the Chamber75 hears everything that is going on at the Admiralty, the Minister will be turned out——”
She was interrupted by a terrible noise on the stairs. Marie-Louise and Philippe-Auguste, who had just come in from the gutter, were slapping each other all the way upstairs. Their mother rushed at them furiously, and taking each of them by an arm she dragged them into the room, shaking them vigorously; but as soon as they saw their father, they rushed up to him, and he kissed them affectionately, and taking one of them on each knee, began to talk to them.
Philippe-Auguste was an ugly, ill-kempt little brat52, dirty from head to foot, with the face of an idiot, and Marie-Louise was already like her mother—spoke like her, repeated her words, and even imitated her movements. She also asked him whether there was anything fresh at the office, and he replied merrily:
“Your friend, Ramon, who comes and dines here every Sunday, is going to leave us, little one. There is a new second head-clerk.”
She looked at her father, and with a precocious76 child's pity, she said:
“Another man has been put over your head again.”
He stopped laughing, and did not reply, and in order to create a diversion, he said, addressing his wife, who was cleaning the windows:
“How is mamma, upstairs?”
Madame Caravan left off rubbing, turned round pulled her cap up, as it had fallen quite on to her back, and said with trembling lips:
“Ah! yes; let us talk about your mother, for she has made a pretty scene. Just imagine: a short time ago Madame Lebaudin, the hairdresser's wife, came upstairs to borrow a packet of starch77 of me, and, as I was not at home, your mother chased her out as though she were a beggar; but I gave it to the old woman. She pretended not to hear, as she always does when one tells her unpleasant truths, but she is no more deaf than I am, as you know. It is all a sham78, and the proof of it is, that she went up to her own room immediately, without saying a word.”
Caravan, embarrassed, did not utter a word, and at that moment the little servant came in to announce dinner. In order to let his mother know, he took a broom-handle, which always stood in a corner, and rapped loudly on the ceiling three times, and then they went into the dining-room. Madame Caravan, junior, helped the soup, and waited for the old woman, but she did not come, and as the soup was getting cold, they began to eat slowly, and when their plates were empty, they waited again, and Madame Caravan, who was furious, attacked her husband:
“She does it on purpose, you know that as well as I do. But you always uphold her.”
Not knowing which side to take, he sent Marie-Louise to fetch her grandmother, and he sat motionless, with his eyes cast down, while his wife tapped her glass angrily with her knife. In about a minute, the door flew open suddenly, and the child came in again, out of breath and very pale, and said hurriedly:
“Grandmamma has fallen on the floor.”
Caravan jumped up, threw his table-napkin down, and rushed upstairs, while his wife, who thought it was some trick of her mother-in-law's, followed more slowly, shrugging her shoulders, as if to express her doubt. When they got upstairs, however, they found the old woman lying at full length in the middle of the room; and when they turned her over, they saw that she was insensible and motionless, while her skin looked more wrinkled and yellow than usual, her eyes were closed, her teeth clenched79, and her thin body was stiff.
Caravan knelt down by her, and began to moan.
“My poor mother! my poor mother!” he said. But the other Madame Caravan said:
“Bah! She has only fainted again, that is all, and she has done it to prevent us from dining comfortably, you may be sure of that.”
They put her on the bed, undressed her completely, and Caravan, his wife, and the servant began to rub her; but, in spite of their efforts, she did not recover consciousness, so they sent Rosalie, the servant, to fetch Doctor Chenet. He lived a long way off, on the quay80, going towards Suresnes, and so it was a considerable time before he arrived. He came at last, however, and, after having looked at the old woman, felt her pulse, and listened for a heart beat, he said: “It is all over.”
Caravan threw himself on the body, sobbing81 violently; he kissed his mother's rigid83 face, and wept so that great tears fell on the dead woman's face like drops of water, and, naturally, Madame Caravan, junior, showed a decorous amount of grief, and uttered feeble moans as she stood behind her husband, while she rubbed her eyes vigorously.
But, suddenly, Caravan raised himself up, with his thin hair in disorder84, and, looking very ugly in his grief, said:
“But—are you sure, doctor? Are you quite sure?”
The doctor stooped over the body, and, handling it with professional dexterity85, as a shopkeeper might do, when showing off his goods, he said:
“See, my dear friend, look at her eye.”
He raised the eyelid86, and the old woman's eye appeared altogether unaltered, unless, perhaps, the pupil was rather larger, and Caravan felt a severe shock at the sight. Then Monsieur Chenet took her thin arm, forced the fingers open, and said, angrily, as if he had been contradicted:
“Just look at her hand; I never make a mistake, you may be quite sure of that.”
Caravan fell on the bed, and almost bellowed87, while his wife, still whimpering, did what was necessary.
She brought the night-table, on which she spread a towel and placed four wax candles on it, which she lighted; then she took a sprig of box, which was hanging over the chimney glass, and put it between the four candles, in a plate, which she filled with clean water, as she had no holy water. But, after a moment's rapid reflection, she threw a pinch of salt into the water, no doubt thinking she was performing some sort of act of consecration88 by doing that, and when she had finished, she remained standing motionless, and the doctor, who had been helping89 her, whispered to her:
“We must take Caravan away.”
She nodded assent90, and, going up to her husband, who was still on his knees, sobbing, she raised him up by one arm, while Chenet took him by the other.
They put him into a chair, and his wife kissed his forehead, and then began to lecture him. Chenet enforced her words and preached firmness, courage, and resignation—the very things which are always wanting in such overwhelming misfortunes—and then both of them took him by the arms again and led him out.
He was crying like a great child, with convulsive sobs91; his arms hanging down, and his legs weak, and he went downstairs without knowing what he was doing, and moving his feet mechanically. They put him into the chair which he always occupied at dinner, in front of his empty soup plate. And there he sat, without moving, his eyes fixed92 on his glass, and so stupefied with grief, that he could not even think.
In a corner, Madame Caravan was talking with the doctor and asking what the necessary formalities were, as she wanted to obtain practical information. At last, Monsieur Chenet, who appeared to be waiting for something, took up his hat and prepared to go, saying that he had not dined yet; whereupon she exclaimed:
“What! you have not dined? Why, stay here, doctor; don't go. You shall have whatever we have, for, of course, you understand that we do not fare sumptuously93.” He made excuses and refused, but she persisted, and said: “You really must stay; at times like this, people like to have friends near them, and, besides that, perhaps you will be able to persuade my husband to take some nourishment94; he must keep up his strength.”
The doctor bowed, and, putting down his hat, he said:
“In that case, I will accept your invitation, madame.”
She gave Rosalie, who seemed to have lost her head, some orders, and then sat down, “to pretend to eat,” as she said, “to keep the doctor company.”
The soup was brought in again, and Monsieur Chenet took two helpings95. Then there came a dish of tripe96, which exhaled97 a smell of onions, and which Madame Caravan made up her mind to taste.
“It is excellent,” the doctor said, at which she smiled, and, turning to her husband, she said:
“Do take a little, my poor Alfred, only just to put something in your stomach. Remember that you have got to pass the night watching by her!”
He held out his plate, docilely98, just as he would have gone to bed, if he had been told to, obeying her in everything, without resistance and without reflection, and he ate; the doctor helped himself three times, while Madame Caravan, from time to time, fished out a large piece at the end of her fork, and swallowed it with a sort of studied indifference99.
When a salad bowl full of macaroni was brought in, the doctor said:
“By Jove! That is what I am very fond of.” And this time, Madame Caravan helped everybody. She even filled the saucers that were being scraped by the children, who, being left to themselves, had been drinking wine without any water, and were now kicking each other under the table.
Chenet remembered that Rossini, the composer, had been very fond of that Italian dish, and suddenly he exclaimed:
“Why! that rhymes, and one could begin some lines like this:
The Maestro Rossini
Was fond of macaroni.”
Nobody listened to him, however. Madame Caravan, who had suddenly grown thoughtful, was thinking of all the probable consequences of the event, while her husband made bread pellets, which he put on the table-cloth, and looked at with a fixed, idiotic100 stare. As he was devoured101 by thirst, he was continually raising his glass full of wine to his lips, and the consequence was that his mind, which had been upset by the shock and grief, seemed to become vague, and his ideas danced about as digestion102 commenced.
The doctor, who, meanwhile, had been drinking away steadily103, was getting visibly drunk, and Madame Caravan herself felt the reaction which follows all nervous shocks, and was agitated104 and excited, and, although she had drunk nothing but water, her head felt rather confused.
Presently, Chenet began to relate stories of death that appeared comical to him. For in that suburb of Paris, that is full of people from the provinces, one finds that indifference towards death which all peasants show, were it even their own father or mother; that want of respect, that unconscious brutality105 which is so common in the country, and so rare in Paris, and he said:
“Why, I was sent for last week to the Rue106 du Puteaux, and when I went, I found the patient dead and the whole family calmly sitting beside the bed finishing a bottle of aniseed cordial, which had been bought the night before to satisfy the dying man's fancy.”
But Madame Caravan was not listening; she was continually thinking of the inheritance, and Caravan was incapable107 of understanding anything further.
Coffee was presently served, and it had been made very strong to give them courage. As every cup was well flavored with cognac, it made all their faces red, and confused their ideas still more. To make matters still worse, Chenet suddenly seized the brandy bottle and poured out “a drop for each of them just to wash their mouths out with,” as he termed it, and then, without speaking any more, overcome in spite of themselves, by that feeling of animal comfort which alcohol affords after dinner, they slowly sipped108 the sweet cognac, which formed a yellowish syrup109 at the bottom of their cups.
The children had fallen asleep, and Rosalie carried them off to bed. Caravan, mechanically obeying that wish to forget oneself which possesses all unhappy persons, helped himself to brandy again several times, and his dull eyes grew bright. At last the doctor rose to go, and seizing his friend's arm, he said:
“Come with me; a little fresh air will do you good. When one is in trouble, one must not remain in one spot.”
The other obeyed mechanically, put on his hat, took his stick, and went out, and both of them walked arm-in-arm towards the Seine, in the starlight night.
The air was warm and sweet, for all the gardens in the neighborhood were full of flowers at this season of the year, and their fragrance110, which is scarcely perceptible during the day, seemed to awaken111 at the approach of night, and mingled112 with the light breezes which blew upon them in the darkness.
The broad avenue with its two rows of gas lamps, that extended as far as the Arc de Triomphe, was deserted113 and silent, but there was the distant roar of Paris, which seemed to have a reddish vapor114 hanging over it. It was a kind of continual rumbling115, which was at times answered by the whistle of a train in the distance, travelling at full speed to the ocean, through the provinces.
The fresh air on the faces of the two men rather overcame them at first, made the doctor lose his equilibrium116 a little, and increased Caravan's giddiness, from which he had suffered since dinner. He walked as if he were in a dream; his thoughts were paralyzed, although he felt no great grief, for he was in a state of mental torpor117 that prevented him from suffering, and he even felt a sense of relief which was increased by the mildness of the night.
When they reached the bridge, they turned to the right, and got the fresh breeze from the river, which rolled along, calm and melancholy, bordered by tall poplar trees, while the stars looked as if they were floating on the water and were moving with the current. A slight white mist that floated over the opposite banks, filled their lungs with a sensation of cold, and Caravan stopped suddenly, for he was struck by that smell from the water which brought back old memories to his mind. For, in his mind, he suddenly saw his mother again, in Picardy, as he had seen her years before, kneeling in front of their door, and washing the heaps of linen at her side in the stream that ran through their garden. He almost fancied that he could hear the sound of the wooden paddle with which she beat the linen in the calm silence of the country, and her voice, as she called out to him: “Alfred, bring me some soap.” And he smelled that odor of running water, of the mist rising from the wet ground, that marshy118 smell, which he should never forget, and which came back to him on this very evening on which his mother had died.
He stopped, seized with a feeling of despair. A sudden flash seemed to reveal to him the extent of his calamity119, and that breath from the river plunged120 him into an abyss of hopeless grief. His life seemed cut in half, his youth disappeared, swallowed up by that death. All the former days were over and done with, all the recollections of his youth had been swept away; for the future, there would be nobody to talk to him of what had happened in days gone by, of the people he had known of old, of his own part of the country, and of his past life; that was a part of his existence which existed no longer, and the rest might as well end now.
And then he saw “the mother” as she was when young, wearing well-worn dresses, which he remembered for such a long time that they seemed inseparable from her; he recollected121 her movements, the different tones of her voice, her habits, her predilections122, her fits of anger, the wrinkles on her face, the movements of her thin fingers, and all her well-known attitudes, which she would never have again, and clutching hold of the doctor, he began to moan and weep. His thin legs began to tremble, his whole stout body was shaken by his sobs, all he could say was:
“My mother, my poor mother, my poor mother!”
But his companion, who was still drunk, and who intended to finish the evening in certain places of bad repute that he frequented secretly, made him sit down on the grass by the riverside, and left him almost immediately, under the pretext123 that he had to see a patient.
Caravan went on crying for some time, and when he had got to the end of his tears, when his grief had, so to say, run out, he again felt relief, repose124 and sudden tranquillity125.
The moon had risen, and bathed the horizon in its soft light.
The tall poplar trees had a silvery sheen on them, and the mist on the plain looked like drifting snow; the river, in which the stars were reflected, and which had a sheen as of mother-of-pearl, was gently rippled126 by the wind. The air was soft and sweet, and Caravan inhaled127 it almost greedily, and thought that he could perceive a feeling of freshness, of calm and of superhuman consolation128 pervading129 him.
He actually resisted that feeling of comfort and relief, and kept on saying to himself: “My poor mother, my poor mother!” and tried to make himself cry, from a kind of conscientious130 feeling; but he could not succeed in doing so any longer, and those sad thoughts, which had made him sob82 so bitterly a shore time before, had almost passed away. In a few moments, he rose to go home, and returned slowly, under the influence of that serene131 night, and with a heart soothed132 in spite of himself.
When he reached the bridge, he saw that the last tramcar was ready to start, and behind it were the brightly lighted windows of the Cafe du Globe. He felt a longing133 to tell somebody of his loss, to excite pity, to make himself interesting. He put on a woeful face, pushed open the door, and went up to the counter, where the landlord still was. He had counted on creating a sensation, and had hoped that everybody would get up and come to him with outstretched hands, and say: “Why, what is the matter with you?” But nobody noticed his disconsolate134 face, so he rested his two elbows on the counter, and, burying his face in his hands, he murmured: “Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!”
The landlord looked at him and said: “Are you ill, Monsieur Caravan?”
“No, my friend,” he replied, “but my mother has just died.”
“Ah!” the other exclaimed, and as a customer at the other end of the establishment asked for a glass of Bavarian beer, he went to attend to him, leaving Caravan dumfounded at his want of sympathy.
The three domino players were sitting at the same table which they had occupied before dinner, totally absorbed in their game, and Caravan went up to them, in search of pity, but as none of them appeared to notice him he made up his mind to speak.
“A great misfortune has happened to me since I was here,” he said.
All three slightly raised their heads at the same instant, but keeping their eyes fixed on the pieces which they held in their hands.
“What do you say?”
“My mother has just died”; whereupon one of them said:
“Oh! the devil,” with that false air of sorrow which indifferent people assume. Another, who could not find anything to say, emitted a sort of sympathetic whistle, shaking his head at the same time, and the third turned to the game again, as if he were saying to himself: “Is that all!”
Caravan had expected some of these expressions that are said to “come from the heart,” and when he saw how his news was received, he left the table, indignant at their calmness at their friend's sorrow, although this sorrow had stupefied him so that he scarcely felt it any longer. When he got home his wife was waiting for him in her nightgown, and sitting in a low chair by the open window, still thinking of the inheritance.
“Undress yourself,” she said; “we can go on talking.”
He raised his head, and looking at the ceiling, said:
“But—there is nobody upstairs.”
“I beg your pardon, Rosalie is with her, and you can go and take her place at three o'clock in the morning, when you have had some sleep.”
He only partially135 undressed, however, so as to be ready for anything that might happen, and after tying a silk handkerchief round his head, he lay down to rest, and for some time neither of them spoke. Madame Caravan was thinking.
Her nightcap was adorned with a red bow, and was pushed rather to one side, as was the way with all the caps she wore, and presently she turned towards him and said:
“Do you know whether your mother made a will?”
He hesitated for a moment, and then replied:
“I—I do not think so. No, I am sure that she did not.”
His wife looked at him, and she said, in a low, angry tone:
“I call that infamous136; here we have been wearing ourselves out for ten years in looking after her, and have boarded and lodged137 her! Your sister would not have done so much for her, nor I either, if I had known how I was to be rewarded! Yes, it is a disgrace to her memory! I dare say that you will tell me that she paid us, but one cannot pay one's children in ready money for what they do; that obligation is recognized after death; at any rate, that is how honorable people act. So I have had all my worry and trouble for nothing! Oh, that is nice! that is very nice!”
Poor Caravan, who was almost distracted, kept on repeating:
“My dear, my dear, please, please be quiet.”
She grew calmer by degrees, and, resuming her usual voice and manner, she continued:
“We must let your sister know to-morrow.”
He started, and said:
“Of course we must; I had forgotten all about it; I will send her a telegram the first thing in the morning.”
“No,” she replied, like a woman who had foreseen everything; “no, do not send it before ten or eleven o'clock, so that we may have time to turn round before she comes. It does not take more than two hours to get here from Charenton, and we can say that you lost your head from grief. If we let her know in the course of the day, that will be soon enough, and will give us time to look round.”
Caravan put his hand to his forehead, and, in the came timid voice in which he always spoke of his chief, the very thought of whom made him tremble, he said:
“I must let them know at the office.”
“Why?” she replied. “On occasions like this, it is always excusable to forget. Take my advice, and don't let him know; your chief will not be able to say anything to you, and you will put him in a nice fix.
“Oh! yes, that I shall, and he will be in a terrible rage, too, when he notices my absence. Yes, you are right; it is a capital idea, and when I tell him that my mother is dead, he will be obliged to hold his tongue.”
And he rubbed his hands in delight at the joke, when he thought of his chief's face; while upstairs lay the body of the dead old woman, with the servant asleep beside it.
But Madame Caravan grew thoughtful, as if she were preoccupied138 by something which she did not care to mention, and at last she said:
“Your mother had given you her clock, had she not—the girl playing at cup and ball?”
He thought for a moment, and then replied:
“Yes, yes; she said to me (but it was a long time ago, when she first came here): 'I shall leave the clock to you, if you look after me well.'”
“Well, then, you must go and fetch it out of her room, for if we get your sister here, she will prevent us from taking it.”
He hesitated.
“Do you think so?”
That made her angry.
“I certainly think so; once it is in our possession, she will know nothing at all about where it came from; it belongs to us. It is just the same with the chest of drawers with the marble top, that is in her room; she gave it me one day when she was in a good temper. We will bring it down at the same time.”
Caravan, however, seemed incredulous, and said:
“But, my dear, it is a great responsibility!”
She turned on him furiously.
“Oh! Indeed! Will you never change? You would let your children die of hunger, rather than make a move. Does not that chest of drawers belong to us, as she gave it to me? And if your sister is not satisfied, let her tell me so, me! I don't care a straw for your sister. Come, get up, and we will bring down what your mother gave us, immediately.”
Trembling and vanquished142, he got out of bed and began to put on his trousers, but she stopped him:
“It is not worth while to dress yourself; your underwear is quite enough. I mean to go as I am.”
They both left the room in their night clothes, went upstairs quite noiselessly, opened the door and went into the room, where the four lighted tapers143 and the plate with the sprig of box alone seemed to be watching the old woman in her rigid repose, for Rosalie, who was lying back in the easy chair with her legs stretched out, her hands folded in her lap, and her head on one side, was also quite motionless, and was snoring with her mouth wide open.
Caravan took the clock, which was one of those grotesque144 objects that were produced so plentifully145 under the Empire. A girl in gilt146 bronze was holding a cup and ball, and the ball formed the pendulum147.
He put the marble slab on his shoulder with considerable effort, and they left the room. Caravan had to stoop in the doorway5, and trembled as he went downstairs, while his wife walked backwards149, so as to light him, and held the candlestick in one hand, carrying the clock under the other arm.
When they were in their own room, she heaved a sigh.
“We have got over the worst part of the job,” she said; “so now let us go and fetch the other things.”
But the bureau drawers were full of the old woman's wearing apparel, which they must manage to hide somewhere, and Madame Caravan soon thought of a plan.
“Go and get that wooden packing case in the vestibule; it is hardly worth anything, and we may just as well put it here.”
And when he had brought it upstairs they began to fill it. One by one they took out all the collars, cuffs150, chemises, caps, all the well-worn things that had belonged to the poor woman lying there behind them, and arranged them methodically in the wooden box in such a manner as to deceive Madame Braux, the deceased woman's other child, who would be coming the next day.
When they had finished, they first of all carried the bureau drawers downstairs, and the remaining portion afterwards, each of them holding an end, and it was some time before they could make up their minds where it would stand best; but at last they decided151 upon their own room, opposite the bed, between the two windows, and as soon as it was in its place Madame Caravan filled it with her own things. The clock was placed on the chimney-piece in the dining-room, and they looked to see what the effect was, and were both delighted with it and agreed that nothing could be better. Then they retired152, she blew out the candle, and soon everybody in the house was asleep.
It was broad daylight when. Caravan opened his eyes again. His mind was rather confused when he woke up, and he did not clearly remember what had happened for a few minutes; when he did, he felt a weight at his heart, and jumped out of bed, almost ready to cry again.
He hastened to the room overhead, where Rosalie was still sleeping in the same position as the night before, not having awakened153 once. He sent her to do her work, put fresh tapers in the place of those that had burnt out, and then he looked at his mother, revolving154 in his brain those apparently155 profound thoughts, those religious and philosophical156 commonplaces which trouble people of mediocre157 intelligence in the presence of death.
But, as his wife was calling him, he went downstairs. She had written out a list of what had to be done during the morning, and he was horrified158 when he saw the memorandum159:
1. Report the death at the mayor's office. 2. See the doctor who had attended her. 3. Order the coffin160. 4. Give notice at the church. 5. Go to the undertaker. 6. Order the notices of her death at the printer's. 7. Go to the lawyer. 8. Telegraph the news to all the family.
Besides all this, there were a number of small commissions; so he took his hat and went out. As the news had spread abroad, Madame Caravan's female friends and neighbors soon began to come in and begged to be allowed to see the body. There had been a scene between husband and wife at the hairdresser's on the ground floor about the matter, while a customer was being shaved. The wife, who was knitting steadily, said: “Well, there is one less, and as great a miser36 as one ever meets with. I certainly did not care for her; but, nevertheless, I must go and have a look at her.”
The husband, while lathering161 his patient's chin, said: “That is another queer fancy! Nobody but a woman would think of such a thing. It is not enough for them to worry you during life, but they cannot even leave you at peace when you are dead:” But his wife, without being in the least disconcerted, replied: “The feeling is stronger than I am, and I must go. It has been on me since the morning. If I were not to see her, I should think about it all my life; but when I have had a good look at her, I shall be satisfied.”
The knight162 of the razor shrugged163 his shoulders and remarked in a low voice to the gentleman whose cheek he was scraping: “I just ask you, what sort of ideas do you think these confounded females have? I should not amuse myself by going to see a corpse164!” But his wife had heard him and replied very quietly: “But it is so, it is so.” And then, putting her knitting on the counter, she went upstairs to the first floor, where she met two other neighbors, who had just come, and who were discussing the event with Madame Caravan, who was giving them the details, and they all went together to the death chamber. The four women went in softly, and, one after the other, sprinkled the bed clothes with the salt water, knelt down, made the sign of the cross while they mumbled165 a prayer. Then they rose from their knees and looked for some time at the corpse with round, wide-open eyes and mouths partly open, while the daughter-in-law of the dead woman, with her handkerchief to her face, pretended to be sobbing piteously.
When she turned about to walk away whom should she perceive standing close to the door but Marie-Louise and Philippe-Auguste, who were curiously166 taking stock of all that was going on. Then, forgetting her pretended grief, she threw herself upon them with uplifted hands, crying out in a furious voice, “Will you get out of this, you horrid167 brats!”
Ten minutes later, going upstairs again with another contingent168 of neighbors, she prayed, wept profusely169, performed all her duties, and found once more her two children, who had followed her upstairs. She again boxed their ears soundly, but the next time she paid no heed170 to them, and at each fresh arrival of visitors the two urchins171 always followed in the wake, kneeling down in a corner and imitating slavishly everything they saw their mother do.
When the afternoon came the crowds of inquisitive172 people began to diminish, and soon there were no more visitors. Madame Caravan, returning to her own apartments, began to make the necessary preparations for the funeral ceremony, and the deceased was left alone.
The window of the room was open. A torrid heat entered, along with clouds of dust; the flames of the four candles were flickering173 beside the immobile corpse, and upon the cloth which covered the face, the closed eyes, the two stretched-out hands, small flies alighted, came, went and careered up and down incessantly174, being the only companions of the old woman for the time being.
Marie-Louise and Philippe-Auguste, however, had now left the house and were running up and down the street. They were soon surrounded by their playmates, by little girls especially, who were older and who were much more interested in all the mysteries of life, asking questions as if they were grown people.
“Then your grandmother is dead?” “Yes, she died yesterday evening.” “What does a dead person look like?”
Then Marie began to explain, telling all about the candles, the sprig of box and the face of the corpse. It was not long before great curiosity was aroused in the minds of all the children, and they asked to be allowed to go upstairs to look at the departed.
Marie-Louise at once organized a first expedition, consisting of five girls and two boys—the biggest and the most courageous175. She made them take off their shoes so that they might not be discovered. The troupe176 filed into the house and mounted the stairs as stealthily as an army of mice.
Once in the chamber, the little girl, imitating her mother, regulated the ceremony. She solemnly walked in advance of her comrades, went down on her knees, made the sign of the cross, moved her lips as in prayer, rose, sprinkled the bed, and while the children, all crowded together, were approaching—frightened and curious and eager to look at the face and hands of the deceased—she began suddenly to simulate sobbing and to bury her eyes in her little handkerchief. Then, becoming instantly consoled, on thinking of the other children who were downstairs waiting at the door, she ran downstairs followed by the rest, returning in a minute with another group, then a third; for all the little ragamuffins of the countryside, even to the little beggars in rags, had congregated177 in order to participate in this new pleasure; and each time she repeated her mother's grimaces178 with absolute perfection.
At length, however, she became tired. Some game or other drew the children away from the house, and the old grandmother was left alone, forgotten suddenly by everybody.
The room was growing dark, and upon the dry and rigid features of the corpse the fitful flames of the candles cast patches of light.
Towards 8 o'clock Caravan ascended179 to the chamber of death, closed the windows and renewed the candles. He was now quite composed on entering the room, accustomed already to regard the corpse as though it had been there for months. He even went the length of declaring that, as yet, there were no signs of decomposition180, making this remark just at the moment when he and his wife were about to sit down at table. “Pshaw!” she responded, “she is now stark181 and stiff; she will keep for a year.”
The soup was eaten in silence. The children, who had been left to themselves all day, now worn out by fatigue182, were sleeping soundly on their chairs, and nobody ventured to break the silence.
Suddenly the flame of the lamp went down. Madame Caravan immediately turned up the wick, a hollow sound ensued, and the light went out. They had forgotten to buy oil. To send for it now to the grocer's would keep back the dinner, and they began to look for candles, but none were to be found except the tapers which had been placed upon the table upstairs in the death chamber.
Madame Caravan, always prompt in her decisions, quickly despatched Marie-Louise to fetch two, and her return was awaited in total darkness.
The footsteps of the girl who had ascended the stairs were distinctly heard. There was silence for a few seconds and then the child descended183 precipitately184. She threw open the door and in a choking voice murmured: “Oh! papa, grandmamma is dressing herself!”
Caravan bounded to his feet with such precipitance that his chair fell over against the wall. He stammered out: “You say? . . . . What are you saying?”
But Marie-Louise, gasping185 with emotion, repeated: “Grand—grand —grandmamma is putting on her clothes, she is coming downstairs.”
Caravan rushed boldly up the staircase, followed by his wife, dumfounded; but he came to a standstill before the door of the second floor, overcome with terror, not daring to enter. What was he going to see? Madame Caravan, more courageous, turned the handle of the door and stepped forward into the room.
The old woman was standing up. In awakening186 from her lethargic187 sleep, before even regaining188 full consciousness, in turning upon her side and raising herself on her elbow, she had extinguished three of the candles which burned near the bed. Then, gaining strength, she got off the bed and began to look for her clothes. The absence of her chest of drawers had at first worried her, but, after a little, she had succeeded in finding her things at the bottom of the wooden box, and was now quietly dressing. She emptied the plateful of water, replaced the sprig of box behind the looking-glass, and arranged the chairs in their places, and was ready to go downstairs when there appeared before her her son and daughter-in-law.
Caravan rushed forward, seized her by the hands, embraced her with tears in his eyes, while his wife, who was behind him, repeated in a hypocritical tone of voice: “Oh, what a blessing189! oh, what a blessing!”
But the old woman, without being at all moved, without even appearing to understand, rigid as a statue, and with glazed190 eyes, simply asked: “Will dinner soon be ready?”
He stammered out, not knowing what he said:
“Oh, yes, mother, we have been waiting for you.”
And with an alacrity191 unusual in him, he took her arm, while Madame Caravan, the younger, seized the candle and lighted them downstairs, walking backwards in front of them, step by step, just as she had done the previous night for her husband, who was carrying the marble.
On reaching the first floor, she almost ran against people who were ascending192 the stairs. It was the Charenton family, Madame Braux, followed by her husband.
The wife, tall and stout, with a prominent stomach, opened wide her terrified eyes and was ready to make her escape. The husband, a socialist193 shoemaker, a little hairy man, the perfect image of a monkey, murmured quite unconcerned: “Well, what next? Is she resurrected?”
As soon as Madame Caravan recognized them, she made frantic194 gestures to them; then, speaking aloud, she said: “Why, here you are! What a pleasant surprise!”
But Madame Braux, dumfounded, understood nothing. She responded in a low voice: “It was your telegram that brought us; we thought that all was over.”
Her husband, who was behind her, pinched her to make her keep silent. He added with a sly laugh, which his thick beard concealed: “It was very kind of you to invite us here. We set out post haste,” which remark showed the hostility195 which had for a long time reigned196 between the households. Then, just as the old woman reached the last steps, he pushed forward quickly and rubbed his hairy face against her cheeks, shouting in her ear, on account of her deafness: “How well you look, mother; sturdy as usual, hey!”
Madame Braux, in her stupefaction at seeing the old woman alive, whom they all believed to be dead, dared not even embrace her; and her enormous bulk blocked up the passageway and hindered the others from advancing. The old woman, uneasy and suspicious, but without speaking, looked at everyone around her; and her little gray eyes, piercing and hard, fixed themselves now on one and now on the other, and they were so full of meaning that the children became frightened.
Caravan, to explain matters, said: “She has been somewhat ill, but she is better now; quite well, indeed, are you not, mother?”
Then the good woman, continuing to walk, replied in a husky voice, as though it came from a distance: “It was syncope. I heard you all the while.”
An embarrassing silence followed. They entered the dining-room, and in a few minutes all sat down to an improvised197 dinner.
Only M. Braux had retained his self-possession. His gorilla198 features grinned wickedly, while he let fall some words of double meaning which painfully disconcerted everyone.
But the door bell kept ringing every second, and Rosalie, distracted, came to call Caravan, who rushed out, throwing down his napkin. His brother-in-law even asked him whether it was not one of his reception days, to which he stammered out in answer: “No, only a few packages; nothing more.”
A parcel was brought in, which he began to open carelessly, and the mourning announcements with black borders appeared unexpectedly. Reddening up to the very eyes, he closed the package hurriedly and pushed it under his waistcoat.
His mother had not seen it! She was looking intently at her clock which stood on the mantelpiece, and the embarrassment199 increased in midst of a dead silence. Turning her wrinkled face towards her daughter, the old woman, in whose eyes gleamed malice200, said: “On Monday you must take me away from here, so that I can see your little girl. I want so much to see her.” Madame Braux, her features all beaming, exclaimed: “Yes, mother, that I will,” while Madame Caravan, the younger, who had turned pale, was ready to faint with annoyance201. The two men, however, gradually drifted into conversation and soon became embroiled202 in a political discussion. Braux maintained the most revolutionary and communistic doctrines203, his eyes glowing, and gesticulating and throwing about his arms. “Property, sir,” he said, “is a robbery perpetrated on the working classes; the land is the common property of every man; hereditary204 rights are an infamy205 and a disgrace.” But here he suddenly stopped, looking as if he had just said something foolish, then added in softer tones: “But this is not the proper moment to discuss such things.”
The door was opened and Dr. Chenet appeared. For a moment he seemed bewildered, but regaining his usual smirking206 expression of countenance207, he jauntily208 approached the old woman and said: “Aha! mamma; you are better to-day. Oh! I never had any doubt but you would come round again; in fact, I said to myself as I was mounting the staircase, 'I have an idea that I shall find the old lady on her feet once more';” and as he patted her gently on the back: “Ah! she is as solid as the Pont-Neuf, she will bury us all; see if she does not.”
He sat down, accepted the coffee that was offered him, and soon began to join in the conversation of the two men, backing up Braux, for he himself had been mixed up in the Commune.
The old woman, now feeling herself fatigued209, wished to retire. Caravan rushed forward. She looked him steadily in the eye and said: “You, you must carry my clock and chest of drawers upstairs again without a moment's delay.” “Yes, mamma,” he replied, gasping; “yes, I will do so.” The old woman then took the arm of her daughter and withdrew from the room. The two Caravans210 remained astounded211, silent, plunged in the deepest despair, while Braux rubbed his hands and sipped his coffee gleefully.
Suddenly Madame Caravan, consumed with rage, rushed at him, exclaiming: “You are a thief, a footpad, a cur! I would spit in your face! I—I —would——” She could find nothing further to say, suffocating as she was with rage, while he went on sipping212 his coffee with a smile.
His wife returning just then, Madame Caravan attacked her sister-in-law, and the two women—the one with her enormous bulk, the other epileptic and spare, with changed voices and trembling hands flew at one another with words of abuse.
Chenet and Braux now interposed, and the latter, taking his better half by the shoulders, pushed her out of the door before him, shouting: “Go on, you slut; you talk too much”; and the two were heard in the street quarrelling until they disappeared from sight.
M. Chenet also took his departure, leaving the Caravans alone, face to face. The husband fell back on his chair, and with the cold sweat standing out in beads213 on his temples, murmured: “What shall I say to my chief to-morrow?”
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1
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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pistons
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| 活塞( piston的名词复数 ) | |
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suffocating
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| a.使人窒息的 | |
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doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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7
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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8
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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9
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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10
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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11
vegetate
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| v.无所事事地过活 | |
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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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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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14
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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caravan
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| n.大蓬车；活动房屋 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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17
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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18
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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19
rumors
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| n.传闻( rumor的名词复数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷v.传闻( rumor的第三人称单数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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perquisites
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| n.（工资以外的）财务补贴( perquisite的名词复数 )；额外收入；（随职位而得到的）好处；利益 | |
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gratuities
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| n.报酬( gratuity的名词复数 )；小账；小费；养老金 | |
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promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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atrophy
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| n./v.萎缩，虚脱，衰退 | |
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naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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ushers
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| n.引座员( usher的名词复数 )；招待员；门房；助理教员v.引，领，陪同( usher的第三人称单数 ) | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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32
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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obligatory
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| adj.强制性的，义务的，必须的 | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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39
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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40
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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41
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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42
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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43
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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44
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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45
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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46
gratuitous
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| adj.无偿的，免费的；无缘无故的，不必要的 | |
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47
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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48
apoplectic
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| adj.中风的；愤怒的；n.中风患者 | |
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49
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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50
itch
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| n.痒，渴望，疥癣；vi.发痒，渴望 | |
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51
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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52
brat
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| n.孩子；顽童 | |
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53
brats
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| n.调皮捣蛋的孩子( brat的名词复数 ) | |
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54
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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55
avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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56
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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57
chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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58
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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59
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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60
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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61
ornamented
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|
| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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63
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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64
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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65
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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66
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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67
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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68
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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69
awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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70
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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71
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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72
pretentious
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|
| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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73
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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74
commissioner
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| n.（政府厅、局、处等部门）专员，长官，委员 | |
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75
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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76
precocious
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| adj.早熟的；较早显出的 | |
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77
starch
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|
| n.淀粉；vt.给...上浆 | |
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78
sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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79
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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81
sobbing
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|
| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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82
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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83
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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84
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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85
dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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86
eyelid
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|
| n.眼睑，眼皮 | |
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87
bellowed
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|
| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的过去式和过去分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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88
consecration
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|
| n.供献，奉献，献祭仪式 | |
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89
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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90
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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91
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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92
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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93
sumptuously
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| 奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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94
nourishment
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|
| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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95
helpings
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| n.（食物）的一份( helping的名词复数 )；帮助，支持 | |
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96
tripe
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| n.废话，肚子, 内脏 | |
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97
exhaled
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|
| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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98
docilely
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|
| adv.容易教地，易驾驶地，驯服地 | |
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99
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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100
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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101
devoured
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|
| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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102
digestion
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| n.消化，吸收 | |
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103
steadily
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|
| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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104
agitated
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|
| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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105
brutality
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|
| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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106
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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107
incapable
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|
| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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108
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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109
syrup
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| n.糖浆，糖水 | |
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110
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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111
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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112
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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113
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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114
vapor
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| n.蒸汽，雾气 | |
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115
rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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116
equilibrium
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| n.平衡，均衡，相称，均势，平静 | |
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117
torpor
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| n.迟钝；麻木；（动物的）冬眠 | |
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118
marshy
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| adj.沼泽的 | |
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119
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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120
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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121
recollected
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|
| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
predilections
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| n.偏爱，偏好，嗜好( predilection的名词复数 ) | |
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123
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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124
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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125
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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126
rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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127
inhaled
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| v.吸入( inhale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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128
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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129
pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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130
conscientious
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|
| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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131
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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132
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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133
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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134
disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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135
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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136
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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137
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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138
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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139
reassured
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|
| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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140
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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141
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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142
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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143
tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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144
grotesque
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|
| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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145
plentifully
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| adv. 许多地，丰饶地 | |
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146
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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147
pendulum
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| n.摆，钟摆 | |
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148
slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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149
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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150
cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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151
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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152
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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153
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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154
revolving
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|
| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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155
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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156
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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157
mediocre
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| adj.平常的，普通的 | |
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158
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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159
memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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160
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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161
lathering
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| n.痛打，怒骂v.（指肥皂）形成泡沫( lather的现在分词 )；用皂沫覆盖；狠狠地打 | |
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162
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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163
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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164
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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165
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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166
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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167
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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168
contingent
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| adj.视条件而定的；n.一组，代表团，分遣队 | |
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169
profusely
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| ad.abundantly | |
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170
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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171
urchins
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| n.顽童( urchin的名词复数 )；淘气鬼；猬；海胆 | |
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172
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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173
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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174
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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175
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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176
troupe
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| n.剧团，戏班；杂技团；马戏团 | |
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177
congregated
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| （使）集合，聚集( congregate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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178
grimaces
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| n.（表蔑视、厌恶等）面部扭曲，鬼脸( grimace的名词复数 )v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的第三人称单数 ) | |
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179
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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180
decomposition
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| n. 分解, 腐烂, 崩溃 | |
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181
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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182
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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183
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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184
precipitately
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| adv.猛进地 | |
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185
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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186
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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187
lethargic
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| adj.昏睡的，懒洋洋的 | |
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188
regaining
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| 复得( regain的现在分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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189
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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190
glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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191
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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192
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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193
socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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194
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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195
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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196
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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197
improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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198
gorilla
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| n.大猩猩，暴徒，打手 | |
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199
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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200
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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201
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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202
embroiled
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| adj.卷入的；纠缠不清的 | |
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203
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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204
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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205
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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206
smirking
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| v.傻笑( smirk的现在分词 ) | |
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207
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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208
jauntily
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| adv.心满意足地；洋洋得意地；高兴地；活泼地 | |
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209
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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210
caravans
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| （可供居住的）拖车（通常由机动车拖行）( caravan的名词复数 )； 篷车； （穿过沙漠地带的）旅行队（如商队） | |
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211
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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212
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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213
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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