On a winter’s night, about two in the morning, the Comtesse Jeanne d’Herouville felt such violent pains that in spite of her inexperience, she was conscious of an approaching confinement1; and the instinct which makes us hope for ease in a change of posture2 induced her to sit up in her bed, either to study the nature of these new sufferings, or to reflect on her situation. She was a prey3 to cruel fears,—caused less by the dread4 of a first lying-in, which terrifies most women, than by certain dangers which awaited her child.
In order not to awaken5 her husband who was sleeping beside her, the poor woman moved with precautions which her intense terror made as minute as those of a prisoner endeavoring to escape. Though the pains became more and more severe, she ceased to feel them, so completely did she concentrate her own strength on the painful effort of resting her two moist hands on the pillow and so turning her suffering body from a posture in which she could find no ease. At the slightest rustling6 of the huge green silk coverlet, under which she had slept but little since her marriage, she stopped as though she had rung a bell. Forced to watch the count, she divided her attention between the folds of the rustling stuff and a large swarthy face, the moustache of which was brushing her shoulder. When some noisier breath than usual left her husband’s lips, she was filled with a sudden terror that revived the color driven from her cheeks by her double anguish7.
The prisoner reached the prison door in the dead of night and trying to noiselessly turn the key in a pitiless lock, was never more timidly bold.
When the countess had succeeded in rising to her seat without awakening8 her keeper, she made a gesture of childlike joy which revealed the touching9 naivete of her nature. But the half-formed smile on her burning lips was quickly suppressed; a thought came to darken that pure brow, and her long blue eyes resumed their sad expression. She gave a sigh and again laid her hands, not without precaution, on the fatal conjugal11 pillow. Then—as if for the first time since her marriage she found herself free in thought and action—she looked at the things around her, stretching out her neck with little darting12 motions like those of a bird in its cage. Seeing her thus, it was easy to divine that she had once been all gaiety and light-heartedness, but that fate had suddenly mown down her hopes, and changed her ingenuous13 gaiety to sadness.
The chamber14 was one of those which, to this day octogenarian porters of old chateaus point out to visitors as “the state bedroom where Louis XIII. once slept.” Fine pictures, mostly brown in tone, were framed in walnut16, the delicate carvings17 of which were blackened by time. The rafters of the ceiling formed compartments18 adorned19 with arabesques20 in the style of the preceding century, which preserved the colors of the chestnut21 wood. These decorations, severe in tone, reflected the light so little that it was difficult to see their designs, even when the sun shone full into that long and wide and lofty chamber. The silver lamp, placed upon the mantel of the vast fireplace, lighted the room so feebly that its quivering gleam could be compared only to the nebulous stars which appear at moments through the dun gray clouds of an autumn night. The fantastic figures crowded on the marble of the fireplace, which was opposite to the bed, were so grotesquely22 hideous23 that she dared not fix her eyes upon them, fearing to see them move, or to hear a startling laugh from their gaping24 and twisted mouths.
At this moment a tempest was growling25 in the chimney, giving to every puff26 of wind a lugubrious27 meaning,—the vast size of the flute28 putting the hearth30 into such close communication with the skies above that the embers upon it had a sort of respiration31; they sparkled and went out at the will of the wind. The arms of the family of Herouville, carved in white marble with their mantle32 and supporters, gave the appearance of a tomb to this species of edifice33, which formed a pendant to the bed, another erection raised to the glory of Hymen. Modern architects would have been puzzled to decide whether the room had been built for the bed or the bed for the room. Two cupids playing on the walnut headboard, wreathed with garlands, might have passed for angels; and columns of the same wood, supporting the tester were carved with mythological34 allegories, the explanation of which could have been found either in the Bible or Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Take away the bed, and the same tester would have served in a church for the canopy35 of the pulpit or the seats of the wardens36. The married pair mounted by three steps to this sumptuous37 couch, which stood upon a platform and was hung with curtains of green silk covered with brilliant designs called “ramages”—possibly because the birds of gay plumage there depicted38 were supposed to sing. The folds of these immense curtains were so stiff that in the semi-darkness they might have been taken for some metal fabric39. On the green velvet40 hanging, adorned with gold fringes, which covered the foot of this lordly couch the superstition41 of the Comtes d’Herouville had affixed42 a large crucifix, on which their chaplain placed a fresh branch of sacred box when he renewed at Easter the holy water in the basin at the foot of the cross.
On one side of the fireplace stood a large box or wardrobe of choice woods magnificently carved, such as brides receive even now in the provinces on their wedding day. These old chests, now so much in request by antiquaries, were the arsenals44 from which women drew the rich and elegant treasures of their personal adornment,—laces, bodices, high collars and ruffs, gowns of price, alms-purses, masks, gloves, veils,—in fact all the inventions of coquetry in the sixteenth century.
On the other side, by way of symmetry, was another piece of furniture, somewhat similar in shape, where the countess kept her books, papers, and jewels. Antique chairs covered with damask, a large and greenish mirror, made in Venice, and richly framed in a sort of rolling toilet-table, completed the furnishings of the room. The floor was covered with a Persian carpet, the richness of which proved the gallantry of the count; on the upper step of the bed stood a little table, on which the waiting-woman served every night in a gold or silver cup a drink prepared with spices.
After we have gone some way in life we know the secret influence exerted by places on the condition of the soul. Who has not had his darksome moments, when fresh hope has come into his heart from things that surrounded him? The fortunate, or the unfortunate man, attributes an intelligent countenance45 to the things among which he lives; he listens to them, he consults them—so naturally superstitious46 is he. At this moment the countess turned her eyes upon all these articles of furniture, as if they were living beings whose help and protection she implored47; but the answer of that sombre luxury seemed to her inexorable.
Suddenly the tempest redoubled. The poor young woman could augur48 nothing favorable as she listened to the threatening heavens, the changes of which were interpreted in those credulous49 days according to the ideas or the habits of individuals. Suddenly she turned her eyes to the two arched windows at the end of the room; but the smallness of their panes50 and the multiplicity of the leaden lines did not allow her to see the sky and judge if the world were coming to an end, as certain monks51, eager for donations, affirmed. She might easily have believed in such predictions, for the noise of the angry sea, the waves of which beat against the castle wall, combined with the mighty52 voice of the tempest, so that even the rocks appeared to shake. Though her sufferings were now becoming keener and less endurable, the countess dared not awaken her husband; but she turned and examined his features, as if despair were urging her to find a consolation53 there against so many sinister54 forebodings.
If matters were sad around the poor young woman, that face, notwithstanding the tranquillity55 of sleep, seemed sadder still. The light from the lamp, flickering56 in the draught57, scarcely reached beyond the foot of the bed and illumined the count’s head capriciously; so that the fitful movements of its flash upon those features in repose58 produced the effect of a struggle with angry thought. The countess was scarcely reassured59 by perceiving the cause of that phenomenon. Each time that a gust60 of wind projected the light upon the count’s large face, casting shadows among its bony outlines, she fancied that her husband was about to fix upon her his two insupportably stern eyes.
Implacable as the war then going on between the Church and Calvinism, the count’s forehead was threatening even while he slept. Many furrows62, produced by the emotions of a warrior63 life, gave it a vague resemblance to the vermiculated stone which we see in the buildings of that period; his hair, like the whitish lichen64 of old oaks, gray before its time, surrounded without grace a cruel brow, where religious intolerance showed its passionate65 brutality66. The shape of the aquiline67 nose, which resembled the beak68 of a bird of prey, the black and crinkled lids of the yellow eyes, the prominent bones of a hollow face, the rigidity70 of the wrinkles, the disdain71 expressed in the lower lip, were all expressive72 of ambition, despotism, and power, the more to be feared because the narrowness of the skull73 betrayed an almost total absence of intelligence, and a mere74 brute75 courage devoid76 of generosity77. The face was horribly disfigured by a large transversal scar which had the appearance of a second mouth on the right cheek.
At the age of thirty-three the count, anxious to distinguish himself in that unhappy religious war the signal for which was given on Saint-Bartholomew’s day, had been grievously wounded at the siege of Rochelle. The misfortune of this wound increased his hatred78 against the partisans79 of what the language of that day called “the Religion,” but, by a not unnatural80 turn of mind, he included in that antipathy81 all handsome men. Before the catastrophe82, however, he was so repulsively83 ugly that no lady had ever been willing to receive him as a suitor. The only passion of his youth was for a celebrated85 woman called La Belle86 Romaine. The distrust resulting from this new misfortune made him suspicious to the point of not believing himself capable of inspiring a true passion; and his character became so savage87 that when he did have some successes in gallantry he owed them to the terror inspired by his cruelty. The left hand of this terrible Catholic, which lay on the outside of the bed, will complete this sketch88 of his character. Stretched out as if to guard the countess, as a miser89 guards his hoard90, that enormous hand was covered with hair so thick, it presented such a network of veins91 and projecting muscles, that it gave the idea of a branch of birch clasped with a growth of yellowing ivy92.
Children looking at the count’s face would have thought him an ogre, terrible tales of whom they knew by heart. It was enough to see the width and length of the space occupied by the count in the bed, to imagine his gigantic proportions. When awake, his gray eyebrows93 hid his eyelids94 in a way to heighten the light of his eye, which glittered with the luminous95 ferocity of a wolf skulking96 on the watch in a forest. Under his lion nose, with its flaring97 nostrils98, a large and ill-kept moustache (for he despised all toilet niceties) completely concealed99 the upper lip. Happily for the countess, her husband’s wide mouth was silent at this moment, for the softest sounds of that harsh voice made her tremble. Though the Comte d’Herouville was barely fifty years of age, he appeared at first sight to be sixty, so much had the toils100 of war, without injuring his robust101 constitution, dilapidated him physically102.
The countess, who was now in her nineteenth year, made a painful contrast to that large, repulsive84 figure. She was fair and slim. Her chestnut locks, threaded with gold, played upon her neck like russet shadows, and defined a face such as Carlo Dolce has painted for his ivory-toned madonnas,—a face which now seemed ready to expire under the increasing attacks of physical pain. You might have thought her the apparition103 of an angel sent from heaven to soften104 the iron will of the terrible count.
“No, he will not kill us!” she cried to herself mentally, after contemplating105 her husband for a long time. “He is frank, courageous106, faithful to his word—faithful to his word!”
Repeating that last sentence in her thoughts, she trembled violently, and remained as if stupefied.
To understand the horror of her present situation, we must add that this nocturnal scene took place in 1591, a period when civil war raged throughout France, and the laws had no vigor107. The excesses of the League, opposed to the accession of Henri IV., surpassed the calamities108 of the religious wars. License109 was so universal that no one was surprised to see a great lord kill his enemy in open day. When a military expedition, having a private object, was led in the name of the King or of the League, one or other of these parties applauded it. It was thus that Blagny, a soldier, came near becoming a sovereign prince at the gates of France. Sometime before Henri III.‘s death, a court lady murdered a nobleman who made offensive remarks about her. One of the king’s minions110 remarked to him:—
“Hey! vive Dieu! sire, she daggered him finely!”
The Comte d’Herouville, one of the most rabid royalists in Normandy, kept the part of that province which adjoins Brittany under subjection to Henri IV. by the rigor112 of his executions. The head of one of the richest families in France, he had considerably113 increased the revenues of his great estates by marrying seven months before the night on which this history begins, Jeanne de Saint-Savin, a young lady who, by a not uncommon114 chance in days when people were killed off like flies, had suddenly become the representative of both branches of the Saint-Savin family. Necessity and terror were the causes which led to this union. At a banquet given, two months after the marriage, to the Comte and Comtesse d’Herouville, a discussion arose on a topic which in those days of ignorance was thought amusing: namely, the legitimacy115 of children coming into the world ten months after the death of their fathers, or seven months after the wedding day.
“Madame,” said the count brutally116, turning to his wife, “if you give me a child ten months after my death, I cannot help it; but be careful that you are not brought to bed in seven months!”
“What would you do then, old bear?” asked the young Marquis de Verneuil, thinking that the count was joking.
“I should wring117 the necks of mother and child!”
An answer so peremptory118 closed the discussion, imprudently started by a seigneur from Lower Normandy. The guests were silent, looking with a sort of terror at the pretty Comtesse d’Herouville. All were convinced that if such an event occurred, her savage lord would execute his threat.
The words of the count echoed in the bosom119 of the young wife, then pregnant; one of those presentiments121 which furrow61 a track like lightning through the soul, told her that her child would be born at seven months. An inward heat overflowed122 her from head to foot, sending the life’s blood to her heart with such violence that the surface of her body felt bathed in ice. From that hour not a day had passed that the sense of secret terror did not check every impulse of her innocent gaiety. The memory of the look, of the inflections of voice with which the count accompanied his words, still froze her blood, and silenced her sufferings, as she leaned over that sleeping head, and strove to see some sign of a pity she had vainly sought there when awake.
The child, threatened with death before its life began, made so vigorous a movement that she cried aloud, in a voice that seemed like a sigh, “Poor babe!”
She said no more; there are ideas that a mother cannot bear. Incapable123 of reasoning at this moment, the countess was almost choked with the intensity124 of a suffering as yet unknown to her. Two tears, escaping from her eyes, rolled slowly down her cheeks, and traced two shining lines, remaining suspended at the bottom of that white face, like dewdrops on a lily. What learned man would take upon himself to say that the child unborn is on some neutral ground, where the emotions of its mother do not penetrate125 during those hours when soul clasps body and communicates its impressions, when thought permeates126 blood with healing balm or poisonous fluids? The terror that shakes the tree, will it not hurt the fruit? Those words, “Poor babe!” were they dictated127 by a vision of the future? The shuddering128 of this mother was violent; her look piercing.
The bloody129 answer given by the count at the banquet was a link mysteriously connecting the past with this premature130 confinement. That odious131 suspicion, thus publicly expressed, had cast into the memories of the countess a dread which echoed to the future. Since that fatal gala, she had driven from her mind, with as much fear as another woman would have found pleasure in evoking132 them, a thousand scattered133 scenes of her past existence. She refused even to think of the happy days when her heart was free to love. Like as the melodies of their native land make exiles weep, so these memories revived sensations so delightful134 that her young conscience thought them crimes, and sued them to enforce still further the savage threat of the count. There lay the secret of the horror which was now oppressing her soul.
Sleeping figures possess a sort of suavity135, due to the absolute repose of both body and mind; but though that species of calmness softened136 but slightly the harsh expression of the count’s features, all illusion granted to the unhappy is so persuasive137 that the poor wife ended by finding hope in that tranquillity. The roar of the tempest, now descending138 in torrents139 of rain, seemed to her no more than a melancholy140 moan; her fears and her pains both yielded her a momentary141 respite142. Contemplating the man to whom her life was bound, the countess allowed herself to float into a reverie, the sweetness of which was so intoxicating143 that she had no strength to break its charm. For a moment, by one of those visions which in some way share the divine power, there passed before her rapid images of a happiness lost beyond recall.
Jeanne in her vision saw faintly, and as if in a distant gleam of dawn, the modest castle where her careless childhood had glided145 on; there were the verdant146 lawns, the rippling147 brook148, the little chamber, the scenes of her happy play. She saw herself gathering149 flowers and planting them, unknowing why they wilted150 and would not grow, despite her constancy in watering them. Next, she saw confusedly the vast town and the vast house blackened by age, to which her mother took her when she was seven years old. Her lively memory showed her the old gray heads of the masters who taught and tormented151 her. She remembered the person of her father; she saw him getting off his mule152 at the door of the manor-house, and taking her by the hand to lead her up the stairs; she recalled how her prattle153 drove from his brow the judicial154 cares he did not always lay aside with his black or his red robes, the white fur of which fell one day by chance under the snipping155 of her mischievous156 scissors. She cast but one glance at the confessor of her aunt, the mother-superior of a convent of Poor Clares, a rigid69 and fanatical old man, whose duty it was to initiate157 her into the mysteries of religion. Hardened by the severities necessary against heretics, the old priest never ceased to jangle the chains of hell; he told her of nothing but the vengeance158 of Heaven, and made her tremble with the assurance that God’s eye was on her. Rendered timid, she dared not raise her eyes in the priest’s presence, and ceased to have any feeling but respect for her mother, whom up to that time she had made a sharer in all her frolics. When she saw that beloved mother turning her blue eyes towards her with an appearance of anger, a religious terror took possession of the girl’s heart.
Then suddenly the vision took her to the second period of her childhood, when as yet she understood nothing of the things of life. She thought with an almost mocking regret of the days when all her happiness was to work beside her mother in the tapestried159 salon160, to pray in the church, to sing her ballads161 to a lute29, to read in secret a romance of chivalry162, to pluck the petals163 of a flower, discover what gift her father would make her on the feast of the Blessed Saint-John, and find out the meaning of speeches repressed before her. Passing thus from her childish joys through the sixteen years of her girlhood, the grace of those softly flowing years when she knew no pain was eclipsed by the brightness of a memory precious though ill-fated. The joyous164 peace of her childhood was far less sweet to her than a single one of the troubles scattered upon the last two years of her childhood,—years that were rich in treasures now buried forever in her heart.
The vision brought her suddenly to that morning, that ravishing morning, when in the grand old parlor165 panelled and carved in oak, which served the family as a dining-room, she saw her handsome cousin for the first time. Alarmed by the seditions in Paris, her mother’s family had sent the young courtier to Rouen, hoping that he could there be trained to the duties of the magistracy by his uncle, whose office might some day devolve upon him. The countess smiled involuntarily as she remembered the haste with which she retired166 on seeing this relation whom she did not know. But, in spite of the rapidity with which she opened and shut the door, a single glance had put into her soul so vigorous an impression of the scene that even at this moment she seemed to see it still occurring. Her eye again wandered from the violet velvet mantle embroidered167 with gold and lined with satin to the spurs on the boots, the pretty lozenges slashed168 into the doublet, the trunk-hose, and the rich collaret which gave to view a throat as white as the lace around it. She stroked with her hand the handsome face with its tiny pointed169 moustache, and “royale” as small as the ermine tips upon her father’s hood144.
In the silence of the night, with her eyes fixed43 on the green silk curtains which she no longer saw, the countess, forgetting the storm, her husband, and her fears, recalled the days which seemed to her longer than years, so full were they,—days when she loved, and was beloved!—and the moment when, fearing her mother’s sternness, she had slipped one morning into her father’s study to whisper her girlish confidences on his knee, waiting for his smile at her caresses170 to say in his ear, “Will you scold me if I tell you something?” Once more she heard her father say, after a few questions in reply to which she spoke171 for the first time of her love, “Well, well, my child, we will think of it. If he studies well, if he fits himself to succeed me, if he continues to please you, I will be on your side.”
After that she had listened no longer; she had kissed her father, and, knocking over his papers as she ran from the room, she flew to the great linden-tree where, daily, before her formidable mother rose, she met that charming cousin, Georges de Chaverny.
Faithfully the youth promised to study law and customs. He laid aside the splendid trappings of the nobility of the sword to wear the sterner costume of the magistracy.
“I like you better in black,” she said.
It was a falsehood, but by that falsehood she comforted her lover for having thrown his dagger111 to the winds. The memory of the little schemes employed to deceive her mother, whose severity seemed great, brought back to her the soulful joys of that innocent and mutual172 and sanctioned love; sometimes a rendezvous173 beneath the linden, where speech could be freer than before witnesses; sometimes a furtive174 clasp, or a stolen kiss,—in short, all the naive10 instalments of a passion that did not pass the bounds of modesty175. Reliving in her vision those delightful days when she seemed to have too much happiness, she fancied that she kissed, in the void, that fine young face with the glowing eyes, that rosy176 mouth that spoke so well of love. Yes, she had loved Chaverny, poor apparently177; but what treasures had she not discovered in that soul as tender as it was strong!
Suddenly her father died. Chaverny did not succeed him. The flames of civil war burst forth178. By Chaverny’s care she and her mother found refuge in a little town of Lower Normandy. Soon the deaths of other relatives made her one of the richest heiresses in France. Happiness disappeared as wealth came to her. The savage and terrible face of Comte d’Herouville, who asked her hand, rose before her like a thunder-cloud, spreading its gloom over the smiling meadows so lately gilded179 by the sun. The poor countess strove to cast from her memory the scenes of weeping and despair brought about by her long resistance.
At last came an awful night when her mother, pale and dying, threw herself at her daughter’s feet. Jeanne could save Chaverny’s life by yielding; she yielded. It was night. The count, arriving bloody from the battlefield was there; all was ready, the priest, the altar, the torches! Jeanne belonged henceforth to misery180. Scarcely had she time to say to her young cousin who was set at liberty:—
“Georges, if you love me, never see me again!”
She heard the departing steps of her lover, whom, in truth, she never saw again; but in the depths of her heart she still kept sacred his last look which returned perpetually in her dreams and illumined them. Living like a cat shut into a lion’s cage, the young wife dreaded181 at all hours the claws of the master which ever threatened her. She knew that in order to be happy she must forget the past and think only of the future; but there were days, consecrated182 to the memory of some vanished joy, when she deliberately183 made it a crime to put on the gown she had worn on the day she had seen her lover for the first time.
“I am not guilty,” she said, “but if I seem guilty to the count it is as if I were so. Perhaps I am! The Holy Virgin184 conceived without—”
She stopped. During this moment when her thoughts were misty185 and her soul floated in a region of fantasy her naivete made her attribute to that last look with which her lover transfixed her the occult power of the visitation of the angel to the Mother of her Lord. This supposition, worthy186 of the days of innocence187 to which her reverie had carried her back, vanished before the memory of a conjugal scene more odious than death. The poor countess could have no real doubt as to the legitimacy of the child that stirred in her womb. The night of her marriage reappeared to her in all the horror if its agony, bringing in its train other such nights and sadder days.
“Ah! my poor Chaverny!” she cried, weeping, “you so respectful, so gracious, YOU were always kind to me.”
She turned her eyes to her husband as if to persuade herself that that harsh face contained a promise of mercy, dearly brought. The count was awake. His yellow eyes, clear as those of a tiger, glittered beneath their tufted eyebrows and never had his glance been so incisive188. The countess, terrified at having encountered it, slid back under the great counterpane and was motionless.
“Why are you weeping?” said the count, pulling away the covering which hid his wife.
That voice, always a terror to her, had a specious189 softness at this moment which seemed to her of good augury190.
“I suffer much,” she answered.
“Well, my pretty one, it is no crime to suffer; why did you tremble when I looked at you? Alas191! what must I do to be loved?” The wrinkles of his forehead between the eyebrows deepened. “I see plainly you are afraid of me,” he added, sighing.
Prompted by the instinct of feeble natures the countess interrupted the count by moans, exclaiming:—
“I fear a miscarriage192! I clambered over the rocks last evening and tired myself.”
Hearing those words, the count cast so horribly suspicious a look upon his wife, that she reddened and shuddered193. He mistook the fear of the innocent creature for remorse194.
“Perhaps it is the beginning of a regular childbirth,” he said.
“What then?” she said.
“In any case, I must have a proper man here,” he said. “I will fetch one.”
The gloomy look which accompanied these words overcame the countess, who fell back in the bed with a moan, caused more by a sense of her fate than by the agony of the coming crisis; that moan convinced the count of the justice of the suspicions that were rising in his mind. Affecting a calmness which the tones of his voice, his gestures, and looks contradicted, he rose hastily, wrapped himself in a dressing-gown which lay on a chair, and began by locking a door near the chimney through which the state bedroom was entered from the reception rooms which communicated with the great staircase.
Seeing her husband pocket that key, the countess had a presentiment120 of danger. She next heard him open the door opposite to that which he had just locked and enter a room where the counts of Herouville slept when they did not honor their wives with their noble company. The countess knew of that room only by hearsay195. Jealousy196 kept her husband always with her. If occasionally some military expedition forced him to leave her, the count left more than one Argus, whose incessant197 spying proved his shameful198 distrust.
In spite of the attention the countess now gave to the slightest noise, she heard nothing more. The count had, in fact, entered a long gallery leading from his room which continued down the western wing of the castle. Cardinal199 d’Herouville, his great-uncle, a passionate lover of the works of printing, had there collected a library as interesting for the number as for the beauty of its volumes, and prudence200 had caused him to build into the walls one of those curious inventions suggested by solitude201 or by monastic fears. A silver chain set in motion, by means of invisible wires, a bell placed at the bed’s head of a faithful servitor. The count now pulled the chain, and the boots and spurs of the man on duty sounded on the stone steps of a spiral staircase, placed in the tall tower which flanked the western corner of the chateau15 on the ocean side.
When the count heard the steps of his retainer he pulled back the rusty202 bolts which protected the door leading from the gallery to the tower, admitting into the sanctuary203 of learning a man of arms whose stalwart appearance was in keeping with that of his master. This man, scarcely awakened204, seemed to have walked there by instinct; the horn lantern which he held in his hand threw so feeble a gleam down the long library that his master and he appeared in that visible darkness like two phantoms205.
“Saddle my war-horse instantly, and come with me yourself.”
This order was given in a deep tone which roused the man’s intelligence. He raised his eyes to those of his master and encountered so piercing a look that the effect was that of an electric shock.
“Bertrand,” added the count laying his right hand on the servant’s arm, “take off your cuirass, and wear the uniform of a captain of guerrillas.”
“Heavens and earth, monseigneur! What? disguise myself as a Leaguer! Excuse me, I will obey you; but I would rather be hanged.”
The count smiled; then to efface206 that smile, which contrasted with the expression of his face, he answered roughly:—
“Choose the strongest horse there is in the stable and follow me. We shall ride like balls shot from an arquebuse. Be ready when I am ready. I will ring to let you know.”
Bertrand bowed in silence and went away; but when he had gone a few steps he said to himself, as he listened to the howling of the storm:—
“All the devils are abroad, jarnidieu! I’d have been surprised to see this one stay quietly in his bed. We took Saint-Lo in just such a tempest as this.”
The count kept in his room a disguise which often served him in his campaign stratagems208. Putting on the shabby buff-coat that looked as thought it might belong to one of the poor horse-soldiers whose pittance209 was so seldom paid by Henri IV., he returned to the room where his wife was moaning.
“Try to suffer patiently,” he said to her. “I will founder210 my horse if necessary to bring you speedy relief.”
These words were certainly not alarming, and the countess, emboldened211 by them, was about to make a request when the count asked her suddenly:—
“Tell me where you keep your masks?”
“My masks!” she replied. “Good God! what do you want to do with them?”
“Where are they?” he repeated, with his usual violence.
“In the chest,” she said.
She shuddered when she saw her husband select from among her masks a “touret de nez,” the wearing of which was as common among the ladies of that time as the wearing of gloves in our day. The count became entirely212 unrecognizable after he had put on an old gray felt hat with a broken cock’s feather on his head. He girded round his loins a broad leathern belt, in which he stuck a dagger, which he did not wear habitually213. These miserable214 garments gave him so terrifying an air and he approached the bed with so strange a motion that the countess thought her last hour had come.
“Ah! don’t kill us!” she cried, “leave me my child, and I will love you well.”
“You must feel yourself very guilty to offer as the ransom215 of your faults the love you owe me.”
The count’s voice was lugubrious and the bitter words were enforced by a look which fell like lead upon the countess.
“My God!” she cried sorrowfully, “can innocence be fatal?”
“Your death is not in question,” said her master, coming out of a sort of reverie into which he had fallen. “You are to do exactly, and for love of me, what I shall now tell you.”
He flung upon the bed one of the two masks he had taken from the chest, and smiled with derision as he saw the gesture of involuntary fear which the slight shock of the black velvet wrung216 from his wife.
“You will give me a puny217 child!” he cried. “Wear that mask on your face when I return. I’ll have no barber-surgeon boast that he has seen the Comtesse d’Herouville.”
“A man!—why choose a man for the purpose?” she said in a feeble voice.
“Ho! ho! my lady, am I not master here?” replied the count.
“What matters one horror the more!” murmured the countess; but her master had disappeared, and the exclamation218 did her no injury.
Presently, in a brief lull219 of the storm, the countess heard the gallop220 of two horses which seemed to fly across the sandy dunes221 by which the castle was surrounded. The sound was quickly lost in that of the waves. Soon she felt herself a prisoner in the vast apartment, alone in the midst of a night both silent and threatening, and without succor222 against an evil she saw approaching her with rapid strides. In vain she sought for some stratagem207 by which to save that child conceived in tears, already her consolation, the spring of all her thoughts, the future of her affections, her one frail223 hope.
Sustained by maternal224 courage, she took the horn with which her husband summoned his men, and, opening a window, blew through the brass225 tube feeble notes that died away upon the vast expanse of water, like a bubble blown into the air by a child. She felt the uselessness of that moan unheard of men, and turned to hasten through the apartments, hoping that all the issues were not closed upon her. Reaching the library she sought in vain for some secret passage; then, passing between the long rows of books, she reached a window which looked upon the courtyard. Again she sounded the horn, but without success against the voice of the hurricane.
In her helplessness she thought of trusting herself to one of the women,—all creatures of her husband,—when, passing into her oratory226, she found that the count had locked the only door that led to their apartments. This was a horrible discovery. Such precautions taken to isolate227 her showed a desire to proceed without witnesses to some horrible execution. As moment after moment she lost hope, the pangs228 of childbirth grew stronger and keener. A presentiment of murder, joined to the fatigue229 of her efforts, overcame her last remaining strength. She was like a shipwrecked man who sinks, borne under by one last wave less furious than others he has vanquished230. The bewildering pangs of her condition kept her from knowing the lapse231 of time. At the moment when she felt that, alone, without help, she was about to give birth to her child, and to all her other terrors was added that of the accidents to which her ignorance exposed her, the count appeared, without a sound that let her know of his arrival. The man was there, like a demon232 claiming at the close of a compact the soul that was sold to him. He muttered angrily at finding his wife’s face uncovered; then after masking her carefully, he took her in his arms and laid her on the bed in her chamber.
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1
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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naive
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| adj.幼稚的，轻信的；天真的 | |
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conjugal
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| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
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darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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carvings
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| n.雕刻( carving的名词复数 )；雕刻术；雕刻品；雕刻物 | |
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compartments
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| n.间隔( compartment的名词复数 )；（列车车厢的）隔间；（家具或设备等的）分隔间；隔层 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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arabesques
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| n.阿拉伯式花饰( arabesque的名词复数 )；错综图饰；阿拉伯图案；阿拉贝斯克芭蕾舞姿（独脚站立，手前伸，另一脚一手向后伸） | |
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chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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22
grotesquely
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| adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
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23
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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24
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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25
growling
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| n.吠声, 咆哮声 v.怒吠, 咆哮, 吼 | |
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puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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lugubrious
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| adj.悲哀的，忧郁的 | |
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28
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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lute
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| n.琵琶，鲁特琴 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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respiration
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| n.呼吸作用；一次呼吸；植物光合作用 | |
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32
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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34
mythological
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| adj.神话的 | |
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canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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wardens
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| n.看守人( warden的名词复数 )；管理员；监察员；监察官 | |
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sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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38
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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41
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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42
affixed
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| adj.[医]附着的，附着的v.附加( affix的过去式和过去分词 )；粘贴；加以；盖（印章） | |
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43
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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44
arsenals
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| n.兵工厂，军火库( arsenal的名词复数 )；任何事物的集成 | |
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45
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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46
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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47
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
augur
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| n.占卦师；v.占卦 | |
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49
credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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50
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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51
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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52
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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53
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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54
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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55
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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56
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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57
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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58
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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59
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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60
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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61
furrow
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| n.沟；垄沟；轨迹；车辙；皱纹 | |
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62
furrows
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| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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63
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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64
lichen
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| n.地衣, 青苔 | |
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65
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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66
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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67
aquiline
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| adj.钩状的，鹰的 | |
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68
beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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69
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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70
rigidity
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| adj.钢性，坚硬 | |
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71
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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72
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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73
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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74
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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75
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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76
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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77
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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78
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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79
partisans
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| 游击队员( partisan的名词复数 )； 党人； 党羽； 帮伙 | |
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80
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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81
antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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82
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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83
repulsively
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| adv.冷淡地 | |
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84
repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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85
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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86
belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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87
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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88
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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89
miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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90
hoard
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| n./v.窖藏，贮存，囤积 | |
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91
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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92
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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93
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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94
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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95
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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96
skulking
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| v.潜伏，偷偷摸摸地走动，鬼鬼祟祟地活动( skulk的现在分词 ) | |
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97
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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98
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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99
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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100
toils
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| 网 | |
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101
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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102
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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103
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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104
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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105
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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106
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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107
vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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108
calamities
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| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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109
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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110
minions
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| n.奴颜婢膝的仆从( minion的名词复数 )；走狗；宠儿；受人崇拜者 | |
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111
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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112
rigor
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| n.严酷，严格，严厉 | |
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113
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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114
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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115
legitimacy
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| n.合法，正当 | |
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116
brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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117
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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118
peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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119
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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120
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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121
presentiments
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| n.（对不祥事物的）预感( presentiment的名词复数 ) | |
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122
overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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123
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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124
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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125
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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126
permeates
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| 弥漫( permeate的第三人称单数 )； 遍布； 渗入； 渗透 | |
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127
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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128
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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129
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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130
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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131
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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132
evoking
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| 产生，引起，唤起( evoke的现在分词 ) | |
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133
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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134
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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135
suavity
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| n.温和；殷勤 | |
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136
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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137
persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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138
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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139
torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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140
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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141
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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142
respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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143
intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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144
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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145
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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146
verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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147
rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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148
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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149
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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150
wilted
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| （使）凋谢，枯萎( wilt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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151
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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152
mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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153
prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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154
judicial
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| adj.司法的，法庭的，审判的，明断的，公正的 | |
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155
snipping
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| n.碎片v.剪( snip的现在分词 ) | |
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156
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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157
initiate
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| vt.开始，创始，发动；启蒙，使入门；引入 | |
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158
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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159
tapestried
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| adj.饰挂绣帷的，织在绣帷上的v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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160
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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161
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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162
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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163
petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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164
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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165
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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166
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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167
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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168
slashed
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| v.挥砍( slash的过去式和过去分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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169
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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170
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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171
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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172
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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173
rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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174
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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175
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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176
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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177
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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178
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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179
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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180
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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181
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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182
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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183
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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184
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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185
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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186
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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187
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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188
incisive
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| adj.敏锐的，机敏的，锋利的，切入的 | |
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189
specious
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| adj.似是而非的；adv.似是而非地 | |
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190
augury
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| n.预言，征兆，占卦 | |
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191
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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192
miscarriage
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| n.失败，未达到预期的结果；流产 | |
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193
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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194
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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195
hearsay
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| n.谣传，风闻 | |
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196
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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197
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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198
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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199
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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200
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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201
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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202
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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203
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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204
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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205
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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206
efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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207
stratagem
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| n.诡计，计谋 | |
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208
stratagems
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| n.诡计，计谋( stratagem的名词复数 )；花招 | |
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209
pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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210
Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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211
emboldened
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| v.鼓励，使有胆量( embolden的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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212
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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213
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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214
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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215
ransom
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| n.赎金，赎身；v.赎回，解救 | |
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216
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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217
puny
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| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
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218
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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219
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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220
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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221
dunes
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| 沙丘( dune的名词复数 ) | |
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222
succor
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| n.援助，帮助；v.给予帮助 | |
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223
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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224
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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225
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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226
oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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227
isolate
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| vt.使孤立，隔离 | |
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228
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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229
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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230
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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231
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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232
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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