That night she could not sleep. Eight hundred pounds! eight hundred pounds! The words went to and fro in her head. Where were they to be found? To whom could she apply? There was so little time. Names and faces flashed before her, passing for a moment where the pale gleam of the night-light fell on the ceiling, only to disappear and be replaced by other names and other faces, which vanished as quickly in their turn. Freydet? She had just made use of him. Sammy? Had nothing till he married. Besides, did anybody do such a thing as to borrow or lend eight hundred pounds? No one but a poet from the country. In Parisian society money never appears on the scene; it is assumed that you have it and are above these details, like the people in genteel comedy. A breach1 of this convention would banish2 the transgressor3 from respectable company.
And while Madame Astier pursued her feverish4 thoughts she saw beside her the round back of her husband rising and falling peacefully. It was one of the depressing incidents of their joint5 life that they had lain thus side by side for thirty years, having nothing in common but the bed. But never had the isolation6 of her surly bedfellow so strongly aroused her indignation. What was the use of waking him, of talking to him about the boy and his desperate threat? She knew perfectly7 well that he would not believe her, nor so much as move the big back which protected his repose8. She was inclined for a minute to fall upon him, to pummel him, and scratch him, and rouse him out of his selfish slumbers9 by shouting in his ear: ‘Léonard, your papers are on fire!’ And as the thought of the papers flashed madly across her mind she almost leaped out of bed. She had got her eight hundred! The drawers upstairs! How was it she had not thought of them before? There she lay, till day dawned and the night-light went out with a sputter10, content and motionless, arranging what she should do, with the look of a thief in her open eyes.
Before the usual hour she was dressed, and all the morning prowled about the rooms, watching her husband. He talked of going out, but changed his mind, and went on with his sorting till breakfast. Between his study and the attic11 he went to and fro with armfuls of pamphlets, humming a careless tune12. He had not feeling enough to perceive the constrained13 agitation14 which surcharged the air with nervous electricity and played among the furniture in the cupboards, and upon the handles of the doors. He worked on undisturbed. At table he was talkative, told idiotic15 stories, which she knew by heart, interminable as the process of crumbling16 with his knife his favourite cheese. Piece after piece of cheese he took, and still one anecdote17 followed another. And when the time came for going to the Institute, where the Dictionary Committee was to sit before the regular meeting, how long he took to start! and in spite of her eagerness to get him off quick, what an age he spent over every little thing!
The moment he turned the corner of the street, without waiting to shut the window, she darted18 to the serving-hatch, crying, ‘Corentine, call a cab, quick!’ He was gone at last, and she flew up the little staircase to the attic.
Crouching19 down to keep clear of the low ceiling she began to try a bunch of keys in the lock which fastened the bar of the drawers. She could not fit it. She could not wait. She would have forced away, without scruple20, a side of the frame, but her fingers gave way and her nails broke. She wanted something to prise with. She opened the drawer of the card-table: and there lay three yellow scrawls21. They were the very things she was looking for—the letters of Charles V.! Such miracles do happen sometimes!
She bent22 down to the low-arched window to make sure, and read: ‘Fran?ois Rabelais, ma?tre en toutes sciences et bonnes lettres.’ Enough! She started up, hitting her head hard as she did so, and was not aware of it till she was in the cab and on her way to the shop of the famous Bos in the Rue23 de l’Abbaye.
She got down at the corner of the street. It is a short quiet street, overshadowed by St. Germain des Près and by the old red brick buildings of the School of Surgery. A few of the surgeons’ carriages, professional broughams with splendid liveries, were in waiting. Scarcely anyone was about. Pigeons were feeding on the pavement, and flew away as she came to the shop opposite the school. It offers both books and curiosities, and exhibits an archaic24 inscription25, highly appropriate to such a nook of Old Paris: ‘Bos: Antiquary and Palaeographer.’
The shop-front displayed something of all sorts: old manuscripts, ancient ledgers27 with mould spots on the edges, missals with damaged gilding28, book-clasps and book-covers. To the upper panes29 were fastened assignats, old placards, plans of Paris, ballads31, military franks with spots of blood, autographs of all ages, some verses by Madame Lafargue, two letters from Chateaubriand to ‘Pertuzé, Boot-maker, names of celebrities32 ancient and modern at the foot of an invitation to dinner, or perhaps a request for money, a complaint of poverty, a love letter, &c, enough to cure anyone of writing for ever. All the autographs were priced; and as Madame Astier paused for a moment before the window she might see next to a letter of Rachel, price 12L., a letter from Léonard Astier-Réhu to Petit Séquard, his publisher, price 2s. But this was not what she came for: she was trying to discover, behind the screen of green silk, the face of her intended customer, the master of the establishment. She was seized with a sudden fear: suppose he was not at home after all!
The thought of Paul waiting gave her determination, and she went into the dark, close, dusty room. She was taken at once into a little closet behind, and began to explain her business to M. Bos, who, with his large red face and disordered hair, looked like a speaker at a public meeting. A temporary difficulty—her husband did not like to come himself—and so—— But before she could finish her lie, M. Bos, with a ‘Pray, madame, pray,’ had produced a cheque on the Crédit Lyonnais, and was accompanying her with the utmost politeness to her cab.
‘A very genteel person,’ he said to himself, much pleased with his acquisition, while she, as she took the cheque out of the glove into which it had been slipped, and looked again at the satisfactory figure, was thinking What a delightful33 man!’ She had no remorse34, not even the slight recoil35 which comes from the mere36 fact that the thing is done. A woman has not these feelings. She wears natural blinkers, which prevent her from, seeing anything but the thing which she desires at the moment, and keep her from the reflections which at the critical moment embarrass a man. She thought at intervals37, of course, of her husband’s anger when he discovered the theft, but she saw it, as it were, dim in the distance. Nay38, it was rather a satisfaction to add this to all she had gone through since yesterday, and say to herself, ‘I can bear it for my child!’
For beneath her outward calm, her external envelope as a woman of Academic fashion, lay a certain thing that exists in all women, fashionable or not, and that thing is passion. It is the pedal which works the feminine instrument, not always discovered by the husband or the lover, but always by the son. In the dull story with no love in it, which makes up the life of many a woman, the son is the hero and the principal character. To her beloved Paul, especially since he had reached manhood, Madame Astier owed the only genuine emotions of her life, the delightful anguish39 of the waiting, the chill in the pale cheeks and the heat in the hollow of the hand, the supernatural intuitions which, before the carriage is at the door, give the infallible warning that ‘he comes,’—things which she had never known even in the early years of her married life or in the days when people called her imprudent, and her husband used to say with simplicity40, ‘It’s odd; I never smoke, and my wife’s veils smell of tobacco.’
When she reached her son’s , and the first pull of the bell was not answered, her anxiety rose to distraction41. The little mansion42 showed no sign of life from the ground to the ornamental43 roof-ridge, and, in spite of its much-admired style, had to her eyes a sinister44 appearance, as also had the adjoining lodging-house, not less architecturally admirable, but showing bills all along the high mullioned windows of its two upper storeys, ‘To let; To let; To let.’ At the second pull, which produced a tremendous ring, Stenne, the impudent45 little man-servant, looking very spruce in his close-fitting sky-blue livery, appeared at last at the door, rather confused and hesitating: ‘Oh yes, M. Paul was in, but—but—’
The unhappy mother, haunted ever since yesterday by the same horrible idea, pictured her son lying in his blood, crossed at a bound the passage and three steps, and burst breathless into the study. Paul was standing46 at work before his desk in the bay window. One pane30 of the stained glass was open, to throw light upon the half-finished sketch47 and the box of colours, while the rest of the perfumed apartment was steeped in a soft subdued48 glow. Absorbed in his work he seemed not to have heard the carriage stop, the bell ring twice, and a lady’s dress flit along the passage. He had: but it was not his mother’s shabby black dress that he expected, it was not for her that he posed at his desk, nor for her that he had provided the delicate bouquets49 of fine irises50 and tulips, or the sweetmeats and elegant decanters upon the light table.
The way in which as he looked round he said, ‘Oh, it’s you,’ would have been significant to anyone but his mother. She did not notice it, lost in the delight of seeing him there, perfectly well, perfectly dressed. She said not a word, but tearing her glove open she triumphantly51 handed him the cheque. He did not ask her where she got it, or what she had given for it, but put his arms round her, taking care not to crumple52 the paper. ‘Dear old Mum’; that was all he said, but it was enough for her, though her child was not as overjoyed as she expected, but rather embarrassed. ‘Where are you going next?’ he said thoughtfully, with the cheque in his hand.
‘Where next?’ she repeated, looking at him with disappointment. Why, she had only just come, and made certain of spending a few minutes with him; but she could go if she was in the way. ‘Why, I think I shall go to the Princess’s . But I am in no hurry; she wearies me with her everlasting53 lamentation54 for Herbert. You think she has done with it, and then it takes a fresh start.’
Paul was on the point of saying something, which he did not say.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘Mammy, will you do something for me? I am expecting somebody. Go and cash this for me, and let the agent have the money in return for my drafts. You don’t mind?’
She did not indeed. If she went about his business she would seem to be with him still. While he was signing his name, the mother looked round the room. There were charming carpets and curtains, and nothing to mark the profession of the occupant except an X ruler in old walnut55, and some casts from well-known friezes56 hung here and there. As she thought of her recent agony and looked at the elaborate bouquets and the refreshments57 laid by the sofa, it occurred to her that these were unusual preparations for a suicide. She smiled without any resentment58. The naughty wretch59! She only pointed60 with her parasol at the bonbons61 in the box and said:
‘Those are to make a hole in your—your—what do you call it?’
He began to laugh too.
‘Oh, there’s a great change since yesterday.
The business, you know, the big thing I talked to you about, is really coming off this time, I think.’
‘Really? So is mine.’
‘Eh? Ah yes, Sammy’s marriage.’
Their pretty cunning eyes, both of the same hard grey, but, the mother’s a little faded, exchanged one scrutinising glance.
‘You’ll see, we shall be rolling in riches,’ he said after a moment. ‘Now you must be going,’ and he hurried her gently to the door.
That morning Paul had had a note from the Princess to say that she should call for him at his own house to go to the usual place. The usual place was the cemetery62. Lately there had been what Madame Astier called ‘a fresh start’ of Herbert. Twice a week the widow went to the cemetery with flowers, or tapers63, or articles for the chapel64, and urged the progress of the work; her conjugal65 feelings had broken out again. The fact was, that after a long and painful hesitation66 between her vanity and her love, the temptation of keeping her title and the fascinations67 of the delightful Paul—a hesitation the more painful that she confided69 it to no one, except in her journal every evening to ‘poor Herbert’—the appointment of Sammy had finally decided70 her, and she thought it proper, before taking a new husband, to complete the sepulture of the first and have done with the mausoleum and the dangerous intimacy71 of its seductive designer.
Paul, without understanding the flutterings of the foolish little soul, was amused by them, and thought them excellent symptoms, indicating the approach of the crisis. But the thing dragged, and he was in a hurry; it was time to hasten the conclusion and profit by Colette’s visit, which had been long proposed but long deferred72, the Princess, though curious to see the young man’s lodgings73, being apparently74 afraid to meet him in a place much more private than her own house or her carriage, where there were always the servants to see. Not that he had ever been over-bold; he only seemed to surround her with his presence. But she was afraid of herself, her opinion coinciding with that of the young man, who, being an experienced general in such matters, had classed her at once as one of the ‘open towns.’ It was his name for the sort of fashionable women who, in spite of a high and apparently unassailable position, in spite of a great apparatus75 of defences in every direction, are in reality to be carried by a bold attack. He did not intend now to make the regular assault, but only a smart approach or so of warm flirtation76, sufficient to set a mark upon his prey77 without hurting her dignity, and to signify the final expropriation of the deceased. The marriage and the million would follow in due time. Such was the happy dream which Madame Astier had interrupted. He was pursuing it still, at the same desk and in the same contemplative attitude, when the whole house resounded78 with another ring at the bell, followed however only by conversation at the front door. ‘What is it?’ said Paul impatiently, as he came out.
The voice of a footman, whose tall black figure was conspicuous79 in the doorway80 against a background of splashing rain, answered from the steps, with respectful insolence81, that my lady was waiting for him in the carriage. Paul, though choking with rage, managed to get out the words, ‘I am coming,’ But what horrid82 curses he muttered under his breath! The dead fellow again! Sure enough, it was the remembrance of him that had kept her away. But after a few seconds the hope of avenging83 himself before long in a highly amusing way enabled him so far to recover countenance84, that when he joined the Princess he was as cool as ever, and showed nothing of his anger but a little extra paleness in the cheek.
It was warm in the brougham, the windows having been put up because of the shower. Huge bouquets of violets and wreaths as heavy as pies loaded the cushions round Madame de Rosen and filled her lap.
‘Are the flowers unpleasant? Shall I put the window down?’ said she, with the cajoling manner which a woman puts on when she has played you a trick and wants not to have a quarrel over it. Paul’s gesture expressed a dignified85 indifference86. It was nothing to him whether the window was put down or put up. The Princess, whose deep veil, still worn on such occasions as the present, concealed87 a blooming face, felt more uncomfortable than if he had reproached her openly. Poor young man! She was treating him so cruelly—so much more cruelly than he knew! She laid her hand gently upon his, and said, ‘You are not angry with me?’
He? Not at all. Why should he be angry with her?
‘For not coming in. I did say I would, but at the last moment I—I did not think I should hurt you so much.’
‘You hurt me very much indeed.’
When a gentleman of severely88 correct deportment is betrayed into a word or two of emotion, oh, what an impression they make upon a woman’s heart! They upset her almost as much as the tears of an officer in uniform.
‘No, no,’ she said, ‘please, please do not distress89 yourself any more about me. Please say that you are not angry now.’
As she spoke90 she leaned quite close to him, letting her flowers slip down. She felt quite safe with two broad black backs and two black cockades visible on the box under a large umbrella.
‘Look,’ she went on; ‘I promise you to come once—at least once—before——’ but here she stopped in dismay. Carried away by her feelings, she was on the point of telling him that they were soon to part, and that she was going to St. Petersburg. Recovering herself in a moment, she declared emphatically that she would call unannounced some afternoon when she was not going to visit the mausoleum.
‘But you go there every afternoon,’ he said, with clenched92 teeth and such a queer accent of suppressed indignation that a smile played beneath the widow’s veil, and to make a diversion she put down the window. The shower was over. The brougham had turned into a poor quarter, where the street in its squalid gaiety seemed to feel that the worst of the year was past, as the sun, almost hot enough for summer, lighted up the wretched shops, the barrows at the gutter’s edge, the tawdry placards, and the rags that fluttered in the windows. The Princess looked out upon it with indifference. Such trivialities are non-existent for people accustomed to see them from the cushions of their carriage at an elevation93 of two feet from the road. The comfort of the springs and the protection of the glass have a peculiar94 influence upon the eyes, which take no interest in things below their level.
Madame de Rosen was thinking, ‘How he loves me! And how nice he is!’ The other suitor was of course more dignified, but it would have been much pleasanter with this one. Oh, dear! The happiest life is but a service incomplete, and never a perfect set!
By this time they were nearing the cemetery. On both sides of the road were stonemasons’ yards, in which the hard white of slabs95, images, and crosses mingled96 with the gold of immortelles and the black or white beads97 of wreaths and memorials.
‘And what about Védrine’s statue? Which way do we decide?’ he asked abruptly98, in the tone of a man who means to confine himself to business.
‘Well, really—’ she began. ‘But, oh dear, oh dear, I shall hurt your feelings again?’
‘My feelings! how so?’
The day before, they had been to make a last inspection99 of the knight100, before he was sent to the foundry. At a previous visit the Princess had received a disagreeable impression, not so much from Védrine’s work, which she scarcely looked at, as from the strange studio with trees growing in it, with lizards101 and wood-lice running about the walls, and all around it roofless ruins, suggesting recollections of the incendiary mob. But from the second visit the poor little woman had come back literally102 ill. ‘My dear, it is the horror of horrors!’ Such was her real opinion, as given the same evening to Madame Astier. But she did not dare to say so to Paul, knowing that he was a friend of the sculptor103, and also because the name of Védrine is one of the two or three which the fashionable world has chosen to honour in spite of its natural and implanted tastes, and regards with an irrational104 admiration105 by way of pretending to artistic106 originality107. That the coarse rude figure should not be put on dear Herbert’s tomb she was determined108, but she was at a loss for a presentable reason.
‘Really, Monsieur Paul, between ourselves—of course it is a splendid work—a fine Védrine—but you must allow that it is a little triste!
‘Well, but for a tomb——’ suggested Paul.
‘And then, if you will not mind, there is this.’ With much hesitation she came to the point. Really, you know, a man upon a camp bedstead with nothing on! Really she did not think it fit. It might be taken for a portrait!’ And just think of poor Herbert, the correctest of men! What would it look like?’
‘There is a good deal in that,’ said Paul gravely, and he threw his friend Védrine overboard with as little concern as a litter of kittens. ‘After all, if you do not like the figure, we can put another, or none at all. It would have a more striking effect. The tent empty; the bed ready, and no one to lie on it!’
The Princess, whose chief satisfaction was that the shirtless ruffian would not be seen there, exclaimed, ‘Oh, how glad I am! how nice of you! I don’t mind telling you now, that I cried over it all night!’
As usual, when they stopped at the entrance gate, the footman took the wreaths and followed some way behind, while Colette and Paul climbed in the heat a path made soft by the recent showers. She leaned upon his arm, and from time to time ‘hoped that she did not tire him.’ He shook his head with a sad smile. There were few people in the cemetery. A gardener and a keeper recognised the familiar figure of the Princess with a respectful bow. But when they had left the avenue and passed the upper terraces, it was all solitude110 and shade. Besides the birds in the trees they heard only the grinding of the saw and the metallic111 clink of the chisel112, sounds perpetual in Père-la-Chaise, as in some city always in building and never finished.
Two or three times Madame de Rosen had seen her companion glance with displeasure at the tall lacquey in his long black overcoat and cockade, whose funereal113 figure now as ever formed part of the love-scene. Eager on this occasion to please him, she stopped, saying, ‘Wait a minute,’ took the flowers herself, dismissed the servant, and they went on all alone along the winding114 walk. But in spite of this kindness, Paul’s brow did not relax; and, as he had hung upon his free arm three or four rings of violets, immortelles, and lilac, he felt more angry with the deceased than ever. ‘You shall pay me for this,’ was his savage115 reflection. She, on the contrary, felt singularly happy, in that vivid consciousness of life and health which comes upon us in places of death. Perhaps it was the warmth of the day, the perfume of the flowers, mixing their fragrance116 with the stronger scent117 of the yews118 and the box trees and the moist earth steaming in the sun, and with another yet, an acrid119, faint, and penetrating120 scent, which she knew well, but which, to-day, instead of revolting her senses, as usual, seemed rather to intoxicate121 them.
Suddenly a shiver passed over her. The hand which lay on the young man’s arm was suddenly grasped in his, grasped with force and held tight, held as it were in an embrace, and the little hand dared not take itself away. The fingers of his hand were trying to get between the delicate fingers of hers and take possession of it altogether. Hers resisted, trying to clench91 itself in the glove by way of refusal. All the time they went on walking, arm in arm, neither speaking nor looking, but much moved, resistance, according to the natural law, exciting the relative desire. At last came the surrender; the little hand opened, and their fingers joined in a clasp which parted their gloves, for one exquisite122 moment of full avowal123 and complete possession. The next minute the woman’s pride awoke. She wanted to speak, to show that she was mistress of herself, that she had no part in what was done, nor knowledge of it at all. Finding nothing to say, she read aloud the epitaph on a tomb lying flat among the weeds, ‘Augusta, 1847,’ and he continued, under his breath, ‘A love-story, no doubt.’ Overhead the thrushes and finches uttered their strident notes, not unlike the sounds of the stone-cutting, which were heard uninterruptedly in the distance.
They were now entering the Twentieth Division, the part of the cemetery which may be called its ‘old town,’ where the paths are narrower, the trees higher, the tombs closer together, a confused mass of ironwork, pillars, Greek temples, pyramids, angels, genii, busts124, wings open and wings folded. The tombs were various as the lives now hidden beneath—commonplace, odd, original, simple, forced, pretentious125, modest. In some the floor-stones were freshly cleaned and loaded with flowers, memorials, and miniature gardens of a Chinese elegance126 in littleness. In others the mossy slabs were mouldering127 or parting, and were covered with brambles and high weeds. But all bore well-known names, names distinctly Parisian, names of lawyers, judges, merchants of eminence128, ranged here in rows as in the haunts of business and trade. There were even double names, standing for family partnerships129 in capital and connection, substantial signatures, known no more to the directory or the bank ledger26, but united for ever upon the tomb. And Madame de Rosen remarked them with the same tone of surprise, almost of pleasure, with which she would have bowed to a carriage in the Park, ‘Ah! the So-and-So’s ! Mario? was that the singer?’ and so forth130, all by way of seeming not to know that their hands were clasped.
But presently the door of a tomb near them creaked, and there appeared a large lady in black, with a round fresh face. She carried a little watering-pot, and was putting to rights the flower-beds, oratory131, and tomb generally, as calmly as if she had been in a summer-house. She nodded to them across the Enclosure with a kindly132 smile of unselfish good will, which seemed to say, ‘Use your time, happy lovers; life is short, and nothing good but love.’ A feeling of embarrassment133 unloosed their hands. The spell was broken, and the Princess, with a sort of shame, led the way across the tombs, taking the quickest and shortest line to reach the mausoleum of the Prince.
It stood on the highest ground in ‘Division 20,’ upon a large level of lawn and flowers, inclosed by a low rich rail of wrought134 iron in the style of the Scaliger tombs at Verona. Its general appearance was designedly rough, and fairly realised the conception of an antique tent with its coarse folds, the red of the Dalmatian granite135 giving the colour of the bark in which the canvas had been steeped. At the top of three broad steps of granite was the entrance, flanked with pedestals and high funereal tripods of bronze blackened with a sort of lacquer. Above were the Rosen arms upon a large scutcheon, also of bronze, the shield of the good knight who slept within the tent.
Entering the inclosure, they laid the wreaths here and there, on the pedestals and on the slanted136 projections137, representing huge tent-pegs, at the edge of the base. The Princess went to the far end of the interior, where in the darkness before the altar shone the silver fringes of two kneeling-desks, and the old gold of a Gothic cross and massive candlesticks, and there fell upon her knees—a good place to pray in, among the cool slabs, the panels of black marble glittering with the name and full titles of the dead, and the inscriptions138 from Ecclesiastes or the Song of Songs. But the Princess could find only a few indistinct words, confused with profane139 thoughts, which made her ashamed. She rose and busied herself with the flower-stands, retiring gradually far enough to judge the effect of the sarcophagus or bed. The cushion of black bronze, with silver monogram140, was already in its place, and she thought the hard couch with nothing upon it had a fine and simple effect. But she wanted the opinion of Paul, who could be heard pacing the gravel109 as he waited without. Mentally approving his delicacy141, she was on the point of calling him in, when the interior grew dark, and on the trefoil lights of the lantern was heard the patter of another shower. Twice she called him, but he did not move from the pedestal, where he sat exposed to the rain, and without speaking declined her invitation.
‘Come in,’ she said, ‘come in.’
Still he stayed, saying rapidly and low, ‘I do not want to come. You love him so.’
‘Come,’ she still said, ‘come/ and taking his hand drew him to the entrance. Step by step the splashing of the rain made them draw back as far as the sarcophagus, and there, half sitting, half standing, they remained side by side, contemplating142 beneath the low clouds the ‘old town’ of the dead, which sloped away at their feet with its crowding throng143 of pinnacles144 and grey figures and humbler stones, rising like Druid architecture from the bright green. No birds were audible, no sound of tools, nothing but the water running away on all sides, and from the canvas cover of a half-finished monument the monotonous145 voices of two artisans discussing their worries. The rain without made it all the warmer within, and with the strong aroma146 of the flowers mingled still that other inseparable scent The Princess had raised her veil, feeling the same oppression and dryness of the mouth that she had felt on the way up. Speechless and motionless, the pair seemed so much a part of the tomb, that a little brown, bird came hopping147 in to shake its feathers and pick a worm between the slabs. ‘It’s a nightingale,’ murmured Paul in the sweet overpowering stillness. She tried to say, ‘Do they sing still in this month?’ But he had taken her in his arms, he had set her between his knees at the edge of the granite couch, and putting her head back, pressed upon her half-open lips a long, long kiss, passionately148 returned.
‘Because love is more strong than death,’ said the inscription from the Canticle, written above them upon the marble wall.
When the Princess reached her house, where Madame Astier was awaiting her return, she had a long cry in the arms of her friend, a refuge unhappily not more trustworthy than those of her friend’s son. It was a burst of lamentation and broken words. ‘Oh, my dear, oh, my dear, how miserable149 I am! If you knew,’ she said, ‘if you only knew!’ She felt with despair the hopeless difficulty of the situation, her hand solemnly promised to the Prince d’Athis, and her affections just plighted150 to the enchanter of the tombs, whom she cursed from the depths of her soul. And, most distressing151 of all, she could not confide68 her weakness to her affectionate friend, being sure that, the moment she opened her lips, the mother would side with her son against ‘Sammy,’ with love against prudence152, and perhaps even compel her to the intolerable degradation153 of marrying a commoner.
‘There then, there then,’ said Madame Astier, unaffected by the torrent154 of grief. ‘You are come from the cemetery, I suppose, where you have been working up your feelings again. But you know, dear, there must be an end to Artemisia!‘ She understood the woman’s weak vanity, and insisted on the absurdity155 of this interminable mourning, ridiculous in the eyes of the world, and at all events injurious to her beauty And after all, it was not a question of a second love-match! What was proposed was no more than an alliance between two names and titles equally noble. Herbert himself, if he saw her from heaven, must be content.
‘He did understand things, certainly, poor dear,’ sighed Colette de Rosen, whose maiden156 name was Sauvadon. She was set on becoming ‘Madame l’Ambassadrice,’ and still more on remaining ‘Madame la Princesse.’
‘Look, dear, will you have a piece of good advice? You just run away. Sammy will start in a week. Do not wait for him. Take Lavaux. He knows St. Petersburg, and will settle you there meanwhile. And there will be this advantage, that you will escape a painful scene with the Duchess. A Corsican, you know, is capable of anything.’
‘Ye-es, perhaps I had better go,’ said Madame de Rosen, to whom the chief merit of the plan was that she would avoid any fresh attack, and put distance between her and the folly157 of the afternoon.
‘Is it the tomb?’ asked Madame Astier, seeing her hesitate. ‘Is that it? Why, Paul will finish it very well without you. Come, pet, no more tears. You may water your beauty, but you must not over-water it.’ As she went away in the fading light to wait for her omnibus, the good lady said to herself, ‘Oh dear, D’Athis will never know what his marriage is costing me!’ And here her feeling of weariness, her longing158 for a good rest after so many trials, reminded her suddenly that the most trying of all was to come, the discovery and confession159 at home. She had not yet had time to think about it, and now she was going fast towards it, nearer and nearer with every turn of the heavy wheels. The very anticipation160 made her shudder161: it was not fear; but the frantic162 outcries of Astier-Réhu, his big rough voice, the answer that must be given, and then the inevitable163 reappearance of his trunk—oh, what a weariness it would be! Could it not be put off till to-morrow? She was tempted164 not to confess at once, but to turn suspicion upon some one else, upon Teyssèdre for instance, till the next morning. She would at least get a quiet night.
‘Ah, here is Madame! Something has happened/ cried Corentine, as she ran to the door in a fluster165, excitement making more conspicuous than usual the marks of her smallpox166. Madame Astier made straight for her own room; but the door of the study opened, and a peremptory167 ‘Adelaide!’ compelled her to go in. The rays of the lamp-globe showed her that the face of her husband had a strange expression. He took her by the two hands and drew her into the light. Then in a quivering voice he said, ‘Loi-sillon is dead,’ and he kissed her on both cheeks.
Not found out! No, not yet. He had not even gone up to his papers; but had been pacing his study for two hours, eager to see her and tell her this great news, these three words which meant a change in their whole life, ‘Loisillon is dead!’
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1
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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3
transgressor
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| n.违背者 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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sputter
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| n.喷溅声；v.喷溅 | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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16
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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18
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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scrawls
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| 潦草的笔迹( scrawl的名词复数 ) | |
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22
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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24
archaic
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| adj.(语言、词汇等)古代的，已不通用的 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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ledger
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| n.总帐，分类帐；帐簿 | |
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ledgers
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| n.分类账( ledger的名词复数 ) | |
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gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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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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32
celebrities
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| n.（尤指娱乐界的）名人( celebrity的名词复数 )；名流；名声；名誉 | |
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33
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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34
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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35
recoil
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| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
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36
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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38
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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39
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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40
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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41
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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42
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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43
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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44
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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45
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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46
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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47
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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48
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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49
bouquets
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| n.花束( bouquet的名词复数 )；（酒的）芳香 | |
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50
irises
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| n.虹( iris的名词复数 )；虹膜；虹彩；鸢尾（花） | |
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51
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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52
crumple
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| v.把...弄皱，满是皱痕，压碎，崩溃 | |
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53
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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54
lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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55
walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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56
friezes
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| n.（柱顶过梁和挑檐间的）雕带，（墙顶的）饰带( frieze的名词复数 ) | |
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57
refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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58
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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59
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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60
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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61
bonbons
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| n.小糖果( bonbon的名词复数 ) | |
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62
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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63
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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64
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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65
conjugal
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| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
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66
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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67
fascinations
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| n.魅力( fascination的名词复数 )；有魅力的东西；迷恋；陶醉 | |
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68
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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69
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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70
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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71
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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72
deferred
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| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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73
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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74
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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75
apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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76
flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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77
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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78
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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79
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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80
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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81
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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82
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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83
avenging
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| adj.报仇的，复仇的v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的现在分词 )；为…报复 | |
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84
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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85
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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86
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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87
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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88
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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89
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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90
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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91
clench
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| vt.捏紧（拳头等），咬紧（牙齿等），紧紧握住 | |
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92
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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93
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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94
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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95
slabs
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| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
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96
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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97
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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98
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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99
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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100
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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101
lizards
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| n.蜥蜴( lizard的名词复数 ) | |
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102
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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103
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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104
irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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105
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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106
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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107
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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108
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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109
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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110
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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111
metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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112
chisel
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| n.凿子；v.用凿子刻，雕，凿 | |
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113
funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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114
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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115
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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116
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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117
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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118
yews
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| n.紫杉( yew的名词复数 ) | |
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119
acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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120
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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intoxicate
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| vt.使喝醉，使陶醉，使欣喜若狂 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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123
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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124
busts
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| 半身雕塑像( bust的名词复数 )； 妇女的胸部； 胸围； 突击搜捕 | |
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125
pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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126
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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127
mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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128
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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129
partnerships
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| n.伙伴关系( partnership的名词复数 )；合伙人身份；合作关系 | |
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130
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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131
oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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132
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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134
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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136
slanted
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| 有偏见的； 倾斜的 | |
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137
projections
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| 预测( projection的名词复数 )； 投影； 投掷； 突起物 | |
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138
inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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139
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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140
monogram
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| n.字母组合 | |
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141
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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142
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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143
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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144
pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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145
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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146
aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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147
hopping
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| n. 跳跃 动词hop的现在分词形式 | |
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148
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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149
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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plighted
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| vt.保证，约定（plight的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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151
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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152
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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153
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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154
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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155
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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156
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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157
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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158
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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159
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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160
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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161
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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162
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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163
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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164
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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165
fluster
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| adj.慌乱，狼狈，混乱，激动 | |
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166
smallpox
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| n.天花 | |
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167
peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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