The day following that on which the Duchess Padovani, to show herself smiling under the blow which had fallen upon her, had appeared at the theatre, she went, as she usually did at that time of year, to Mousseaux. She made no change in her plans. She had sent out her invitations for the season, and did not cancel them. But before the arrival of the first instalment of visitors, during the few days’ solitude1 usually spent in superintending in detail the arrangements for entertaining her guests, she passed the whole time from morning to night in the park at Mousseaux, whose slopes stretched far and wide on the banks of the Loire. She would go madly along, like a wounded and hunted animal, stop for a moment from exhaustion2, and then at a throb3 of pain start off again. ‘Coward! coward! wretch4!’ She hurled5 invectives at the Prince as though he had been by her side, and still she walked with the same fevered tread the labyrinth6 of green paths which ran down in long shady windings8 to the river. Here, forgetting her rank and her position, flinging off her mask and able to be natural at last, she would give vent9 to her despair, a despair perhaps something less than her wrath10, for the voice of pride spoke11 louder within her than any other, and the few tears which escaped her lids did not flow, but leaped and sparkled like flames. Revenge, revenge! She longed for a revenge of blood, and sometimes pictured one of her foresters, Bertoli or Salviato, going off abroad to put a bullet into him on his wedding-day. Then she changed her mind. No, she would deal the blow herself, and feel the joy of the vendetta12 in her own grasp. She envied the women of lower class who wait behind a doorway13 for the traitor14, and fling in his face a bottle full of vitriol with a storm of hideous15 curses. Why did she not know some of the horrible names that relieve the heart, some foul16 insult to shriek17 at the mean treacherous18 companion who rose before her mind with the hesitating look and false constrained19 smile he wore at their last meeting? But even in her savage20 Corsican patois21 the great lady knew no ‘nasty words,’ and when she had cried ‘Coward! coward! wretch!’ her beautiful mouth could only writhe22 in helpless rage.
In the evening after her solitary23 dinner in the vast hall, whose panelling of old leather was gilt24 by the setting sun, her wild pacing to and fro began again. Now it was on the gallery overhanging the river, quaintly25 restored by Paul Astier, with open arcades26 like lace-work and two pretty corbel-turrets. Below on the Loire, outspread like a lake, there still lingered a delicate silvery light from the departing day, while the hazy27 evening air exaggerated the distances between the willow28 beds and islands out towards Chaumont. But poor Mari’ Anto did not look at the view when, worn out with retracing29 the steps of her grief, she leant both elbows on the balustrade and gazed into the dimness. Her life appeared before her, waste and desolate30, at an age when it is difficult to make a fresh start. A faint sound of voices rose from Mousseaux, a group of two or three small houses on the embankment; the chain of a boat creaked as the night breeze rose. How easy it would be! Grief had bowed down her head so low, that if she were but to lean forward a little farther.... But then what would the world say? A woman of her rank and age could not kill herself like any little grisette! The third day Paul’s note arrived, and with it the newspapers’ detailed31 report of the duel32. It gave her the same delight as a warm pressure of the hand. So some one still cared for her, and had wanted to avenge33 her at the risk of his life! Not that Paul’s feeling was love, she supposed, but only a grateful affection, the reminiscence of kindnesses done by her to him and his family, perhaps an imperative34 desire to atone35 for his mother’s treachery. Generous, brave fellow! If she had been in Paris, she would have gone to him at once, but as her guests were just due, she could only write and send him her own doctor.
Every hour came fresh arrivals from Blois and from Onzain, Mousseaux lying half way between the two stations. The landau, the victoria, and two great breaks set down at the steps in the great court, amid the incessant36 ringing of the bell, many illustrious members of the Duchess’s set, academicians and diplomatists, the Count and Countess Foder, the Comte de Brétigny and his son the Vicomte, who was a Secretary of Legation, M. and Madame Desminières, Laniboire the philosopher, who had come to the castle to draw up his report on the award of the Prix de vertu, the young critic of Shelley, who was ‘run’ by the Padovani set, and Danjou, handsome Danjou, all by himself, though his wife had been asked. Life at Mousseaux was exactly what it had been the year before. The day passed in calls, or work in the separate rooms, meals, general conversation, afternoon naps; then, when the great heat was passed, came long drives through the woods, or sails on the river in the little fleet of boats anchored at the bottom of the park. Parties would be made to picnic on an island, and some of the guests would repair to the fish preserves, which were always well stocked with lively fish, as the keeper took care to replenish37 them from his nets before each expedition. Then every one came back to the ceremonious dinner, after which the gentlemen, when they had smoked in the billiard room or on the gallery, joined the ladies in a splendid apartment, which had been the council-chamber of Catherine de Médicis.
All round the huge room were depicted38 in tapestry39 the loves of Dido and her despair at the departure of the Trojan ships. The irony40 of this strange coincidence was not remarked by any one, so little do people in society regard their surroundings, less for want of observation than because they are always and fully41 occupied with their personal behaviour and the effect they are to produce. But there was a striking contrast between the tragic42 despair of the abandoned queen, gazing with arms uplifted and streaming eyes as the little black speck43 disappeared, and the smiling serenity44 of the Duchess, as she presided in the drawing-room, maintaining her supremacy45 over the other ladies, whose dress and whose reading were guided by her taste, or joining in the discussions between Laniboire and the young critic, and in the disputes waged over the candidates for Loisillon’s seat by Desminières and Danjou. Indeed, if the Prince d’Athis, the faithless Sammy, whose name was in every one’s thoughts, though on no one’s lips, could have seen her, he would have been mortified46 to find how small was the gap left in a woman’s life by his-absence, and how busy was the turmoil47 throughout the royal castle of Mousseaux, where in all the long front there were but three windows shut up, those belonging to what were called ‘the Prince’s rooms.’
‘She takes it well,’ said Danjou the first evening. And neither little Countess Foder, from whose massy lace protruded48 a very sharp inquisitive49 little nose, nor sentimental50 Madame Desminières, who had looked forward to lamentations and confidences, could get over such amazing courage. In truth they were as much amazed at her as if going to a long-expected play they had found the house ‘closed for the day’; while the men took Ariadne’s equanimity52 as an encouragement to would-be successors. The real change in the Duchess’s life lay in the attitude observed towards her by all or nearly all the men; they were less reserved, more sedulous53, more eager to please her, and fluttered round her chair with an obvious desire, not merely to merit her patronage55, but to attract her regard.
Never indeed had Maria Antonia been more beautiful. When she entered the dining-room the tempered brilliancy of her complexion56 and her shoulders in their light summer robe made a bright place at the table, even when the Marquise de Roca Nera had come over from her neighbouring country seat on the other side of the Loire. The Marquise was younger, but no one would have thought so to look at them. Laniboire, the philosopher, was strongly attracted to the Duchess. He was a widower57, well on in years, with heavy features and apoplectic58 complexion, but he did his best to captivate his hostess by the display of a manly59 and sportsmanlike activity which led him into occasional mishaps60. One day, in a boat, as he tried to make a great display of biceps over his rowing, he fell into the river; another time, as he was prancing61 on horseback at the side of the carriage, his mount squeezed his leg so hard against the wheel that he had to keep his room and be bandaged for several days. But the finest spectacle was to see him in the drawing-room, ‘dancing,’ as Danjou said, ‘before the Ark.’ He stretched and bent62 his unwieldy person in all directions. He would challenge to a philosophic63 duel the young critic, a confirmed pessimist64 of three-and-twenty, and overwhelm him with his own imperturbable65 optimism. Laniboire the philosopher had one particular reason for this good opinion of the world; his wife had died of diphtheria caught from nursing their children; both his children had died with their mother; and each time that he repeated his dithyramb in praise of existence, the philosopher concluded his statement with a sort of practical demonstration66, a bow to the Duchess, which seemed to say, ‘How can a man think ill of life in the presence of such beauty as yours?’
The young critic paid his court in a less conspicuous67 and sufficiently68 cunning fashion. He was an immense admirer of the Prince d’Athis, and being at the age when admiration69 shows itself by imitation, he no sooner made his entry into society than he copied Sammy’s attitudes, his walk, even the carriage of his head, his bent back, and vague mysterious smile of contemptuous reserve. Now he increased the resemblance by details of dress, which he had observed and collected with the sharpness of a child, from the way of pinning his tie just at the opening of the collar to the fawn-coloured check of his English trousers. Unfortunately he had too much hair and not a scrap70 of beard, so that his efforts were quite thrown away, and revived no uncomfortable memories in the Duchess, who was as indifferent to his English checks as she was to the languishing71 glances of Brétigny fils, or the significant pressure of Brétigny père, as he gave her his arm to dinner. But all this helped to surround her with that atmosphere of gallantry to which she had long been accustomed by D’Athis, who played the humble72 servant to the verge73 of servility, and to save her woman’s pride from the conscious humiliation74 of abandonment.
Amidst all these aspirants75 Danjou kept somewhat aloof76, amusing the Duchess with his green-room stories and making her laugh, a way of self-recommendation in certain cases not unsuccessful. But the time came when he thought matters sufficiently advanced: and one morning when she was starting for her rapid solitary walk with her dogs through the park, in the hope of leaving her wrath behind in the thickets77 with the waking birds, or of cooling and tempering it among the dewy lawns and dripping branches—suddenly, at a turn in the path, appeared Danjou, ready for the attack. Dressed from head to foot in white flannels79, his trousers tucked into his boots, with a picturesque80 cap and a well-trimmed beard, he was trying to find a dénouement for a three-act drama, to be ready for the Fran?ais that winter. The name was ‘Appearances,’ and the subject a satire81 on society. Everything was written but the final scene.
‘Well, let us try what we can do together,’ said the Duchess brightly, as she cracked the long lash82 of the short-handled whip with silver whistle, which she used to call in her dogs. But the moment they turned to walk together, he began to talk of his love, and how sad it would be for her to live alone; and ended by offering himself, after his own fashion, straight out and with no circumlocutions. The Duchess, with a quick movement of pride, threw up her head, grasping her whip handle tightly, as if to strike the insolent83 fellow who dared to talk to her as he might to a super at the opera. But the insult was also a compliment, and there was pleasure as well as anger in her blush. Danjou steadily84 urged his point, and tried to dazzle her with his polished wit, pretending to treat the matter less as a love affair than as an intellectual partnership85. A man like himself and a woman like her might command the world.
‘Many thanks, my dear Danjou; such specious86 reasoning is not new to me. I am suffering from it still.’ Then with a haughty87 wave of her hand, which allowed no reply, she pointed88 out the shady path which the dramatist was to follow, and said, ‘Look for your dénouement; I am going in.’ He stood where he was, completely disconcerted, and gazed at her beautiful carriage as she walked away.
‘Not even as zebra?’ he said, in a tone of appeal.
She looked round, her black brows meeting. ‘Ah, yes, you are right; the post is vacant,’ Her thoughts went to Lavaux, the base underling for whom she had done so much, and without a smile she answered in a weary voice, ‘Zebra, if you like.’
Then she vanished behind a little group of fine yellow roses a little overblown, whose leaves would be scattered89 at the first fresh breeze.
It was something to boast of that the proud Mari’ Anto’ had heard him through. Probably no other man, not even her Prince, had ever spoken to her thus. Full of the inspiration of hope, and stimulated90 by the fine speeches he had just thrown off, the dramatist soon hit upon his final scene. He was going back to write it out before breakfast, when he stopped short in surprise at seeing through the branches ‘the Prince’s ‘ windows open to the sunlight Who was coming? What favourite guest was to be honoured with those convenient and luxurious91 rooms, looking over the river and the park? He made inquiries92, and was reassured93. It was her Grace’s architect; he was coming to the castle after an illness. Considering the intimacy94 between the lady and the Astiers, nothing was more natural than that Paul should be entertained like a son of the house in a mansion95 which he had more or less created. Still, when the new arrival took his seat at breakfast, his chastened delicacy96 of feature, his paleness—the paler by a white silk kerchief—his duel, his wound, and the general flavour of romance surrounding him seemed to make so keen an impression on the ladies, and called forth97 such affectionate interest and care on the part of the Duchess herself, that handsome Danjou, being one of those all-engrossing persons to whom any other man’s success seems a personal loss, if not downright robbery, felt a jealous pang98. With his eyes on his plate he took advantage of his position by the hostess to murmur99 some depreciatory100 remarks upon the pretty young fellow, unfortunately so much disfigured by his mother’s nose. He made merry over his duel, his wound, and his reputation in the fencing-room, the kind of bubble which bursts at the first prick101 of a real sword. He added, not knowing how near he was to the truth, ‘The quarrel at cards was of course a mere54 pretext102; there was a woman at the bottom of it.’
‘Of the duel? Do you think so?’ His nod said ‘I am sure of it.’ Much admiring his own cleverness, he turned to the company, and dazzled them with his epigrams and anecdotes103. He never went into society without providing himself with a store of these pocket squibs. Paul was no match for him here, and the ladies’ interest soon reverted104 to the brilliant talker, especially when he announced that, having got his dénouement and finished his play, he would read it in the drawing-room while it was too hot to go out. A universal exclamation105 of delight from the ladies welcomed this invaluable106 relief to the day’s monotony. What a precious privilege for them, proud as they were already of dating their letters from Mousseaux, to be able to send to all their dear friends, who were not there, accounts of an unpublished play by Danjou, read by Danjou himself, and then next winter to be in a position to say when the rehearsals107 were going on, ‘Oh, Danjou’s play! I know it; he read it to us at the castle.’
As the company rose, full of excitement at this good news, the Duchess went towards Paul, and taking his arm with her graceful108 air of command said, ‘Come for a turn on the gallery; it is stifling109 here.’ The air was heavy even at the height of the gallery, for there rose from the steaming river a mist of heat, which overspread and blurred110 the irregular green outlines of its banks and of its low floating islands. She led the young man away from the smokers111 right to the end of the furthest bay, and then clasping his hand said, ‘So it was for me; it was all for me.’
‘Yes, Duchess, for you.’
And he pursed his lips as he added, ‘And presently we shall have another try.’
‘You must not say that, you naughty boy.’
She stopped, as an inquisitive footstep came towards them. Danjou!’
‘Yes, Duchess.’
‘My fan... on the dining-room table... would you be so kind?...’ When he was some way off, she said, ‘I will not have it, Paul. In the first place, the creature is not worth fighting. Ah, if we were alone—if I could tell you!’ The fierceness of her tone and the clenching112 of her hands betrayed a rage that amazed Paul Astier. After a month he had hoped to find her calmer than this. It was a disappointment, and it checked the explosion, ‘I love you—I have always loved you,’ which was to have been forced from him at the first confidential113 interview. He was only telling the story of the duel, in which she was very much interested, when the Academician brought her fan. ‘Well fetched, zebra!’ she said by way of thanks. With a little pout114 he answered in the same strain but a lowered voice, ‘A zebra on promotion115, you know!’
‘What, wanting to be raised already!’ She tapped him with her fan as she spoke, and anxious to put him in a good temper for his reading, let him escort her back to the drawing-room, where his manuscript was lying ready on a dainty card-table in the full light of a high window partly open, showing the flower-garden and the groups of great trees.
‘Appearances. A Drama in Three Acts. Dramatis Person?....’
The ladies, getting as close round as they could, drew themselves together with the charming little shiver which is their way of anticipating enjoyment116. Danjou read like a genuine ‘Player’ of Picheral’s classification, making lengthy117 pauses while he moistened his lips with his glass of water, and wiped them with a fine cambric handkerchief. As he finished each of the long broad pages, scribbled118 all over with his tiny handwriting, he let-it fall carelessly at his feet on the carpet Each time Madame de Foder, who hunts the ‘lions’ of all nations, stooped noiselessly, picked up the fallen sheet, and placed it reverently119 upon an armchair beside her, exactly square with the sheets before, contriving120, in this subtle and delicate way, to take a certain part in the great man’s work. It was as if Liszt or Rubinstein had been at the piano and she had been turning over the music. All went well till the end of Act I., an interesting and promising121 introduction, received with a furore of delighted exclamations122, rapturous laughter, and enthusiastic applause. After a long pause, in which was audible from the far distance of the park the hum of the insects buzzing about the tree-tops, the reader wiped his moustache, and resumed:
Act II The scene represents... But here his voice began to break, and grew huskier with every speech. He had just seen an empty chair among the ladies in the first row; it was Antonia’s chair; and his glances strayed over his eye-glass searching the whole huge room. It was full of green plants and screens, behind which the auditors123 had ensconced themselves to hear—or to sleep—undisturbed. At last, in one of the numerous and regular intervals124 provided by his glass of water, he caught a whisper, then a glimpse of a light dress, then, at the far end, on a sofa, he saw the Duchess with Paul beside her, continuing the conversation interrupted on the gallery. To one like Danjou, spoiled with every kind of success, the affront125 was deadly. But he nerved himself to finish the Act, throwing his pages down on the floor with a violence which made them fly, and sent little Madame de Foder crawling after them on all fours. At the end of the Act, as the whispering still went on, he left off, pretending that he was suddenly taken hoarse126 and must defer127 the rest till the next day. The Duchess, absorbed in the duel, of which she could not hear enough, supposed the play concluded, and cried from the distance, clapping her little hands, ‘Bravo, Danjou, the dénouement is delicious.’
That evening the great man had, or said he had, a bilious128 attack, and very early next morning he left Mousseaux without seeing any one again. Perhaps it was only the vexation of an author; perhaps he truly believed that young Astier was going to succeed the Prince. However that may be, a week after he had gone Paul had not got beyond an occasional whispered word. The lady showed him the utmost kindness, treated him with the care of a mother, asked after his health, whether he did not find the tower looking south too hot, whether the shaking of the carriage tired him, whether it was not too late for him to stay on the river. But the moment he tried to mention the word ‘love,’ she was off without seeming to understand. Still he found her a very different creature from the proud Antonia of other years. Then, haughty and calm, she would show impertinence his place by a mere frown. It was the serenity of a majestic129 river flowing between its embankments. But now the embankment was giving way; there seemed to be a crack somewhere, through which was breaking the real nature of the woman. She had fits of rebellion against custom and social convention, which hitherto she had respected scrupulously130, sudden desires to go somewhere else, and to tire herself in some long excursion. She planned festivities, fireworks, great coursing expeditions for the autumn, in which she would take the lead, though it was years since she had been on horseback. Paul watched carefully the vagaries131 of her excitement, and kept his sharp hawk’s -eye upon everything; he had quite made up his mind not to dangle132 for two years, as he had round Colette de Rosen.
One night the party had broken up early, after a tiring day of driving in the neighbourhood. Paul had gone up to his room, and having thrown off his coat was sitting in his slippers133 smoking a cigar and writing to his mother a carefully studied epistle. Mamma was staying at Clos Jallanges, and wearing her eyes out with looking across the winding7 river into the extreme distance for a glimpse of the four towers of Mousseaux: and he had to convince her that there was no chance of a reconciliation134 at present between her and her friend, and that they had better not meet. (No, no! His good mother was much too fond of fishing on her own hook to be a desirable associate!) He had to remind her of the bill due at the end of the month, and her promise to send the money to good little Stenne, who had been left in the Rue135 Fortuny as sole garrison136 of the mediaeval mansion. If Sammy’s money had not yet come in, she might borrow of the Freydets, who would not refuse to advance it for a few days. That very morning the Paris papers in their foreign news had announced the marriage of the French Ambassador at St. Petersburg, mentioned the presence of the Grand Duke, described the bride’s dresses, and given the name of the Polish Bishop137 who had bestowed138 his blessing139 on the happy pair. Mamma might imagine how the breakfast party at Mousseaux was affected140 by this news, known to every one, and read by the hostess in the eyes of her guests and in their persistent141 conversation on other topics.
The poor Duchess, who had hardly spoken during the meal, felt, when it was over, that she must rouse herself, and in spite of the heat had carried off all her visitors in three carriages to the Chateau142 de la Poissonnière, where the poet Ronsard was born. Ten miles’ drive in the sun on a road all cracks and dust, for the pleasure of hearing that hideous old Lani-boire, hoisted143 on to an old stump144 as decayed as himself, recite ‘Mignonne, allons voir si la rose.’ On the way home they had paid a visit to the Agricultural Orphanage145 and Training School founded by old Padovani. Mamma must know it all well; they had been over the dormitory and laundry, and inspected the implements146 and the copy-books; and the whole place was so hot and smelly; and Laniboire made a speech to the Agricultural Orphans147, cropped like convicts, in which he assured them that the world was good. To finish themselves up they stopped again at the furnaces near Onzain, and spent an hour between the heat of the setting sun and the smoke and smell of coal from three huge belching148 brick chimneys, stumbling over the rails and dodging149 the trucks and shovels150 full of molten metal in gigantic masses, which dropped fire like dissolving blocks of red ice, All the time the Duchess went on unwearied, but looked at nothing, listened to nothing. She seemed to be having an animated151 discussion with old Brétigny, whose arm she had taken, and paid as little attention to the furnaces and forges as to the poet Ronsard or the Agricultural Orphanage.
Paul had reached this point in his letter, painting with terrible force, to console his mother for her absence, the dullness of life this year at Mousseaux, when he heard a gentle knock at his door. He thought it was the young critic, or the Vicomte de Brétigny, or perhaps Laniboire, who had been very unquiet of late. All these had often prolonged the evening in his room, which was the largest and most convenient, and had a dainty smoking-room attached to it. He was very much surprised on opening his door to see by the light of the painted windows that the long corridor of the first floor was absolutely silent and deserted152, right away to the guard-room, where a ray of moonlight showed the outline of the carving153 on the massive door. He was going back to his seat, when there came another knock. It came from the smoking-room, which communicated by a little door under the hangings with a narrow passage in the thickness of the wall leading to the rooms of the Duchess. The arrangement, dating much earlier than the restorations, was not known to him: and, as he remembered certain conversations during the last few days, when the men were alone, and especially some of the stories of old Laniboire, his first thought was ‘Whew! I hope she did not hear us.’ He drew the bolt and the Duchess passed him without a word, and laying down on the table where he had been writing a bundle of yellowish papers, with which her delicate fingers played nervously154, she said in a serious voice:
‘I want you to give me your advice; you are my friend, and I have no one else to confide51 in.’
No one but him—poor woman! And she did not take warning from the cunning watchful155 predatory glance, which shifted from the letter, imprudently left open on the table where she might have read it, to herself as she stood there with her arms bare and heavy hair coiled round and round her head. He was thinking, ‘What does she want? What has she come for?’ She, absorbed in the requickened wrath which had been rising and choking her since the morning, panted out in low broken sentences, ‘Just before you came, he sent Lavaux—he did! he sent Lavaux—to ask for his letters!—I gave his impudent156 cheeks such a reception that he won’t come again.—His letters, indeed!—these are what he wanted.’
She held out the roll, her brief, as it might be called, against the partner of her affections, showing what she had paid to raise the man out of the gutter157.
‘Take them, look at them! They are really quite interesting! ‘He turned over the odd collection, smelling now of the boudoir, but better suited to Bos’s shop-front; there were mortgageable debts to dealers158 in curiosities, private jewellers, laundresses, yacht-builders, agents for imitation-champagne from Touraine, receipts from stewards159 and club-waiters, in short, every device of usury160 by which a man about Paris comes to bankruptcy161. Mari’ Anto muttered under her breath, ‘The restoration of this gentleman cost more than Mousseaux, you see!... I have had all these things in a drawer for years, because I never destroy anything; but I solemnly declare that. I never thought of using them. Now I have changed my mind. He is rich. I want my money and interest. If he does not pay, I will take proceedings162. Don’t you think I am justified163?’
‘Entirely justified,’ said Paul, stroking the point of his fair beard, ‘only—was not the Prince d’Athis incapable164 of contracting when he signed these bills?’
‘Yes, yes, I know... Brétigny told me about that... for as he could get nothing through Lavaux, he wrote to Brétigny to ask him to arbitrate. A fellow Academician, you know!’ She laughed a laugh of impartial165 scorn for the official dignities of the Ambassador and the ex-Minister. Then she burst out indignantly, ‘It is true that I need not have paid, but I chose he should be clean. I don’t want any arbitration166. I paid and will be paid back, or else I go into court, where the name and title of our representative at St. Petersburg will be dragged through the dirt. If I can only degrade the wretch, I shall have won the suit I care about.’
‘I can’t understand,’ said Paul as he put down the packet so as to hide the awkward letter to Mamma, ‘I can’t understand how such proofs should have been left in your hands by a man as clever——’
‘As D’Athis?’
The shrug167 of her shoulders sufficiently completed the interjection. But the madness of a woman’s anger may always lead to something, so he drew her on. ‘Yet he was one of our best diplomatists.’
‘It was I who put him up to it. He knows nothing of the business but what I taught him.’
She hid her face, as for shame, in her hands, checking her sobs168 and gasping169 with fury. ‘To think, to think, twelve years of my life to a man like that! And now he leaves me; he casts me off! Cast off by him! Cast off by him!’
It is some hours later, and she is still there. The young man is upon his knees and is whispering tenderly: ‘When you know that I love you—when you know that I loved you always. Think, think!’ The striking of a clock is heard in the far distance and wakening sounds go by in the growing light. She flies in dismay from the room, not caring so much as to take with her the brief of her intended revenge.
Revenge herself now? On whom? and what for? There was an end of her hatred170 now, for had she not her love? From this day she was another woman, such an one as when she is seen with her lover or her husband, supporting her unhasty steps upon the tender cradle of his arm, makes the common people say, ‘Well, she has got what she wants.’ There are not so many of them as people think, particularly in society. Not that the mistress of a great house could be thinking exclusively of her own happiness; there were guests going away and other guests arriving and settling in, a second instalment, more numerous and less intimate, the whole in fact of the Academic set. There were the Duke de Courson-Launay, the Prince and Princess de Fitz-Roy, the De Circourts, the Huchenards, Saint-Avol the diplomatist, Moser and his daughter, Mr. and Mrs. Henry of the American embassy. It was a hard task to provide entertainment and occupation for all these people and to fuse such different elements. No one understood the business better than she, but just now it was a burden and a weariness to her. She would have liked to keep quiet and meditate171 on her happiness, to think of nothing else: and she could devise no other amusements for her guests than the invariable. visit to the fish preserves, to Ronsard’s castle, and to the Orphanage. Her own pleasure was complete when her hand touched Paul’s, as accident brought them together in the same boat or the same carriage.
In the course of one such pompous172 expedition on the river, the little fleet from Mousseaux, sailing on a shimmering173 mirror of silken awnings174 and ducal pennons, had gone somewhat further than usual. Paul Astier was in the boat in front of his lady’s . He was sitting in the stern beside Laniboire, and was receiving the Academician’s confidences. Having been invited to stay at Mousseaux till his report was finished, the old fool fancied that he was making good progress towards the coveted175 succession; and as always happens in such cases, he chose Paul as the confidant of his hopes. After telling him what he had said and what she had answered, and one thing and another, he was just saying, ‘Now, young man, what would you do, if you were me?’ when a clear voice of low pitch rang over the water from the boat behind them.
‘Monsieur Astier!’
‘Yes, Duchess.’
‘See yonder, among the reeds. It looks like Védrine.’
Védrine it was, painting away, with his wife and children at his side, on an old flat-bottomed boat moored176 to a willow branch alongside of a green islet, where the wagtails were chirping177 themselves hoarse. The boats drew quickly up beside him, any novelty being a break to the everlasting178 tedium179 of fashionable society: and while the Duchess greeted with her sweetest smile Madame Védrine, who had once been her guest at Mousseaux, the ladies looked with interest at the artist’s strange home and the beautiful children, born of its light and its love, as they lay in the shelter of their green refuge on the clear, placid180 stream, which reflected the picture of their happiness. After the first greetings, Védrine, palette in hand, gave Paul an account of the doings at Clos Jallanges, which was visible through the mists of the river, half-way up the hill side—a long low white house with an Italian roof. ‘My dear fellow, they have all gone crazy there! The vacancy181 has turned their heads. They spend their days ticking votes—your mother, Picheral, and the poor invalid182 in her wheelchair. She too has caught the Academic fever, and talks of moving to Paris, entertaining and giving parties to help her brother on.’ So Védrine, to escape the general madness, camped out all day and worked in the open air—children and all; and pointing to his old boat he said, with a simple unresentful laugh, ‘My dahabeeah, you see; my trip to the Nile.’
All at once the little boy, who in the midst of so many people, so many pretty ladies and pretty dresses, had eyes for no one but old Laniboire, addressed him in a clear voice, ‘Please, are you the gentleman of the Académie who is going to be a hundred?’ The philosopher, occupied in showing off his boating for the benefit of the fair Antonia, was all but knocked off his seat: and when the peals183 of laughter had somewhat subsided184, Védrine explained that the child was strangely interested in Jean Réhu, whom he did not know and had never seen, merely because he was nearly a hundred years old. Every day the handsome little boy asked about the old man and inquired how he was. Child as he was, he admired such length of days with something of a personal regard. If others had lived to a hundred, why not he?
But a sudden freshening of the breeze filled the sails of the little craft, and fluttered all the tiny pennons; a mass of clouds was moving up from over Blois, and towards Mousseaux a film of rain dimmed the horizon, while the four lights on the top of the towers sparkled against the black sky.
There was a moment of hurry and confusion. Then the vessels185 went away between the banks of yellow sand, one behind the other in the narrow channels; while Védrine, pleased by the brightness of the colours beneath the stormy sky and by the striking figures of the boatmen, standing186 in the bows and leaning hard on their long poles, turned to his wife, who was kneeling in the punt packing in the children, the colour-box, and the palette, and said, ‘Look over there, mamma. I sometimes say of a friend, that we are in the same boat. Well, there you may see what I mean. As those boats fly in line through the wind, with the darkness-coming down, so are we men and workers, generation after generation. It’s no use being shy of the fellows in your own boat; you know them, you rub up against them, you are friends without wishing it or even knowing it, all sailing on the same tack78. But how the fellows in front do loiter and get in the way! There’s nothing in common between their boat and ours. We are too far off, we cannot catch what they say. We never trouble about them except to call out “Go ahead; get on, do!” Meanwhile youth in the boat behind is pushing us; they would not mind running us down; and we shout to them angrily, “Easy there! Where’s the hurry?” Well, as for me,’ and he drew himself to his full height, towering above the line of coast and river, ‘I belong, of course, to my own beat and I am fond of it. But the boat just ahead and the one coming up interest me not less. I would hail them, signal to them, speak to them all. All of us alike, those before and those behind, are threatened by the same dangers, and every boat finds the current strong, the sky treacherous, and the evening quick to close in... Now, my dears, we must make haste; here comes the rain!’
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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windings
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| （道路、河流等）蜿蜒的，弯曲的( winding的名词复数 )； 缠绕( wind的现在分词 )； 卷绕； 转动（把手） | |
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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vendetta
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| n.世仇，宿怨 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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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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patois
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| n.方言；混合语 | |
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writhe
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| vt.挣扎，痛苦地扭曲；vi.扭曲，翻腾，受苦；n.翻腾，苦恼 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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quaintly
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| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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arcades
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| n.商场( arcade的名词复数 )；拱形走道（两旁有商店或娱乐设施）；连拱廊；拱形建筑物 | |
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hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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retracing
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| v.折回( retrace的现在分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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replenish
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| vt.补充；(把…)装满；(再)填满 | |
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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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tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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46
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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48
protruded
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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50
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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51
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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52
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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53
sedulous
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| adj.勤勉的，努力的 | |
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54
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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56
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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57
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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58
apoplectic
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| adj.中风的；愤怒的；n.中风患者 | |
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59
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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60
mishaps
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| n.轻微的事故，小的意外( mishap的名词复数 ) | |
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prancing
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| v.（马）腾跃( prance的现在分词 ) | |
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62
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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63
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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64
pessimist
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| n.悲观者；悲观主义者；厌世 | |
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65
imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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66
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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67
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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68
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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69
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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70
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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71
languishing
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| a. 衰弱下去的 | |
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72
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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73
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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75
aspirants
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| n.有志向或渴望获得…的人( aspirant的名词复数 )v.渴望的，有抱负的，追求名誉或地位的( aspirant的第三人称单数 )；有志向或渴望获得…的人 | |
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76
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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77
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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78
tack
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| n.大头钉；假缝，粗缝 | |
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79
flannels
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| 法兰绒男裤； 法兰绒( flannel的名词复数 ) | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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81
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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82
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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83
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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84
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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86
specious
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| adj.似是而非的；adv.似是而非地 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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92
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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93
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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94
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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95
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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depreciatory
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| adj.贬值的，蔑视的 | |
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101
prick
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| v.刺伤，刺痛，刺孔；n.刺伤，刺痛 | |
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102
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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103
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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104
reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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105
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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106
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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107
rehearsals
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| n.练习( rehearsal的名词复数 )；排练；复述；重复 | |
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108
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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109
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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110
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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111
smokers
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| 吸烟者( smoker的名词复数 ) | |
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112
clenching
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的现在分词 ) | |
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113
confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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114
pout
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| v.撅嘴；绷脸；n.撅嘴；生气，不高兴 | |
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115
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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116
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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117
lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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118
scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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119
reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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120
contriving
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的现在分词 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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121
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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122
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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123
auditors
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| n.审计员，稽核员( auditor的名词复数 )；（大学课程的）旁听生 | |
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124
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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125
affront
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| n./v.侮辱，触怒 | |
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126
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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127
defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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128
bilious
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| adj.胆汁过多的；易怒的 | |
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129
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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130
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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131
vagaries
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| n.奇想( vagary的名词复数 )；异想天开；异常行为；难以预测的情况 | |
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132
dangle
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| v.(使)悬荡，(使)悬垂 | |
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133
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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134
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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135
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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136
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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137
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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138
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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139
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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140
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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141
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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142
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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143
hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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144
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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145
orphanage
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| n.孤儿院 | |
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146
implements
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| n.工具( implement的名词复数 )；家具；手段；[法律]履行（契约等）v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 )；执行；贯彻；使生效 | |
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147
orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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148
belching
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| n. 喷出，打嗝 动词belch的现在分词形式 | |
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149
dodging
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| n.避开，闪过，音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 )；回避 | |
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150
shovels
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| n.铲子( shovel的名词复数 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份v.铲子( shovel的第三人称单数 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份 | |
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151
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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152
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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153
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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154
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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155
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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156
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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157
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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158
dealers
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| n.商人( dealer的名词复数 )；贩毒者；毒品贩子；发牌者 | |
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159
stewards
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| （轮船、飞机等的）乘务员( steward的名词复数 )； （俱乐部、旅馆、工会等的）管理员； （大型活动的）组织者； （私人家中的）管家 | |
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160
usury
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| n.高利贷 | |
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161
bankruptcy
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| n.破产；无偿付能力 | |
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162
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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163
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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164
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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165
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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166
arbitration
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| n.调停，仲裁 | |
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167
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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168
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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169
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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170
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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171
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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172
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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173
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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174
awnings
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| 篷帐布 | |
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175
coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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176
moored
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| adj. 系泊的 动词moor的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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177
chirping
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的现在分词 ) | |
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178
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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179
tedium
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| n.单调；烦闷 | |
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180
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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181
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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182
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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183
peals
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| n.（声音大而持续或重复的）洪亮的响声( peal的名词复数 )；隆隆声；洪亮的钟声；钟乐v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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184
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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185
vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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186
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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