When the clock pointed3 to a quarter past seven, she went off to the “Lion d’Or,” whose door Artemise opened yawning. The girl then made up the coals covered by the cinders4, and Emma remained alone in the kitchen. Now and again she went out. Hivert was leisurely5 harnessing his horses, listening, moreover, to Mere6 Lefrancois, who, passing her head and nightcap through a grating, was charging him with commissions and giving him explanations that would have confused anyone else. Emma kept beating the soles of her boots against the pavement of the yard.
At last, when he had eaten his soup, put on his cloak, lighted his pipe, and grasped his whip, he calmly installed himself on his seat.
The “Hirondelle” started at a slow trot7, and for about a mile stopped here and there to pick up passengers who waited for it, standing8 at the border of the road, in front of their yard gates.
Those who had secured seats the evening before kept it waiting; some even were still in bed in their houses. Hivert called, shouted, swore; then he got down from his seat and went and knocked loudly at the doors. The wind blew through the cracked windows.
The four seats, however, filled up. The carriage rolled off; rows of apple-trees followed one upon another, and the road between its two long ditches, full of yellow water, rose, constantly narrowing towards the horizon.
Emma knew it from end to end; she knew that after a meadow there was a sign-post, next an elm, a barn, or the hut of a lime-kiln tender. Sometimes even, in the hope of getting some surprise, she shut her eyes, but she never lost the clear perception of the distance to be traversed.
At last the brick houses began to follow one another more closely, the earth resounded9 beneath the wheels, the “Hirondelle” glided10 between the gardens, where through an opening one saw statues, a periwinkle plant, clipped yews11, and a swing. Then on a sudden the town appeared. Sloping down like an amphitheatre, and drowned in the fog, it widened out beyond the bridges confusedly. Then the open country spread away with a monotonous12 movement till it touched in the distance the vague line of the pale sky. Seen thus from above, the whole landscape looked immovable as a picture; the anchored ships were massed in one corner, the river curved round the foot of the green hills, and the isles14, oblique15 in shape, lay on the water, like large, motionless, black fishes. The factory chimneys belched16 forth17 immense brown fumes18 that were blown away at the top. One heard the rumbling19 of the foundries, together with the clear chimes of the churches that stood out in the mist. The leafless trees on the boulevards made violet thickets20 in the midst of the houses, and the roofs, all shining with the rain, threw back unequal reflections, according to the height of the quarters in which they were. Sometimes a gust21 of wind drove the clouds towards the Saint Catherine hills, like aerial waves that broke silently against a cliff.
A giddiness seemed to her to detach itself from this mass of existence, and her heart swelled22 as if the hundred and twenty thousand souls that palpitated there had all at once sent into it the vapour of the passions she fancied theirs. Her love grew in the presence of this vastness, and expanded with tumult23 to the vague murmurings that rose towards her. She poured it out upon the square, on the walks, on the streets, and the old Norman city outspread before her eyes as an enormous capital, as a Babylon into which she was entering. She leant with both hands against the window, drinking in the breeze; the three horses galloped25, the stones grated in the mud, the diligence rocked, and Hivert, from afar, hailed the carts on the road, while the bourgeois26 who had spent the night at the Guillaume woods came quietly down the hill in their little family carriages.
They stopped at the barrier; Emma undid27 her overshoes, put on other gloves, rearranged her shawl, and some twenty paces farther she got down from the “Hirondelle.”
The town was then awakening28. Shop-boys in caps were cleaning up the shop-fronts, and women with baskets against their hips13, at intervals29 uttered sonorous30 cries at the corners of streets. She walked with downcast eyes, close to the walls, and smiling with pleasure under her lowered black veil.
For fear of being seen, she did not usually take the most direct road. She plunged31 into dark alleys33, and, all perspiring34, reached the bottom of the Rue35 Nationale, near the fountain that stands there. It, is the quarter for theatres, public-houses, and whores. Often a cart would pass near her, bearing some shaking scenery. Waiters in aprons36 were sprinkling sand on the flagstones between green shrubs37. It all smelt38 of absinthe, cigars, and oysters39.
She turned down a street; she recognised him by his curling hair that escaped from beneath his hat.
Leon walked along the pavement. She followed him to the hotel. He went up, opened the door, entered — What an embrace!
Then, after the kisses, the words gushed40 forth. They told each other the sorrows of the week, the presentiments41, the anxiety for the letters; but now everything was forgotten; they gazed into each other’s faces with voluptuous42 laughs, and tender names.
The bed was large, of mahogany, in the shape of a boat. The curtains were in red levantine, that hung from the ceiling and bulged43 out too much towards the bell-shaped bedside; and nothing in the world was so lovely as her brown head and white skin standing out against this purple colour, when, with a movement of shame, she crossed her bare arms, hiding her face in her hands.
The warm room, with its discreet44 carpet, its gay ornaments45, and its calm light, seemed made for the intimacies46 of passion. The curtain-rods, ending in arrows, their brass47 pegs48, and the great balls of the fire-dogs shone suddenly when the sun came in. On the chimney between the candelabra there were two of those pink shells in which one hears the murmur24 of the sea if one holds them to the ear.
How they loved that dear room, so full of gaiety, despite its rather faded splendour! They always found the furniture in the same place, and sometimes hairpins49, that she had forgotten the Thursday before, under the pedestal of the clock. They lunched by the fireside on a little round table, inlaid with rosewood. Emma carved, put bits on his plate with all sorts of coquettish ways, and she laughed with a sonorous and libertine50 laugh when the froth of the champagne51 ran over from the glass to the rings on her fingers. They were so completely lost in the possession of each other that they thought themselves in their own house, and that they would live there till death, like two spouses52 eternally young. They said “our room,” “our carpet,” she even said “my slippers,” a gift of Leon’s, a whim53 she had had. They were pink satin, bordered with swansdown. When she sat on his knees, her leg, then too short, hung in the air, and the dainty shoe, that had no back to it, was held only by the toes to her bare foot.
He for the first time enjoyed the inexpressible delicacy54 of feminine refinements55. He had never met this grace of language, this reserve of clothing, these poses of the weary dove. He admired the exaltation of her soul and the lace on her petticoat. Besides, was she not “a lady” and a married woman — a real mistress, in fine?
By the diversity of her humour, in turn mystical or mirthful, talkative, taciturn, passionate57, careless, she awakened58 in him a thousand desires, called up instincts or memories. She was the mistress of all the novels, the heroine of all the dramas, the vague “she” of all the volumes of verse. He found again on her shoulder the amber59 colouring of the “Odalisque Bathing”; she had the long waist of feudal60 chatelaines, and she resembled the “Pale Woman of Barcelona.” But above all she was the Angel!
Often looking at her, it seemed to him that his soul, escaping towards her, spread like a wave about the outline of her head, and descended61 drawn62 down into the whiteness of her breast. He knelt on the ground before her, and with both elbows on her knees looked at her with a smile, his face upturned.
She bent63 over him, and murmured, as if choking with intoxication64 —
“Oh, do not move! do not speak! look at me! Something so sweet comes from your eyes that helps me so much!”
She called him “child.” “Child, do you love me?”
And she did not listen for his answer in the haste of her lips that fastened to his mouth.
On the clock there was a bronze cupid, who smirked65 as he bent his arm beneath a golden garland. They had laughed at it many a time, but when they had to part everything seemed serious to them.
Motionless in front of each other, they kept repeating, “Till Thursday, till Thursday.”
Suddenly she seized his head between her hands, kissed him hurriedly on the forehead, crying, “Adieu!” and rushed down the stairs.
She went to a hairdresser’s in the Rue de la Comedie to have her hair arranged. Night fell; the gas was lighted in the shop. She heard the bell at the theatre calling the mummers to the performance, and she saw, passing opposite, men with white faces and women in faded gowns going in at the stage-door.
It was hot in the room, small, and too low where the stove was hissing66 in the midst of wigs67 and pomades. The smell of the tongs68, together with the greasy69 hands that handled her head, soon stunned70 her, and she dozed71 a little in her wrapper. Often, as he did her hair, the man offered her tickets for a masked ball.
Then she went away. She went up the streets; reached the Croix-Rouge, put on her overshoes, that she had hidden in the morning under the seat, and sank into her place among the impatient passengers. Some got out at the foot of the hill. She remained alone in the carriage. At every turning all the lights of the town were seen more and more completely, making a great luminous72 vapour about the dim houses. Emma knelt on the cushions and her eyes wandered over the dazzling light. She sobbed73; called on Leon, sent him tender words and kisses lost in the wind.
On the hillside a poor devil wandered about with his stick in the midst of the diligences. A mass of rags covered his shoulders, and an old staved-in beaver74, turned out like a basin, hid his face; but when he took it off he discovered in the place of eyelids75 empty and bloody76 orbits. The flesh hung in red shreds77, and there flowed from it liquids that congealed78 into green scale down to the nose, whose black nostrils79 sniffed80 convulsively. To speak to you he threw back his head with an idiotic81 laugh; then his bluish eyeballs, rolling constantly, at the temples beat against the edge of the open wound. He sang a little song as he followed the carriages —
“Maids an the warmth of a summer day Dream of love, and of love always”
And all the rest was about birds and sunshine and green leaves.
Sometimes he appeared suddenly behind Emma, bareheaded, and she drew back with a cry. Hivert made fun of him. He would advise him to get a booth at the Saint Romain fair, or else ask him, laughing, how his young woman was.
Often they had started when, with a sudden movement, his hat entered the diligence through the small window, while he clung with his other arm to the footboard, between the wheels splashing mud. His voice, feeble at first and quavering, grew sharp; it resounded in the night like the indistinct moan of a vague distress82; and through the ringing of the bells, the murmur of the trees, and the rumbling of the empty vehicle, it had a far-off sound that disturbed Emma. It went to the bottom of her soul, like a whirlwind in an abyss, and carried her away into the distances of a boundless83 melancholy84. But Hivert, noticing a weight behind, gave the blind man sharp cuts with his whip. The thong85 lashed86 his wounds, and he fell back into the mud with a yell. Then the, passengers in the “Hirondelle” ended by falling asleep, some with open mouths, others with lowered chins, leaning against their neighbour’s shoulder, or with their arm passed through the strap87, oscillating regularly with the jolting88 of the carriage; and the reflection of the lantern swinging without, on the crupper of the wheeler; penetrating89 into the interior through the chocolate calico curtains, threw sanguineous shadows over all these motionless people. Emma, drunk with grief, shivered in her clothes, feeling her feet grow colder and colder, and death in her soul.
Charles at home was waiting for her; the “Hirondelle” was always late on Thursdays. Madame arrived at last, and scarcely kissed the child. The dinner was not ready. No matter! She excused the servant. This girl now seemed allowed to do just as she liked.
Often her husband, noting her pallor, asked if she were unwell.
“No,” said Emma.
“But,” he replied, “you seem so strange this evening.”
“Oh, it’s nothing! nothing!”
There were even days when she had no sooner come in than she went up to her room; and Justin, happening to be there, moved about noiselessly, quicker at helping90 her than the best of maids. He put the matches ready, the candlestick, a book, arranged her nightgown, turned back the bedclothes.
“Come!” said she, “that will do. Now you can go.”
For he stood there, his hands hanging down and his eyes wide open, as if enmeshed in the innumerable threads of a sudden reverie.
The following day was frightful91, and those that came after still more unbearable92, because of her impatience93 to once again seize her happiness; an ardent94 lust95, inflamed96 by the images of past experience, and that burst forth freely on the seventh day beneath Leon’s caresses97. His ardours were hidden beneath outbursts of wonder and gratitude98. Emma tasted this love in a discreet, absorbed fashion, maintained it by all the artifices99 of her tenderness, and trembled a little lest it should be lost later on.
She often said to him, with her sweet, melancholy voice —
“Ah! you too, you will leave me! You will marry! You will be like all the others.”
He asked, “What others?”
“Why, like all men,” she replied. Then added, repulsing100 him with a languid movement —
“You are all evil!”
One day, as they were talking philosophically101 of earthly disillusions102, to experiment on his jealousy103, or yielding, perhaps, to an over-strong need to pour out her heart, she told him that formerly104, before him, she had loved someone.
“Not like you,” she went on quickly, protesting by the head of her child that “nothing had passed between them.”
The young man believed her, but none the less questioned her to find out what he was.
“He was a ship’s captain, my dear.”
Was this not preventing any inquiry105, and, at the same time, assuming a higher ground through this pretended fascination106 exercised over a man who must have been of warlike nature and accustomed to receive homage107?
The clerk then felt the lowliness of his position; he longed for epaulettes, crosses, titles. All that would please her — he gathered that from her spendthrift habits.
Emma nevertheless concealed108 many of these extravagant109 fancies, such as her wish to have a blue tilbury to drive into Rouen, drawn by an English horse and driven by a groom110 in top-boots. It was Justin who had inspired her with this whim, by begging her to take him into her service as valet-de-chambre19, and if the privation of it did not lessen111 the pleasure of her arrival at each rendezvous112, it certainly augmented113 the bitterness of the return.
Often, when they talked together of Paris, she ended by murmuring, “Ah! how happy we should be there!”
“Are we not happy?” gently answered the young man passing his hands over her hair.
“Yes, that is true,” she said. “I am mad. Kiss me!”
To her husband she was more charming than ever. She made him pistachio-creams, and played him waltzes after dinner. So he thought himself the most fortunate of men and Emma was without uneasiness, when, one evening suddenly he said —
“It is Mademoiselle Lempereur, isn’t it, who gives you lessons?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I saw her just now,” Charles went on, “at Madame Liegeard’s. I spoke114 to her about you, and she doesn’t know you.”
This was like a thunderclap. However, she replied quite naturally —
“Ah! no doubt she forgot my name.”
“But perhaps,” said the doctor, “there are several Demoiselles Lempereur at Rouen who are music-mistresses.”
“Possibly!” Then quickly —“But I have my receipts here. See!”
And she went to the writing-table, ransacked115 all the drawers, rummaged116 the papers, and at last lost her head so completely that Charles earnestly begged her not to take so much trouble about those wretched receipts.
“Oh, I will find them,” she said.
And, in fact, on the following Friday, as Charles was putting on one of his boots in the dark cabinet where his clothes were kept, he felt a piece of paper between the leather and his sock. He took it out and read —
“Received, for three months’ lessons and several pieces of music, the sum of sixty-three francs. — Felicie Lempereur, professor of music.”
“How the devil did it get into my boots?”
“It must,” she replied, “have fallen from the old box of bills that is on the edge of the shelf.”
From that moment her existence was but one long tissue of lies, in which she enveloped117 her love as in veils to hide it. It was a want, a mania118, a pleasure carried to such an extent that if she said she had the day before walked on the right side of a road, one might know she had taken the left.
One morning, when she had gone, as usual, rather lightly clothed, it suddenly began to snow, and as Charles was watching the weather from the window, he caught sight of Monsieur Bournisien in the chaise of Monsieur Tuvache, who was driving him to Rouen. Then he went down to give the priesta thick shawl that he was to hand over to Emma as soon as he reached the “Croix-Rouge.” When he got to the inn, Monsieur Bournisien asked for the wife of the Yonville doctor. The landlady119 replied that she very rarely came to her establishment. So that evening, when he recognised Madame Bovary in the “Hirondelle,” the cure told her his dilemma120, without, however, appearing to attach much importance to it, for he began praising a preacher who was doing wonders at the Cathedral, and whom all the ladies were rushing to hear.
Still, if he did not ask for any explanation, others, later on, might prove less discreet. So she thought well to get down each time at the “Croix-Rouge,” so that the good folk of her village who saw her on the stairs should suspect nothing.
One day, however, Monsieur Lheureux met her coming out of the Hotel de Boulogne on Leon’s arm; and she was frightened, thinking he would gossip. He was not such a fool. But three days after he came to her room, shut the door, and said, “I must have some money.”
She declared she could not give him any. Lheureux burst into lamentations and reminded her of all the kindnesses he had shown her.
In fact, of the two bills signed by Charles, Emma up to the present had paid only one. As to the second, the shopkeeper, at her request, had consented to replace it by another, which again had been renewed for a long date. Then he drew from his pocket a list of goods not paid for; to wit, the curtains, the carpet, the material for the armchairs, several dresses, and divers56 articles of dress, the bills for which amounted to about two thousand francs.
She bowed her head. He went on —
“But if you haven’t any ready money, you have an estate.” And he reminded her of a miserable121 little hovel situated122 at Barneville, near Aumale, that brought in almost nothing. It had formerly been part of a small farm sold by Monsieur Bovary senior; for Lheureux knew everything, even to the number of acres and the names of the neighbours.
“If I were in your place,” he said, “I should clear myself of my debts, and have money left over.”
She pointed out the difficulty of getting a purchaser. He held out the hope of finding one; but she asked him how she should manage to sell it.
“Haven’t you your power of attorney?” he replied.
The phrase came to her like a breath of fresh air. “Leave me the bill,” said Emma.
“Oh, it isn’t worth while,” answered Lheureux.
He came back the following week and boasted of having, after much trouble, at last discovered a certain Langlois, who, for a long time, had had an eye on the property, but without mentioning his price.
“Never mind the price!” she cried.
But they would, on the contrary, have to wait, to sound the fellow. The thing was worth a journey, and, as she could not undertake it, he offered to go to the place to have an interview with Langlois. On his return he announced that the purchaser proposed four thousand francs.
Emma was radiant at this news.
“Frankly,” he added, “that’s a good price.”
She drew half the sum at once, and when she was about to pay her account the shopkeeper said —
“It really grieves me, on my word! to see you depriving yourself all at once of such a big sum as that.”
Then she looked at the bank-notes, and dreaming of the unlimited123 number of rendezvous represented by those two thousand francs, she stammered124 —
“What! what!”
“Oh!” he went on, laughing good-naturedly, “one puts anything one likes on receipts. Don’t you think I know what household affairs are?” And he looked at her fixedly125, while in his hand he held two long papers that he slid between his nails. At last, opening his pocket-book, he spread out on the table four bills to order, each for a thousand francs.
“Sign these,” he said, “and keep it all!”
She cried out, scandalised.
“But if I give you the surplus,” replied Monsieur Lheureux impudently126, “is that not helping you?”
And taking a pen he wrote at the bottom of the account, “Received of Madame Bovary four thousand francs.”
“Now who can trouble you, since in six months you’ll draw the arrears127 for your cottage, and I don’t make the last bill due till after you’ve been paid?”
Emma grew rather confused in her calculations, and her ears tingled128 as if gold pieces, bursting from their bags, rang all round her on the floor. At last Lheureux explained that he had a very good friend, Vincart, a broker129 at Rouen, who would discount these four bills. Then he himself would hand over to madame the remainder after the actual debt was paid.
But instead of two thousand francs he brought only eighteen hundred, for the friend Vincart (which was only fair) had deducted130 two hundred francs for commission and discount. Then he carelessly asked for a receipt.
“You understand — in business — sometimes. And with the date, if you please, with the date.”
A horizon of realisable whims131 opened out before Emma. She was prudent132 enough to lay by a thousand crowns, with which the first three bills were paid when they fell due; but the fourth, by chance, came to the house on a Thursday, and Charles, quite upset, patiently awaited his wife’s return for an explanation.
If she had not told him about this bill, it was only to spare him such domestic worries; she sat on his knees, caressed133 him, cooed to him, gave him a long enumeration134 of all the indispensable things that had been got on credit.
“Really, you must confess, considering the quantity, it isn’t too dear.”
Charles, at his wit’s end, soon had recourse to the eternal Lheureux, who swore he would arrange matters if the doctor would sign him two bills, one of which was for seven hundred francs, payable135 in three months. In order to arrange for this he wrote his mother a pathetic letter. Instead of sending a reply she came herself; and when Emma wanted to know whether he had got anything out of her, “Yes,” he replied; “but she wants to see the account.” The next morning at daybreak Emma ran to Lheureux to beg him to make out another account for not more than a thousand francs, for to show the one for four thousand it would be necessary to say that she had paid two-thirds, and confess, consequently, the sale of the estate — a negotiation136 admirably carried out by the shopkeeper, and which, in fact, was only actually known later on.
Despite the low price of each article, Madame Bovary senior, of course, thought the expenditure137 extravagant.
“Couldn’t you do without a carpet? Why have recovered the arm-chairs? In my time there was a single arm-chair in a house, for elderly persons — at any rate it was so at my mother’s, who was a good woman, I can tell you. Everybody can’t be rich! No fortune can hold out against waste! I should be ashamed to coddle myself as you do! And yet I am old. I need looking after. And there! there! fitting up gowns! fallals! What! silk for lining138 at two francs, when you can get jaconet for ten sous, or even for eight, that would do well enough!”
Emma, lying on a lounge, replied as quietly as possible —“Ah! Madame, enough! enough!”
The other went on lecturing her, predicting they would end in the workhouse. But it was Bovary’s fault. Luckily he had promised to destroy that power of attorney.
“What?”
“Ah! he swore he would,” went on the good woman.
Emma opened the window, called Charles, and the poor fellow was obliged to confess the promise torn from him by his mother.
Emma disappeared, then came back quickly, and majestically139 handed her a thick piece of paper.
“Thank you,” said the old woman. And she threw the power of attorney into the fire.
Emma began to laugh, a strident, piercing, continuous laugh; she had an attack of hysterics.
“Oh, my God!” cried Charles. “Ah! you really are wrong! You come here and make scenes with her!”
His mother, shrugging her shoulders, declared it was “all put on.”
But Charles, rebelling for the first time, took his wife’s part, so that Madame Bovary, senior, said she would leave. She went the very next day, and on the threshold, as he was trying to detain her, she replied —
“No, no! You love her better than me, and you are right. It is natural. For the rest, so much the worse! You will see. Good day — for I am not likely to come soon again, as you say, to make scenes.”
Charles nevertheless was very crestfallen140 before Emma, who did not hide the resentment141 she still felt at his want of confidence, and it needed many prayers before she would consent to have another power of attorney. He even accompanied her to Monsieur Guillaumin to have a second one, just like the other, drawn up.
“I understand,” said the notary142; “a man of science can’t be worried with the practical details of life.”
And Charles felt relieved by this comfortable reflection, which gave his weakness the flattering appearance of higher pre-occupation.
And what an outburst the next Thursday at the hotel in their room with Leon! She laughed, cried, sang, sent for sherbets, wanted to smoke cigarettes, seemed to him wild and extravagant, but adorable, superb.
He did not know what recreation of her whole being drove her more and more to plunge32 into the pleasures of life. She was becoming irritable143, greedy, voluptuous; and she walked about the streets with him carrying her head high, without fear, so she said, of compromising herself. At times, however, Emma shuddered144 at the sudden thought of meeting Rodolphe, for it seemed to her that, although they were separated forever, she was not completely free from her subjugation145 to him.
One night she did not return to Yonville at all. Charles lost his head with anxiety, and little Berthe would not go to bed without her mamma, and sobbed enough to break her heart. Justin had gone out searching the road at random146. Monsieur Homais even had left his pharmacy147.
At last, at eleven o’clock, able to bear it no longer, Charles harnessed his chaise, jumped in, whipped up his horse, and reached the “Croix-Rouge” about two o’clock in the morning. No one there! He thought that the clerk had perhaps seen her; but where did he live? Happily, Charles remembered his employer’s address, and rushed off there.
Day was breaking, and he could distinguish the escutcheons over the door, and knocked. Someone, without opening the door, shouted out the required information, adding a few insults to those who disturb people in the middle of the night.
The house inhabited by the clerk had neither bell, knocker, nor porter. Charles knocked loudly at the shutters with his hands. A policeman happened to pass by. Then he was frightened, and went away.
“I am mad,” he said; “no doubt they kept her to dinner at Monsieur Lormeaux’.” But the Lormeaux no longer lived at Rouen.
“She probably stayed to look after Madame Dubreuil. Why, Madame Dubreuil has been dead these ten months! Where can she be?”
An idea occurred to him. At a cafe he asked for a Directory, and hurriedly looked for the name of Mademoiselle Lempereur, who lived at No. 74 Rue de la Renelle-des-Maroquiniers.
As he was turning into the street, Emma herself appeared at the other end of it. He threw himself upon her rather than embraced her, crying —
“What kept you yesterday?”
“I was not well.”
“What was it? Where? How?”
She passed her hand over her forehead and answered, “At Mademoiselle Lempereur’s.”
“I was sure of it! I was going there.”
“Oh, it isn’t worth while,” said Emma. “She went out just now; but for the future don’t worry. I do not feel free, you see, if I know that the least delay upsets you like this.”
This was a sort of permission that she gave herself, so as to get perfect freedom in her escapades. And she profited by it freely, fully148. When she was seized with the desire to see Leon, she set out upon any pretext149; and as he was not expecting her on that day, she went to fetch him at his office.
It was a great delight at first, but soon he no longer concealed the truth, which was, that his master complained very much about these interruptions.
“Pshaw! come along,” she said.
And he slipped out.
She wanted him to dress all in black, and grow a pointed beard, to look like the portraits of Louis XIII. She wanted to see his lodgings150; thought them poor. He blushed at them, but she did not notice this, then advised him to buy some curtains like hers, and as he objected to the expense —
“Ah! ah! you care for your money,” she said laughing.
Each time Leon had to tell her everything that he had done since their last meeting. She asked him for some verses — some verses “for herself,” a “love poem” in honour of her. But he never succeeded in getting a rhyme for the second verse; and at last ended by copying a sonnet151 in a “Keepsake.” This was less from vanity than from the one desire of pleasing her. He did not question her ideas; he accepted all her tastes; he was rather becoming her mistress than she his. She had tender words and kisses that thrilled his soul. Where could she have learnt this corruption152 almost incorporeal153 in the strength of its profanity and dissimulation154?
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1
awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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2
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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3
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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4
cinders
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| n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 )；炭渣；煤渣路；煤渣跑道 | |
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5
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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6
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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7
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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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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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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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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11
yews
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| n.紫杉( yew的名词复数 ) | |
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12
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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13
hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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15
oblique
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| adj.斜的，倾斜的，无诚意的，不坦率的 | |
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16
belched
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| v.打嗝( belch的过去式和过去分词 )；喷出，吐出；打（嗝）；嗳（气） | |
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17
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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18
fumes
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| n.(强烈而刺激的)气味，气体 | |
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19
rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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20
thickets
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| n.灌木丛( thicket的名词复数 )；丛状物 | |
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21
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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22
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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23
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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24
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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25
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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26
bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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27
Undid
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| v. 解开, 复原 | |
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28
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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29
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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30
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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31
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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32
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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33
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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34
perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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35
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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36
aprons
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| 围裙( apron的名词复数 )； 停机坪，台口（舞台幕前的部份） | |
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37
shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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38
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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39
oysters
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| 牡蛎( oyster的名词复数 ) | |
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40
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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41
presentiments
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| n.（对不祥事物的）预感( presentiment的名词复数 ) | |
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42
voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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43
bulged
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| 凸出( bulge的过去式和过去分词 )； 充满； 塞满（某物） | |
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44
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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45
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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46
intimacies
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| 亲密( intimacy的名词复数 )； 密切； 亲昵的言行； 性行为 | |
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47
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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48
pegs
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| n.衣夹( peg的名词复数 )；挂钉；系帐篷的桩；弦钮v.用夹子或钉子固定( peg的第三人称单数 )；使固定在某水平 | |
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49
hairpins
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| n.发夹( hairpin的名词复数 ) | |
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50
libertine
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| n.淫荡者；adj.放荡的，自由思想的 | |
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51
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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52
spouses
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| n.配偶，夫或妻( spouse的名词复数 ) | |
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53
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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54
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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55
refinements
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| n.（生活）风雅；精炼( refinement的名词复数 )；改良品；细微的改良；优雅或高贵的动作 | |
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56
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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57
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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58
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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59
amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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60
feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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61
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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62
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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63
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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64
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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65
smirked
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| v.傻笑( smirk的过去分词 ) | |
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66
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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67
wigs
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| n.假发，法官帽( wig的名词复数 ) | |
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68
tongs
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| n.钳；夹子 | |
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69
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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70
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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71
dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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72
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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73
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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74
beaver
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| n.海狸，河狸 | |
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75
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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76
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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77
shreds
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| v.撕碎，切碎( shred的第三人称单数 )；用撕毁机撕毁（文件） | |
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78
congealed
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| v.使凝结，冻结( congeal的过去式和过去分词 )；（指血）凝结 | |
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79
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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80
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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81
idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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82
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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83
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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84
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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85
thong
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| n.皮带；皮鞭；v.装皮带 | |
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86
lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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87
strap
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| n.皮带，带子；v.用带扣住，束牢；用绷带包扎 | |
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88
jolting
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| adj.令人震惊的 | |
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89
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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90
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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91
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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92
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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93
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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94
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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95
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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96
inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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98
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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99
artifices
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| n.灵巧( artifice的名词复数 )；诡计；巧妙办法；虚伪行为 | |
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100
repulsing
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| v.击退( repulse的现在分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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101
philosophically
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| adv.哲学上；富有哲理性地；贤明地；冷静地 | |
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102
disillusions
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| 使不再抱幻想，使理想破灭( disillusion的第三人称单数 ) | |
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103
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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104
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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105
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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106
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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107
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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108
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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109
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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110
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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111
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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112
rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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113
Augmented
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| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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114
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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115
ransacked
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| v.彻底搜查( ransack的过去式和过去分词 )；抢劫，掠夺 | |
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116
rummaged
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的过去式和过去分词 )； 已经海关检查 | |
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117
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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119
landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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120
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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121
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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122
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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123
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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124
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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impudently
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arrears
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| n.到期未付之债，拖欠的款项；待做的工作 | |
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tingled
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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broker
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| n.中间人，经纪人；v.作为中间人来安排 | |
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deducted
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| v.扣除，减去( deduct的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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enumeration
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| n.计数，列举；细目；详表；点查 | |
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payable
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| adj.可付的，应付的，有利益的 | |
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negotiation
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| n.谈判，协商 | |
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expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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crestfallen
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| adj. 挫败的，失望的，沮丧的 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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notary
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| n.公证人，公证员 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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subjugation
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| n.镇压，平息，征服 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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pharmacy
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| n.药房，药剂学，制药业，配药业，一批备用药品 | |
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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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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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152
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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incorporeal
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| adj.非物质的，精神的 | |
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dissimulation
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| n.掩饰，虚伪，装糊涂 | |
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