This nobleman was five-and-forty years older than his duchess. France is the country where that sweet Christian20 institution of mariages de convenance (which so many folks of the family about which this story treats are engaged in arranging) is most in vogue21. There the newspapers daily announce that M. de Foy has a bureau de confiance, where families may arrange marriages for their sons and daughters in perfect comfort and security. It is but a question of money on one side and the other. Mademoiselle has so many francs of dot; Monsieur has such and such rentes or lands in possession or reversion, an etude d’avoue, a shop with a certain clientele bringing him such and such an income, which may be doubled by the judicious22 addition of so much capital, and the pretty little matrimonial arrangement is concluded (the agent touching23 his percentage), or broken off, and nobody unhappy, and the world none the wiser. The consequences of the system I do not pretend personally to know; but if the light literature of a country is a reflex of its manners, and French novels are a picture of French life, a pretty society must that be into the midst of which the London reader may walk in twelve hours from this time of perusal24, and from which only twenty miles of sea separate us.
When the old Duke d’Ivry, of the ancient ancient nobility of France, an emigrant25 with Artois, a warrior26 with Conde, an exile during the reign27 of the Corsican usurper28, a grand prince, a great nobleman afterwards, though shorn of nineteen-twentieths of his wealth by the Revolution — when the Duke d’Ivry lost his two sons, and his son’s son likewise died, as if fate had determined29 to end the direct line of that noble house, which had furnished queens to Europe, and renowned30 chiefs to the Crusaders — being of an intrepid31 spirit, the Duke was ill disposed to yield to his redoubtable32 energy, in spite of the cruel blows which the latter had inflicted33 upon him, and when he was more than sixty years of age, three months before the July Revolution broke out, a young lady of a sufficient nobility, a virgin34 of sixteen, was brought out of the convent of the Sacre Coeur at Paris, and married with immense splendour and ceremony to this princely widower35. The most august names signed the book of the civil marriage. Madame la Dauphine and Madame la Duchesse de Berri complimented the young bride with royal favours. Her portrait by Dubufe was in the Exhibition next year, a charming young duchess indeed, with black eyes, and black ringlets, pearls on her neck, and diamonds in her hair, as beautiful as a princess of a fairy tale. M. d’Ivry, whose early life may have been rather oragious, was yet a gentleman perfectly36 well conserved37. Resolute38 against fate his enemy (one would fancy fate was of an aristocratic turn, and took especial delight in combats with princely houses; the Atridae, the Borbonidae, the Ivrys — the Browns and Joneses being of no account), the prince seemed to be determined not only to secure a progeny39, but to defy age. At sixty he was still young, or seemed to be so. His hair was as black as the princess’s own, his teeth as white. If you saw him on the Boulevard de Gand, sunning among the youthful exquisites40 there, or riding au Bois, with a grace worthy41 of old Franconi himself, you would take him for one of the young men, of whom indeed up to his marriage he retained a number of the graceful42 follies and amusements, though his manners had a dignity acquired in old days of Versailles and the Trianon, which the moderns cannot hope to imitate. He was as assiduous behind the scenes of the opera as any journalist, or any young dandy of twenty years. He “ranged himself,” as the French phrase is, shortly before his marriage, just like any other young bachelor: took leave of Phryne and Aspasie in the coulisses, and proposed to devote himself henceforth to his charming young wife.
The affreux catastrophe of July arrived. The ancient Bourbons were once more on the road to exile (save one wily old remnant of the race, who rode grinning over the barricades45, and distributing poignees de main to the stout46 fists that had pummelled his family out of France). M. le Duc d’Ivry, who lost his place at court, his appointments which helped his income very much, and his peerage would no more acknowledge the usurper of Neuilly, than him of Elba. The ex-peer retired48 to his terres. He barricaded49 his house in Paris against all supporters of the citizen king; his nearest kinsman50, M. de Florac, among the rest, who for his part cheerfully took his oath of fidelity51, and his seat in Louis Philippe’s house of peers, having indeed been accustomed to swear to all dynasties for some years past.
In due time Madame la Duchesse d’Ivry gave birth to a child, a daughter, whom her noble father received with but small pleasure. What the Duke desired, was an heir to his name, a Prince of Moncontour, to fill the place of the sons and grandsons gone before him, to join their ancestors in the tomb. No more children, however, blessed the old Duke’s union. Madame d’Ivry went the round of all the watering-places: pilgrimages were tried: vows52 and gifts to all saints supposed to be favourable53 to the d’Ivry family, or to families in general:— but the saints turned a deaf ear; they were inexorable since the true religion and the elder Bourbons were banished54 from France.
Living by themselves in their ancient castles, or their dreary55 mansion56 of the Faubourg St. Germain, I suppose the Duke and Duchess grew tried of one another, as persons who enter into a mariage de convenance sometimes, nay57, as those who light a flaming love-match, and run away with one another, will be found to do. A lady of one-and-twenty, and a gentleman of sixty-six, alone in a great castle, have not unfrequently a third guest at their table, who comes without a card, and whom they cannot shut out, though they keep their doors closed ever so. His name is Ennui58, and many a long hour and weary night must such folks pass in the unbidden society of this Old Man of the Sea; this daily guest at the board; this watchful59 attendant at the fireside; this assiduous companion who will walk out with you; this sleepless60 restless bedfellow.
At first, M. d’Ivry, that well-conserved nobleman who never would allow that he was not young, exhibited no sign of doubt regarding his own youth except an extreme jealousy61 and avoidance of all other young fellows. Very likely Madame la Duchesse may have thought men in general dyed their hair, wore stays, and had the rheumatism62. Coming out of the convent of the Sacre Coeur, how was the innocent young lady to know better? You see, in these mariages de convenance, though a coronet may be convenient to a beautiful young creature, and a beautiful young creature may be convenient to an old gentleman, there are articles which the marriage-monger cannot make to convene63 at all: tempers over which M. de Foy and his like have no control; and tastes which cannot be put into the marriage settlements. So this couple were unhappy, and the Duke and Duchess quarrelled with one another like the most vulgar pair who ever fought across a table.
In this unhappy state of home affairs, madame took to literature, monsieur to politics. She discovered that she was a great unappreciated soul, and when a woman finds that treasure in her bosom64 of course she sets her own price on the article. Did you ever see the first poems of Madame la Duchesse d’Ivry, Les Cris de l’Ame? She used to read them to her very intimate friends, in white, with her hair a good deal down her back. They had some success. Dubufe having painted her as a Duchess, Scheffer depicted65 her as a Muse43. That was in the third year of her marriage, when she rebelled against the Duke her husband, insisted on opening her saloons to art and literature, and, a fervent3 devotee still, proposed to unite genius and religion. Poets had interviews with her. Musicians came and twanged guitars to her.
Her husband, entering her room, would fall over the sabre and spurs of Count Almaviva from the boulevard, or Don Basilio with his great sombrero and shoe-buckles. The old gentleman was breathless and bewildered in following her through all her vagaries66. He was of old France, she of new. What did he know of the Ecole Romantique, and these jeunes gens with their Marie Tudors and Tours de Nesle, and sanguineous histories of queens who sewed their lovers into sacks, emperors who had interviews with robber captains in Charlemagne’s tomb, Buridans and Hernanis, and stuff? Monsieur le Vicomte de Chateaubriand was a man of genius as a writer, certainly immortal68; and M. de Lamartine was a young man extremely bien pensant, but, ma foi, give him Crebillon fils, or a bonne farce69 of M. Vade to make laugh; for the great sentiments, for the beautiful style, give him M. de Lormian (although Bonapartist) or the Abbe de Lille. And for the new school! bah! these little Dumass, and Hugos, and Mussets, what is all that? “M. de Lormian shall be immortal, monsieur,” he would say, “when all these freluquets are forgotten.” After his marriage he frequented the coulisses of the opera no more; but he was a pretty constant attendant at the Theatre Francais, where you might hear him snoring over the chefs-d’oeuvres of French tragedy.
For some little time after 1830, the Duchesse was as great a Carlist as her husband could wish; and they conspired70 together very comfortably at first. Of an adventurous71 turn, eager for excitement of all kinds, nothing would have better pleased the Duchesse than to follow MADAME in her adventurous courses in La Vendee, disguised as a boy above all. She was persuaded to stay at home, however, and aid the good cause at Paris; while Monsieur le Duc went off to Brittany to offer his old sword to the mother of his king. But MADAME was discovered up the chimney at Rennes, and all sorts of things were discovered afterwards. The world said that our silly little Duchess of Paris was partly the cause of the discovery. Spies were put upon her, and to some people she would tell anything. M. le Duc, on paying his annual visit to august exiles at Goritz, was very badly received: Madame la Dauphine gave him a sermon. He had an awful quarrel with Madame la Duchesse on returning to Paris. He provoked Monsieur le Comte Tiercelin, le beau Tiercelin, an officer of ordonnance of the Duke of Orleans, into a duel72, a propos of a cup of coffee in a salon73; he actually wounded the beau Tiercelin — he sixty-five years of age! his nephew, M. de Florac, was loud in praise of his kinsman’s bravery.
That pretty figure and complexion74 which still appear so captivating in M. Dubufe’s portrait of Madame la Duchesse d’Ivry, have long existed — it must be owned only in paint. “Je la prefere a l’huile,” the Vicomte de Florac said of his cousin. “She should get her blushes from Monsieur Dubufe — those of her present furnishers are not near so natural.” Sometimes the Duchess appeared with these postiches roses, sometimes of a mortal paleness. Sometimes she looked plump, on other occasions wofully thin. “When she goes into the world,” said the same chronicler, “ma cousine surrounds herself with jupons — c’est pour defendre sa vertu: when she is in a devotional mood, she gives up rouge75, roast meat, and crinoline, and fait maigre absolument.” To spite the Duke her husband, she took up with the Vicomte de Florac, and to please herself she cast him away. She took his brother, the Abbe de Florac, for a director, and presently parted from him. “Mon frere, ce saint homme ne parle jamais de Madame la Duchesse, maintenant,” said the Vicomte. “She must have confessed to him des choses affreuses — oh, oui! — affreuses ma parole d’honneur!”
The Duke d’Ivry being archiroyaliste, Madame la Duchesse must make herself ultra-Philippiste. “Oh, oui! tout47 ce qu’il y a de plus Madame Adelaide au monde!” cried Florac. “She raffoles of M. le Regent. She used to keep a fast of the day of the supplice of Philippe Egalite, Saint and Martyr76. I say used, for to make to enrage77 her husband, and to recall the Abbe my brother, did she not advise herself to consult M. le Pasteur Grigou, and to attend the preach at his Temple? When this sheep had brought her shepherd back, she dismissed the Pasteur Grigou. Then she tired of M. l’Abbe again, and my brother is come out from her, shaking his good head. Ah! she must have put things into it which astonished the good Abbe! You know he has since taken the Dominican robe? My word of honour! I believe it was terror of her that drove him into a convent. You shall see him at Rome, Clive. Give him news of his elder, and tell him this gross prodigal78 is repenting79 amongst the swine. My word of honour! I desire but the death of Madame la Vicomtesse de Florac, to marry and range myself!
“After being Royalist, Philippist, Catholic, Huguenot, Madame d’Ivry must take to Pantheism, to bearded philosophers who believe in nothing, not even in clean linen80, eclecticism81, republicanism, what know I? All her changes have been chronicled by books of her composition. Les Demons82, poem Catholic; Charles IX. is the hero and the demons are shot for the most part at the catastrophe of St. Bartholomew. My good mother, all good Catholic as she is, was startled by the boldness of this doctrine83. Then there came Une Dragonnade, par8 Mme. la Duchesse d’Ivry, which is all on your side. That was of the time of the Pastor84 Grigou, that one. The last was Les Dieux dechus, poeme en 20 chants, par Mme. la D——d’I. Guard yourself well from this Muse! If she takes a fancy to you she will never leave you alone. If you see her often, she will fancy you are in love with her, and tell her husband. She always tells my uncle — afterwards — after she has quarrelled with you and grown tired of you! Eh, being in London once, she had the idea to make herself a Quakre; wore the costume, consulted a minister of that culte, and quarrelled with him as of rule. It appears the Quakers do not beat themselves, otherwise my poor uncle must have paid of his person.
“The turn of the philosophers then came, the chemists, the natural historians, what know I? She made a laboratory in her hotel, and rehearsed poisons like Madame de Brinvilliers — she spent hours in the Jardin des Plantes. Since she has grown affreusenent maigre and wears mounting robes, she has taken more than ever to the idea that she resembles Mary Queen of Scots. She wears a little frill and a little cap. Every man she loves, she says, has come to misfortune. She calls her lodgings85 Lochleven. Eh! I pity the landlord of Lochleven! She calls ce gros Blackball, vous savez, that pillar of estaminets, that prince of mauvais-ton, her Bothwell; little Mijaud, the poor little pianist, she named her Rizzio; young Lord Greenhorn who was here with governor, a Monsieur of Oxfort, she christened her Darnley, and the Minister Anglican, her John Knox! The poor man was quite enchanted86! Beware of this haggard siren, my little Clive! — mistrust her dangerous song! Her cave is jonchee with the bones of her victims. Be you not one!”
Far from causing Clive to avoid Madame la Duchesse, these cautions very likely would have made him only the more eager to make her acquaintance, but that a much nobler attraction drew him elsewhere. At first, being introduced to Madame d’Ivry’s salon, he was pleased and flattered, and behaved himself there merrily and agreeably enough. He had not studied Horace Vernet for nothing; he drew a fine picture of Kew rescuing her from the Arabs, with a plenty of sabres, pistols, burnouses, and dromedaries. He made a pretty sketch87 of her little girl Antoinette, and a wonderful likeness88 of Miss O’Grady, the little girl’s governess, the mother’s dame2 de compagnie; — Miss O’Grady, with the richest Milesian brogue, who had been engaged to give Antoinette the pure English accent. But the French lady’s great eyes and painted smiles would not bear comparison with Ethel’s natural brightness and beauty. Clive, who had been appointed painter in ordinary to the Queen of Scots, neglected his business, and went over to the English faction89; so did one or two more of the Princess’s followers90, leaving her Majesty91 by no means well pleased at their desertion.
There had been many quarrels between M. d’Ivry and his next-of-kin. Political differences, private differences — a long story. The Duke, who had been wild himself, could not pardon the Vicomte de Florac for being wild. Efforts at reconciliation92 had been made which ended unsuccessfully. The Vicomte de Florac had been allowed for a brief space to be intimate with the chief of his family, and then had been dismissed for being too intimate. Right or wrong, the Duke was jealous of all young men who approached the Duchesse. “He is suspicious,” Madame de Florac indignantly said, “because he remembers: and he thinks other men are like himself.” The Vicomte discreetly93 said, “My cousin has paid me the compliment to be jealous of me,” and acquiesced94 in his banishment95 with a shrug96.
During the emigration the old Lord Kew had been very kind to exiles, M. d’Ivry amongst the number; and that nobleman was anxious to return to all Lord Kew’s family when they came to France the hospitality which he had received himself in England. He still remembered or professed97 to remember Lady Kew’s beauty. How many women are there, awful of aspect, at present, of whom the same pleasing legend is not narrated98! It must be true, for do not they themselves confess it? I know of few things more remarkable99 or suggestive of philosophic100 contemplation than those physical changes.
When the old Duke and the old Countess met together and talked confidentially101, their conversation bloomed into a jargon102 wonderful to hear. Old scandals woke up, old naughtinesses rose out of their graves, and danced, and smirked103, and gibbered again, like those wicked nuns104 whom Bertram and Robert le Diable evoke105 from their sepulchres whilst the bassoon performs a diabolical106 incantation. The Brighton Pavilion was tenanted; Ranelagh and the Pantheon swarmed107 with dancers and masks; Perdita was found again, and walked a minuet with the Prince of Wales. Mrs. Clarke and the Duke of York danced together — a pretty dance. The old Duke wore a jabot and ailes-de-pigeon, the old Countess a hoop108, and a cushion on her head. If haply the young folks came in, the elders modified their recollections, and Lady Kew brought honest old King George and good old ugly Queen Charlotte to the rescue. Her ladyship was sister of the Marquis of Steyne: and in some respects resembled that lamented109 nobleman. Their family had relations in France (Lady Kew had always a pied-a-terre at Paris, a bitter little scandal-shop, where les bien pensants assembled and retailed110 the most awful stories against the reigning111 dynasty). It was she who handed over le petit Kiou, when quite a boy, to Monsieur and Madame d’Ivry, to be lanced into Parisian society. He was treated as a son of the family by the Duke, one of whose many Christian names, his lordship, Francis George Xavier, Earl of Kew and Viscount Walham, bears. If Lady Kew hated any one (and she could hate very considerably) she hated her daughter-inlaw, Walham’s widow, and the Methodists who surrounded her. Kew remain among a pack of psalm-singing old women and parsons with his mother! Fi donc! Frank was Lady Kew’s boy; she would form him, marry him, leave him her money if he married to her liking112, and show him life. And so she showed it to him.
Have you taken your children to the National Gallery in London, and shown them the “Marriage a la Mode?” Was the artist exceeding the privilege of his calling in painting the catastrophe in which those guilty people all suffer? If this fable113 were not true, if many and many of your young men of pleasure had not acted it, and rued114 the moral, I would tear the page. You know that in our Nursery Tales there is commonly a good fairy to counsel, and a bad one to mislead the young prince. You perhaps feel that in your own life there is a Good Principle imploring115 you to come into its kind bosom, and a Bad Passion which tempts116 you into its arms. Be of easy minds good-natured people! Let us disdain117 surprises and coups-de-theatre for once; and tell those good souls who are interested about him, that there is a Good Spirit coming to the rescue of our young Lord Kew.
Surrounded by her court and royal attendants, La Reine Marie used graciously to attend the play-table, where luck occasionally declared itself for and against her Majesty. Her appearance used to create not a little excitement in the Saloon of Roulette, the game which she patronised, it being more “fertile of emotions” than the slower trente-et-quarante. She dreamed of numbers, had favourite incantations by which to conjure118 them: noted119 the figures made by peels of peaches and so forth44, the numbers of houses, on hackney-coaches — was superstitious120 comme toutes les rimes poetiques. She commonly brought a beautiful agate121 bonbonniere full of gold pieces, when she played. It was wonderful to see her grimaces122: to watch her behaviour: her appeals to heaven, her delight and despair. Madame la Baronne de la Cruchecassee played on one side of her, Madame la Comtesse de Schlanigenbad on the other. When she had lost all her money her Majesty would condescend124 to borrow — not from those ladies:— knowing the royal peculiarity125, they never had any money; they always lost; they swiftly pocketed their winnings and never left a mass on the table, or quitted it, as courtiers will, when they saw luck was going against their sovereign. The officers of her household were Count Punter, a Hanoverian, the Cavaliere Spada, Captain Blackball of a mysterious English regiment126, which might be any one of the hundred and twenty in the Army List, and other noblemen and gentlemen, Greeks, Russians, and Spaniards. Mr. and Mrs. Jones (of England), who had made the princess’s acquaintance at Bagneres (where her lord still remained in the gout) and perseveringly127 followed her all the way to Baden, were dazzled by the splendour of the company in which they found themselves. Miss Jones wrote such letters to her dearest friend Miss Thompson, Cambridge Square, London, as caused that young person to crever with envy. Bob Jones, who had grown a pair of mustachios since he left home, began to think slightingly of poor little Fanny Thompson, now he had got into “the best Continental128 society.” Might not he quarter a countess’s coat on his brougham along with the Jones arms, or, more slap-up still, have the two shields painted on the panels with the coronet over? “Do you know the princess calls herself the Queen of Scots, and she calls me Julian Avenel?” says Jones delighted, to Clive, who wrote me about the transmogrification of our schoolfellow, an attorney’s son, whom I recollected129 a snivelling little boy at Grey Friars. “I say, Newcome, the princess is going to establish an order,” cried Bob in ecstasy130. Every one of her aides-de-camp had a bunch of orders at his button, excepting, of course, poor Jones.
Like all persons who beheld131 her, when Miss Newcome and her party made their appearance at Baden, Monsieur de Florac was enraptured132 with her beauty. “I speak of it constantly before the Duchesse. I know it pleases her,” so the Vicomte said. “You should have seen her looks when your friend M. Jones praised Miss Newcome! She ground her teeth with fury. Tiens ce petit sournois de Kiou! He always spoke133 of her as a mere134 sac d’argent that he was about to marry — an ingot of the cite — une fille de Lord Maire. Have all English bankers such pearls of daughters? If the Vicomtesse de Florac had but quitted the earth, dont elle fait l’ornement — I would present myself to the charmante meess and ride a steeple-chase with Kiou!” That he should win it the Viscount never doubted.
When Lady Anne Newcome first appeared in the ballroom135 at Baden, Madame la Duchesse d’Ivry begged the Earl of Kew (notre filleul, she called him) to present her to his aunt miladi and her charming daughter. “My filleul had not prepared me for so much grace,” she said, turning a look towards Lord Kew, which caused his lordship some embarrassment136. Her kindness and graciousness were extreme. Her caresses137 and compliments never ceased all the evening. She told the mother and the daughter too that she had never seen any one so lovely as Ethel. Whenever she saw Lady Anne’s children in the walks she ran to them (so that Captain Blackball and Count Punter, A.D.C., were amazed at her tenderness), she etouffed them with kisses. What lilies and roses! What lovely little creatures! What companions for her own Antoinette. “This is your governess, Miss Quigli; mademoiselle, you must let me present you to Miss O’Gredi, your compatriot, and I hope your children will be always together.” The Irish Protestant governess scowled138 at the Irish Catholic — there was a Boyne Water between them.
Little Antoinette; a lonely little girl, was glad to find any companions. “Mamma kisses me on the promenade,” she told them in her artless way. “She never kisses me at home!” One day when Lord Kew with Florac and Clive were playing with the children, Antoinette said, “Pourquoi ne venez-vous plus chez nous, M. de Kew? And why does mamma say you are a lache? She said so yesterday to ces messieurs. And why does mamma say thou art only a vaurien, mon cousin? Thou art always very good for me. I love thee better than all those messieurs. Ma tante Florac a ete bonne pour moi a Paris aussi — Ah! qu’elle a ete bonne!”
“C’est que les anges aiment bien les petits cherubins, and my mother is an angel, seest thou,” cries Florac, kissing her.
“Thy mother is not dead,” said little Antoinette, “then why dost thou cry, my cousin?” And the three spectators were touched by this little scene and speech.
Lady Anne Newcome received the caresses and compliments of Madame la Duchesse with marked coldness on the part of one commonly so very good-natured. Ethel’s instinct told her that there was something wrong in this woman, and she shrank from her with haughty139 reserve. The girl’s conduct was not likely to please the French lady, but she never relaxed in her smiles and her compliments, her caresses, and her professions of admiration140. She was present when Clara Pulleyn fell; and, prodigal of calineries and consolation141, and shawls and scent-bottles, to the unhappy young lady, she would accompany her home. She inquired perpetually after the health of cette pauvre petite Miss Clara. Oh, how she railed against ces Anglaises and their prudery! Can you fancy her and her circle, the tea-table set in the twilight142 that evening, the court assembled, Madame de la Cruchecassee and Madame de Schlangenbad; and their whiskered humble143 servants, Baron123 Punter and Count Spada, and Marquis Iago, and Prince Iachimo, and worthy Captain Blackball? Can you fancy a moonlight conclave144, and ghouls feasting on the fresh corpse145 of a reputation:— the gibes146 and sarcasms147, the laughing and the gnashing of teeth? How they tear the dainty limbs, and relish148 the tender morsels149!
“The air of this place is not good for you, believe me, my little Kew; it is dangerous. Have pressing affairs in England; let your chateau67 burn down; or your intendant run away, and pursue him. Partez, mon petit Kiou; partez, or evil will come of it.” Such was the advice which a friend of Lord Kew gave the young nobleman.
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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bawling
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的现在分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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par
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mingles
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monasteries
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catastrophe
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eldest
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apropos
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| adv.恰好地；adj.恰当的；关于 | |
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tirade
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| n.冗长的攻击性演说 | |
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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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tyrant
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entirely
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concurrence
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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22
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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23
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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24
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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25
emigrant
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| adj.移居的，移民的；n.移居外国的人，移民 | |
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26
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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27
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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28
usurper
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| n. 篡夺者, 僭取者 | |
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29
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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30
renowned
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| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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31
intrepid
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| adj.无畏的，刚毅的 | |
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32
redoubtable
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| adj.可敬的；可怕的 | |
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33
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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35
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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36
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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37
conserved
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| v.保护，保藏，保存( conserve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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39
progeny
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| n.后代，子孙；结果 | |
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40
exquisites
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| n.精致的( exquisite的名词复数 )；敏感的；剧烈的；强烈的 | |
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41
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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42
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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43
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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44
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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45
barricades
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| 路障，障碍物( barricade的名词复数 ) | |
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47
tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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48
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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49
barricaded
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| 设路障于，以障碍物阻塞( barricade的过去式和过去分词 )； 设路障[防御工事]保卫或固守 | |
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50
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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51
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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52
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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53
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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54
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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56
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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57
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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58
ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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59
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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60
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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61
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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62
rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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63
convene
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| v.集合，召集，召唤，聚集，集合 | |
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64
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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65
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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66
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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67
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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68
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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69
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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70
conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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71
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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72
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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73
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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74
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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75
rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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76
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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77
enrage
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| v.触怒，激怒 | |
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78
prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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79
repenting
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的现在分词 ) | |
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80
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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81
eclecticism
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| n.折衷主义 | |
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82
demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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83
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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84
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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85
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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86
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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87
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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88
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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89
faction
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| n.宗派，小集团；派别；派系斗争 | |
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90
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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91
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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92
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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93
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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94
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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96
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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97
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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98
narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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100
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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101
confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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102
jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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103
smirked
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| v.傻笑( smirk的过去分词 ) | |
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104
nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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105
evoke
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| vt.唤起，引起，使人想起 | |
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106
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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107
swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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108
hoop
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| n.（篮球）篮圈，篮 | |
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109
lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
retailed
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| vt.零售（retail的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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111
reigning
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| adj.统治的，起支配作用的 | |
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112
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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113
fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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114
rued
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| v.对…感到后悔( rue的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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115
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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116
tempts
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| v.引诱或怂恿（某人）干不正当的事( tempt的第三人称单数 )；使想要 | |
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117
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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118
conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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119
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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120
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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121
agate
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| n.玛瑙 | |
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122
grimaces
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| n.（表蔑视、厌恶等）面部扭曲，鬼脸( grimace的名词复数 )v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的第三人称单数 ) | |
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123
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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124
condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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125
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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126
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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127
perseveringly
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| 坚定地 | |
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128
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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129
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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130
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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131
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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132
enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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133
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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134
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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135
ballroom
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| n.舞厅 | |
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136
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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137
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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138
scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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139
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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140
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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141
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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142
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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143
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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144
conclave
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| n.秘密会议，红衣主教团 | |
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145
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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146
gibes
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| vi.嘲笑，嘲弄（gibe的第三人称单数形式） | |
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147
sarcasms
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，挖苦( sarcasm的名词复数 ) | |
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148
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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149
morsels
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| n.一口( morsel的名词复数 )；（尤指食物）小块，碎屑 | |
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