On the walls of the large drawing-room, empty and silent, the figures of the tapestries6, vague as shadows, showed pallid7 among their antique games and dying graces. Like them, the terra-cotta statuettes on slender columns, the groups of old Saxony, and the paintings of Sevres, spoke8 of past glories. On a pedestal ornamented9 with precious bronzes, the marble bust10 of some princess royal disguised as Diana appeared about to fly out of her turbulent drapery, while on the ceiling a figure of Night, powdered like a marquise and surrounded by cupids, sowed flowers. Everything was asleep, and only the crackling of the logs and the light rattle11 of Therese’s pearls could be heard.
Turning from the mirror, she lifted the corner of a curtain and saw through the window, beyond the dark trees of the quay12, the Seine spreading its yellow reflections. Weariness of the sky and of the water was reflected in her fine gray eyes. The boat passed, the ‘Hirondelle’, emerging from an arch of the Alma Bridge, and carrying humble13 travellers toward Grenelle and Billancourt. She followed it with her eyes, then let the curtain fall, and, seating herself under the flowers, took a book from the table. On the straw-colored linen14 cover shone the title in gold: ‘Yseult la Blonde’, by Vivian Bell. It was a collection of French verses composed by an Englishwoman, and printed in London. She read indifferently, waiting for visitors, and thinking less of the poetry than of the poetess, Miss Bell, who was perhaps her most agreeable friend, and whom she almost never saw; who, at every one of their meetings, which were so rare, kissed her, calling her “darling,” and babbled15; who, plain yet seductive, almost ridiculous, yet wholly exquisite16, lived at Fiesole like a philosopher, while England celebrated17 her as her most beloved poet. Like Vernon Lee and like Mary Robinson, she had fallen in love with the life and art of Tuscany; and, without even finishing her Tristan, the first part of which had inspired in Burne-Jones dreamy aquarelles, she wrote Provencal verses and French poems expressing Italian ideas. She had sent her ‘Yseult la Blonde’ to “Darling,” with a letter inviting18 her to spend a month with her at Fiesole. She had written: “Come; you will see the most beautiful things in the world, and you will embellish19 them.”
And “darling” was saying to herself that she would not go, that she must remain in Paris. But the idea of seeing Miss Bell in Italy was not indifferent to her. And turning the leaves of the book, she stopped by chance at this line:
Love and gentle heart are one.
And she asked herself, with gentle irony20, whether Miss Bell had ever been in love, and what manner of man could be the ideal of Miss Bell. The poetess had at Fiesole an escort, Prince Albertinelli. He was very handsome, but rather coarse and vulgar; too much so to please an aesthete21 who blended with the desire for love the mysticism of an Annunciation.
“Good-evening, Therese. I am positively22 worn out.”
The Princess Seniavine had entered, supple23 in her furs, which almost seemed to form a part of her dark beauty. She seated herself brusquely, and, in a voice at once harsh yet caressing24, said:
“This morning I walked through the park with General Lariviere. I met him in an alley25 and made him go with me to the bridge, where he wished to buy from the guardian26 a learned magpie27 which performs the manual of arms with a gun. Oh! I am so tired!”
“But why did you drag the General to the bridge?”
“Because he had gout in his toe.”
Therese shrugged29 her shoulders, smiling:
“You squander30 your wickedness. You spoil things.”
“And you wish me, dear, to save my kindness and my wickedness for a serious investment?”
Therese made her drink some Tokay.
Preceded by the sound of his powerful breathing, General Lariviere approached with heavy state and sat between the two women, looking stubborn and self-satisfied, laughing in every wrinkle of his face.
“How is Monsieur Martin-Belleme? Always busy?”
Therese thought he was at the Chamber31, and even that he was making a speech there.
Princess Seniavine, who was eating caviare sandwiches, asked Madame Martin why she had not gone to Madame Meillan’s the day before. They had played a comedy there.
“A Scandinavian play? Was it a success?”
“Yes — I don’t know. I was in the little green room, under the portrait of the Duc d’Orleans. Monsieur Le Menil came to me and did me one of those good turns that one never forgets. He saved me from Monsieur Garain.”
The General, who knew the Annual Register, and stored away all useful information, pricked32 up his ears.
“Garain,” he asked, “the minister who was in the Cabinet when the princes were exiled?”
“Himself. I was excessively agreeable to him. He talked to me of the yearnings of his heart and he looked at me with alarming tenderness. And from time to time he gazed, with sighs, at the portrait of the Duc d’Orleans. I said to him: ‘Monsieur Garain, you are making a mistake. It is my sister-in-law who is an Orleanist. I am not.’ At this moment Monsieur Le Menil came to escort me to the buffet33. He paid great compliments — to my horses! He said, also, there was nothing so beautiful as the forest in winter. He talked about wolves. That refreshed me.”
The General, who did not like young men, said he had met Le Menil the day before in the forest, galloping34, with vast space between himself and his saddle.
He declared that old cavaliers alone retained the traditions of good horsemanship; that people in society now rode like jockeys.
“It is the same with fencing,” he added. “Formerly —”
Princess Seniavine interrupted him:
“General, look and see how charming Madame Martin is. She is always charming, but at this moment she is prettier than ever. It is because she is bored. Nothing becomes her better than to be bored. Since we have been here, we have bored her terribly. Look at her: her forehead clouded, her glance vague, her mouth dolorous35. Behold36 a victim!”
She arose, kissed Therese tumultuously, and fled, leaving the General astonished.
Madame Martin-Belleme prayed him not to listen to what the Princess had said.
He collected himself and asked:
“And how are your poets, Madame?”
It was difficult for him to forgive Madame Martin her preference for people who lived by writing and were not of his circle.
“Yes, your poets. What has become of that Monsieur Choulette, who visits you wrapped in a red muffler?”
“My poets? They forget me, they abandon me. One should not rely on anybody. Men and women — nothing is sure. Life is a continual betrayal. Only that poor Miss Bell does not forget me. She has written to me from Florence and sent her book.”
“Miss Bell? Isn’t she that young person who looks, with her yellow waving hair, like a little lapdog?”
He reflected, and expressed the opinion that she must be at least thirty.
An old lady, wearing with modest dignity her crown of white hair, and a little vivacious37 man with shrewd eyes, came in suddenly — Madame Marmet and M. Paul Vence. Then, carrying himself very stiffly, with a square monocle in his eye, appeared M. Daniel Salomon, the arbiter38 of elegance39. The General hurried out.
They talked of the novel of the week. Madame Marmet had dined often with the author, a young and very amiable man. Paul Vence thought the book tiresome40.
“Oh,” sighed Madame Martin, “all books are tiresome. But men are more tiresome than books, and they are more exacting41.”
Madame Marmet said that her husband, who had much literary taste, had retained, until the end of his days, a horror of naturalism. She was the widow of a member of the ‘Academie des Inscriptions43’, and plumed44 herself upon her illustrious widowhood. She was sweet and modest in her black gown and her beautiful white hair.
Madame Martin said to M. Daniel Salomon that she wished to consult him particularly on the picture of a group of beautiful children.
“You will tell me if it pleases you. You may also give me your opinion, Monsieur Vence, unless you disdain45 such trifles.”
M. Daniel Salomon looked at Paul Vence through his monocle with disdain. Paul Vence surveyed the drawing-room.
“You have beautiful things, Madame. That would be nothing. But you have only beautiful things, and all serve to set off your own beauty.”
She did not conceal46 her pleasure at hearing him speak in that way. She regarded Paul Vence as the only really intelligent man she knew. She had appreciated him before his books had made him celebrated. His ill-health, his dark humor, his assiduous labor47, separated him from society. The little bilious48 man was not very pleasing; yet he attracted her. She held in high esteem49 his profound irony, his great pride, his talent ripened50 in solitude51, and she admired him, with reason, as an excellent writer, the author of powerful essays on art and on life.
Little by little the room filled with a brilliant crowd. Within the large circle of armchairs were Madame de Wesson, about whom people told frightful52 stories, and who kept, after twenty years of half-smothered scandal, the eyes of a child and cheeks of virginal smoothness; old Madame de Morlaine, who shouted her witty53 phrases in piercing cries; Madame Raymond, the wife of the Academician; Madame Garain, the wife of the exminister; three other ladies; and, standing54 easily against the mantelpiece, M. Berthier d’Eyzelles, editor of the ‘Journal des Debats’, a deputy who caressed55 his white beard while Madame de Morlaine shouted at him:
“Your article on bimetallism is a pearl, a jewel! Especially the end of it.”
Standing in the rear of the room, young clubmen, very grave, lisped among themselves:
“What did he do to get the button from the Prince?”
“He, nothing. His wife, everything.”
They had their own cynical56 philosophy. One of them had no faith in promises of men.
“They are types that do not suit me. They wear their hearts on their hands and on their mouths. You present yourself for admission to a club. They say, ‘I promise to give you a white ball. It will be an alabaster57 ball — a snowball! They vote. It’s a black ball. Life seems a vile58 affair when I think of it.”
“Then don’t think of it.”
Daniel Salomon, who had joined them, whispered in their ears spicy59 stories in a lowered voice. And at every strange revelation concerning Madame Raymond, or Madame Berthier, or Princess Seniavine, he added, negligently60:
“Everybody knows it.”
Then, little by little, the crowd of visitors dispersed61. Only Madame Marmet and Paul Vence remained.
The latter went toward Madame Martin, and asked:
“When do you wish me to introduce Dechartre to you?”
It was the second time he had asked this of her. She did not like to see new faces. She replied, unconcernedly:
“Your sculptor62? When you wish. I saw at the Champ de Mars medallions made by him which are very good. But he does not work much. He is an amateur, is he not?”
“He is a delicate artist. He does not need to work in order to live. He caresses63 his figures with loving slowness. But do not be deceived about him, Madame. He knows and he feels. He would be a master if he did not live alone. I have known him since his childhood. People think that he is solitary64 and morose65. He is passionate66 and timid. What he lacks, what he will lack always to reach the highest point of his art, is simplicity67 of mind. He is restless, and he spoils his most beautiful impressions. In my opinion he was created less for sculpture than for poetry or philosophy. He knows a great deal, and you will be astonished at the wealth of his mind.”
Madame Marmet approved.
She pleased society by appearing to find pleasure in it. She listened a great deal and talked little. Very affable, she gave value to her affability by not squandering68 it. Either because she liked Madame Martin, or because she knew how to give discreet69 marks of preference in every house she went, she warmed herself contentedly70, like a relative, in a corner of the Louis XVI chimney, which suited her beauty. She lacked only her dog.
“How is Toby?” asked Madame Martin. “Monsieur Vence, do you know Toby? He has long silky hair and a lovely little black nose.”
Madame Marmet was relishing71 the praise of Toby, when an old man, pink and blond, with curly hair, short-sighted, almost blind under his golden spectacles, rather short, striking against the furniture, bowing to empty armchairs, blundering into the mirrors, pushed his crooked72 nose before Madame Marmet, who looked at him indignantly.
It was M. Schmoll, member of the Academie des Inscriptions. He smiled and turned a madrigal73 for the Countess Martin with that hereditary74 harsh, coarse voice with which the Jews, his fathers, pressed their creditors75, the peasants of Alsace, of Poland, and of the Crimea. He dragged his phrases heavily. This great philologist76 knew all languages except French. And Madame Martin enjoyed his affable phrases, heavy and rusty77 like the iron-work of brica-brac shops, among which fell dried leaves of anthology. M. Schmoll liked poets and women, and had wit.
Madame Marmet feigned78 not to know him, and went out without returning his bow.
When he had exhausted79 his pretty madrigals, M. Schmoll became sombre and pitiful. He complained piteously. He was not decorated enough, not provided with sinecures80 enough, nor well fed enough by the State — he, Madame Schmoll, and their five daughters. His lamentations had some grandeur81. Something of the soul of Ezekiel and of Jeremiah was in them.
Unfortunately, turning his golden-spectacled eyes toward the table, he discovered Vivian Bell’s book.
“Oh, ‘Yseult La Blonde’,” he exclaimed, bitterly. “You are reading that book, Madame? Well, learn that Mademoiselle Vivian Bell has stolen an inscription42 from me, and that she has altered it, moreover, by putting it into verse. You will find it on page 109 of her book: ‘A shade may weep over a shade.’ You hear, Madame? ‘A shade may weep over a shade.’ Well, those words are translated literally82 from a funeral inscription which I was the first to publish and to illustrate83. Last year, one day, when I was dining at your house, being placed by the side of Mademoiselle Bell, I quoted this phrase to her, and it pleased her a great deal. At her request, the next day I translated into French the entire inscription and sent it to her. And now I find it changed in this volume of verses under this title: ‘On the Sacred Way’— the sacred way, that is I.”
And he repeated, in his bad humor:
“I, Madame, am the sacred way.”
He was annoyed that the poet had not spoken to him about this inscription. He would have liked to see his name at the top of the poem, in the verses, in the rhymes. He wished to see his name everywhere, and always looked for it in the journals with which his pockets were stuffed. But he had no rancor84. He was not really angry with Miss Bell. He admitted gracefully85 that she was a distinguished86 person, and a poet that did great honor to England.
When he had gone, the Countess Martin asked ingenuously87 of Paul Vence if he knew why that good Madame Marmet had looked at M. Schmoll with such marked though silent anger. He was surprised that she did not know.
“I never know anything,” she said.
“But the quarrel between Schmoll and Marmet is famous. It ceased only at the death of Marmet.
“The day that poor Marmet was buried, snow was falling. We were wet and frozen to the bones. At the grave, in the wind, in the mud, Schmoll read under his umbrella a speech full of jovial88 cruelty and triumphant90 pity, which he took afterward91 to the newspapers in a mourning carriage. An indiscreet friend let Madame Marmet hear of it, and she fainted. Is it possible, Madame, that you have not heard of this learned and ferocious92 quarrel?
“The Etruscan language was the cause of it. Marmet made it his unique study. He was surnamed Marmet the Etruscan. Neither he nor any one else knew a word of that language, the last vestige93 of which is lost. Schmoll said continually to Marmet: ‘You do not know Etruscan, my dear colleague; that is the reason why you are an honorable savant and a fair-minded man.’ Piqued94 by his ironic95 praise, Marmet thought of learning a little Etruscan. He read to his colleague a memoir96 on the part played by flexions in the idiom of the ancient Tuscans.”
Madame Martin asked what a flexion was.
“Oh, Madame, if I explain anything to you, it will mix up everything. Be content with knowing that in that memoir poor Marmet quoted Latin texts and quoted them wrong. Schmoll is a Latinist of great learning, and, after Mommsen, the chief epigraphist of the world.
“He reproached his young colleague — Marmet was not fifty years old — with reading Etruscan too well and Latin not well enough. From that time Marmet had no rest. At every meeting he was mocked unmercifully; and, finally, in spite of his softness, he got angry. Schmoll is without rancor. It is a virtue97 of his race. He does not bear ill-will to those whom he persecutes98. One day, as he went up the stairway of the Institute with Renan and Oppert, he met Marmet, and extended his hand to him. Marmet refused to take it, and said ‘I do not know you.’—‘Do you take me for a Latin inscription?’ Schmoll replied. Marmet died and was buried because of that satire99. Now you know the reason why his widow sees his enemy with horror.”
“And I have made them dine together, side by side.”
“Madame, it was not immoral100, but it was cruel.”
“My dear sir, I shall shock you, perhaps; but if I had to choose, I should like better to do an immoral thing than a cruel one.”
A young man, tall, thin, dark, with a long moustache, entered, and bowed with brusque suppleness101.
“Monsieur Vence, I think that you know Monsieur Le Menil.”
They had met before at Madame Martin’s, and saw each other often at the Fencing Club. The day before they had met at Madame Meillan’s .
“Madame Meillan’s — there’s a house where one is bored,” said Paul Vence.
“Yet Academicians go there,” said M. Robert Le Menil. “I do not exaggerate their value, but they are the elite102.”
Madame Martin smiled.
“We know, Monsieur Le Menil, that at Madame Meillan’s you are preoccupied103 by the women more than by the Academicians. You escorted Princess Seniavine to the buffet and talked to her about wolves.”
“What wolves?”
“Wolves, and forests blackened by winter. We thought that with so pretty a woman your conversation was rather savage104!”
Paul Vence rose.
“So you permit, Madame, that I should bring my friend Dechartre? He has a great desire to know you, and I hope he will not displease105 you. There is life in his mind. He is full of ideas.”
“Oh, I do not ask for so much,” Madame Martin said. “People that are natural and show themselves as they are rarely bore me, and sometimes they amuse me.”
When Paul Vence had gone, Le Menil listened until the noise of footsteps had vanished; then, coming nearer:
“To-morrow, at three o’clock? Do you still love me?”
He asked her to reply while they were alone. She answered that it was late, that she expected no more visitors, and that no one except her husband would come.
He entreated106. Then she said:
“I shall be free to-morrow all day. Wait for me at three o’clock.”
He thanked her with a look. Then, placing himself on at the other side of the chimney, he asked who was that Dechartre whom she wished introduced to her.
“I do not wish him to be introduced to me. He is to be introduced to me. He is a sculptor.”
He deplored107 the fact that she needed to see new faces, adding:
“A sculptor? They are usually brutal108.”
“Oh, but this one does so little sculpture! But if it annoys you that I should meet him, I will not do so.”
“I should be sorry if society took any part of the time you might give to me.”
“My friend, you can not complain of that. I did not even go to Madame Meillan’s yesterday.”
“You are right to show yourself there as little as possible. It is not a house for you.”
He explained. All the women that went there had had some spicy adventure which was known and talked about. Besides, Madame Meillan favored intrigue109. He gave examples. Madame Martin, however, her hands extended on the arms of the chair in charming restfulness, her head inclined, looked at the dying embers in the grate. Her thoughtful mood had flown. Nothing of it remained on her face, a little saddened, nor in her languid body, more desirable than ever in the quiescence110 of her mind. She kept for a while a profound immobility, which added to her personal attraction the charm of things that art had created.
He asked her of what she was thinking. Escaping the magic of the blaze in the ashes, she said:
“We will go to-morrow, if you wish, to far distant places, to the odd districts where the poor people live. I like the old streets where misery111 dwells.”
He promised to satisfy her taste, although he let her know that he thought it absurd. The walks that she led him sometimes bored him, and he thought them dangerous. People might see them.
“And since we have been successful until now in not causing gossip —”
She shook her head.
“Do you think that people have not talked about us? Whether they know or do not know, they talk. Not everything is known, but everything is said.”
She relapsed into her dream. He thought her discontented, cross, for some reason which she would not tell. He bent112 upon her beautiful, grave eyes which reflected the light of the grate. But she reassured113 him.
“I do not know whether any one talks about me. And what do I care? Nothing matters.”
He left her. He was going to dine at the club, where a friend was waiting for him. She followed him with her eyes, with peaceful sympathy. Then she began again to read in the ashes.
She saw in them the days of her childhood; the castle wherein she had passed the sweet, sad summers; the dark and humid park; the pond where slept the green water; the marble nymphs under the chestnut-trees, and the bench on which she had wept and desired death. To-day she still ignored the cause of her youthful despair, when the ardent114 awakening115 of her imagination threw her into a troubled maze116 of desires and of fears. When she was a child, life frightened her. And now she knew that life is not worth so much anxiety nor so much hope; that it is a very ordinary thing. She should have known this. She thought:
“I saw mamma; she was good, very simple, and not very happy. I dreamed of a destiny different from hers. Why? I felt around me the insipid117 taste of life, and seemed to inhale118 the future like a salt and pungent119 aroma120. Why? What did I want, and what did I expect? Was I not warned enough of the sadness of everything?”
She had been born rich, in the brilliancy of a fortune too new. She was a daughter of that Montessuy, who, at first a clerk in a Parisian bank, founded and governed two great establishments, brought to sustain them the resources of a brilliant mind, invincible121 force of character, a rare alliance of cleverness and honesty, and treated with the Government as if he were a foreign power. She had grown up in the historical castle of Joinville, bought, restored, and magnificently furnished by her father. Montessuy made life give all it could yield. An instinctive122 and powerful atheist123, he wanted all the goods of this world and all the desirable things that earth produces. He accumulated pictures by old masters, and precious sculptures. At fifty he had known all the most beautiful women of the stage, and many in society. He enjoyed everything worldly with the brutality124 of his temperament125 and the shrewdness of his mind.
Poor Madame Montessuy, economical and careful, languished126 at Joinville, delicate and poor, under the frowns of twelve gigantic caryatides which held a ceiling on which Lebrun had painted the Titans struck by Jupiter. There, in the iron cot, placed at the foot of the large bed, she died one night of sadness and exhaustion127, never having loved anything on earth except her husband and her little drawing-room in the Rue89 Maubeuge.
She never had had any intimacy128 with her daughter, whom she felt instinctively129 too different from herself, too free, too bold at heart; and she divined in Therese, although she was sweet and good, the strong Montessuy blood, the ardor130 which had made her suffer so much, and which she forgave in her husband, but not in her daughter.
But Montessuy recognized his daughter and loved her. Like most hearty131, full-blooded men, he had hours of charming gayety. Although he lived out of his house a great deal, he breakfasted with her almost every day, and sometimes took her out walking. He understood gowns and furbelows. He instructed and formed Therese. He amused her. Near her, his instinct for conquest inspired him still. He desired to win always, and he won his daughter. He separated her from her mother. Therese admired him, she adored him.
In her dream she saw him as the unique joy of her childhood. She was persuaded that no man in the world was as amiable as her father.
At her entrance in life, she despaired at once of finding elsewhere so rich a nature, such a plenitude of active and thinking forces. This discouragement had followed her in the choice of a husband, and perhaps later in a secret and freer choice.
She had not really selected her husband. She did not know: she had permitted herself to be married by her father, who, then a widower132, embarrassed by the care of a girl, had wished to do things quickly and well. He considered the exterior133 advantages, estimated the eighty years of imperial nobility which Count Martin brought. The idea never came to him that she might wish to find love in marriage.
He flattered himself that she would find in it the satisfaction of the luxurious134 desires which he attributed to her, the joy of making a display of grandeur, the vulgar pride, the material domination, which were for him all the value of life, as he had no ideas on the subject of the happiness of a true woman, although he was sure that his daughter would remain virtuous135.
While thinking of his absurd yet natural faith in her, which accorded so badly with his own experiences and ideas regarding women, she smiled with melancholy136 irony. And she admired her father the more.
After all, she was not so badly married. Her husband was as good as any other man. He had become quite bearable. Of all that she read in the ashes, in the veiled softness of the lamps, of all her reminiscences, that of their married life was the most vague. She found a few isolated137 traits of it, some absurd images, a fleeting138 and fastidious impression. The time had not seemed long and had left nothing behind. Six years had passed, and she did not even remember how she had regained139 her liberty, so prompt and easy had been her conquest of that husband, cold, sickly, selfish, and polite; of that man dried up and yellowed by business and politics, laborious140, ambitious, and commonplace. He liked women only through vanity, and he never had loved his wife. The separation had been frank and complete. And since then, strangers to each other, they felt a tacit, mutual141 gratitude142 for their freedom. She would have had some affection for him if she had not found him hypocritical and too subtle in the art of obtaining her signature when he needed money for enterprises that were more for ostentation143 than real benefit. The man with whom she dined and talked every day had no significance for her.
With her cheek in her hand, before the grate, as if she questioned a sibyl, she saw again the face of the Marquis de Re. She saw it so precisely144 that it surprised her. The Marquis de Re had been presented to her by her father, who admired him, and he appeared to her grand and dazzling for his thirty years of intimate triumphs and mundane145 glories. His adventures followed him like a procession. He had captivated three generations of women, and had left in the heart of all those whom he had loved an imperishable memory. His virile146 grace, his quiet elegance, and his habit of pleasing had prolonged his youth far beyond the ordinary term of years. He noticed particularly the young Countess Martin. The homage147 of this expert flattered her. She thought of him now with pleasure. He had a marvellous art of conversation. He amused her. She let him see it, and at once he promised to himself, in his heroic frivolity148, to finish worthily149 his happy life by the subjugation150 of this young woman whom he appreciated above every one else, and who evidently admired him. He displayed, to capture her, the most learned stratagems151. But she escaped him very easily.
She yielded, two years later, to Robert Le Menil, who had desired her ardently152, with all the warmth of his youth, with all the simplicity of his mind. She said to herself: “I gave myself to him because he loved me.” It was the truth. The truth was, also, that a dumb yet powerful instinct had impelled153 her, and that she had obeyed the hidden impulse of her being. But even this was not her real self; what awakened154 her nature at last was the fact that she believed in the sincerity155 of his sentiment. She had yielded as soon as she had felt that she was loved. She had given herself, quickly, simply. He thought that she had yielded easily. He was mistaken. She had felt the discouragement which the irreparable gives, and that sort of shame which comes of having suddenly something to conceal. Everything that had been whispered before her about other women resounded156 in her burning ears. But, proud and delicate, she took care to hide the value of the gift she was making. He never suspected her moral uneasiness, which lasted only a few days, and was replaced by perfect tranquillity. After three years she defended her conduct as innocent and natural.
Having done harm to no one, she had no regrets. She was content. She was in love, she was loved. Doubtless she had not felt the intoxication157 she had expected, but does one ever feel it? She was the friend of the good and honest fellow, much liked by women who passed for disdainful and hard to please, and he had a true affection for her. The pleasure she gave him and the joy of being beautiful for him attached her to this friend. He made life for her not continually delightful158, but easy to bear, and at times agreeable.
That which she had not divined in her solitude, notwithstanding vague yearnings and apparently159 causeless sadness, he had revealed to her. She knew herself when she knew him. It was a happy astonishment160. Their sympathies were not in their minds. Her inclination161 toward him was simple and frank, and at this moment she found pleasure in the idea of meeting him the next day in the little apartment where they had met for three years. With a shake of the head and a shrug28 of her shoulders, coarser than one would have expected from this exquisite woman, sitting alone by the dying fire, she said to herself: “There! I need love!”
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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tunic
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| n.束腰外衣 | |
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scintillated
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| v.（言谈举止中）焕发才智( scintillate的过去式和过去分词 )；谈笑洒脱；闪耀；闪烁 | |
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tranquillity
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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tapestries
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| n.挂毯( tapestry的名词复数 )；绣帷，织锦v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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pallid
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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10
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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12
quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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13
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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14
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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15
babbled
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| v.喋喋不休( babble的过去式和过去分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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16
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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17
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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18
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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19
embellish
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| v.装饰，布置；给…添加细节，润饰 | |
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20
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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21
aesthete
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| n.审美家 | |
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22
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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23
supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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24
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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25
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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26
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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27
magpie
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| n.喜欢收藏物品的人，喜鹊，饶舌者 | |
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28
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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29
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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30
squander
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| v.浪费，挥霍 | |
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31
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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32
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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33
buffet
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| n.自助餐；饮食柜台；餐台 | |
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34
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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35
dolorous
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| adj.悲伤的；忧愁的 | |
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36
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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37
vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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38
arbiter
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| n.仲裁人，公断人 | |
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39
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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40
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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41
exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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42
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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43
inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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44
plumed
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| 饰有羽毛的 | |
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45
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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46
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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47
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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48
bilious
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| adj.胆汁过多的；易怒的 | |
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49
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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50
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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52
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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53
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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54
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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55
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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57
alabaster
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| adj.雪白的；n.雪花石膏；条纹大理石 | |
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58
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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59
spicy
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| adj.加香料的；辛辣的，有风味的 | |
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60
negligently
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61
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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62
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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63
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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64
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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65
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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66
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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67
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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68
squandering
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| v.（指钱，财产等）浪费，乱花( squander的现在分词 ) | |
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69
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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70
contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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71
relishing
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| v.欣赏( relish的现在分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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72
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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73
madrigal
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| n.牧歌；（流行于16和17世纪无乐器伴奏的）合唱歌曲 | |
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74
hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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75
creditors
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| n.债权人，债主( creditor的名词复数 ) | |
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76
philologist
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| n.语言学者，文献学者 | |
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77
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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78
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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79
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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80
sinecures
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| n.工作清闲但报酬优厚的职位，挂名的好差事( sinecure的名词复数 ) | |
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81
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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82
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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83
illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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84
rancor
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| n.深仇，积怨 | |
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85
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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86
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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87
ingenuously
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| adv.率直地，正直地 | |
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88
jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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89
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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90
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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91
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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92
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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93
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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94
piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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95
ironic
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| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
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96
memoir
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| n.[pl.]回忆录，自传；记事录 | |
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97
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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98
persecutes
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的第三人称单数 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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99
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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100
immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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101
suppleness
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| 柔软； 灵活； 易弯曲； 顺从 | |
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102
elite
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| n.精英阶层；实力集团；adj.杰出的，卓越的 | |
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103
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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104
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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105
displease
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| vt.使不高兴，惹怒；n.不悦，不满，生气 | |
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106
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
deplored
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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109
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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110
quiescence
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| n.静止 | |
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111
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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112
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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113
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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114
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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115
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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116
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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117
insipid
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| adj.无味的，枯燥乏味的，单调的 | |
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118
inhale
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| v.吸入(气体等)，吸(烟) | |
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119
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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120
aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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121
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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122
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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123
atheist
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| n.无神论者 | |
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124
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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125
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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126
languished
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| 长期受苦( languish的过去式和过去分词 )； 受折磨； 变得（越来越）衰弱； 因渴望而变得憔悴或闷闷不乐 | |
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127
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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128
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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129
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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130
ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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131
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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132
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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133
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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134
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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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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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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mundane
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| adj.平凡的；尘世的；宇宙的 | |
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virile
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| adj.男性的；有男性生殖力的；有男子气概的；强有力的 | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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frivolity
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| n.轻松的乐事，兴高采烈；轻浮的举止 | |
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worthily
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| 重要地，可敬地，正当地 | |
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subjugation
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| n.镇压，平息，征服 | |
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stratagems
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| n.诡计，计谋( stratagem的名词复数 )；花招 | |
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ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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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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intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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