But though his dark eyes were fixed7 upon the wall, they saw nothing of it. They looked rather down the long vista8 of his own life, away to those early years when what we dream and what we do shade so mistily9 into one another. Was it a dream or was it a fact, those two men who used to stoop over his baby crib, the one with the dark coat and the star upon his breast, whom he had been taught to call father, and the other one with the long red gown and the little twinkling eyes? Even now, after more than forty years, that wicked, astute10, powerful face flashed up, and he saw once more old Richelieu, the great unanointed king of France. And then the other cardinal11, the long lean one who had taken his pocket-money, and had grudged12 him his food, and had dressed him in old clothes. How well he could recall the day when Mazarin had rouged13 himself for the last time, and how the court had danced with joy at the news that he was no more! And his mother, too, how beautiful she was, and how masterful! Could he not remember how bravely she had borne herself during that war in which the power of the great nobles had been broken, and how she had at last lain down to die, imploring14 the priests not to stain her cap-strings with their holy oils! And then he thought of what he had done himself, how he had shorn down his great subjects until, instead of being like a tree among saplings, he had been alone, far above all others, with his shadow covering the whole land. Then there were his wars and his laws and his treaties. Under his care France had overflowed15 her frontiers both on the north and on the east, and yet had been so welded together internally that she had but one voice, with which she spoke17 through him. And then there was that line of beautiful faces which wavered up in front of him. There was Olympe de Mancini, whose Italian eyes had first taught him that there is a power which can rule over a king; her sister, too, Marie de Mancini; his wife, with her dark little sun-browned face; Henrietta of England, whose death had first shown him the horrors which lie in life; La Valliere, Montespan, Fontanges. Some were dead; some were in convents. Some who had been wicked and beautiful were now only wicked. And what had been the outcome of all this troubled, striving life of his? He was already at the outer verge18 of his middle years; he had lost his taste for the pleasures of his youth; gout and vertigo19 were ever at his foot and at his head to remind him that between them lay a kingdom which he could not hope to govern. And after all these years he had not won a single true friend, not one, in his family, in his court, in his country, save only this woman whom he was to wed16 that night. And she, how patient she was, how good, how lofty! With her he might hope to wipe off by the true glory of his remaining years all the sin and the folly22 of the past. Would that the archbishop might come, that he might feel that she was indeed his, that he held her with hooks of steel which would bind24 them as long as life should last!
There came a tap at the door. He sprang up eagerly, thinking that the ecclesiastic25 might have arrived. It was, however, only his personal attendant, to say that Louvois would crave26 an interview. Close at his heels came the minister himself, high-nosed and heavy-chinned. Two leather bags were dangling27 from his hand.
“Sire,” said he, when Bontems had retired28, “I trust that I do not intrude29 upon you.”
“No, no, Louvois. My thoughts were in truth beginning to be very indifferent company, and I am glad to be rid of them.”
“Your Majesty30’s thoughts can never, I am sure, be anything but pleasant,” said the courtier. “But I have brought you here something which I trust may make them even more so.”
“Ah! What is that?”
“When so many of our young nobles went into Germany and Hungary, you were pleased in your wisdom to say that you would like well to see what reports they sent home to their friends; also what news was sent out from the court to them.”
“Yes.”
“I have them here—all that the courier has brought in, and all that are gathered to go out, each in its own bag. The wax has been softened32 in spirit, the fastenings have been steamed, and they are now open.”
The king took out a handful of the letters and glanced at the addresses.
“I should indeed like to read the hearts of these people,” said he. “Thus only can I tell the true thoughts of those who bow and simper before my face. I suppose,” with a sudden flash of suspicion from his eyes, “that you have not yourself looked into these?”
“Oh, sire, I had rather die!”
“You swear it?”
“As I hope for salvation33!”
“Hum! There is one among these which I see is from your own son.”
Louvois changed colour, and stammered34 as he looked at the envelope. “Your Majesty will find that he is as loyal out of your presence as in it, else he is no son of mine,” said he.
“Then we shall begin with his. Ha! it is but ten lines long. ‘Dearest Achille, how I long for you to come back! The court is as dull as a cloister36 now that you are gone. My ridiculous father still struts37 about like a turkey-cock, as if all his medals and crosses could cover the fact that he is but a head lackey38, with no more real power than I have. He wheedles39 a good deal out of the king, but what he does with it I cannot imagine, for little comes my way. I still owe those ten thousand livres to the man in the Rue21 Orfevre. Unless I have some luck at lansquenet, I shall have to come out soon and join you.’ Hem20! I did you an injustice41, Louvois. I see that you have not looked over these letters.”
The minister had sat with a face which was the colour of beetroot, and eyes which projected from his head, while this epistle was being read. It was with relief that he came to the end of it, for at least there was nothing which compromised him seriously with the king; but every nerve in his great body tingled42 with rage as he thought of the way in which his young scape-grace had alluded43 to him. “The viper44!” he cried. “Oh, the foul45 snake in the grass! I will make him curse the day that he was born.”
“Tut, tut, Louvois!” said the king. “You are a man who has seen much of life, and you should be a philosopher. Hot-headed youth says ever more than it means. Think no more of the matter. But what have we here? A letter from my dearest girl to her husband, the Prince de Conti. I would pick her writing out of a thousand. Ah, dear soul, she little thought that my eyes would see her artless prattle46! Why should I read it, since I already know every thought of her innocent heart?” He unfolded the sheet of pink scented47 paper with a fond smile upon his face, but it faded away as his eyes glanced down the page, and he Sprang to his feet with a snarl48 of anger, his hand over his heart and his eyes still glued to the paper. “Minx!” he cried, in a choking voice. “Impertinent, heartless minx! Louvois, you know what I have done for the princess. You know she has been the apple of my eye. What have I ever grudged her? What have I ever denied her?”
“You have been goodness itself, sire,” said Louvois, whose own wounds smarted less now that he saw his master writhing49.
“Hear what she says of me: ‘Old Father Grumpy is much as usual, save that he gives a little at the knees. You remember how we used to laugh at his airs and graces! Well, he has given up all that, and though he still struts about on great high heels, like a Landes peasant on his stilts50, he has no brightness at all in his clothes. Of course, all the court follow his example, so you can imagine what a nightmare place this is. Then this woman still keeps in favour, and her frocks are as dismal51 as Grumpy’s coats; so when you come back we shall go into the country together, and you shall dress in red velvet52, and I shall wear blue silk, and we shall have a little coloured court of our own in spite of my majestic53 papa.’”
Louis sank his face in his hands.
“You hear how she speaks of me, Louvois.”
“It is infamous54, sire; infamous!”
“She calls me names—me, Louvois!”
“Atrocious, sire.”
“And my knees! one would think that I was an old man!”
“Scandalous. But, sire, I would beg to say that it is a case in which your Majesty’s philosophy may well soften31 your anger. Youth is ever hot-headed, and says more than it means. Think no more of the matter.”
“You speak like a fool, Louvois. The child that I have loved turns upon me, and you ask me to think no more of it. Ah, it is one more lesson that a king can trust least of all those who have his own blood in their veins55. What writing is this? It is the good Cardinal de Bouillon. One may not have faith in one’s own kin1, but this sainted man loves me, not only because I have placed him where he is, but because it is his nature to look up to and love those whom God has placed above him. I will read you his letter, Louvois, to show you that there is still such a thing as loyalty56 and gratitude57 in France. ‘My dear Prince de la Roche-sur-Yon.’ Ah, it is to him he writes. ‘I promised when you left that I would let you know from time to time how things were going at court, as you consulted me about bringing your daughter up from Anjou, in the hope that she might catch the king’s fancy.’ What! What! Louvois! What villainy is this? ‘The sultan goes from bad to worse. The Fontanges was at least the prettiest woman in France, though between ourselves there was just a shade too much of the red in her hair—an excellent colour in a cardinal’s gown, my dear duke, but nothing brighter than chestnut59 is permissible60 in a lady. The Montespan, too, was a fine woman in her day, but fancy his picking up now with a widow who is older than himself, a woman, too, who does not even try to make herself attractive, but kneels at her prie-dieu or works at her tapestry61 from morning to night. They say that December and May make a bad match, but my own opinion is that two Novembers make an even worse one.’ Louvois! Louvois! I can read no more! Have you a lettre de cachet?”
“There is one here, sire.”
“For the Bastille?”
“No; for Vincennes.”
“That will do very well. Fill it up, Louvois! Put this villain58’s name in it! Let him be arrested to-night, and taken there in his own caleche. The shameless, ungrateful, foul-mouthed villain! Why did you bring me these letters, Louvois? Oh, why did you yield to my foolish whim62? My God, is there no truth, or honour, or loyalty in the world?” He stamped his feet, and shook his clenched63 hands in the air in the frenzy64 of his anger and disappointment.
“Shall I, then, put back the others?” asked Louvois eagerly. He had been on thorns since the king had begun to read them, not knowing what disclosures might come next.
“Put them back, but keep the bag.”
“Both bags?”
“Ah! I had forgot the other one. Perhaps if I have hypocrites around me, I have at least some honest subjects at a distance. Let us take one haphazard65. Who is this from? Ah! it is from the Duc de la Rochefoucauld. He has ever seemed to be a modest and dutiful young man. What has he to say? The Danube—Belgrade—the grand vizier—Ah!” He gave a cry as if he had been stabbed.
“What, then, sire?” The minister had taken a step forward, for he was frightened by the expression upon the king’s face.
“Take them away, Louvois! Take them away!” he cried, pushing the pile of papers away from him. “I would that I had never seen them! I will look at them no more! He gibes67 even at my courage, I who was in the trenches68 when he was in his cradle! ‘This war would not suit the king,’ he says. ‘For there are battles, and none of the nice little safe sieges which are so dear to him.’ By God, he shall pay to me with his head for that jest! Ay, Louvois, it will be a dear gibe66 to him. But take them away. I have seen as much as I can bear.”
The minister was thrusting them back into the bag when suddenly his eye caught the bold, clear writing of Madame de Maintenon upon one of the letters. Some demon69 whispered to him that here was a weapon which had been placed in his hands, with which he might strike one whose very name filled him with jealousy70 and hatred71. Had she been guilty of some indiscretion in this note, then he might even now, at this last hour, turn the king’s heart against her. He was an astute man, and in an instant he had seen his chance and grasped it.
“Ha!” said he, “it was hardly necessary to open this one.”
“Which, Louvois? Whose is it?”
The minister pushed forward the letter, and Louis started as his eyes fell upon it.
“Madame’s writing!” he gasped72.
“Yes; it is to her nephew in Germany.”
Louis took it in his hand. Then, with a sudden motion, he threw it down among the others, and then yet again his hand stole towards it. His face was gray and haggard, and beads73 of moisture had broken out upon his brow. If this too were to prove to be as the others! He was shaken to the soul at the very thought. Twice he tried to pluck it out, and twice his trembling fingers fumbled74 with the paper. Then he tossed it over to Louvois. “Read it to me,” said he.
The minister opened the letter out and flattened75 it upon the table, with a malicious76 light dancing in his eyes, which might have cost him his position had the king but read it aright.
“‘My dear nephew,’” he read, “‘what you ask me in your last is absolutely impossible. I have never abused the king’s favour so far as to ask for any profit for myself, and I should be equally sorry to solicit77 any advance for my relatives. No one would rejoice more than I to see you rise to be major in your regiment78, but your valour and your loyalty must be the cause, and you must not hope to do it through any word of mine. To serve such a man as the king is its own reward, and I am sure that whether you remain a cornet or rise to some higher rank, you will be equally zealous79 in his cause. He is surrounded, unhappily, by many base parasites80. Some of these are mere35 fools, like Lauzun; others are knaves81, like the late Fouquet; and some seem to be both fools and knaves, like Louvois, the minister of war.’” Here the reader choked with rage, and sat gurgling and drumming his fingers upon the table.
“Go on, Louvois, go on,” said Louis, smiling up at the ceiling.
“‘These are the clouds which surround the sun, my dear nephew; but the sun is, believe me, shining brightly behind them. For years I have known that noble nature as few others can know it, and I can tell you that his virtues82 are his own, but that if ever his glory is for an instant dimmed over, it is because his kindness of heart has allowed him to be swayed by those who are about him. We hope soon to see you back at Versailles, staggering under the weight of your laurels83. Meanwhile accept my love and every wish for your speedy promotion84, although it cannot be obtained in the way which you suggest.’”
“Ah,” cried the king, his love shining in his eyes, “how could I for an instant doubt her! And yet I had been so shaken by the others! Francoise is as true as steel. Was it not a beautiful letter, Louvois?”
“Madame is a very clever woman,” said the minister evasively.
“And such a reader of hearts! Has she not seen my character aright?”
“At least she has not read mine, sire.”
There was a tap at the door, and Bontems peeped in. “The archbishop has arrived, sire.”
“Very well, Bontems. Ask madame to be so good as to step this way. And order the witnesses to assemble in the ante-room.”
As the valet hastened away, Louis turned to his minister: “I wish you to be one of the witnesses, Louvois.”
“To what, sire?”
“To my marriage.”
The minister started. “What, sire! Already?”
“Now, Louvois; within five minutes.”
“Very good, sire.” The unhappy courtier strove hard to assume a more festive85 manner; but the night had been full of vexation to him, and to be condemned86 to assist in making this woman the king’s wife was the most bitter drop of all.
“Put these letters away, Louvois. The last one has made up for all the rest. But these rascals87 shall smart for it, all the same. By-the-way, there is that young nephew to whom madame wrote. Gerard d’Aubigny is his name, is it not?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Make him out a colonel’s commission, and give him the next vacancy88, Louvois.”
“A colonel, sire! Why, he is not yet twenty.”
“Ay, Louvois. Pray, am I the chief of the army, or are you? Take care, Louvois! I have warned you once before. I tell you, man, that if I choose to promote one of my jack-boots to be the head of a brigade, you shall not hesitate to make out the papers. Now go into the ante-room, and wait with the other witnesses until you are wanted.”
There had meanwhile been busy goings-on in the small room where the red lamp burned in front of the Virgin89. Francoise de Maintenon stood in the centre, a little flush of excitement on her cheeks, and an unwonted light in her placid90 gray eyes. She was clad in a dress of shining white brocade, trimmed and slashed91 with silver serge, and fringed at the throat and arms with costly92 point lace. Three women, grouped around her, rose and stooped and swayed, putting a touch here and a touch there, gathering93 in, looping up, and altering until all was to their taste.
“There!” said the head dressmaker, giving a final pat to a rosette of gray silk; “I think that will do, your Majes—that is to say, madame.”
The lady smiled at the adroit94 slip of the courtier dressmaker.
“My tastes lean little towards dress,” said she, “yet I would fain look as he would wish me to look.”
“Ah, it is easy to dress madame. Madame has a figure. Madame has a carriage. What costume would not look well with such a neck and waist and arm to set it off? But, ah, madame, what are we to do when we have to make the figure as well as the dress? There was the Princess Charlotte Elizabeth. It was but yesterday that we cut her gown. She was short, madame, but thick. Oh, it is incredible how thick she was! She uses more cloth than madame, though she is two hand-breadths shorter. Ah, I am sure that the good God never meant people to be as thick as that. But then, of course, she is Bavarian and not French.”
But madame was paying little heed40 to the gossip of the dressmaker. Her eyes were fixed upon the statue in the corner, and her lips were moving in prayer—prayer that she might be worthy95 of this great destiny which had come so suddenly upon her, a poor governess; that she might walk straight among the pitfalls96 which surrounded her upon every side; that this night’s work might bring a blessing97 upon France and upon the man whom she loved. There came a discreet98 tap at the door to break in upon her prayer.
“It is Bontems, madame,” said Mademoiselle Nanon. “He says that the king is ready.”
“Then we shall not keep him waiting. Come, mademoiselle, and may God shed His blessing upon what we are about to do!”
The little party assembled in the king’s ante-room, and started from there to the private chapel99. In front walked the portly bishop23, clad in a green vestment, puffed100 out with the importance of the function, his missal in his hand, and his fingers between the pages at the service de matrimoniis. Beside him strode his almoner, and two little servitors of the court in crimson101 cassocks bearing lighted torches. The king and Madame de Maintenon walked side by side, she quiet and composed, with gentle bearing and downcast eyes, he with a flush on his dark cheeks, and a nervous, furtive102 look in his eyes, like a man who knows that he is in the midst of one of the great crises of his life. Behind them, in solemn silence, followed a little group of chosen witnesses, the lean, silent Pere la Chaise, Louvois, scowling103 heavily at the bride, the Marquis de Charmarante, Bontems, and Mademoiselle Nanon.
The torches shed a strong yellow light upon this small band as they advanced slowly through the corridors and salons104 which led to the chapel, and they threw a garish105 glare upon the painted walls and ceilings, flashing back from gold-work and from mirror, but leaving long trailing shadows in the corners. The king glanced nervously106 at these black recesses107, and at the portraits of his ancestors and relations which lined the walls. As he passed that of his late queen, Maria Theresa, he started and gasped with horror.
“My God!” he whispered; “she frowned and spat108 at me!”
Madame laid her cool hand upon his wrist. “It is nothing, sire,” she murmured, in her soothing109 voice. “It was but the light flickering110 over the picture.”
Her words had their usual effect upon him. The startled look died away from his eyes, and taking her hand in his he walked resolutely111 forwards. A minute later they were before the altar, and the words were being read which should bind them forever together. As they turned away again, her new ring blazing upon her finger, there was a buzz of congratulation around her. The king only said nothing, but he looked at her, and she had no wish that he should say more. She was still calm and pale, but the blood throbbed112 in her temples. “You are Queen of France now,” it seemed to be humming—“queen, queen, queen!”
But a sudden shadow had fallen across her, and a low voice was in her ear. “Remember your promise to the Church,” it whispered. She started, and turned to see the pale, eager face of the Jesuit beside her.
“Your hand has turned cold, Francoise,” said Louis. “Let us go, dearest. We have been too long in this dismal church.”
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1
kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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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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5
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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8
vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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mistily
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| adv.有雾地，朦胧地，不清楚地 | |
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astute
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| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
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cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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grudged
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| 怀恨（grudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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rouged
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| 胭脂，口红( rouge的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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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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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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vertigo
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| n.眩晕 | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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ecclesiastic
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| n.教士，基督教会；adj.神职者的，牧师的，教会的 | |
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crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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struts
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| （框架的）支杆( strut的名词复数 )； 支柱； 趾高气扬的步态； （尤指跳舞或表演时）卖弄 | |
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lackey
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| n.侍从；跟班 | |
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39
wheedles
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| v.骗取（某物），哄骗（某人干某事）( wheedle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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40
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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41
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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42
tingled
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
viper
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| n.毒蛇；危险的人 | |
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45
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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46
prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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47
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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48
snarl
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| v.吼叫，怒骂，纠缠，混乱；n.混乱，缠结，咆哮 | |
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49
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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50
stilts
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| n.（支撑建筑物高出地面或水面的）桩子，支柱( stilt的名词复数 )；高跷 | |
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51
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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52
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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53
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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54
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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55
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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56
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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57
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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58
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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59
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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60
permissible
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| adj.可允许的，许可的 | |
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61
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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62
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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64
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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65
haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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gibe
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| n.讥笑；嘲弄 | |
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gibes
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| vi.嘲笑，嘲弄（gibe的第三人称单数形式） | |
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68
trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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69
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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70
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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72
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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73
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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74
fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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75
flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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76
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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solicit
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| vi.勾引；乞求；vt.请求，乞求；招揽(生意) | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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80
parasites
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| 寄生物( parasite的名词复数 )； 靠他人为生的人； 诸虫 | |
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81
knaves
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| n.恶棍，无赖( knave的名词复数 )；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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82
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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83
laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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84
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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85
festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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86
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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87
rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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88
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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89
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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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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91
slashed
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| v.挥砍( slash的过去式和过去分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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92
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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93
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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94
adroit
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| adj.熟练的，灵巧的 | |
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95
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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96
pitfalls
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| （捕猎野兽用的）陷阱( pitfall的名词复数 )； 意想不到的困难，易犯的错误 | |
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97
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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98
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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99
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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100
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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101
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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102
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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103
scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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104
salons
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| n.（营业性质的）店( salon的名词复数 )；厅；沙龙（旧时在上流社会女主人家的例行聚会或聚会场所）；（大宅中的）客厅 | |
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105
garish
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| adj.华丽而俗气的，华而不实的 | |
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106
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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107
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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108
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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109
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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110
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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111
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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112
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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