After Maure came Pipriac, where four performances were given, two of each of the scenarios that now formed the backbone7 of the Binet repertoire8. In both Scaramouche, who was beginning to find himself, materially improved his performances. So smoothly9 now did the two pieces run that Scaramouche actually suggested to Binet that after Fougeray, which they were to visit in the following week, they should tempt10 fortune in a real theatre in the important town of Redon. The notion terrified Binet at first, but coming to think of it, and his ambition being fanned by Andre–Louis, he ended by allowing himself to succumb11 to the temptation.
It seemed to Andre–Louis in those days that he had found his real metier, and not only was he beginning to like it, but actually to look forward to a career as actor-author that might indeed lead him in the end to that Mecca of all comedians12, the Comedie Francaise. And there were other possibilities. From the writing of skeleton scenarios for improvisers, he might presently pass to writing plays of dialogue, plays in the proper sense of the word, after the manner of Chenier, Eglantine, and Beaumarchais.
The fact that he dreamed such dreams shows us how very kindly13 he had taken to the profession into which Chance and M. Binet between them had conspired14 to thrust him. That he had real talent both as author and as actor I do not doubt, and I am persuaded that had things fallen out differently he would have won for himself a lasting15 place among French dramatists, and thus fully16 have realized that dream of his.
Now, dream though it was, he did not neglect the practical side of it.
“You realize,” he told M. Binet, “that I have it in my power to make your fortune for you.”
He and Binet were sitting alone together in the parlour of the inn at Pipriac, drinking a very excellent bottle of Volnay. It was on the night after the fourth and last performance there of “Les Feurberies.” The business in Pipriac had been as excellent as in Maure and Guichen. You will have gathered this from the fact that they drank Volnay.
“I will concede it, my dear Scaramouche, so that I may hear the sequel.”
“I am disposed to exercise this power if the inducement is sufficient. You will realize that for fifteen livres a month a man does not sell such exceptional gifts as mine.
“There is an alternative,” said M. Binet, darkly.
“There is no alternative. Don’t be a fool, Binet.”
Binet sat up as if he had been prodded17. Members of his company did not take this tone of direct rebuke18 with him.
“Anyway, I make you a present of it,” Scaramouche pursued, airily. “Exercise it if you please. Step outside and inform the police that they can lay hands upon one Andre–Louis Moreau. But that will be the end of your fine dreams of going to Redon, and for the first time in your life playing in a real theatre. Without me, you can’t do it, and you know it; and I am not going to Redon or anywhere else, in fact I am not even going to Fougeray, until we have an equitable19 arrangement.”
“But what heat!” complained Binet, “and all for what? Why must you assume that I have the soul of a usurer? When our little arrangement was made, I had no idea how could I? — that you would prove as valuable to me as you are? You had but to remind me, my dear Scaramouche. I am a just man. As from to-day you shall have thirty livres a month. See, I double it at once. I am a generous man.”
“But you are not ambitious. Now listen to me, a moment.”
And he proceeded to unfold a scheme that filled Binet with a paralyzing terror.
“After Redon, Nantes,” he said. “Nantes and the Theatre Feydau.”
M. Binet choked in the act of drinking. The Theatre Feydau was a sort of provincial20 Comedie Francaise. The great Fleury had played there to an audience as critical as any in France. The very thought of Redon, cherished as it had come to be by M. Binet, gave him at moments a cramp21 in the stomach, so dangerously ambitious did it seem to him. And Redon was a puppet-show by comparison with Nantes. Yet this raw lad whom he had picked up by chance three weeks ago, and who in that time had blossomed from a country attorney into author and actor, could talk of Nantes and the Theatre Feydau without changing colour.
“But why not Paris and the Comedie Francaise?” wondered M. Binet, with sarcasm22, when at last he had got his breath.
“That may come later,” says impudence23.
“Eh? You’ve been drinking, my friend.”
But Andre–Louis detailed24 the plan that had been forming in his mind. Fougeray should be a training-ground for Redon, and Redon should be a training-ground for Nantes. They would stay in Redon as long as Redon would pay adequately to come and see them, working hard to perfect themselves the while. They would add three or four new players of talent to the company; he would write three or four fresh scenarios, and these should be tested and perfected until the troupe was in possession of at least half a dozen plays upon which they could depend; they would lay out a portion of their profits on better dresses and better scenery, and finally in a couple of months’ time, if all went well, they should be ready to make their real bid for fortune at Nantes. It was quite true that distinction was usually demanded of the companies appearing at the Feydau, but on the other hand Nantes had not seen a troupe of improvisers for a generation and longer. They would be supplying a novelty to which all Nantes should flock provided that the work were really well done, and Scaramouche undertook — pledged himself — that if matters were left in his own hands, his projected revival25 of the Commedia dell’ Arte in all its glories would exceed whatever expectations the public of Nantes might bring to the theatre.
“We’ll talk of Paris after Nantes,” he finished, supremely26 matter-of-fact, “just as we will definitely decide on Nantes after Redon.”
The persuasiveness27 that could sway a mob ended by sweeping28 M. Binet off his feet. The prospect29 which Scaramouche unfolded, if terrifying, was also intoxicating30, and as Scaramouche delivered a crushing answer to each weakening objection in a measure as it was advanced, Binet ended by promising31 to think the matter over.
“Redon will point the way,” said Andre–Louis, “and I don’t doubt which way Redon will point.”
Thus the great adventure of Redon dwindled32 to insignificance33. Instead of a terrifying undertaking34 in itself, it became merely a rehearsal35 for something greater. In his momentary36 exaltation Binet proposed another bottle of Volnay. Scaramouche waited until the cork37 was drawn38 before he continued.
“The thing remains39 possible,” said he then, holding his glass to the light, and speaking casually40, “as long as I am with you.”
“Agreed, my dear Scaramouche, agreed. Our chance meeting was a fortunate thing for both of us.”
“For both of us,” said Scaramouche, with stress. “That is as I would have it. So that I do not think you will surrender me just yet to the police.”
“As if I could think of such a thing! My dear Scaramouche, you amuse yourself. I beg that you will never, never allude41 to that little joke of mine again.”
“It is forgotten,” said Andre–Louis. “And now for the remainder of my proposal. If I am to become the architect of your fortunes, if I am to build them as I have planned them, I must also and in the same degree become the architect of my own.”
“In the same degree?” M. Binet frowned.
“In the same degree. From to-day, if you please, we will conduct the affairs of this company in a proper manner, and we will keep account-books.”
“I am an artist,” said M. Binet, with pride. “I am not a merchant.”
“There is a business side to your art, and that shall be conducted in the business manner. I have thought it all out for you. You shall not be troubled with details that might hinder the due exercise of your art. All that you have to do is to say yes or no to my proposal.”
“Ah? And the proposal?”
“Is that you constitute me your partner, with an equal share in the profits of your company.”
Pantaloon’s great countenance42 grew pale, his little eyes widened to their fullest extent as he conned43 the face of his companion. Then he exploded.
“You are mad, of course, to make me a proposal so monstrous44.”
“It has its injustices45, I admit. But I have provided for them. It would not, for instance, be fair that in addition to all that I am proposing to do for you, I should also play Scaramouche and write your scenarios without any reward outside of the half-profit which would come to me as a partner. Thus before the profits come to be divided, there is a salary to be paid me as actor, and a small sum for each scenario with which I provide the company; that is a matter for mutual46 agreement. Similarly, you shall be paid a salary as Pantaloon. After those expenses are cleared up, as well as all the other salaries and disbursements, the residue47 is the profit to be divided equally between us.”
It was not, as you can imagine, a proposal that M. Binet would swallow at a draught48. He began with a point-blank refusal to consider it.
“In that case, my friend,” said Scaramouche, “we part company at once. To-morrow I shall bid you a reluctant farewell.”
Binet fell to raging. He spoke49 of ingratitude50 in feeling terms; he even permitted himself another sly allusion51 to that little jest of his concerning the police, which he had promised never again to mention.
“As to that, you may do as you please. Play the informer, by all means. But consider that you will just as definitely be deprived of my services, and that without me you are nothing — as you were before I joined your company.”
M. Binet did not care what the consequences might be. A fig6 for the consequences! He would teach this impudent52 young country attorney that M. Binet was not the man to be imposed upon.
Scaramouche rose. “Very well,” said he, between indifference53 and resignation. “As you wish. But before you act, sleep on the matter. In the cold light of morning you may see our two proposals in their proper proportions. Mine spells fortune for both of us. Yours spells ruin for both of us. Good-night, M. Binet. Heaven help you to a wise decision.”
The decision to which M. Binet finally came was, naturally, the only one possible in the face of so firm a resolve as that of Andre–Louis, who held the trumps54. Of course there were further discussions, before all was settled, and M. Binet was brought to an agreement only after an infinity55 of haggling56 surprising in one who was an artist and not a man of business. One or two concessions57 were made by Andre–Louis; he consented, for instance, to waive58 his claim to be paid for scenarios, and he also consented that M. Binet should appoint himself a salary that was out of all proportion to his deserts.
Thus in the end the matter was settled, and the announcement duly made to the assembled company. There were, of course, jealousies59 and resentments60. But these were not deep-seated, and they were readily swallowed when it was discovered that under the new arrangement the lot of the entire company was to be materially improved from the point of view of salaries. This was a matter that had met with considerable opposition62 from M. Binet. But the irresistible63 Scaramouche swept away all objections.
“If we are to play at the Feydau, you want a company of self-respecting comedians, and not a pack of cringing64 starvelings. The better we pay them in reason, the more they will earn for us.”
Thus was conquered the company’s resentment61 of this too swift promotion65 of its latest recruit. Cheerfully now — with one exception — they accepted the dominance of Scaramouche, a dominance soon to be so firmly established that M. Binet himself came under it.
The one exception was Climene. Her failure to bring to heel this interesting young stranger, who had almost literally66 dropped into their midst that morning outside Guichen, had begotten67 in her a malice68 which his persistent69 ignoring of her had been steadily70 inflaming71. She had remonstrated72 with her father when the new partnership73 was first formed. She had lost her temper with him, and called him a fool, whereupon M. Binet — in Pantaloon’s best manner — had lost his temper in his turn and boxed her ears. She piled it up to the account of Scaramouche, and spied her opportunity to pay off some of that ever-increasing score. But opportunities were few. Scaramouche was too occupied just then. During the week of preparation at Fougeray, he was hardly seen save at the performances, whilst when once they were at Redon, he came and went like the wind between the theatre and the inn.
The Redon experiment had justified74 itself from the first. Stimulated75 and encouraged by this, Andre–Louis worked day and night during the month that they spent in that busy little town. The moment had been well chosen, for the trade in chestnuts76 of which Redon is the centre was just then at its height. And every afternoon the little theatre was packed with spectators. The fame of the troupe had gone forth77, borne by the chestnut-growers of the district, who were bringing their wares78 to Redon market, and the audiences were made up of people from the surrounding country, and from neighbouring villages as far out as Allaire, Saint–Perrieux and Saint–Nicholas. To keep the business from slackening, Andre–Louis prepared a new scenario every week. He wrote three in addition to those two with which he had already supplied the company; these were “The Marriage of Pantaloon,” “The Shy Lover,” and “The Terrible Captain.” Of these the last was the greatest success. It was based upon the “Miles Gloriosus” of Plautus, with great opportunities for Rhodomont, and a good part for Scaramouche as the roaring captain’s sly lieutenant79. Its success was largely due to the fact that Andre–Louis amplified80 the scenario to the extent of indicating very fully in places the lines which the dialogue should follow, whilst here and there he had gone so far as to supply some of the actual dialogue to be spoken, without, however, making it obligatory81 upon the actors to keep to the letter of it.
And meanwhile as the business prospered82, he became busy with tailors, improving the wardrobe of the company, which was sorely in need of improvement. He ran to earth a couple of needy83 artists, lured84 them into the company to play small parts — apothecaries85 and notaries86 — and set them to beguile87 their leisure in painting new scenery, so as to be ready for what he called the conquest of Nantes, which was to come in the new year. Never in his life had he worked so hard; never in his life had he worked at all by comparison with his activities now. His fund of energy and enthusiasm was inexhaustible, like that of his good humour. He came and went, acted, wrote, conceived, directed, planned, and executed, what time M. Binet took his ease at last in comparative affluence88, drank Burgundy every night, ate white bread and other delicacies89, and began to congratulate himself upon his astuteness90 in having made this industrious91, tireless fellow his partner. Having discovered how idle had been his fears of performing at Redon, he now began to dismiss the terrors with which the notion of Nantes had haunted him.
And his happiness was reflected throughout the ranks of his company, with the single exception always of Climene. She had ceased to sneer92 at Scaramouche, having realized at last that her sneers93 left him untouched and recoiled94 upon herself. Thus her almost indefinable resentment of him was increased by being stifled95, until, at all costs, an outlet96 for it must be found.
One day she threw herself in his way as he was leaving the theatre after the performance. The others had already gone, and she had returned upon pretence97 of having forgotten something.
“Will you tell me what I have done to you?” she asked him, point-blank.
“Done to me, mademoiselle?” He did not understand.
She made a gesture of impatience98. “Why do you hate me?”
“Hate you, mademoiselle? I do not hate anybody. It is the most stupid of all the emotions. I have never hated — not even my enemies.”
“What Christian99 resignation!”
“As for hating you, of all people! Why . . . I consider you adorable. I envy Leandre every day of my life. I have seriously thought of setting him to play Scaramouche, and playing lovers myself.”
“I don’t think you would be a success,” said she.
“That is the only consideration that restrains me. And yet, given the inspiration that is given Leandre, it is possible that I might be convincing.”
“Why, what inspiration do you mean?”
“The inspiration of playing to so adorable a Climene.”
Her lazy eyes were now alert to search that lean face of his.
“You are laughing at me,” said she, and swept past him into the theatre on her pretended quest. There was nothing to be done with such a fellow. He was utterly100 without feeling. He was not a man at all.
Yet when she came forth again at the end of some five minutes, she found him still lingering at the door.
“Not gone yet?” she asked him, superciliously101.
“I was waiting for you, mademoiselle. You will be walking to the inn. If I might escort you . . . ”
“But what gallantry! What condescension102!”
“Perhaps you would prefer that I did not?”
“How could I prefer that, M. Scaramouche? Besides, we are both going the same way, and the streets are common to all. It is that I am overwhelmed by the unusual honour.”
He looked into her piquant103 little face, and noted104 how obscured it was by its cloud of dignity. He laughed.
“Perhaps I feared that the honour was not sought.”
“Ah, now I understand,” she cried. “It is for me to seek these honours. I am to woo a man before he will pay me the homage105 of civility. It must be so, since you, who clearly know everything, have said so. It remains for me to beg your pardon for my ignorance.”
“It amuses you to be cruel,” said Scaramouche. “No matter. Shall we walk?”
They set out together, stepping briskly to warm their blood against the wintry evening air. Awhile they went in silence, yet each furtively106 observing the other.
“And so, you find me cruel?” she challenged him at length, thereby107 betraying the fact that the accusation108 had struck home.
He looked at her with a half smile. “Will you deny it?”
“You are the first man that ever accused me of that.”
“I dare not suppose myself the first man to whom you have been cruel. That were an assumption too flattering to myself. I must prefer to think that the others suffered in silence.”
“Mon Dieu! Have you suffered?” She was between seriousness and raillery.
“I place the confession109 as an offering on the altar of your vanity.”
“I should never have suspected it.”
“How could you? Am I not what your father calls a natural actor? I was an actor long before I became Scaramouche. Therefore I have laughed. I often do when I am hurt. When you were pleased to be disdainful, I acted disdain110 in my turn.”
“You acted very well,” said she, without reflecting.
“Of course. I am an excellent actor.”
“And why this sudden change?”
“In response to the change in you. You have grown weary of your part of cruel madam — a dull part, believe me, and unworthy of your talents. Were I a woman and had I your loveliness and your grace, Climene, I should disdain to use them as weapons of offence.”
“Loveliness and grace!” she echoed, feigning111 amused surprise. But the vain baggage was mollified. “When was it that you discovered this beauty and this grace, M. Scaramouche?”
He looked at her a moment, considering the sprightly112 beauty of her, the adorable femininity that from the first had so irresistibly113 attracted him.
“One morning when I beheld114 you rehearsing a love-scene with Leandre.”
He caught the surprise that leapt to her eyes, before she veiled them under drooping115 lids from his too questing gaze.
“Why, that was the first time you saw me.”
“I had no earlier occasion to remark your charms.”
“You ask me to believe too much,” said she, but her tone was softer than he had ever known it yet.
“Then you’ll refuse to believe me if I confess that it was this grace and beauty that determined116 my destiny that day by urging me to join your father’s troupe.”
At that she became a little out of breath. There was no longer any question of finding an outlet for resentment. Resentment was all forgotten.
“But why? With what object?”
“With the object of asking you one day to be my wife.”
She halted under the shock of that, and swung round to face him. Her glance met his own without, shyness now; there was a hardening glitter in her eyes, a faint stir of colour in her cheeks. She suspected him of an unpardonable mockery.
“You go very fast, don’t you?” she asked him, with heat.
“I do. Haven’t you observed it? I am a man of sudden impulses. See what I have made of the Binet troupe in less than a couple of months. Another might have laboured for a year and not achieved the half of it. Shall I be slower in love than in work? Would it be reasonable to expect it? I have curbed117 and repressed myself not to scare you by precipitancy. In that I have done violence to my feelings, and more than all in using the same cold aloofness118 with which you chose to treat me. I have waited — oh! so patiently — until you should tire of that mood of cruelty.”
“You are an amazing man,” said she, quite colourlessly.
“I am,” he agreed with her. “It is only the conviction that I am not commonplace that has permitted me to hope as I have hoped.”
Mechanically, and as if by tacit consent, they resumed their walk.
“And I ask you to observe,” he said, “when you complain that I go very fast, that, after all, I have so far asked you for nothing.”
“How?” quoth she, frowning.
“I have merely told you of my hopes. I am not so rash as to ask at once whether I may realize them.”
“My faith, but that is prudent,” said she, tartly119.
“Of course.”
It was his self-possession that exasperated120 her; for after that she walked the short remainder of the way in silence, and so, for the moment, the matter was left just there.
But that night, after they had supped, it chanced that when Climene was about to retire, he and she were alone together in the room abovestairs that her father kept exclusively for his company. The Binet Troupe, you see, was rising in the world.
As Climene now rose to withdraw for the night, Scaramouche rose with her to light her candle. Holding it in her left hand, she offered him her right, a long, tapering121, white hand at the end of a softly rounded arm that was bare to the elbow.
“Good-night, Scaramouche,” she said, but so softly, so tenderly, that he caught his breath, and stood conning122 her, his dark eyes aglow123.
Thus a moment, then he took the tips of her fingers in his grasp, and bowing over the hand, pressed his lips upon it. Then he looked at her again. The intense femininity of her lured him on, invited him, surrendered to him. Her face was pale, there was a glitter in her eyes, a curious smile upon her parted lips, and under its fichu-menteur her bosom124 rose and fell to complete the betrayal of her.
By the hand he continued to hold, he drew her towards him. She came unresisting. He took the candle from her, and set it down on the sideboard by which she stood. The next moment her slight, lithe125 body was in his arms, and he was kissing her, murmuring her name as if it were a prayer.
“Am I cruel now?” she asked him, panting. He kissed her again for only answer. “You made me cruel because you would not see,” she told him next in a whisper.
And then the door opened, and M. Binet came in to have his paternal126 eyes regaled by this highly indecorous behaviour of his daughter.
He stood at gaze, whilst they quite leisurely127, and in a self-possession too complete to be natural, detached each from the other.
“And what may be the meaning of this?” demanded M. Binet, bewildered and profoundly shocked.
“Does it require explaining?” asked Scaramouche. “Doesn’t it speak for itself — eloquently128? It means that Climene and I have taken it into our heads to be married.”
“And doesn’t it matter what I may take into my head?”
“Of course. But you could have neither the bad taste nor the bad heart to offer any obstacle.”
“You take that for granted? Aye, that is your way, to be sure — to take things for granted. But my daughter is not to be taken for granted. I have very definite views for my daughter. You have done an unworthy thing, Scaramouche. You have betrayed my trust in you. I am very angry with you.”
He rolled forward with his ponderous129 yet curiously130 noiseless gait. Scaramouche turned to her, smiling, and handed her the candle.
“If you will leave us, Climene, I will ask your hand of your father in proper form.”
She vanished, a little fluttered, lovelier than ever in her mixture of confusion and timidity. Scaramouche closed the door and faced the enraged131 M. Binet, who had flung himself into an armchair at the head of the short table, faced him with the avowed132 purpose of asking for Climene’s hand in proper form. And this was how he did it:
“Father-in-law,” said he, “I congratulate you. This will certainly mean the Comedie Francaise for Climene, and that before long, and you shall shine in the glory she will reflect. As the father of Madame Scaramouche you may yet be famous.”
Binet, his face slowly empurpling, glared at him in speechless stupefaction. His rage was the more utter from his humiliating conviction that whatever he might say or do, this irresistible fellow would bend him to his will. At last speech came to him.
“You’re a damned corsair,” he cried, thickly, banging his ham-like fist upon the table. “A corsair! First you sail in and plunder133 me of half my legitimate134 gains; and now you want to carry off my daughter. But I’ll be damned if I’ll give her to a graceless, nameless scoundrel like you, for whom the gallows135 are waiting already.”
Scaramouche pulled the bell-rope, not at all discomposed. He smiled. There was a flush on his cheeks and a gleam in his eyes. He was very pleased with the world that night. He really owed a great debt to M. de Lesdiguieres.
“Binet,” said he, “forget for once that you are Pantaloon, and behave as a nice, amiable136 father-in-law should behave when he has secured a son-in-law of exceptionable merits. We are going to have a bottle of Burgundy at my expense, and it shall be the best bottle of Burgundy to be found in Redon. Compose yourself to do fitting honour to it. Excitations of the bile invariably impair137 the fine sensitiveness of the palate.”
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diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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scenario
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| n.剧本，脚本；概要 | |
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scenarios
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| n.[意]情节；剧本；事态；脚本 | |
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troupe
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| n.剧团，戏班；杂技团；马戏团 | |
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acquitted
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| 宣判…无罪( acquit的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（自己）作出某种表现 | |
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fig
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| n.无花果(树) | |
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backbone
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| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
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repertoire
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| n.(准备好演出的)节目，保留剧目；(计算机的)指令表，指令系统， <美>(某个人的)全部技能；清单，指令表 | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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succumb
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| v.屈服，屈从；死 | |
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comedians
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| n.喜剧演员，丑角( comedian的名词复数 ) | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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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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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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prodded
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| v.刺，戳( prod的过去式和过去分词 )；刺激；促使；（用手指或尖物）戳 | |
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rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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equitable
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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cramp
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| n.痉挛；[pl.](腹)绞痛；vt.限制，束缚 | |
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sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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27
persuasiveness
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| 说服力 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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30
intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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34
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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35
rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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36
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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37
cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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38
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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39
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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40
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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41
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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42
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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43
conned
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| adj.被骗了v.指挥操舵( conn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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45
injustices
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| 不公平( injustice的名词复数 )； 非正义； 待…不公正； 冤枉 | |
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46
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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47
residue
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| n.残余，剩余，残渣 | |
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48
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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49
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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50
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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51
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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52
impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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53
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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54
trumps
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| abbr.trumpets 喇叭；小号；喇叭形状的东西；喇叭筒v.（牌戏）出王牌赢（一牌或一墩）( trump的过去式 )；吹号公告，吹号庆祝；吹喇叭；捏造 | |
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55
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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56
haggling
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| v.讨价还价( haggle的现在分词 ) | |
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57
concessions
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| n.（尤指由政府或雇主给予的）特许权( concession的名词复数 )；承认；减价；（在某地的）特许经营权 | |
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58
waive
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| vt.放弃，不坚持(规定、要求、权力等) | |
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59
jealousies
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| n.妒忌( jealousy的名词复数 )；妒羡 | |
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60
resentments
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| （因受虐待而）愤恨，不满，怨恨( resentment的名词复数 ) | |
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61
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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62
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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63
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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cringing
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| adj.谄媚，奉承 | |
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promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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66
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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67
begotten
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| v.为…之生父( beget的过去分词 )；产生，引起 | |
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68
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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69
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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71
inflaming
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| v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的现在分词 ) | |
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remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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73
partnership
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| n.合作关系，伙伴关系 | |
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74
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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75
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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76
chestnuts
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| n.栗子( chestnut的名词复数 )；栗色；栗树；栗色马 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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78
wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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79
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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80
amplified
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| 放大，扩大( amplify的过去式和过去分词 )； 增强； 详述 | |
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81
obligatory
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| adj.强制性的，义务的，必须的 | |
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82
prospered
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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84
lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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85
apothecaries
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| n.药剂师，药店( apothecary的名词复数 ) | |
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86
notaries
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| n.公证人，公证员( notary的名词复数 ) | |
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87
beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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88
affluence
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| n.充裕，富足 | |
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89
delicacies
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| n.棘手( delicacy的名词复数 )；精致；精美的食物；周到 | |
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90
astuteness
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| n.敏锐；精明；机敏 | |
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91
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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92
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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93
sneers
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| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
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94
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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96
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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97
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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98
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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99
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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100
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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101
superciliously
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| adv.高傲地；傲慢地 | |
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102
condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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103
piquant
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| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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104
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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105
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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106
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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107
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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108
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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109
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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110
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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111
feigning
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| 假装，伪装( feign的现在分词 )； 捏造（借口、理由等） | |
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112
sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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113
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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114
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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115
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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116
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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117
curbed
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| v.限制，克制，抑制( curb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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119
tartly
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| adv.辛辣地，刻薄地 | |
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120
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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121
tapering
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| adj.尖端细的 | |
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122
conning
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| v.诈骗，哄骗( con的现在分词 )；指挥操舵( conn的现在分词 ) | |
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123
aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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124
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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125
lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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126
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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127
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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128
eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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129
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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130
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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131
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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132
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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133
plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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134
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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135
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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136
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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137
impair
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| v.损害，损伤；削弱，减少 | |
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