Tired as overworked cattle, and crouched5 or stretched like worn-out, homeless dogs, they had never wakened as he had noiselessly harnessed himself, and he looked at them with that interest in other lives that had come to him through adversity; for if misfortune had given him strength it had also given him sympathy.
They were of marvelously various types — these sleepers6 brought under one roof by fates the most diverse. Close beside a huge and sinewy7 brute8 of an Auvergnat, whose coarse, bestial9 features and massive bull’s head were fitter for a galley-slave than a soldier, were the lithe10, exquisite11 limbs and the oval, delicate face of a man from the Valley of the Rhone. Beneath a canopy12 of flapping, tawny13 wild-beast skins, the spoils of his own hands, was flung the torso of one of the splendid peasants of the Sables14 d’Olonne; one steeped so long in blood and wine and alcohol that he had forgotten the blue, bright waves that broke on the western shores of his boyhood’s home, save when he muttered thirstily in his dreams of the cool sea, as he was muttering now. Next him, curled, dog-like, with its round, black head meeting its feet, was a wiry frame on which every muscle was traced like network, and the skin burned black as jet under twenty years of African sun. The midnight streets of Paris had seen its birth, the thieves’ quarter had been its nest; it had no history, it had almost no humanity; it was a perfect machine for slaughter15, no more — who had ever tried to make it more?
Further on lay, sleeping fitfully, a boy of scarcely more than seventeen, with rounded cheeks and fair, white brow like a child’s, whose uncovered chest was delicate as a girl’s, and through whose long, brown lashes16 tears in his slumber17 were stealing as his rosy18 mouth murmured, “Mere19! Mere! Pauvre mere!” He was a young conscript taken from the glad vine-country of the Loire, and from the little dwelling20 up in the rock beside the sunny, brimming river, and half-buried under its grape leaves and coils, that was dearer to him than is the palace to its heir. There were many others beside these; and Cecil looked at them with those weary, speculative21, meditative22 fancies which, very alien to his temperament23, stole on him occasionally in the privations and loneliness of his existence here — loneliness in the midst of numbers, the most painful of all solitude24.
Life was bearable enough to him in the activity of campaigning, in the excitement of warfare25; there were times even when it yielded him absolute enjoyment26, and brought him interests more genuine and vivid than any he had known in his former world. But, in the monotony and the confinement27 of the barrack routine, his days were often intolerable to him. Morning after morning he rose to the same weary round of duty, the same series of petty irritations28, of physical privations, of irksome repetitions, to take a toss of black, rough coffee, and begin the day knowing it would bring with it endless annoyances30 without one gleam of hope. Rose to spend hours on the exercise-ground in the glare of a burning sun, railed at if a trooper’s accouterments were awry31, or an insubordinate scoundrel had pawned32 his regulation shirt; to be incessantly33 witness of tyrannies and cruelties he was powerless to prevent, and which he continually saw undo34 all he had done, and render men desperate whom he had spent months in endeavoring to make contented35; to have as the only diversions for his few instants of leisure loathsome36 pleasures that disgusted the senses they were meant to indulge, and that brought him to scenes of low debauchery from which all the old, fastidious instincts of his delicate, luxurious37 taste recoiled38. With such a life as this, he often wondered regretfully why, out of the many Arab swords that had crossed his own, none had gone straight to his heart; why, out of the many wounds that had kept him hovering39 on the confines of the grave, none had ever brought him the end and the oblivion of death.
Had he been subject to all the miseries40 and personal hardships of his present career, but had only owned the power to command, to pardon, to lead, and to direct, as Alan Bertie before him had done with his Irregular Cavalry41 in the Indian plains — such a thought would never have crossed him; he was far too thorough a soldier not then to have been not only satisfied, but happy. What made his life in the barracks of Algiers so bitter were the impotency, the subjection, the compelled obedience43 to a bidding that he knew often capricious and unjust as it was cruel; which were so unendurable to his natural pride, yet to which he had hitherto rendered undeviating adhesion and submission44, less for his own sake than for that of the men around him, who, he knew, would back him in revolt to the death, and be dealt with, for such loyalty45 to him, in the fashion that the vivandiere’s words had pictured with such terrible force and truth.
“Is it worth while to go on with it? Would it not be the wiser way to draw my own saber across my throat?” he thought, as the brutalized companionship in which his life was spent struck on him all the more darkly because, the night before, a woman’s voice and a woman’s face had recalled memories buried for twelve long years.
But, after so long a stand-up fight with fate, so long a victory over the temptation to let himself drift out in an opium-sleep from the world that had grown so dark to him, it was not in him to give under now. In his own way he had found a duty to do here, though he would have laughed at anyone who should have used the word “duty” in connection with him. In his own way, amid these wild spirits, who would have been blown from the guns’ mouths to serve him, he had made good the “Coeur vaillant se fait Royaume” of his House. And he was, moreover, by this time, a French soldier at heart and in habit, in almost all things — though the English gentleman was not dead in him under the harness of a Chasseur d’Afrique.
This morning he roused the men of his Chambree with that kindly46 gentleness which had gone so far in its novelty to attach their liking47; went through the customary routine of his past with that exactitude and punctuality of which he was always careful to set the example; made his breakfast off some wretched onion-soup and a roll of black bread; rode fifty miles in the blazing heat of the African day at the head of a score of his chasses-marais on convoy48 duty, bringing in escort a long string of maize-wagons from the region of the Kabaila, which, without such guard, might have been swooped49 down on and borne off by some predatory tribe; and returned, jaded50, weary, parched51 with thirst, scorched52 through with heat, and covered with white dust, to be kept waiting in his saddle, by his Colonel’s orders, outside the barrack for three-quarters of an hour, whether to receive a command or a censure53 he was left in ignorance.
When the three-quarters had passed, he was told M. le Commandant had gone long ago, and did not require him!
Cecil said nothing.
Yet he reeled slightly as he threw himself out of saddle; a nausea54 and a giddiness had come on him. To have passed nigh an hour motionless in his stirrups, with the skies like brass55 above him, while he was already worn with riding from sunrise well-nigh to sunset, with little to appease56 hunger and less to slake57 thirst, made him, despite himself, stagger dizzily under a certain sense of blindness and exhaustion58 as he dismounted.
The Chasseur who had brought him the message caught his arm eagerly.
“Are you hurt, mon Caporal?”
Cecil shook his head. The speaker was one known in the regiment59 as Petit Picpon, who had begun life as a gamin of Paris, and now bade fair to make one of the most brilliant of the soldiers of Africa. Petit Picpon had but one drawback to this military career — he was always in insubordination; the old gamin dare-devilry was not dead in him, and never would die; and Petit Picpon accordingly was perpetually a hero in the field and a ragamuffin in the times of peace. Of course he was always arrayed against authority, and now — being fond of his galonne with that curious doglike, deathless attachment60 that these natures, all reckless, wanton, destructive, and mischievous61 though they may be, so commonly bestow62 — he muttered a terrible curse under his fiercely curled mustaches.
“If the Black Hawk63 were nailed up in the sun like a kite on a barn-door, I would drive twenty nails through his throat!”
Cecil turned rapidly on him.
“Silence, sir! or I must report you. Another speech like that, and you shall have a turn at Beylick.”
It went to his heart to rebuke64 the poor fellow for an outburst of indignation which had its root in regard for himself, but he knew that to encourage it by so much even as by an expression of gratitude65 for the affection borne him, would be to sow further and deeper the poison-seeds of that inclination66 to mutiny and that rebellious67 hatred68 against their chief already only planted too strongly in the squadrons under Chateauroy’s command.
Petit Picpon looked as crestfallen69 as one of his fraternity could; he knew well enough that what he had said could get him twenty blows of the stick, if his corporal chose to give him up to judgment70; but he had too much of the Parisian in him still not to have his say, though he should be shot for it.
“Send me to Beylick, if you like, Corporal,” he said sturdily; “I was in wrath71 for you — not for myself.”
Cecil was infinitely72 more touched than he dared, for the sake of discipline, for sake of the speaker himself, to show; but his glance dwelt on Petit Picpon with a look that the quick, black, monkey-like eyes of the rebel were swift to read.
“I know,” he said gravely. “I do not misjudge you, but at the same time, my name must never serve as a pretext73 for insubordination. Such men as care to pleasure me will best do so in making my duty light by their own self-control and obedience to the rules of their service.”
He led his horse away, and Petit Picpon went on an errand he had been sent to do in the streets for one of the officers. Picpon was unusually thoughtful and sober in deportment for him, since he was usually given to making his progress along a road, taken unobserved by those in command over him, with hands and heels in the dexterous74 somersaults of his early days.
Now he went along without any unprofessional antics, biting the tip of a smoked-out cigar, which he had picked up off the pavement in sheer instinct, retained from the old times when he had used to rush in, the foremost of la queue, into the forsaken75 theaters of Bouffes or of Varietes in search for those odds76 and ends which the departed audience might have left behind them — one of the favorite modes of seeking a livelihood77 with the Parisian night-birds.
“Dame78! I will give it up then,” resolved Picpon, half aloud, valorously.
Now Picpon had come forth79 on evil thoughts intent.
His officer — a careless and extravagant80 man, the richest man in the regiment — had given him a rather small velvet81 bag, sealed, with directions to take it to a certain notorious beauty of Algiers, whose handsome Moresco eyes smiled — or, at least, he believed so — exclusively for the time on the sender. Picpon was very quick, intelligent, and much liked by his superiors, so that he was often employed on errands; and the tricks he played in the execution thereof were so adroitly82 done that they were never detected. Picpon had chuckled83 to himself over this mission. It was but the work of an instant for the lithe, nimble fingers of the exgamin to undo the bag without touching84 the seal; to see that it contained a hundred Napoleons with a note; to slip the gold into the folds of his ceinturon; to fill up the sack with date-stones; to make it assume its original form so that none could have imagined it had been touched, and to proceed with it thus to the Moorish85 lionne’s dwelling. The negro who always opened her door would take it in; Picpon would hint to him to be careful, as it contained some rare and rich sweetmeats, negro nature, he well knew, would impel87 him to search for the bonbons88; and the bag, under his clumsy treatment, would bear plain marks of having been tampered89 with, and, as the African had a most thievish reputation, he would never be believed if he swore himself guiltless. Voila! Here was a neat trick! If it had a drawback, it was that it was too simple, too little risque. A child might do it.
Still — a hundred Naps! What fat geese, what flagons of brandy, what dozens of wine, what rich soups, what tavern90 banquets they would bring! Picpon had chuckled again as he arranged the little bag so carefully, with its date-stones, and pictured the rage of the beautiful Moor86 when she should discover the contents and order the stick to her negro. Ah! that was what Picpon called fun!
To appreciate the full force of such fun, it is necessary to have also appreciated the gamin. To understand the legitimate91 aspect such a theft bore, it is necessary to have also understood the unrecordable codes that govern the genus pratique, into which the genus gamin, when at maturity92, develops.
Picpon was quite in love with his joke; it was only a good joke in his sight; and, indeed, men need to live as hardly as an African soldier lives, to estimate the full temptation that gold can have when you have come to look on a cat as very good eating, and to have nothing to gnaw93 but a bit of old shoe-leather through the whole of the long hours of a burning day of fatigue94-duty; and to estimate, as well, the full width and depth of the renunciation that made him mutter now so valorously, “Dame! I will give it up, then!”
Picpon did not know himself as he said it. Yet he turned down into a lonely, narrow lane, under marble walls, overtopped with fig1 and palm from some fine gardens; undid95 the bag for the second time; whisked out the date-stones and threw them over the wall, so that they should be out of his reach if he repented96; put back the Napoleons, closed the little sack, ran as hard as he could scamper97 to his destination, delivered his charge into the fair lady’s own hands, and relieved his feelings by a score of somersaults along the pavement as fast as ever he could go.
“Ma cantche!” he thought, as he stood on his head, with his legs at an acute angle in the air, in position very favored by him for moments of reflection — he said his brain worked better upside down. “Ma cantche! What a weakness, what a weakness! What remorse98 to have yielded to it! Beneath you, Picpon — utterly99 beneath you. Just because that ci-devant says such follies100 please him in us!”
Picpon (then in his gamin stage) had been enrolled101 in the Chasseurs at the same time with the “ci-devant,” as they called Bertie, and, following his gamin nature, had exhausted102 all his resources of impudence103, maliciousness104, and power of tormenting105, on the “aristocrat106”— somewhat disappointed, however, that the utmost ingenuities107 of his insolence108 and even his malignity109 never succeeded in breaking the “aristocrat’s” silence and contemptuous forbearance from all reprisal110. For the first two years the hell-on-earth — which life with a Franco–Arab regiment seemed to Cecil — was a hundredfold embittered111 by the brutalized jests and mosquito-like torments112 of this little odious113 chimpanzee of Paris.
One day, however, it chanced that a detachment of Chasseurs, of which Cecil was one, was cut to pieces by such an overwhelming mass of Arabs that scarce a dozen of them could force their way through the Bedouins with life; he was among those few, and a flight at full speed was the sole chance of regaining114 their encampment. Just as he had shaken his bridle115 free of the Arab’s clutch, and had mowed116 himself a clear path through their ranks, he caught sight of his young enemy, Picpon, on the ground, with a lance broken off in his ribs117; guarding his head, with bleeding hands, as the horses trampled118 over him. To make a dash at the boy, though to linger a moment was to risk certain death; to send his steel through an Arab who came in his way; to lean down and catch hold of the lad’s sash; to swing him up into his saddle and throw him across it in front of him, and to charge afresh through the storm of musket-balls, and ride on thus burdened, was the work of ten seconds with “Bel-a-faire-peur.” And he brought the boy safe over a stretch of six leagues in a flight for life, though the imp42 no more deserved the compassion119 than a scorpion120 that has spent all its noxious121 day stinging at every point of uncovered flesh would merit tenderness from the hand it had poisoned.
When he was swung down from the saddle and laid in front of a fire, sheltered from the bitter north wind that was then blowing cruelly, the bright, black, ape-like eyes of the Parisian diablotin opened with a strange gleam in them.
“Picpon s’en souviendra,” he murmured.
And Picpon had kept his word; he had remembered often, he remembered now; standing122 on his head and thinking of his hundred Napoleons surrendered because thieving and lying in the regiment gave pain to that oddly prejudiced “ci-devant.” This was the sort of loyalty that the Franco–Arabs rendered; this was the sort of influence that the English Guardsman exercised among his Roumis.
Meantime, while Picpon made a human cone123 of himself, to the admiration124 of the polyglot125 crowd of the Algerine street, Cecil himself, having watered, fed, and littered down his tired horse, made his way to a little cafe he commonly frequented, and spent the few sous he could afford on an iced draught126 of lemon-flavored drink. Eat he could not; overfatigue had given him a nausea for food, and the last hour, motionless in the intense glow of the afternoon sun, had brought that racking pain through his temples which assailed127 him rarely now, but which in his first years in Africa had given him many hours of agony. He could not stay in the cafe; it was the hour of dinner for many, and the odors, joined with the noise, were insupportable to him.
A few doors farther in the street, which was chiefly of Jewish and Moslem128 shops, there was a quaint129 place kept by an old Moor, who had some of the rarest and most beautiful treasures of Algerian workmanship in his long, dark, silent chambers130. With this old man Cecil had something of a friendship; he had protected him one day from the mockery and outrage133 of some drunken Indigenes, and the Moor, warmly grateful, was ever ready to give him a cup of coffee in the stillness of his dwelling. Its resort was sometimes welcome to him as the one spot, quiet and noiseless, to which he could escape out of the continuous turmoil134 of street and of barrack, and he went thither135 now. He found the old man sitting cross-legged behind the counter; a noble-looking, aged136 Mussulman, with a long beard like white silk, with cashmeres and broidered stuffs of peerless texture137 hanging above his head, and all around him things of silver, of gold, of ivory, of amber132, of feathers, of bronze, of emeralds, of ruby138, of beryl, whose rich colors glowed through the darkness.
“No coffee, no sherbet; thanks, good father,” said Cecil, in answer to the Moor’s hospitable139 entreaties140. “Give me only license141 to sit in the quiet here. I am very tired.”
“Sit and be welcome, my son,” said Ben Arsli. “Whom should this roof shelter in honor, if not thee? Musjid shall bring thee the supreme142 solace143.”
The supreme solace was a nargile, and its great bowl of rose-water was soon set down by the little Moorish lad at Cecil’s side. Whether fatigue really weighted his eyes with slumber, or whether the soothing144 sedative145 of the pipe had its influence, he had not sat long in the perfect stillness of the Moor’s shop before the narrow view of the street under the awning146 without was lost to him, the luster147 and confusion of shadowy hues148 swam a while before his eyes, the throbbing150 pain in his temples grew duller, and he slept — the heavy, dreamless sleep of intense exhaustion.
Ben Arsli glanced at him, and bade Musjid be very quiet. Half an hour or more passed; none had entered the place. The grave old Moslem was half slumbering151 himself, when there came a delicate odor of perfumed laces, a delicate rustle152 of silk swept the floor; a lady’s voice asked the price of an ostrich-egg, superbly mounted in gold. Ben Arsli opened his eyes — the Chasseur slept on; the newcomer was one of those great ladies who now and then winter in Algeria.
Her carriage waited without; she was alone, making purchase of those innumerable splendid trifles with which Algiers is rife153, while she drove through the town in the cooler hour before the sun sank into the western sea.
The Moor rose instantly, with profound salaams154, before her, and began to spread before her the richest treasures of his stock. Under plea of the light, he remained near the entrance with her; money was dear to him, and must not be lost, but he would make it, if he could, without awakening155 the tired soldier. Marvelous caskets of mother-of-pearl; carpets soft as down with every brilliant hue149 melting one within another; coffee equipages, of inimitable metal work; silver statuettes, exquisitely156 chased and wrought157; feather-fans, and screens of every beauty of device, were spread before her, and many of them were bought by her with that unerring grace of taste and lavishness158 of expenditure159 which were her characteristics, but which are far from always found in unison160; and throughout her survey Ben Arsli kept her near the entrance, and Cecil had slept on, unaroused by the low tones of their voices.
A roll of notes had passed from her hand to the Moslem’s and she was about to glide161 out to her carriage, when a lamp which hung at the farther end caught her fancy. It was very singular; a mingling162 of colored glass, silver, gold, and ivory being wrought in much beauty in its formation.
“Is that for sale?” she inquired.
As he answered in the affirmative, she moved up the shop, and, her eyes being lifted to the lamp, had drawn163 close to Cecil before she saw him. When she did so, she paused near in astonishment164.
“Is that soldier asleep?”
“He is, madame,” softly answered the old man, in his slow, studied French. “He comes here to rest sometimes out of the noise; he was very tired today, and I think ill, would he have confessed it.”
“Indeed!” Her eyes fell on him with compassion; he had fallen into an attitude of much grace and of utter exhaustion; his head was uncovered and rested on one arm, so that the face was turned upward. With a woman’s rapid, comprehensive glance, she saw that dark shadow, like a bruise165, under his closed, aching eyes; she saw the weary pain upon his forehead; she saw the whiteness of his hands, the slenderness of his wrists, the softness of his hair; she saw, as she had seen before, that whatever he might be now, in some past time he had been a man of gentle blood, of courtly bearing.
“He is a Chasseur d’Afrique?” she asked the Moslem.
“Yes, madame. I think — he must have been something very different some day.”
She did not answer; she stood with her thoughtful eyes gazing on the worn-out soldier.
“He saved me once, madame, at much risk to himself, from the savagery166 of some Turcos,” the old man went on. “Of course, he is always welcome under my roof. The companionship he has must be bitter to him, I fancy; they do say he would have had his officer’s grade, and the cross, too, long before now, if it were not for his Colonel’s hatred.”
“Ah! I have seen him before now; he carves in ivory. I suppose he has a good side for those things with you?”
The Moor looked up in amazement167.
“In ivory, madame? — he? Allah — il-Allah! I never heard of it. It is strange ———”
“Very strange. Doubtless you would have given him a good price for them?”
“Surely I would; any price he should have wished. Do I not owe him my life?”
At that moment little Musjid let fall a valuable coffee-tray, inlaid with amber; his master, with muttered apology, hastened to the scene of the accident; the noise startled Cecil, and his eyes unclosed to all the dreamy, fantastic colors of the place, and met those bent168 on him in musing169 pity — saw that lustrous170, haughty171, delicate head bending slightly down through the many-colored shadows.
He thought he was dreaming, yet on instinct he rose, staggering slightly, for sharp pain was still darting172 through his head and temples.
“Madame! Pardon me! Was I sleeping?”
“You were, and rest again. You look ill,” she said gently, and there was, for a moment, less of that accent in her voice, which the night before had marked so distinctly, so pointedly173, the line of demarcation between a Princess of Spain and a soldier of Africa.
“I thank you; I ail2 nothing.”
He had no sense that he did, in the presence of that face which had the beauty of his old life; under the charm of that voice which had the music of his buried years.
“I fear that is scarcely true!” she answered him. “You look in pain; though as a soldier, perhaps, you will not own it?”
“A headache from the sun — no more, madame.”
He was careful not again to forget the social gulf174 which yawned between them.
“That is quite bad enough! Your service must be severe?”
“In Africa, Milady, one cannot expect indulgence.”
“I suppose not. You have served long?”
“Twelve years, madame.”
“And your name?”
“Louis Victor.” She fancied there was a slight abruptness175 in the reply, as though he were about to add some other name, and checked himself.
She entered it in the little book from which she had taken her banknotes.
“I may be able to serve you,” she said, as she wrote. “I will speak of you to the Marshal; and when I return to Paris, I may have an opportunity to bring your name before the Emperor. He is as rapid as his uncle to reward military merit; but he has not his uncle’s opportunities for personal observation of his soldiers.”
The color flushed his forehead.
“You do me much honor,” he said rapidly, “but if you would gratify me, madame, do not seek to do anything of the kind.”
“And why? Do you not even desire the cross?”
“I desire nothing, except to be forgotten.”
“You seek what others dread176 then?”
“It may be so. At any rate, if you would serve me, madame, never say what can bring me into notice.”
She regarded him with much surprise, with some slight sense of annoyance29; she had bent far in tendering her influence at the French court to a private soldier, and his rejection177 of it seemed as ungracious as it was inexplicable178.
At that moment the Moor joined them.
“Milady has told me, M. Victor, that you are a first-rate carver of ivories. How is it that you have never let me benefit by your art?”
“My things are not worth a sou,” muttered Cecil hurriedly.
“You do them great injustice179, and yourself also,” said the grande dame, more coldly than she had before spoken. “Your carvings181 are singularly perfect, and should bring you considerable returns.”
“Why have you never shown them to me at least?” pursued Ben Arsli —“why not have given me my option?”
The blood flushed Cecil’s face again; he turned to the Princess.
“I withheld182 them, madame, not because he would have underpriced, but overpriced them. He rates a trifling183 act of mine, of long ago, so unduly184.”
She bent her head in silence; yet a more graceful185 comprehension of his motive186 she could not have given than her glance alone gave.
Ben Arsli stroked his great beard; more moved than his Moslem dignity would show.
“Always so!” he muttered, “always so! My son, in some life before this, was not generosity187 your ruin?”
“Milady was about to purchase the lamp?” asked Cecil, avoiding the question. “Her Highness will not find anything like it in all Algiers.”
The lamp was taken down, and the conversation turned from himself.
“May I bear it to your carriage, madame?” he asked, as she moved to leave, having made it her own, while her footman carried out the smaller articles she had bought to the equipage. She bowed in silence; she was very exclusive, she was not wholly satisfied with herself for having conversed188 thus with a Chasseur d’Afrique in a Moor’s bazaar189. Still, she vaguely190 felt pity for this man; she equally vaguely desired to serve him.
“Wait, M. Victor!” she said, as he closed the door of her carriage. “I accepted your chessmen last night, but you are very certain that it is impossible I can retain them on such terms.”
A shadow darkened his face.
“Let your dogs break them then, madame. They shall not come back to me.”
“You mistake — I did not mean that I would send them back. I simply desire to offer you some equivalent for them. There must be something that you wish for? — something which would be acceptable to you in the life you lead?”
“I have already named the only thing I desire.”
He had been solicitous191 to remember and sustain the enormous difference in their social degrees; but at the offer of her gifts, of her patronage192, of her recompense, the pride of his old life rose up to meet her own.
“To be forgotten? A sad wish! Nay193, surely life in a regiment of Africa cannot be so cloudless that it can create in you no other?”
“It is not. I have another.”
“Then tell it to me; it shall be gratified.”
“It is to enjoy a luxury long ago lost forever. It is — to be allowed to give the slight courtesy of a gentleman without being tendered the wage of a servant.”
She understood him; she was moved, too, by the inflexion of his voice. She was not so cold, not so negligent194, as the world called her.
“I had passed my word to grant it; I cannot retract,” she answered him, after a pause. “I will press nothing more on you. But — as an obligation to me — can you find no way in which a rouleau of gold would benefit your men?”
“No way that I can take it for them. But, if you care indeed to do them a charity, a little wine, a little fruit, a few flowers (for there are those among them who love flowers), sent to the hospital, will bring many benedictions195 on your name, madame. They lie in infinite misery197 there!”
“I will remember,” she said simply, while a thoughtful sadness passed over her brilliant face. “Adieu, M. le Caporal; and if you should think better of your choice, and will allow your name to be mentioned by me to his Majesty198, send me word through my people. There is my card.”
The carriage whirled away down the crooked199 street. He stood under the tawny awning of the Moorish house, with the thin, glazed200 card in his hand. On it was printed:
“Mme. la Princesse Corona201 d’Amague,
“Hotel Corona, Paris.”
In the corner was written, “Villa202 Aiaussa, Algiers.” He thrust it in the folds of his sash, and turned within.
“Do you know her?” he asked Ben Arsli.
The old man shook his head.
“She is the most beautiful of thy many fair Frankish women. I never saw her till today. But listen here. Touching these ivory toys — if thou does not bring henceforth to me all the work in them that thou doest, thou shalt never come here more to meet the light of her eyes.”
Cecil smiled and pressed the Moslem’s hand.
“I kept them away because you would have given me a hundred piasters for what had not been worth one. As for her eyes, they are stars that shine on another world than an African trooper’s. So best!”
Yet they were stars of which he thought more, as he wended his way back to the barracks, than of the splendid constellations203 of the Algerian evening that shone with all the luster of the day, but with the soft, enchanted204 light which transfigured sea, and earth, and sky as never did the day’s full glow, as he returned to the mechanical duties, to the thankless services, to the distasteful meal, to the riotous205 mirth, to the coarse comradeship, which seemed to him to-night more bitter than they had ever done since his very identity, his very existence, had been killed and buried past recall, past resurrection, under the kepi d’ordonnance of a Chasseur d’Afrique.
Meanwhile the Princess Corona drove homeward — homeward to where a temporary home had been made by her in the most elegant of the many snow-white villas206 that stud the sides of the Sahel and face the bright bow of the sunlit bay; a villa with balconies, and awnings207, and cool, silent chambers, and rich, glowing gardens, and a broad, low roof, half hidden in bay and orange and myrtle and basilica, and the liquid sound of waters bubbling beneath a riotous luxuriance of blossom.
Mme. la Princesse passed from her carriage to her own morning room and sank down on a couch, a little listless and weary with her search among the treasures of the Algerine bazaars208. It was purposeless work, after all. Had she not bronzes, and porcelains209, and bric-a-brac, and objets d’art in profusion210 in her Roman villa, her Parisian hotel, her great, grim palace in Estremadura.
“Not one of those things do I want — not one shall I look at twice. The money would have been better at the soldiers’ hospital,” she thought, while her eyes dwelt on a chess-table near her — a table on which the mimic211 hosts of Chasseurs and Arabs were ranged in opposite squadrons.
She took the White King in her hand and gazed at it with a certain interest.
“That man has been noble once,” she thought. “What a fate — what a cruel fate!”
It touched her to great pity; although proud with too intense a pride, her nature was exceedingly generous, and, when once moved, deeply compassionate212. The unerring glance of a woman habituated to the first society of Europe had told her that the accent, the bearing, the tone, the features of this soldier, who only asked of life “oblivion,” were those of one originally of gentle blood; and the dignity and patience of his acceptance of the indignities214 which his present rank entailed215 on him had not escaped her any more than the delicate beauty of his face as she had seen it, weary, pale, and shadowed with pain, in the unconscious revelation of sleep.
“How bitter his life must be!” she mused216. “When Philip comes, perhaps he will show some way to aid him. And yet — who can serve a man who only desires to be forgotten?”
Then, with a certain impatient sense of some absurd discrepancy217, of some unseemly occupation, in her thus dwelling on the wishes and the burdens of a sous-officier of Light Cavalry, she laughed a little, and put the White Chief back once more in his place. Yet even as she set the king among his mimic forces, the very carvings themselves served to retain their artist in her memory.
There was about them an indescribable elegance218, an exceeding grace and beauty, which spoke180 of a knowledge of art and of refinement219 of taste far beyond those of a mere military amateur in the one who had produced them.
“What could bring a man of that talent, with that address, into the ranks?” she mused. “Persons of good family, of once fine position, come here, they say, and live and die unrecognized under the Imperial flag. It is usually some dishonor that drives them out of their own worlds; it may be so with him. Yet he does not look like one whom shame has touched; he is proud still — prouder than he knows. More likely it is the old, old story — a high name and a narrow fortune — the ruin of thousands! He is French, I suppose; a French aristocrat who has played au roi depouille, most probably, and buried himself and his history forever beneath those two names that tell one nothing — Louis Victor. Well, it is no matter of mine. Very possibly he is a mere adventurer with a good manner. This army here is a pot-pourri, they say, of all the varied220 scoundrelisms of Europe!”
She left the chess-table and went onward221 to the dressing222 and bath and bed chambers, which opened in one suite223 from her boudoir, and resigned herself to the hands of her attendants for her dinner toilet.
The Moslem had said aright of her beauty; and now, as her splendid hair was unloosened and gathered up afresh with a crescent-shaped comb of gold that was not brighter than the tresses themselves, the brilliant, haughty, thoughtful face was of a truth, as he had said, the fairest that had ever come from the Frankish shores to the hot African sea-board. Many beside the old Moslem had thought it “the fairest that e’er the sun shone on,” and held one grave, lustrous glance of the blue imperial eyes above aught else on earth. Many had loved her — all without return. Yet, although only twenty years had passed over her proud head, the Princesse Corona d’Amague had been wedded224 and been widowed.
Wedded, with no other sentiment than that of a certain pity and a certain honor for the man whose noble Spanish name she took. Widowed, by a death that was the seal of her marriage sacrament, and left her his wife only in name and law.
The marriage had left no chain upon her; it had only made her mistress of wide wealth, of that villa on the Sicilian Sea, of that light, spacious225 palace-dwelling in Paris that bore her name, of that vast majestic226 old castle throned on brown Estremaduran crags, and looking down on mighty227 woods of cork228 and chestnut229, and flashing streams of falling water hurling230 through the gorges231. The death had left no regret upon her; it only gave her for a while a graver shadow over the brilliancy of her youth and of her beauty, and gave her for always — or for so long, at least, as she chose to use it — a plea for that indifference232 to men’s worship of her which their sex called heartlessness; which her own sex thought an ultra-refined coquetry; and which was, in real truth, neither the one nor the other, but simply the negligence233 of a woman very difficult to touch, and, as it had seemed, impossible to charm.
None knew quite aright the history of that marriage. Some were wont234 to whisper “ambition”; and, when that whisper came round to her, her splendid lips would curl with as splendid a scorn.
“Do they not know that scarce any marriage can mate us equally?” she would ask; for she came of a great Line that thought few royal branches on equality with it; and she cherished as things of strictest creed235 the legends that gave her race, with its amber hair and its eyes of sapphire236 blue, the blood of Arthur in their veins237.
Of a surety it was not ambition that had allied238 her, on his death-bed, with Beltran Corona d’Amague; but what it was the world could never tell precisely239. The world would not have believed it if it had heard the truth — the truth that it had been, in a different fashion, a gleam of something of the same compassion that now made her merciful to a common trooper of Africa which had wedded her to the dead Spanish Prince — compassion which, with many another rich and generous thing, lay beneath her coldness and her pride as the golden stamen lies folded within the white, virginal, chill cup of the lily.
She had never felt a touch of even passing preference to any one out of the many who had sought her high-born beauty; she was too proud to be easily moved to such selection, and she was far too habituated to homage240 to be wrought upon by it, ever so slightly. She was of a noble, sun-lit, gracious nature, she had been always happy, always obeyed, always caressed241, always adored; it had rendered her immeasurably contemptuous of flattery; it had rendered her a little contemptuous of pain. She had never had aught to regret; it was not possible that she could realize what regret was.
Hence men called and found her very cold; yet those of her own kin3 whom she loved knew that the heart of a summer rose was not warmer, nor sweeter, nor richer than hers. And first among these was her brother — at once her guardian242 and her slave — who thought her perfect, and would no more have crossed her will than he would have set his foot on her beautiful, imperial head. Corona d’Amague had been his friend; the only one for whom he had ever sought to break her unvarying indifference to her lovers, but for whom even he had pleaded vainly until one autumn season, when they had stayed together at a great archducal castle in South Austria. In one of the forest-glades, awaiting the fanfare244 of the hunt, she rejected, for the third time, the passionate213 supplication245 of the superb noble who ranked with the D’Ossuna and the Medina–Sidonia. He rode from her in great bitterness, in grief that no way moved her — she was importuned246 with these entreaties to weariness. An hour after he was brought past her, wounded and senseless; he had saved her brother from imminent247 death at his own cost, and the tusks248 of the mighty Styrian boar had plunged249 through and through his frame, as they had met in the narrow woodland glade243.
“He will be a cripple — a paralyzed cripple — for life!” said the one whose life had been saved by his devotion to her that night; and his lips shook a little under his golden beard as he spoke.
She looked at him; she loved him well, and no homage to herself could have moved her as this sacrifice for him had done.
“You think he will live?” she asked.
“They say it is sure. He may live on to old age. But how? My God! what a death in life! And all for my sake, in my stead!”
She was silent several moments; then she raised her face, a little paler than it had been, but with a passionless resolve set on it.
“Philip, we do not leave our debts unpaid250. Go; tell him I will be his wife.”
“His wife — now! Venetia ——”
“Go!” she said briefly251. “Tell him what I say.”
“But what a sacrifice! In your beauty, your youth —”
“He did not count cost. Are we less generous? Go — tell him.”
He was told; and was repaid. Such a light of unutterable joy burned through the misty252 agony of his eyes as never, it seemed to those who saw, had beamed before in mortal eyes. He did not once hesitate at the acceptance of her self-surrender; he only pleaded that the marriage ceremony should pass between them that night.
There were notaries253 and many priests in the great ducal household; all was done as he desired. She consented without wavering; she had passed her word, she would not have withdrawn254 it if it had been a thousand times more bitter in its fulfillment. The honor of her house was dearer to her than any individual happiness. This man for them had lost peace, health, joy, strength, every hope of life; to dedicate her own life to him, as he had vainly prayed her when in the full glow and vigor255 of his manhood, was the only means by which their vast debt to him could be paid. To so pay it was the instant choice of her high code of honor, and of her generosity that would not be outrun. Moreover, she pitied him unspeakably, though her heart had no tenderness for him; she had dismissed him with cold disdain256, and he had gone from her to save the only life she loved, and was stretched a stricken, broken, helpless wreck257, with endless years of pain and weariness before him!
At midnight, in the great, dim magnificence of the state chamber131 where he lay, and with the low, soft chanting of the chapel258 choir259 from afar echoing through the incensed260 air, she bent her haughty head down over his couch, and the marriage benediction196 was spoken over them.
His voice was faint and broken, but it had the thrill of a passionate triumph in it. When the last words were uttered, he lay a while, exhausted, silent; only looking ever upward at her with his dark, dreamy eyes, in which the old love glanced so strangely through the blindness of pain. Then he smiled as the last echo of the choral melodies died softly on the silence.
“That is joy enough! Ah! have no fear. With the dawn you will be free once more. Did you think that I could have taken your sacrifice? I knew well, let them say as they would, that I should not live the night through. But, lest existence should linger to curse me, to chain you, I rent the linen261 bands off my wounds an hour ago. All their science will not put back the life now! My limbs are dead, and the cold steals up! Ah, love! Ah, love! You never thought how men can suffer! But have no grief for me. I am happy. Bend your head down, and lay your lips on mine once. You are my own! — death is sweeter than life!”
And before sunrise he died.
Some shadow from that fatal and tragic262 midnight marriage rested on her still. Though she was blameless, some vague remorse ever haunted her; though she had been so wholly guiltless of it, this death for her sake ever seemed in some sort of her bringing. Men thought her only colder, only prouder; but they erred263. She was one of those women who, beneath the courtly negligence of a chill manner, are capable of infinite tenderness, infinite nobility, and infinite self-reproach.
A great French painter once, in Rome, looking on her from a distance, shaded his eyes with his hand, as if her beauty, like the sun dazzled him. “Exquisite — superb!” he muttered; and he was a man whose own ideals were so matchless that living women rarely could wring264 out his praise. “She is nearly perfect, your Princesse Corona!”
“Nearly!” cried a Roman sculptor265. “What, in Heaven’s name, can she want?”
“Only one thing!”
“And that is ——”
“To have loved.”
Wherewith he turned into the Greco.
He had found the one flaw — and it was still there. What he missed in her was still wanting.
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1
fig
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| n.无花果(树) | |
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ail
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| v.生病，折磨，苦恼 | |
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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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lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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6
sleepers
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| n.卧铺（通常以复数形式出现）；卧车( sleeper的名词复数 )；轨枕；睡觉（呈某种状态）的人；小耳环 | |
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sinewy
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| adj.多腱的，强壮有力的 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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bestial
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| adj.残忍的；野蛮的 | |
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lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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14
sables
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| n.紫貂( sable的名词复数 )；紫貂皮；阴暗的；暗夜 | |
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slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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irritations
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| n.激怒( irritation的名词复数 )；恼怒；生气；令人恼火的事 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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annoyances
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| n.恼怒( annoyance的名词复数 )；烦恼；打扰；使人烦恼的事 | |
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awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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pawned
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| v.典当，抵押( pawn的过去式和过去分词 )；以（某事物）担保 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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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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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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40
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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42
imp
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| n.顽童 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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45
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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46
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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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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convoy
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| vt.护送，护卫，护航；n.护送；护送队 | |
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49
swooped
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| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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51
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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53
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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56
appease
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| v.安抚，缓和，平息，满足 | |
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57
slake
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| v.解渴，使平息 | |
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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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59
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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64
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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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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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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crestfallen
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| adj. 挫败的，失望的，沮丧的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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71
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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72
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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dexterous
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| adj.灵敏的；灵巧的 | |
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75
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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76
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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77
livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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78
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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79
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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80
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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81
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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82
adroitly
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| adv.熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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83
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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85
moorish
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| adj.沼地的，荒野的，生[住]在沼地的 | |
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86
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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87
impel
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| v.推动；激励，迫使 | |
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88
bonbons
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| n.小糖果( bonbon的名词复数 ) | |
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89
tampered
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| v.窜改( tamper的过去式 )；篡改；（用不正当手段）影响；瞎摆弄 | |
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90
tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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91
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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92
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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93
gnaw
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| v.不断地啃、咬；使苦恼，折磨 | |
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94
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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95
Undid
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| v. 解开, 复原 | |
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96
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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97
scamper
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| v.奔跑，快跑 | |
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98
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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99
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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100
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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101
enrolled
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| adj.入学登记了的v.[亦作enrol]( enroll的过去式和过去分词 )；登记，招收，使入伍（或入会、入学等），参加，成为成员；记入名册；卷起，包起 | |
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102
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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103
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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104
maliciousness
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| [法] 恶意 | |
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105
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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106
aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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107
ingenuities
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| 足智多谋，心灵手巧( ingenuity的名词复数 ) | |
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108
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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109
malignity
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| n.极度的恶意，恶毒；（病的）恶性 | |
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110
reprisal
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|
| n.报复，报仇，报复性劫掠 | |
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111
embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
torments
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| （肉体或精神上的）折磨，痛苦( torment的名词复数 )； 造成痛苦的事物[人] | |
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113
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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114
regaining
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| 复得( regain的现在分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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115
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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116
mowed
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| v.刈，割( mow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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118
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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119
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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120
scorpion
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| n.蝎子，心黑的人，蝎子鞭 | |
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121
noxious
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| adj.有害的，有毒的；使道德败坏的，讨厌的 | |
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122
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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123
cone
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| n.圆锥体，圆锥形东西，球果 | |
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124
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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125
polyglot
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| adj.通晓数种语言的；n.通晓多种语言的人 | |
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126
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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127
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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128
Moslem
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| n.回教徒，穆罕默德信徒；adj.回教徒的，回教的 | |
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129
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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130
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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131
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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132
amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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133
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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134
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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135
thither
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|
| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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136
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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137
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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138
ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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139
hospitable
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|
| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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140
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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141
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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142
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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143
solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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144
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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145
sedative
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| adj.使安静的，使镇静的；n. 镇静剂，能使安静的东西 | |
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146
awning
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| n.遮阳篷；雨篷 | |
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147
luster
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| n.光辉；光泽，光亮；荣誉 | |
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148
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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149
hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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150
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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151
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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152
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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153
rife
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| adj.(指坏事情)充斥的，流行的，普遍的 | |
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154
salaams
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| （穆斯林的）额手礼，问安，敬礼( salaam的名词复数 ) | |
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155
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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156
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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157
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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158
lavishness
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| n.浪费，过度 | |
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159
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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160
unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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161
glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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162
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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163
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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164
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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165
bruise
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| n.青肿，挫伤；伤痕；vt.打青；挫伤 | |
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166
savagery
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| n.野性 | |
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167
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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168
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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169
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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170
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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171
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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172
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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173
pointedly
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| adv.尖地，明显地 | |
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174
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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175
abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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176
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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177
rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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178
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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179
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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180
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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181
carvings
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| n.雕刻( carving的名词复数 )；雕刻术；雕刻品；雕刻物 | |
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182
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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183
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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184
unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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185
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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186
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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187
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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188
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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189
bazaar
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| n.集市，商店集中区 | |
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190
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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191
solicitous
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| adj.热切的，挂念的 | |
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192
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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193
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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194
negligent
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| adj.疏忽的；玩忽的；粗心大意的 | |
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195
benedictions
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| n.祝福( benediction的名词复数 )；（礼拜结束时的）赐福祈祷；恩赐；（大写）（罗马天主教）祈求上帝赐福的仪式 | |
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196
benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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197
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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198
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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199
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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200
glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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201
corona
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| n.日冕 | |
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202
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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203
constellations
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| n.星座( constellation的名词复数 )；一群杰出人物；一系列（相关的想法、事物）；一群（相关的人） | |
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204
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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205
riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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206
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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207
awnings
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| 篷帐布 | |
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208
bazaars
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| （东方国家的）市场( bazaar的名词复数 )； 义卖； 义卖市场； （出售花哨商品等的）小商品市场 | |
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209
porcelains
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| n.瓷，瓷器( porcelain的名词复数 ) | |
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210
profusion
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| n.挥霍；丰富 | |
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211
mimic
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| v.模仿，戏弄；n.模仿他人言行的人 | |
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compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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213
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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214
indignities
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| n.侮辱，轻蔑( indignity的名词复数 ) | |
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215
entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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216
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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217
discrepancy
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| n.不同；不符；差异；矛盾 | |
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218
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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220
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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221
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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222
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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223
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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224
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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225
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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226
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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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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228
cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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229
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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230
hurling
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| n.爱尔兰式曲棍球v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的现在分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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231
gorges
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| n.山峡，峡谷( gorge的名词复数 )；咽喉v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的第三人称单数 )；作呕 | |
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232
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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233
negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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234
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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235
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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236
sapphire
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| n.青玉，蓝宝石；adj.天蓝色的 | |
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237
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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238
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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239
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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240
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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241
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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242
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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243
glade
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| n.林间空地，一片表面有草的沼泽低地 | |
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244
fanfare
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| n.喇叭；号角之声；v.热闹地宣布 | |
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245
supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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246
importuned
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| v.纠缠，向（某人）不断要求( importune的过去式和过去分词 )；（妓女）拉（客） | |
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247
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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248
tusks
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| n.（象等动物的）长牙( tusk的名词复数 )；獠牙；尖形物；尖头 | |
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249
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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250
unpaid
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| adj.未付款的，无报酬的 | |
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251
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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252
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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253
notaries
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| n.公证人，公证员( notary的名词复数 ) | |
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254
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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255
vigor
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| n.活力，精力，元气 | |
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256
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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257
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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258
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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259
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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260
incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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261
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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262
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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263
erred
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| 犯错误，做错事( err的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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264
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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265
sculptor
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| n.雕刻家，雕刻家 | |
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