81Unconsciously I listened for a moment longer. I stretched out my hand to clasp hers and felt instead a metal object, the lamp which was left for her every evening. A match was struck, a hasty step sounded, and another door, the staircase door, closed. That was all, so I went towards home in the pale moonlight along streets deserted14 except for a few stray cats and dogs, a few policemen on their beats, a belated cab, and a group of young artists just leaving a café in the Boulevard Saint Michel, which were the only things which testified to the existence of life in the great sleeping mansions16, dark convents, the little houses with a single jet of gas burning, and the black, sinister-looking hospitals. This quarter is really one of the suburbs of Paris, though it is so near the densely17 populated Boulevards, just as Camille’s peaceful life with her mother is so near her passionate18 stage life.
It had only taken us three quarters of an hour to return from the theatre, though our pace was unequal, sometimes slow and sometimes rapid, as if we were hastening over our confidences. It took me less time to reach the little house on the Boulevard des Invalides where I live, though I wandered aimlessly in this deserted part overwhelmed by a trouble for which I could scarcely blame myself. That sudden burning of the inner being, that handling and interminable repetition of phrases which one has just heard, that obsession19 of thought at the same time pleasing and terrifying, that occupation as if by force by a creature to whom one was the previous evening and the same day a 82perfect stranger—these are the signs which denote the fatal fever, malaria20 of the soul, which takes longer to cure than other and more dangerous maladies.
“A good night’s sleep,” I said to myself, “and to-morrow these foolish ideas will be gone; besides she is a friend’s mistress. I know myself. The thought of their caresses21 simply would prevent me from becoming amorous22 of her, if I desired to. But I shall not have this desire. She has moved me this evening in her real life as she moved me at the theatre, as she would have moved me in a novel. But that is pure imagination. To-morrow I shall not think of her, and if I think of her, I shall not see her nor Molan again. That is all.”
Pure imagination is an expression easily used. But is there not a profound and very sensible point by which this imagination touches our heart, is our heart in fact? When a woman’s grace has wounded this point, we always discover motives23 why we should not remain faithful to the prudent25 programme of not seeing her again. The fact was, I began by not having the good night’s sleep I promised myself, and when I awakened26 from my morning doze27 I thought of Camille Favier with as much troubled interest as I had done the evening before. I at once found a pretext28 for breaking my good resolution not to see either her or Molan again. Had I not promised Jacques to inform him as to the success or otherwise of his scheme? All the same, it was not without remorse29 that about ten o’clock I set out to fulfil my strange mission.
83I had forgotten the previous evening that I had a model coming at ten. A girl called Malvina came to pose for my never-ending “Psyché pardonnée.” When I sent her away I heard the little inner voice, of which on the previous evening Camille had prettily30 spoken, whisper: “Coward! Coward!” But even without the little voice, did not the presence of this creature demonstrate to me the absurdity33 of my incipient34 sentiment? Malvina had, too, like Camille, the ideal head for the primitive35 Madonna, and she was pleasure personified. Her mouth, which looked so beautiful in its silent smile, only opened to retail36 obscenity. What a good plan it is never to believe in the bewitching charm of a face! Fate has warnings like this for us which we disregard with an obscure feeling of the irreparable. After Malvina had gone I looked round my studio, at the unfinished canvas, my colour box, my palette, and I went out pursued by their mute reproach. Why did I not listen!
To reach the Rue Delaborde, where Jacques Molan lived, I had fortunately to traverse a nice part of Paris, of the sort to distract my attention. I know it so well from making numerous studies of it when I was preoccupied37, as the critics say when they are looking on our pictures for an opportunity to theorize and be modern. That is finished as far as I am concerned. It has profited me all the same; for if I no longer think a picture ought to represent freaks of light without significance, or bodies of human life without essential value, I have kept for these studies a keener taste, a more refined 84sense of certain landscapes, those of the Seine, for example, the Tuileries, and the Place de la Concorde. I love them especially in their morning tints39 which give them a tender freshness, distinct water-colour transparencies, with a thrill of alert activity. That morning, though my nerves were still quivering with the intoxication40 of my new-born passion, the water of the river seemed to me fresher than ever; the grey-blue of the sky more delicate above the leafless trees; the water of the fountains more sparkling with a whiter and more noisy foam41. My over-excited being more readily appreciated the charm of the trees, houses, and flowing water. I unconsciously forgot my wise resolution and my remorse at leaving my work, to picture to myself the renewal42 of the soul which a liaison43 such as the one satiated Jacques Molan held so cheaply would instil44 into me. Then the irresistible45 demon32 of irony46 took possession of me.
“Yes,” I actually or almost said to myself, “what a dream it would be to be loved by a woman like Camille! Just free enough to give long hours to her lover and not free enough to absorb his time; enough of an artist to understand the most delicate and subtle shades of impression; natural enough to be amused at the Bohemian caprices, which are so savoury when they are not accompanied by misery48; enthusiastic enough for a constant encouragement to work to emanate49 from her, and too spontaneous, too sincere to ever drive you to that slavery to success, which is the fatal influence of so many mistresses and wives. And then what 85an adorable lover she would be! Was it a rare tint38 of soul, which the story she told me yesterday had, and was it different from the ones in the heads of her little friends? A rich protector and much advertisement is the usual ideal of such girls! The only actress who thinks differently must needs meet with Molan, the cold machine for producing prolific50 copy. But what is the use of my understanding and appreciating her like this, when I am on my way to contribute to the closeness of their intimacy52? What absurd chance made me meet Jacques yesterday evening? That must happen to me: it is the symbol of our whole lives, his and mine. I am, or rather am ready to be, the man who really loves; he is the lover. I have the sensibility of a real artist, while he achieves works and reaps the glory of them. Meanwhile I am wasting a very clear morning and my picture is at a standstill. Ah, I shall soon be back and I will send for Malvina. I will work all the afternoon, I will make up for lost time. Directly my commission is executed I will hurry away. I am rather curious to see how the animal is lodged53. He must be making just now from 80,000 to 100,000 francs a year, and it is a great change from his former position.”
It was a long time since I had called upon my old friend. While the lift-man whisked me up to the second floor, where he lived, of a large new house with bow windows of coloured glass, I recalled the numerous quarters where I had known this author, who was such a clever administrator54 of his wealth and talents, and ran over in my mind his rapid 86advance along the highway of Parisan glory. First of all on leaving college he had a little furnished room in the Rue Monsieur le Prince. A portrait of Baudelaire by Félicien Rops and a few bad medallions by David constituted the personal furniture of this retreat. The fastidious arrangement of the books, papers and pens on the table already testified to the worker’s strong will.
Jacques’ only resource then was a small income of 150 francs a month allowed him by his only relative, an old grandmother, who lived in the Provinces, and to whom he behaved like a grateful grandson. I saw him weep real tears when she died, and then he put her into a book. Strange to say, that was the only one of his books which was really bad. Could it be that talent of writing is only nourished by imaginative sensibility, which, to be realized, has need of expression, whereas real sensibility exhausts itself and comes to an end through its own reality? Happily for him, in the early years of his literary life he only depicted55 sentiments which he had not. His first volume, so elegant and yet so brutal56, was, strange to say, scrawled57 in this Latin Quarter garret. His joining the staff of a Boulevard paper and a change of residence showed that the writer did not intend to vegetate58 in the same narrow circle. He took rooms in the Rue de Bellechasse still on the left bank of the river, but now very close to the right bank. The portrait of Baudelaire still remained, to proclaim his fidelity59 to his early artistic60 convictions; but now it was framed in velvet61 and hung 87upon red Adrianople tapestry62, which gave to this retreat an air of a padded shelter. This counter-balanced the lack of artistic character in the furniture, which was on the hire system and very solid and commonplace, without any other pretension63 than the quality of its old oak. The noted64 trader in literary wares65, which Molan was, betrayed himself by his choice of durable66 furniture and a well made desk never likely to need repair. His success still increased, and the period of the little house at Passy came, though directly afterwards the house became unsuitable.
Jacques had not been there eighteen months when the opulent and final abode67 of the successful man took its place. The anteroom where I was received by a little page in livery was sufficient to convince me. A commissionaire, whom I seemed to have seen stationed in my own neighbourhood, was in attendance. I was shown into a large smoking-room which adjoined a small study and contained a case full of rare curios, consisting of old Chinese lacquer-work, admirable sixteenth century bronzes, polished boxes, statuettes from Saxony, and old sweetmeat boxes. The dissimilarity of the objects expressed Molan’s utilitarian68 ideas. He studied the possibility of sale in case of misfortune. A few pictures decorated the walls, but they were all modern with the most excessive and extravagant69 modernity. Paintings by an obscure contemporary sometimes turn out a good investment, for he may be a Millet70 or a Corot. It is a ticket in a lottery71, but the prize is a good one. Molan 88bought these pictures for a few pounds from young painters in distress72, and received them as a return for a little advertisement.
But it was necessary to know him as I knew him to understand the use of this smoking-room, which was destined73 by the fashionable author for show, for interviews and receptions. Its significant feature was order, implacable, studied and fastidious order. Everything displayed this order, but most of all the arrangement of the books on the book-shelves. The books themselves were all the work of young colleagues, who would be flattered by seeing their works bound in colours appropriate to their talents, the colourists in red, the elegists in mauve, and the stylists in Japanese paper. The brilliant new silver articles, the freshness of the Havanna carpet and many other little things showed the eye of a master difficult to please, whose wishes extended to the smallest detail without ever being satisfied. The conversation that the author had with me the previous evening concerning his investments came back to my mind, and I thought he had told me the truth. He himself entered, manicured, shaved, with keen eyes, a fresh colour, and wearing the most delightful74 lounge coat that ever a tailor of genius had made for a man about town. He had in his hand a quill75 pen which he showed me before throwing it into the fire, saying—
“Have I kept you waiting? I had to finish my third page. If I do one page more by half-past twelve I shall have done my day’s work. Four 89pages a day, whether it is a novel or a play, is my method,” and pointing out to me a long row of books not so tastefully bound as the others: “And that is the result.”
“Can you leave and resume your work when you please?” I asked him.
“When I like. It is force of habit, you see. I have regulated my brain as a gas meter is regulated. Does the comparison scandalize you? You have, as I have done, meditated76 upon these words of a great master: 'Patience is that which in man most resembles the proceeding78 which nature employs in her creations.’ Almost automatic regularity79 is the secret of talent! But let us talk of your errand last evening to Camille. There was much weeping and gnashing of teeth, was there not?”
“Not at all,” I replied, rather pleased at being able to disconcert his fatuity80; “she did not even question me in order not to make me tell lies.”
“Yes,” he said with a shrug81 of the shoulders, “that delicacy82 is just like her. We live in an amusing time. You meet with a woman of exquisite83 sentiment, and a delightfully84 fine heart. She turns out to be a poor little actress. Another woman with an income of 200,000 francs, coming of a good family, bearing a famous name, beautiful, and with a position in society, is a bad actress. But if the little one is romantic, she is shrewdly romantic. She had scruples85 about making you speak, so as not to ask you to betray a friend. Then she turned to the right place to learn the 90truth. She sent an express message to Fomberteau this morning.”
“Did you not foresee that?”
“I reckoned on calling upon her when I went out. She was too quick for me. Fomberteau sent her this reply,” and he took a piece of paper from his pocket. “Imagine Camille as she read this”—
“'Dear friend, I had no duel86 to fight. Your Jacques therefore was not my second. Except that, all the rest is true. Set your mind at rest regarding both of us, and as it is press day please excuse me from coming in person to thank you for your kind anxiety.’ To this Camille has added a postscript87: 'As you gave me an explanation yesterday which was not true, I have the right to another one, the true one, and I am waiting for it.’”
“What time did you get this letter?” I asked him.
“About twenty-five minutes ago. The messenger is waiting. I wanted to see you and know what she said to you. She has lost nothing by waiting. I am going to reply to her in my best style.”
“I should be curious,” I said, “to know by what new scheme you will excuse yourself.”
“I!” he replied as he sat down at a little table and began to write, “by none. I am telling her that I have not the least explanation to give her, and I do not wish her to allow herself another time to play tricks upon me as she did when she sent to Fomberteau.”
“You will not do that,” I interrupted him 91quickly. “The poor girl loves you with all her heart. She could not bear the doubt. She thought you were lying to her and she wanted to know the truth. Come, is not that natural? Had she not the right? Be just. It is so simple to find another excuse. Rather tell her the truth as she asks for it; it will, too, be less trouble.”
“There is only one slight objection,” Jacques replied as he fastened the note, rang the electric bell to summon the messenger, and gave it to him, “and it is that I should be perfectly88 happy if Camille quarrelled with me. That is, too, another principle as absolute as the regularity of work. When a man wishes to break with his mistress, the more insignificant89 the motive24 the better. My progress is so good in the other direction that I don’t need her any longer to urge on her rival. As you are my 'beater,’ and I know that you are as silent as a tomb, I will tell you everything in spite of those noble phrases about discretion90, more especially as up to the present this confidence only compromises me. Last evening I obtained an appointment from Madam de Bonnivet. You would never guess the place though, not in a thousand times. At Pére Lachaise, before the tomb of Musset like the other girl. You don’t think that is very grand, do you? From the cemetery91 to the carriage is like the sublime92 to the ridiculous, and it is only one step, and from the carriage to a place of my acquaintance is the programme and only another step. For you know one never ought to take a woman to one’s own home. Under these circumstances 92Camille quarrels with me, so much the better! But don’t look at me as if you would like to say: 'My dear Molan, you are a monster.’”
If I had still doubted the keen sentiment inspired in me by the charming Camille, the doubt would have been swept away by the cruel emotion I experienced at this cynical94 speech. I could see the reality of the drama in which I was concerned as a witness; as in some duels95 the sight of a life very dear to him in danger makes the second paler than the duellist96, Little Favier’s passionate love served Jacques as an attack upon the vanity of the blasé woman of the world who was coquettish and coldly perverse97 without doubt, but also elegant, envied and rich, and afterwards whom his vanity and curiosity attracted. The heart of the poor little actress which had remained na?ve and romantic in spite of his disenchanting existence, her true heart—which I had felt to be so true, which had opened with such spontaneity in an hour of inward suffering—was about to be broken, torn and crushed between two prides fighting one against the other—and what prides they were!
This most ferocious98 and implacable of all prides, that of an almost great lady and an almost great author, both gangrened with egoism by their habitual99 display, was withered100 by their constant and detestable study of the effect produced, without which a person does not retain the world’s uncertain prestige. By frightfully certain intuition, I at once measured the depth of the abyss in which my friend of the previous evening unknown 93to herself was plunged101. The extreme clearness of this vision prevented me answering Jacques with indignation, as he no doubt expected and was prepared to amuse himself at my simplicity102. He would have chaffed me, and that would have annoyed me. He would have told me in words what his enigmatic smile expressed. “If she pleases you so there is a place for you to take at once as her consoler.” I can give myself the credit for not using that ugly expression. But I lay claim to no other merit. Is there any merit in not profaning103 in oneself an image which only pleases when it is tender and pure? Strange though it may seem to apply this word to a girl whom I knew to be the mistress of one of my comrades, I respected in Camille that foolish illusion by which her twenty-two years risked on a single card their precious treasure of delicate dreams, na?ve tenderness and noble chimeras105. I respected in her the dream which she had already made me dream.
During that conversation last evening, the inmost depths of my melancholy106 had trembled at the thought that had I met her a little sooner, before she gave herself to Molan, understood and pleased her, perhaps this unreasonable107 and touching108 child would have turned to me in her need to take up with another artist those ancient and ridiculed109 parts of muse47 and inspirer. What maker110 of beauty, however, has not sighed for the presence near him of a charming woman’s mind, of a dear and devoted111 face from which to drink in courage in times of lassitude, of two weak but 94steady hands to clasp in his own weary ones, or a faithful shoulder on which to rest his weary brow. It was enough to have associated this sigh of regret for some minutes with the name of Jacques’ mistress for the hope of a common and spiteful adventure with this poor girl not to need dismissing. But the fact of my not nourishing a dirty gallant112 project did not prevent my sympathy, which was already unhealthy, growing during this talk with my comrade. That is why instead of writing to Malvina the model, according to the wise plan formed a few hours before, I followed my illogical visit of the morning by one still more illogical in the afternoon, and that imprudent day terminated by a third also foolish visit. An attack of irrationality113 was beginning. It is not over yet as my pen trembled in my hand at recording114 Jacques’ brutal phrases. On the point of setting down the details of these two other episodes which finished the prologue115 of this private tragedy, I had to put down the pen. I had a pain in my memories, just as a person suffers from a badly-closed wound. Nevertheless, by a contradiction which I suffered without being able to explain, a charm arises from these sorrowful souvenirs, a magic and an attraction.
The second visit I paid was, as can easily be guessed, to the poor Blue Duchess herself, as I had begun to call her in my heart; and I forgot the pedantic116 reminiscence which had inspired Jacques Molan with this name, in making it convey the tender grace, and the fantastic melancholy of 95one of Watteau’s dreams which are chimerical117 and caressing118, ideal and voluptuous119. There was certainly no more difference between the sentimentalism which this pretty child had ingenuously120 confessed to me on the previous evening, and the practical materialism121 of her lover, than between the sumptuous122 new house in the Place Delaborde and the third floor in the modest Rue de la Barouillére where I rang about two o’clock. The faded tints of the badly painted front harmonized with the sordidness123 of the hall, and the glacial chill of the uncarpeted wooden staircase, the dirty stairs of which sloped towards the street. An air of shabby mediocrity extended over the old building, and the common visiting cards nailed to the doors, at which I was curious enough to look, revealed what sort of tenants124 dragged out their existence there. These poor houses abound125 in the old streets near the Faubourg Saint Germain, and as the highest rent is 1,200 francs they are the last haven126 open to all the waifs of humble127 middle-class virtue128. While I listened to the bell and the sound of approaching footsteps all my impressions were moved at this evidence of sentimental analogy which touched me still more. I wished to discover in the fact that the already well-known actress continued to live here a proof that she had not lied to me when she spoke31 of her mother’s and her own peaceful life, an obvious sign of a total absence of vanity and an indisputable evidence of her pride. If she had ceased to be modest, she had not sold herself for luxury. She had given 96herself to love and adoration129. Alas130! I was very quickly to learn that the temptation for great Parisan elegance131, too natural to a fine young creature when she has known and lost it, still composed one of the elements of the moral drama which was being enacted132 in her.
While these thoughts were in my mind the door opened. An old servant, very simply dressed, after some hesitation133 told me she would see if the ladies were at home and showed me into a little drawing-room. It was full of furniture, too full in fact. If I had raised the covers from the furniture I should have seen that the quality of the upholstery and the gilded134 wood betokened135 former opulence136. A beautiful tapestry covered one of the walls. It had been necessary to double it up to adapt it to the size of the room, the ceiling of which I could almost reach with my cane137. The grand piano, the great bronze clock, and the too lofty candelabra had also come from a financier’s mansion15. These mute witnesses of vanished splendour told by their presence alone of the melancholy of the ruin with more eloquence138 than any phrases could do. Besides, I had scarcely time to meditate77 upon what Claude Larcher, in his evil days of pedantry139, had called the psychology140 of this furniture before a woman of about fifty entered the drawing-room. I could see at a glance that she was Camille’s mother.
Madam Favier at an interval141 of a quarter of a century resembled her child with a similarity of features which became almost sad in its aging and 97deformation. There is something very sorrowful in finding oneself face to face with the anticipated spectre of a fine young beauty, whom one admires and is beginning to love. Still the mother’s and daughter’s expression were so different that the likeness142 was at once corrected. Just as Camille’s blue eyes, with their pupils in turn very clear or very dark, very animated143 and very languishing144, revealed a passionate inequality of soul, and profound troubles, so did the peaceful and sluggish145 azure146 of Madam Favier’s eyes tell of passive serenity147, resigned acceptance, and above all happiness. This woman, the widow of the stock-broker, whose life ended in a tragedy, was the image of internal peace. Seeing her as I saw her, a little fat, with the fresh colour of health in her full cheeks, and if not elegant at any rate very tasteful in a dress which was almost fashionable, it was impossible at first to imagine that this woman had endured the trials of a drama, of ruin and suicide, and that this tranquil148 and irreproachable149 dowager was simply an actress’ mother.
But we have changed all that, as my friend used to say. Did I myself look like a painter who believed in the ancient traditions, or did my comrades? Does the aspiring150 clubman, dressed like a tailor’s fashionplate as Jacques Molan, look any more like Henry Murger’s Bohemians? But do we not live in the days when a successful play brings in an income for years equal to the capital and revenue of a farm in Beauce, when the portrait of an American brings in 15,000, 20,000, or 30,000 98francs, and when an associate of the Comédie Fran?aise draws the salary of an Ambassador before retiring with the red ribbon in his button-hole, while actresses on tour abroad are received at monarch’s receptions. The barrier of prejudices or principles which separated the artistic life from the world of society has been broken down, to the applause of the democrats151 and progressives? The example of Jacques and my studies have convinced me that it is on the contrary one of the worst errors of the period. The artist has always gained by being treated almost like an outcast. His natural taste for the brilliant, which is the inevitable152 ransom153 of his powers of imagination, so soon turns to vanity when it is the dupe of decorum, luxury and the praises of the smart woman in particular, which is also a flattery irresistible to his self-respect and senses! When he does not succumb154 to the temptation, he goes to the other excess, quite as natural to this irritable155 class and no less dangerous, that of revolted and misanthropic156 pride.
But I am falling into a great failing of mine, that of indefinite and never-ending reverie. Let us go back to that which remains157 the true corrective of all vices158, intellectual and otherwise, “Reality.” So I was sitting facing the respectable Madam Favier, in the drawing-room with its covered up furniture, with a rather sheepish look at finding myself with the mother when I had come to see the daughter. The widow, however, soon reassured159 me as she entertained me with commonplace conversation suitable to her appearance and birth. 99I have found out since that she was the daughter of a small business man in the north, and had been married for her beauty by the romantic father of the romantic Camille after a chance meeting.
“Camille is coming directly,” she said to me. “The dressmaker is with her trying a dress on. The poor child is not very well to-day. Her profession, sir, is a very trying one, and she wants a rest already. We were wrong not to go to the seaside this year. Do you know Yport, sir? It is very pretty, and very quiet, but we have been there six summers. I like, when I go into the country, to go to a familiar place. You are so much better treated if you do, and feel more at home. When my dear husband was alive we spent two months every year in Switzerland. We always went on July 16 and came back on September 15. I have never been there since, for it would bring sad memories back to my mind. Have you come to talk to Camille about her portrait?”
“Has she spoken about it to you then? She has not forgotten?” I said.
“No, certainly not,” her mother answered, “and I was very pleased and astonished when she told me, for it is very difficult to get her to sit for her portrait. Did you think of showing Camille’s portrait at the annual exhibition of pictures? It will be an excellent thing, I think, for you, and not bad for her. We are waiting, before moving back to our old neighbourhood where we have a few friends, till Camille has signed a definite engagement. The Théatre-Fran?ais 100has offered her one, but as they let her go after she had won two prizes, she has been advised to make them pay her a large salary now she is famous. I am willing for her to do so; but I tell her that the house of Moliére is to the other theatres what a great shop like the Louvre or the Bon Marché is to one belonging to a small retailer160.”
I am not quite sure I am reproducing these phrases in their right order. But on looking at them I am very sure of their tenor161, and more so still of the mind which inspired them, as well as the phrases which followed. Poor Madam Favier was so simple as to be sometimes almost common, and so trusting as to be almost loquacious162. Her mind was a very solid and sensible one and that of a woman who had retained her good sense through her ruin. This phenomenon is rarer even than sentiment in an actress. Usually these sudden falls from the Olympus of opulence have as a result a moral bewilderment which last for the rest of life. Ruined people seem to lose with their money every faculty163 of adaptation to the narrow circle of activity in which their social downfall imprisons164 them. It is particularly so when their wealth has only been an episode between two periods of poverty.
This alternation of situations is like a phantasmagoria in which judgment165 is warped166. To have withstood such a shock Madam Favier must have been absolutely, as her youthful smile, her fresh cheeks, and the harmonious167 lines of her face showed 101her to be, a simple creature tranquil in her positivism, and quite the opposite of this girl whose future she foresaw as she would have foreseen the future of a son who had joined the army. Her steps from the Conservatoire to the Odéon, Vaudeville168 and Comédie Fran?aise were fixed169 in this good woman’s mind with a regularity which was the more astonishing because her education had been such as to make her think of another type of destiny for a woman. How had such a revolution been accomplished170 in her mind? Is it necessary to explain that there are certain natures whose primordial171 instinct is to model themselves on circumstances, just as the instinct of others is to struggle and rebel against them? The latter case was that of the poor Blue Duchess. This essential difference between their two characters had prevented any real intimacy between the two women. They had not and could not have real intercourse172. I realized this only too well when after ten minutes conversation with her mother, I saw Camille enter with a pale face and eyes red from weeping, for her trouble was so obvious, and yet her mother never even, suspected it!
“It is your turn to try on now, mother,” she said. “We will wait for you. M. la Croix has a few minutes to spare us I am sure.” But when the good lady had shut the door she said “Have you seen Jacques?”
“I called on him this morning,” I replied.
“Then you know that I am aware of everything?”
102“I know you wrote to Fomberteau,” I replied evasively.
“You know, too, your friend’s answer, when I asked for an explanation of his deception173? He has sent you to find out for him what impression his infamous174 note has produced upon me? Now, confess that is so, it will be more straightforward175.”
“Why do you judge me to be like that, mademoiselle?” I said, displaying grief which she could see was sincere, for she looked at me in astonishment176, while even I was surprised at my own words: “You were more just to me. You understand that sometimes silence is neither an approbation177 nor a complicity. It is true that Jacques did not conceal178 his sorry scheme nor his note from me. I did not hide from him what I thought of his harshness, and if I come here it is of my own accord, under the impulse of a sympathy which I admit I have no right to feel. We have only been friends for twenty-four hours and yet I feel that sympathy. You spoke to me with such a noble outpouring of the heart, with such touching confidence that henceforth, I thought, we cannot be strangers. I felt that you were unhappy and I came to you simply and naturally. If it was an indiscretion you have thoroughly179 punished me for it.”
“Forgive me,” she said in different tones with an altered look as she stretched out her little burning hand to me. “I am suffering and that makes me unjust. I, too, though I hardly know you, feel too keen a sympathy for you to doubt yours. But this note from Jacques has wounded me and 103he really has gone too far. He knows that I love him and he thinks he can do as he pleases with me. He is mistaken. He does not know where he is hurting me by playing with my heart in the way he is doing!”
“Do not be enraged180 at what is only a burst of anger in him,” I said, full of apprehension181. “You wrote to Fomberteau. For the moment Jacques was wounded. He wrote most unkindly to you, but I am sure he regrets it by this time.”
“He?” she cried with a nasty laugh. “If you are saying what you think, you hardly know him. That which causes me the most pain, please understand me, is not what he has done to me, though that makes me suffer cruelly, it is what he pretends to himself to be from the idea I had of him. I put him so high, so high! I saw in him a being apart from others, some one rare, as rare as his talent! Yet I find him like the lovers of all my theatre companions, the worst of their lovers, those who have not even the courage of their infidelities and conceal them by girlish untruths, those to whom the love given to them is nothing more than vanity, a woman’s sentiment to be put in the button-hole like a flower. But come, my passion blinds me no longer. That rends182 me, and he, who is so intelligent, does not even suspect the nature of my suffering. Don’t you think that I guessed that creature Madam de Bonnivet invited him to supper last evening, or else to see her home, or worse still? We know what fashionable women are when they once begin. We have about us 104the same men as they do, and they tell us their stories. They are sometimes haughty183 wretches184; and Jacques accepted her invitation because she has a house, horses, pictures, dresses by Worth, 50,000 franc necklaces, and 30,000 franc furs. But I, too, some day when I like, will have luxury since that is what pleases this great writer with the soul of a snob185. I have only to accept Tournade as my lover, the big fellow with a face like a coachman whom you saw in my dressing-room, and I shall have a house as good as Madam Bonnivet’s barrack, diamonds, dresses by Worth, carriages and horses. I will have them, I will have them, and he shall know it. He will be the man who has turned me into a kept woman, a courtesan, and I will tell him so and shout it after him. Do you think I dare not?”
“No, you will not dare,” I replied; “even to say it raises a feeling of disgust in you.”
“No,” she replied in a dull voice, “you must not think me better than I really am. There are days when that glittering life tempts186 me. I have been rich, you see. Up to the age of twelve or thirteen I was surrounded by all the luxuries it was possible for a father making 100,000 francs a year on the Stock Exchange to give his only daughter. Ah well, at times I miss that luxury. The mediocrity of this drab, vulgar and commonplace existence disgusts and oppresses me. When I am waiting for a tram with a waterproof187 and overshoes to save a cab fare of 35 sous, I sometimes get impatient, and those tempting188 words, 'If you 105liked,’ come into my mind. Ah! when I have a soul full of happiness, when I can think that I love and am loved, that I am realizing and carrying out the romance of my youth, that Jacques clings to me as I do to him, and that I shall remain mingled189 in his life and work, then it is an intoxication to answer myself: 'If I liked? But I do not like.’ I smile at my beloved poverty because it is my beloved chimera104. But when I have terrible evidence, as I did to-day, that I am the dupe of a mirage190, that this man has no more heart than the wood of this furniture”—and she struck with her clenched191 fist the table upon which she was leaning while she talked to me—“then I make a different reply to the temptation. 'If I liked?’ I repeat and I reply: 'It is true, and I am very foolish not to like!’ I shall not always be so.”
“You will always be so,” I said as I took her hand again, “because this foolishness simply consists in having what you believe Jacques has not, I mean a heart. But then he has one of a sort,” I added, “and you will be of that opinion this evening or to-morrow morning.”
“You do not know me,” she replied with a frown upon her pretty forehead and a tremor192 of hatred193 around her fine mouth, which had become bitter again. “He will have to humble himself and wait days and days for his pardon. Yesterday you only saw me as the weak and amorous woman. There is another side to my character, the bad side. You will find it out. There is another characteristic, too, pride; but don’t be any the less 106my friend,” she went on, introducing a subtle touch of melancholy into her anger. The grace of this sudden change of front brought the shadow of a sad smile to her face. She wiped away with her handkerchief two large tears, and added with a shrug of the shoulders in a childish tone which contrasted graciously, too, with the tragic194 discourse195 which had just preceded it: “I hear mother coming back. I don’t want her to see that I have been crying. As I am ashamed of lying to her, let us do so thoroughly.”
What a conversation this was for a man to hear who, as I, since the previous evening, had been invaded by the most passionate interests, and by an emotion so keen that it was real love! During the hours of that afternoon of confidences I could do nothing but ask myself: “Was she sincere? Would it be possible for despair to make her take that horrible course?” I could see in my mind that fat Tournade, and the gleam of the eyes of that horrible being standing51 out from his red face. I discerned now on reflection a will I had not realized on the previous evening, that of the rich and patient rake who is weary of play and fastens himself upon a particular woman. At the same time I could see Jacques Molan as I had left him that morning, and his look when he had spoken of his scheme for a rupture196. But it was impossible that he could suspect the responsibility he was incurring197. I tried to demonstrate to myself that there was more affectation than real perversity198 in his nature as a literary man and that 107it was inoffensive. It is always childish for a man to make such a parade of himself, even when, as in his case, it was diplomatic and calculated. Was he not better than his attitudes and paradoxes199? Who knows? In telling him simply and frankly200 my impression of the evil he could do this poor girl, should I not touch in him a chord of remorse? There is, however, a sentimental honour, a probity201, trivial but strictly202 accurate, in affairs of the heart, as there is professional honour and probity in money matters. How many people anarchists203 in theory recognize in practice this pecuniary204 probity! They preach the suppression of inheritance, and they would not rob you of a farthing in a business transaction. Why had not Jacques too a fund of scruples and probity in the presence of an obviously bad action to be committed or not?
This reasoning resulted, after weighing the pros205 and cons13, after resolving to speak to him and then proving to myself the ridiculousness of doing so, in my once more, about six o’clock, crossing the threshold of his house in the Place Delaborde, only to discover that Molan was not there. I went to dinner hoping to meet him as I had done the previous evening; I did not do so. Seeing the impossibility of meeting him, I wanted at least to have another talk with the woman who had been the cause of my fruitless search, the seductive Camille Favier, whose frail206 silhouette207, blue eyes and emotional smile, pursued me with an obsession much more irresistible than my pity justified208. That was the pretext I found as I made my way to 108the Vaudeville. I reached the theatre even before the end of the first act. My weakness inflicted209 upon me a feeling of shame, which made me hesitate about entering. I can see myself now walking round the entrance, first of all looking at the staircase leading to the theatre and then at the stage door in the Chaussée d’Antin. At last I made up my mind to enter by the latter door, and as I did so the audience were coming out in the interval. I ran up against Jacques himself.
“Are you going to see Camille?” he asked with a heartiness210 through which I discerned malice211, and I believe I blushed as I replied—
“No, I am running after you.”
“You have come to plead her cause, I am sure,” he said as he took my arm. “I know you had a talk with her this afternoon and even defended me. I thank you, for it would have been quite legitimate212 for you to try and profit by the situation. Only you are an honourable213 man. The cause is won and we are so reconciled, your friend and I, that to-morrow she is coming to visit me in my 'Abode of Love,’ as your friend Larcher calls it.”
“What of Madam de Bonnivet?” I asked him, surprised at this unexpected change of front.
“Madam de Bonnivet is nothing but a simpleton, a woman of the world in all her horror. She kept the appointment at Pére Lachaise. She came there with the intention of making me climb to the top of the yew214 trees between which we walked. She played the coquette there more coldly than in her own drawing-room. As I don’t like to be 109laughed at, we separated after what was almost a quarrel.”
“So Camille benefits by the desire rejected by the other woman?” I interrupted. “That is what is called a 'transfer’ in the money market.”
“No, not that,” he said as he shook his head. “A man’s heart is more complicated than that. After seeing Madam de Bonnivet to her carriage, for she had the audacity215, or if you prefer it, the precaution, to come to the rendezvous216 in her private carriage, I told her in English the astonishing phrase Lord Herbert Bohun used to Madam éthorel when he had the audacity to make a declaration to her on his second visit, and which is the finest example of insolence217 and fatuity I know! 'You know I shan’t give you another chance.’ I raised my hat too tranquilly218 for the fool to think I was sincere. But I was. I lit a cigar, reaching the Boulevard on foot with a quickness which surprised even myself. I made the discovery that not only I did not love this woman, but that she really displeased219 me. With her a visit to my bachelor’s apartments, the usual theatre of my pleasures, would have been a sport which flattered my vanity without a doubt, but still an unpleasant job. She is, then, quaint93 and pretentious220. Then the image of the other one came into my mind, and this infidelity which I had almost committed against her made her seem adorable by comparison, so adorable that I at once went into a café to write to my pretty Camille a letter of reconciliation221. I would have given my 110author’s fees for that evening for Queen Anne to have seen me, for without a doubt she believed I was in some corner shedding the tears of wounded love and humiliated222 vanity. That would be like me, would it not?”
“Did Mademoiselle Favier answer your note?” I asked.
“A six-page letter which is a masterpiece, just like everything she writes to me—five and a half pages to tell me she would never forgive me, and the last half-page to forgive me. It is a classic! But where are you going? I believe you were going to see her.”
“I repeat that I was looking for you,” I replied. “I have found you, but what I had to tell you you have found out. You are doing her justice and have done so to the other one. Your lover’s quarrel is over. You are reconciled and happy. There is nothing left for me to do but bless you.”
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1
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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2
bantering
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| adj.嘲弄的v.开玩笑，说笑，逗乐( banter的现在分词 )；（善意地）取笑，逗弄 | |
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disabused
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| v.去除…的错误想法( disabuse的过去式和过去分词 )；使醒悟 | |
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intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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12
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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13
cons
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| n.欺骗，骗局( con的名词复数 )v.诈骗，哄骗( con的第三人称单数 ) | |
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14
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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15
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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17
densely
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| ad.密集地；浓厚地 | |
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18
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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obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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malaria
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| n.疟疾 | |
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caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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26
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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27
doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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28
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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prettily
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| adv.优美地；可爱地 | |
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31
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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32
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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33
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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34
incipient
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| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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retail
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| v./n.零售；adv.以零售价格 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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38
tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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39
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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40
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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41
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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42
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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43
liaison
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| n.联系，（未婚男女间的）暖昧关系，私通 | |
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44
instil
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| v.逐渐灌输 | |
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45
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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46
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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47
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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48
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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49
emanate
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| v.发自，来自，出自 | |
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50
prolific
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| adj.丰富的，大量的；多产的，富有创造力的 | |
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51
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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52
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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53
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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54
administrator
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| n.经营管理者，行政官员 | |
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55
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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56
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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57
scrawled
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
vegetate
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| v.无所事事地过活 | |
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59
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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60
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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61
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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62
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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63
pretension
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| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
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64
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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65
wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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66
durable
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| adj.持久的，耐久的 | |
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67
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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68
utilitarian
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| adj.实用的，功利的 | |
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69
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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70
millet
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| n.小米，谷子 | |
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71
lottery
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| n.抽彩；碰运气的事，难于算计的事 | |
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72
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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73
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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74
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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75
quill
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| n.羽毛管；v.给（织物或衣服）作皱褶 | |
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76
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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77
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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78
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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79
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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80
fatuity
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| n.愚蠢，愚昧 | |
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81
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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82
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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83
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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84
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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85
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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86
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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87
postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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88
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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89
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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90
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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91
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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92
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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93
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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94
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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95
duels
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| n.两男子的决斗( duel的名词复数 )；竞争，斗争 | |
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96
duellist
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| n.决斗者；[体]重剑运动员 | |
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97
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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98
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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99
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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100
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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101
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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102
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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103
profaning
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| v.不敬( profane的现在分词 )；亵渎，玷污 | |
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104
chimera
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| n.神话怪物；梦幻 | |
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105
chimeras
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| n.（由几种动物的各部分构成的）假想的怪兽( chimera的名词复数 )；不可能实现的想法；幻想；妄想 | |
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106
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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107
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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108
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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109
ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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110
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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111
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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112
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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113
irrationality
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| n. 不合理，无理性 | |
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114
recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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115
prologue
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| n.开场白，序言；开端，序幕 | |
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116
pedantic
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| adj.卖弄学问的；迂腐的 | |
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117
chimerical
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| adj.荒诞不经的，梦幻的 | |
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118
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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119
voluptuous
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|
| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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120
ingenuously
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| adv.率直地，正直地 | |
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121
materialism
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| n.［哲］唯物主义，唯物论；物质至上 | |
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122
sumptuous
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|
| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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123
sordidness
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| n.肮脏；污秽；卑鄙；可耻 | |
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124
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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125
abound
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| vi.大量存在；(in，with)充满，富于 | |
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126
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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127
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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128
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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129
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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130
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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131
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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132
enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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133
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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134
gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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135
betokened
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|
| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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136
opulence
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| n.财富，富裕 | |
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137
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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138
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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139
pedantry
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| n.迂腐，卖弄学问 | |
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140
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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141
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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142
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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143
animated
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|
| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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144
languishing
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| a. 衰弱下去的 | |
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145
sluggish
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|
| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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146
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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147
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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148
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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149
irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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150
aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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151
democrats
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| n.民主主义者，民主人士( democrat的名词复数 ) | |
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152
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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153
ransom
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| n.赎金，赎身；v.赎回，解救 | |
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154
succumb
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| v.屈服，屈从；死 | |
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155
irritable
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|
| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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156
misanthropic
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|
| adj.厌恶人类的，憎恶（或蔑视）世人的；愤世嫉俗 | |
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157
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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158
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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159
reassured
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|
| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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160
retailer
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| n.零售商(人) | |
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161
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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162
loquacious
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| adj.多嘴的，饶舌的 | |
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163
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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164
imprisons
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| v.下狱，监禁( imprison的第三人称单数 ) | |
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165
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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166
warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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167
harmonious
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|
| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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168
vaudeville
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| n.歌舞杂耍表演 | |
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169
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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170
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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171
primordial
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| adj.原始的；最初的 | |
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172
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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173
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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174
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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175
straightforward
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|
| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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176
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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177
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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178
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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179
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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180
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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181
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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182
rends
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| v.撕碎( rend的第三人称单数 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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183
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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184
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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185
snob
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| n.势利小人，自以为高雅、有学问的人 | |
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186
tempts
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| v.引诱或怂恿（某人）干不正当的事( tempt的第三人称单数 )；使想要 | |
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187
waterproof
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| n.防水材料；adj.防水的；v.使...能防水 | |
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188
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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189
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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190
mirage
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| n.海市蜃楼，幻景 | |
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191
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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192
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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193
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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194
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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195
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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196
rupture
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| n.破裂；(关系的)决裂；v.(使)破裂 | |
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197
incurring
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| 遭受，招致，引起( incur的现在分词 ) | |
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198
perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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199
paradoxes
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| n.似非而是的隽语，看似矛盾而实际却可能正确的说法( paradox的名词复数 )；用于语言文学中的上述隽语；有矛盾特点的人[事物，情况] | |
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200
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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201
probity
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| n.刚直；廉洁，正直 | |
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202
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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203
anarchists
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| 无政府主义者( anarchist的名词复数 ) | |
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204
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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205
pros
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| abbr.prosecuting 起诉；prosecutor 起诉人；professionals 自由职业者；proscenium （舞台）前部n.赞成的意见( pro的名词复数 )；赞成的理由；抵偿物；交换物 | |
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206
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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207
silhouette
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| n.黑色半身侧面影，影子，轮廓；v.描绘成侧面影，照出影子来，仅仅显出轮廓 | |
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208
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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209
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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210
heartiness
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| 诚实，热心 | |
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211
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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212
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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213
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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214
yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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215
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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216
rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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217
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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218
tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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219
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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220
pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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221
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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222
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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