But Félise, although a good Catholic in her very simple way, and anxious to win favour by observance of the rules of the solitary7 household, was wicked enough to wish that her aunt were not quite so pious. In religious matters a wide latitudinarianism prevailed at the H?tel des Grottes. There, with a serene8 conscience, one could eat meat on Fridays and crack a mild joke at the expense of the good Saint Peter. But neither forbidden flesh nor jocularity on any subject, let alone on a saint’s minor9 foibles, mitigated10 the austerities of the perky, wind-swept little house at Chartres. No wonder, thought Félise, Aunt Clothilde had married off a regiment11 of daughters—four to be exact; it had been an easy matter; she herself would have married any caricature of a man rather than spend her life in an atmosphere so rarefied and so depressing. She pitied her cousins, although, according to her Aunt Clothilde’s pragmatical account, they were all doing splendidly and had innumerable babies. By the end of the first week of her visit, she consolidated12 an intense dislike to Chartres and everything in it, especially the Cathedral. Now, it may be thought that any one who can shake the fist of disapprobation at the Cathedral of Chartres, is beyond the pale of human sympathy. But when you are dragged relentlessly13 thither14 in the icy dark of every winter morning, and the bitter gloom of every winter evening, to say nothing of sporadic15 attendances during the daytime, you may be pardoned if your ?sthetic perceptions are obscured by the sense of outrage17 inflicted18 on your personal comfort. To many generations of men the Cathedral has been a symbol of glories, revelations and eternities. In such slanting19 shafts20 of light, mystically hued21, the Grail might have been made manifest, the Sacred Dove might have glided22 down to the Head of the Holy One. . . . But what need to tell of its spiritual wonders and of its mystery, the heart of which it is given to every suffering man to pluck out according to his own soul’s needs? It was a little tragedy that to poor Félise the Cathedral symbolised nothing but an overwhelming tyranny. She hated every stone of it, as much as she hated every shiny plank23 and every polished chair in her aunt’s frigid24 salon25. Even the streets of Chartres repelled26 her by their bleakness27. They lacked the smiling homeliness28 of Brant?me; and the whole place was flatter than the Sahara. She sighed for the rocks and hills of Périgord.
She also ate the unaccustomed bread of idleness. Had her aunt permitted, she would delightedly have helped with the house-work. But Madame Robineau, widow of a dealer29 in grain who, before his death, had retired30 on a comfortable fortune, lived, according to her lights, at her ease, her wants being scrupulously31 administered to by a cook and a maid. There was no place in the domestic machine for Félise. Her aunt passed long chilly32 hours over ecclesiastical embroidery34, sitting bolt upright in her chair with a chaufferette beneath her feet. Félise, unaccustomed needlewoman, passed longer and chillier35 hours (having no chaufferette) either playing with a grey ascetic36 cat or reading aloud La Croix, the only newspaper allowed to cross the threshold of the house. Now and again, Madame Robineau would drop her thin hands into her lap and regard her disapprovingly37. One day she said, interrupting the reading,
“My poor child, how your education has been neglected. You scarcely know how to hold a needle, you can’t read aloud without making faults, and you are ignorant of the elements of our holy religion.”
“My Aunt,” Félise replied, “I know how to manage an hotel.”
“That would be of little use to your husband.”
“I am never going to marry, ma tante,” she said.
“You surely do not expect to be admitted into a convent?”
“Heaven forbid!” cried Félise.
“Heaven would forbid,” said Madame Robineau severely39, “seeing that you have not the vocation40. But the jeune fille bien élevée”—in the mouth of her Aunt Clothilde the familiar phrase assumed a detestable significance, implying, to Félise’s mind, a pallid41 young creature from whom all blood and laughter had been driven by undesirable42 virtues—“the jeune fille bien élevée has only two careers offered to her—the convent or marriage. For you, my dear child, it is marriage.”
“Well,” said Félise, with a smile, preparing, to resume the article in the newspaper over which she had stumbled, “perhaps the beautiful prince will come along one of these days.”
“It is true, what I said, that your education has been neglected. A young girl’s duty is not to look for princes, but to accept the husband chosen by the wisdom of her family.”
“Ma tante,” said Félise demurely45, after a pause during which her aunt took up her work again. “If you would teach me how to embroider33, perhaps I might learn to be useful in my future home.”
From this and many other conversations, Félise began to be aware of the subtle strategy of Bigourdin. On the plea of providing her with pro-maternal46 consolation47, he had delivered her into the hands of the enemy. This became abundantly clear as the days went on. Aunt Clothilde, incited48 thereto by her uncle, was opening a deadly campaign in favour of Lucien Viriot. Now, the cathedral, though paralysing, could be borne for a season, and so could the blight49 that pervaded50 the house; but the campaign was intolerable. If she could have resented the action of one so beloved as Bigourdin, she would have resented his sending her to her Aunt Clothilde. Under the chaperonage of the respectable Madame Chauvet she had fallen into a pretty trap. She had found none of the promised sympathy. Aunt Clothilde, although receiving her with the affectionate hospitality due to a sister’s child, had from the first interview frozen the genial51 current of her little soul. The great bronze cross in itself repelled her. If it had been a nice, gentle little cross, rising and falling on a motherly bosom, it would have worked its all-human, adorable influence. But this was a harsh, aggressive, come-and-be-crucified sort of cross, with no suggestion of pity or understanding. The sallow, austere53 face above it might have easily been twisted into such a cross. It conveyed no invitation to the sufferer to pour out her troubles. Uncle Bigourdin was wrong again. Rather would Félise have poured out her troubles into the portentous54 ear of the Suisse at the Cathedral.
Her aunt and herself met nowhere on common ground. They were for ever at variance55. Madame Robineau spoke56 disparagingly57 of the English, because they were Protestants and therefore heretics.
“But I am English, and I am not a heretic,” cried Félise.
“You are not English,” replied her aunt, “because you have a French mother and have been brought up in France. And as for not being a heretic, I am not so sure. Monsieur l’Abbé Duloup thinks you must have been brought up among Freemasons.”
“Ah non, par16 exemple!” exclaimed Félise indignantly. For, in the eyes of the Church, French Freemasons are dreadful folk, capable of anything sacrilegious, from denying the miracle of Saint Januarius to slitting59 the Pope’s weasand. So—“Ah! non par exemple!” cried Félise.
Freemasons, indeed! Her Uncle Gaspard, it is true, did not attend church regularly—but yes, he did attend regularly—he went once a year, every Easter Sunday, and he was the best of friends with Monsieur le Curé of their Paroisse. And as for herself, Monsieur le Curé, who looked like a venerable saint in the holy pictures, had always a smile and a ma chère enfant for her whenever they met. She was on excellent terms with Monsieur le Curé; he would no more have dreamed of associating her with Freemasons than of accusing her of being in league with devils.
He was a good, common-sensical old curé, like thousands of the secular60 clergy61 in France, and knew how to leave well alone. Questioned by the ecclesiastically environed Abbé Duloup as to the spiritual state of Félise, he would indubitably have answered with serene conviction:—
“If a soul so pure and so candid62, which I have watched from childhood, is not acceptable to the bon Dieu, then I know no more about the bon Dieu than I know about the Emperor of Patagonia.”
But Félise, disliking the Abbé Duloup and many of his works, felt a delicacy63 in dragging her own curé into the argument and contented64 herself with protesting against the charge of heresy65. As a matter of fact, she proclaimed her Uncle Gaspard was not a Freemason. He held in abhorrence66 all secret political societies as being subversive67 of the State. No one should attack her Uncle Gaspard, although he had betrayed her so shabbily.
In vain she sought some link with her aunt. Even Mimi, the lean old cat, did not form a bond of union. As a vagrant68 kitten it had been welcomed years ago by the late good-natured Robineau, and the widow tolerated its continued presence with Christian69 resignation. Félise took the unloved beast to her heart. From Aunt Clothilde’s caustic70 remarks she gathered that her four cousins, of whose exemplary acceptance of husbands she had heard so much, had eyed Mimi with the coldness of their mother. She began to thank Providence71 that she did not resemble her cousins, which was reprehensible72; and now and then manifested a lack of interest in their impeccable doings, which was more reprehensible still, and thus stirred up against her the maternal instincts of Madame Robineau.
Relations grew strained. Aunt Clothilde spoke to her with sharp impatience73. From her recalcitrance74 in the matter of Lucien she deduced every fault conceivable. For the first time in her life Félise dwelt in an atmosphere where love was not. She longed for home. She longed especially for her father and his wise tenderness. Because she longed so greatly she could not write to him as a father should be written to; and the many-paged letters into which, at night, she put all her aching little heart, in the morning she blushed at the thought of sending. In spite of his lapse75 from grace she could not be so disloyal to the beloved Uncle Gaspard. Nor could she distress76 her suffering angel mother by her incoherent account of things. If only she could see her!
“Put down that cat. I have to talk to you.”
Félise obeyed and Aunt Clothilde talked. The more she talked, the more stubborn front did Félise oppose. Madame Robineau lost her temper. Her thin lips twitched78.
“I order you,” she said, “to marry Lucien Viriot.”
“I am sorry to say anything to vex79 you, ma tante,” replied Félise valiantly80; “but you have not the power.”
“And I suppose your uncle has not the power to command you?”
“In matters like that, no, ma tante,” said Félise.
Aunt Clothilde rose from her straight-backed chair and shook a long, threatening finger. The nail at the end was also long and not very clean. Félise often wondered whether her aunt abhorred81 a nail-brush by way of mortification82.
“When one considers all the benefits my brother has heaped on your head,” she cried in a rasping voice, “you are nothing else than a little monster of ingratitude83!”
“It is false,” she cried. “I adore my Uncle Gaspard. I would give him my life. I am not ungrateful. It is worse than false.”
“It is true,” retorted Madame Robineau. “Otherwise you would not refuse him the desire of his heart. Without him you would have not a rag to your back, or a shoe to your foot, and no more religion than a heathen. It is to him you owe everything—everything. Without him you would be in the gutter85 where he fished you from.”
She ended on a shrill86 note. Félise, very pale, faced her passionately87, with a new light in her mild eyes.
“What do you mean? The gutter? My father——?”
“Bah! Your father! Your vagabond, ne’er-do-weel scamp of a father! He’s a scandal to the family, your father. He should never have been born.”
The girl reeled. It was a foul88 bludgeon blow. Madame Robineau, with quick realisation of folly89, checked further utterance90 and allowed Félise, white, quivering and vanquished91, but carrying her little head fiercely in the air, to retire from the scene with all the honours of war.
Madame Robineau was sorry. She had lost both temper and dignity. Her next confession92 would be an unpleasant matter. Possibly, however, the Abbé Duloup would understand and guess the provocation93. She shrugged94 her lean shoulders. It was good sometimes for hoity-toity damsels to learn humility95. So she sat down again, pursing her lips, and continued her embroidered96 stole until it was the hour of vespers. Contrary to custom, she did not summon Félise to accompany her to the Cathedral. An hour or two of solitude97, she thought, not unkindly, would bring her to a more reasonable frame of mind. She went out alone.
When she returned she found that Félise had left the house.
It was a very scared young person that presented herself at the guichet at the railway station and asked for a second class ticket to Paris. She had never travelled alone in her life before. Even on her rare visits to the metropolis98 of Périgueux, in whose vast emporium of fashion she clothed herself, she was attended by Euphémie or the chambermaid. She felt lost, a tiny, helpless creature, in the great, high station in which an engine letting off steam produced a bewildering uproar99. How much she paid for her ticket, thrifty100 and practised housekeeper101 that she was, she did not know. She clutched the change from a hundred franc note which, a present from her uncle before leaving Brant?me, she had preserved intact, and scuttled103 like a little brown rabbit to the door of the salle d’attente.
“Le train de Paris? A quatre heures cinquante,” said the official at the door, as though this palpitating adventure were the commonplace of every minute.
He cocked an eye at the clock. “In half an hour.”
A train was on the point of starting. There was a scuttle102 for seats. She felt sure it was the Paris train. From it emanated105 the magic influence of the great city whither she was bound. A questioned porter informed her it was going in the opposite direction. The Paris express left at four-fifty. The train steamed out. It seemed to Félise as though she had lost a friend. She looked round helplessly, and seeing a fat peasant woman sitting on a bench, surrounded by bundles and children, she ran to her side for protection. It is the unknown that frightens. In the H?tel des Grottes she commanded men with the serenity106 of a Queen Elizabeth, and as for commercial travellers and other male visitors, she took no more account of them than of the geese that she plucked. And the terrifying Aunt Clothilde had terrified in vain. But here, in this cold, glass-roofed, steel-strutted, screeching107, ghostly inferno108 of a place, with men prowling about like roaring lions seeking probably whom they might devour109, conditions were terrifyingly unfamiliar110.
Yet she did not care. Under the blasphemous111 roof of her Aunt Clothilde she could not have remained. For, in verity112, blasphemy113 had been spoken. Her father was loved and honoured by all the world; by her mother, by Uncle Gaspard, by Corinna, by Martin. And she herself—did she not know her father? Was there ever a man like him? The insulting words rang through her brain. She would have confronted terrors a million fold more grisly than these in order to escape from the blasphemer, whom she could never forgive—no, not for all the curés and abbés in Christendom. An intense little soul was that of Félise Fortinbras. It swept her irresistibly114 out of the unhallowed villa115, with a handbag containing a nightgown, a toothbrush and a faded little photograph of her father and mother standing52 side by side in wedding garb116, on the way to the dread58, fascinating whirlpool of Paris, where dwelt the worshipped gods of her idolatry. And, as she sat in the comforting lee of the fat and unafraid peasant woman and her bundles and her children, she took herself to task for cowardice117.
The journey, under two hours, was but a trifle. Had it been to Brant?me, an all-night affair, she might have had reason for quailing118. But to Paris it was practically but a step. . . . The Abbé Duloup spoke of going to Paris as her uncle spoke of going to Périgueux. Yet her heart thudded violently during the interminable half hour. And there was the grim possibility of the appearance of a pursuing Aunt Clothilde. She kept a fearful eye upon the doorway119 of the salle d’attente.
At last the train rushed in, and there was clangour of luggage trucks and clamour of raucous120 voices announcing the train for Paris; and a flow of waiting people, among whom was her neighbour with her varied121 impedimenta, swept across the lines and scaled the heights of the carriages. By luck, in front of Félise loomed122 a compartment123 showing second class on the door panel and “Dames seules” on the window. She clambered in and sank into a seat. Who her lonely lady fellow-travellers were she could not afterwards remember; for she kept her eyes closed, absorbed in the adventure that still lay before her. Yet it was comforting to feel that as long as the train went on she was safe in this feminine sanctuary124, free from depredations125 of marauding males.
Paris. One of the ladies, seeing that she was about to remain in the carriage, jerked the information over a descending126 shoulder. Félise followed and stood for a moment more confused than ever in the blue glare and ant-hill hurry of the Gare de Montparnasse. A whole town seemed to have emerged from the train and to stream like a rout127 of refugees flying from disaster, men, women and children, laden128 with luggage, towards the barrier. Carried along, she arrived there at length, gave up her ticket, and, issuing from the station, found herself in a narrow street, at the end of which, still following the throng129, she came to a thundering thoroughfare. Never, in all her imaginings of Paris, had she pictured such a soul-stunning phantasmagoria of flashing light and flashing movement. There were millions of faces passing her by on the pavement, in the illuminated130 interiors of omnibuses, in the dimmed recesses131 of taxi-autos, on waggons132, on carts, on bicycles; millions in gaily133 lit cafés; before her dazzled eyes millions seemed to be reflected even in the quivering, lucent air. She stood at the corner of the Place de Rennes and the Boulevard de Montparnasse paralysed with fear, clutching her handbag tight to her side. In that perilous134 street thousands of thieves must jostle her. She could not move a step, overwhelmed by the immensity of Paris. A good-natured sergent de ville, possibly the father of pretty daughters, noticed her agonised distress. It was not his business to perform unsolicited deeds of knight135 errantry; but having nothing else to do for the moment, he caught her eye and beamed paternal136 encouragement. Now a sergent de ville is a sergent de ville (recognisable by his uniform) all France over. Félise held Père Chavrol, who exercised that function at Brant?me, in high esteem137. This policeman had a fat, dark, grinning, scrubbily-moustached face which resembled that of Père Chavrol. She took her courage and her handbag in both hands.
He couldn’t. He did not know that street. In what quartier was it? Félise was ignorant.
“C’est là où demeure mon père,” she added. “C’est Monsieur Fortinbras. Tout138 le monde le conna?t à Paris.”
But alas139! the sergent de ville had never heard of the illustrious Fortinbras: which was strange, seeing that all Brant?me knew him, although he did not live there.
“What then shall I do, Monsieur,” asked Félise, “to get to my father?”
The sergent de ville pushed his képi to the back of his head and cogitated140. Then, with uplifted hand, he halted a crawling fiacre. Rue de Maugrabine? Of course the glazed141-hatted, muffled-up driver knew it. Somewhere between the Rue de la Roquette and the Avenue de la République. The sergent de ville smiled vaingloriously. It was only ces vieux collignons, old drivers of fiacres, that knew their Paris, he explained. The chauffeur142 of a taxi-auto would have been ignorant of the whereabouts of the Arc de Triomphe. He advised her to engage the omniscient143 cabman. The Rue Maugrabine was infinitely144 distant, on the other side of the river. Félise suggested that a cab would cost enormously. In Brant?me legends were still current of scandalous exactions levied145 by Paris cabmen on provincials146. The driver twisted his head affably and hoarsely147 murmured that it would not cost a fortune. Perhaps two francs, two francs fifty, with a little pourboire. He did not know. The amount would be registered. The sergent de ville pointed148 out the taximeter.
“Be not afraid, Mademoiselle. Enter. What number?”
“Number 29.”
He opened the door of the stuffy149 little brougham. Félise held out her hand as she would have held it out to Père Chavrol, and thanked him as though he had preserved her from legions of dragons. The last she saw of him as she drove off was in the act of majestically150 sweeping151 back a group of idlers who had halted to witness the touching152 farewell.
The old cab jolted153 and swerved154 through blazing vistas155 of unimagined thoroughfares; over bridges spanning mysterious stretches of dark waters and connecting looming156 masses of gigantic buildings; and through more streets garish157 with light and apparent revelry. Realisation of its glory came with a little sob158 of joy. She was in Paris, the Wonderland of Paris transcending159 all her dreams. Brant?me and Chartres seemed afar off. She had the sensation of a butterfly escaping from the chrysalis. She had been a butterfly for ages. What unremembered kind of state had been her grub condition? Thrills of excitement swept her little body. She was throbbingly happy. And at the end of the magic journey she would meet her father, marvel161 among men, and her mother, the strange, sweet, mystical being, the enchanted162 princess of her childish visions, the warm, spiritual, all understanding, all embracing woman of her maiden163 longings164.
The streets grew narrower, less important. They were passing through the poor neighbourhood east of the Place de la Bastille. Fairyland suffered a sinister165 touch. Slight fears again assailed166 her. Some of the streets appeared dark and suspect. Evil-looking folk haunted the pavements. She wondered, with a catch of the breath, whither she was being driven. At last the cab swung into a street, darker, more suspect, more ill-odoured than any, and stopped before a large open doorway. She peered through the window. Above the door she could just discern the white figures “29” on the blue plaque167. Her rosy168 dreams melted into night, her heart sank. She alighted.
“This is really 29 Rue Maugrabine?”
“Bien s?r, mademoiselle.”
She had forgotten to look at the taximeter, but taking three francs from her purse, she asked the driver if that was enough. He thanked her with raised hat for munificence169, and, whipping up his old horse, drove off.
Félise entered a smelly little paved courtyard and gazed about her helplessly. She had imagined such another decent little house as her aunt’s, at which a ring at the front door would ensure immediate170 admittance. In this extraordinary dank well she felt more lost than ever. Paris was a bewildering mystery. A child emerged from some dark cavern171.
“Can you tell me where Monsieur Fortinbras lives?”
The child advised her to ask the concierge172, and pointed to the iron bell-pull. Félise rang. The frowsy concierge gave the directions.
Félise entered the corner cavern and came on an evil-smelling stone staircase, lit here and there by naked gas-jets which blackened the walls at intervals174. The cold gathered round her heart. On the second landing some noisy, ill-dressed men clattered175 past her and caused her to shrink back with fear. She mounted the interminable stairs. Here and there an open door revealed a squalid interior. The rosy dream became a nightmare. She had made some horrible blunder. It was impossible that her father should live here. But the concierge had confirmed the address. On the fourth floor she paused; then, as directed, turned down a small, ill-lit passage to the left. On a door facing her at the end, she noticed the gleam of a card. She approached. It bore the printed legend,
“Daniel Fortinbras,
Ancien Avoué de Londres,
Agent de Famille, &c, &c.”
And written in pencil was the direction: “Sonnez, S. V. P.”
The sight reassured176 and comforted her. Behind this thin barrier dwelt those dearest to her on earth, the dimly remembered saintly mother, the wise and tender father. She forgot the squalor of the environment. It was merely a feature of Paris mighty177 and inscrutable, so different from Brant?me. She felt a little throb160 of pride in her daring, in her achievement. Without guidance—ungenerously she took no account of the sergent de ville, the cabman and the concierge—she had travelled from Chartres to this inmost heart of Paris. She had accomplished178 her stupendous adventure. . . . The card invited her to ring. Above it hung a bit of wood attached in the middle to a length of twine179. She pulled and an answering clang was heard from within the apartment. Her whole being vibrated.
After a moment’s waiting, the door was flung open by a coarse, red-faced, slatternly woman standing in a poverty-stricken little vestibule. She looked at the girl with curiously180 glazed eyes and slightly swayed as she put up a hand to dishevelled hair.
“Vous désirez?”
“Oui, madame,” replied Félise.
Whereupon the woman withered184 her with a sudden volley of drunken abuse. She knew how Fortinbras occupied himself all day long. She did not complain. But when the gonzesses of the rive gauche had the indecency to come to his house, she would very soon put them across her knee and teach them manners. This is but a paraphrase185 of what fell upon Félise’s terror-stricken ears. It fell like an avalanche186; but it did not last long, for suddenly came a voice well known but pitched in an unfamiliar key of anger:
“Qu’est-ce qu’il y a?”
And Fortinbras appeared.
As he caught sight of his daughter’s white face, he clapped his hands to his head and reeled back, horror in his eyes. Then:
“Tais-toi!” he thundered, and seizing the woman masterfully by the arms, he pushed her into some inner room, leaving Félise shaking on the threshold. In a moment or two he re-appeared, caught overcoat and old silk hat from a peg187, and motioning Félise back, marched out of his home and slammed the door behind him. Father and daughter were now in the neutral ground at the end of the dim, malodorous passage.
“What in the name of God are you doing here, Félise?”
“I came to see my mother.”
The fleshy, benign188 face of the man fell into the sags189 of old age. His lower lip hung loose. His mild blue eyes, lamping out from beneath noble brows, stared agony.
“Your mother?”
“Yes. Where is she?”
He drew a deep breath. “Your mother—well—she is in a nursing home, dear. No one, not even I, can see her.” He took her by the arm and hurried her to the staircase. “Come, come, dear, we must get away from this. You understand. I did not tell you your mother was so ill, for fear of making you unhappy.”
“But that dreadful woman, father?” she cried. And the Alpine190 flower from which honey is made looked like a poor little frost-bitten lily of the valley. She faced him on the landing.
“That woman—that——” he waved an arm. “That,” said he, quoting bitterly, “is a woman of no importance.”
“Ah!” cried Félise.
With some of the elemental grossnesses of life she was acquainted. You cannot manage a hotel in France which is a free, non-Puritanical country, and remain in imbecile ignorance. She was shocked to the depths of her being.
“Come,” said Fortinbras with outstretched hand. But she shrank from him. “Come!” he commanded. “There’s no time to lose. We must get out of this.”
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“To the Gare de Montparnasse. You must return at once to Chartres.”
“I will never enter the house of Aunt Clothilde again,” said Félise.
“But what has happened? My God! what has happened?” he asked, as they hurried down the stairs.
Breathlessly, brokenly, she told him. In the courtyard he paused, put his hand to his head.
“But what can I do with you? My God! what can I do with you in this dreadful city?”
“Isn’t there a hotel in Paris?” she asked, coldly.
He laughed in a mirthless way. “There are many. There are the Ritz and the Meurice and the Elysée Palace. Yes—there are hotels enough!”
“I have plenty of money,” she said.
“No, no, my child,” said he. “Not an hotel. I should go mad. I have an idea. Come.”
They had just reached the evil pavement of the Rue Maugrabine, when Cécile Fortinbras, sister of the excellent Gaspard Bigourdin and the pious Clothilde Robineau, and mother of Félise, recovered from the stupor191 to which the unprecedented192 fury of her husband had reduced her, and reeled drunkenly to the flat door.
“Je vais arracher les yeux à cette putain-là!”
She started to tear the hussy’s eyes out; but by the time she had accomplished the difficult descent and had expounded193 her grievances194 to an unsympathetic concierge, a motor omnibus was conveying father and daughter silent and anguished195 to the other side of the River Seine.
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devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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mitigated
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| v.减轻，缓和( mitigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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consolidated
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| a.联合的 | |
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relentlessly
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| adv.不屈不挠地；残酷地；不间断 | |
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14
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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15
sporadic
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| adj.偶尔发生的 [反]regular；分散的 | |
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16
par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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17
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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18
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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19
slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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20
shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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21
hued
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| 有某种色调的 | |
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22
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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23
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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24
frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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25
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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26
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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27
bleakness
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| adj. 萧瑟的, 严寒的, 阴郁的 | |
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28
homeliness
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| n.简朴，朴实；相貌平平 | |
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29
dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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30
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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31
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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32
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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33
embroider
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| v.刺绣于(布)上；给…添枝加叶，润饰 | |
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34
embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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35
chillier
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| adj.寒冷的，冷得难受的( chilly的比较级 ) | |
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36
ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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37
disapprovingly
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| adv.不以为然地，不赞成地，非难地 | |
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38
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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40
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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41
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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42
undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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43
rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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45
demurely
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| adv.装成端庄地，认真地 | |
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46
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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47
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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48
incited
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| 刺激，激励，煽动( incite的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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50
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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52
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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53
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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54
portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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55
variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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56
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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57
disparagingly
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| adv.以贬抑的口吻，以轻视的态度 | |
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58
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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59
slitting
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| n.纵裂（缝）v.切开，撕开( slit的现在分词 )；在…上开狭长口子 | |
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60
secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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61
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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62
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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63
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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64
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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65
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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66
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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67
subversive
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|
| adj.颠覆性的，破坏性的；n.破坏份子，危险份子 | |
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68
vagrant
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| n.流浪者，游民；adj.流浪的，漂泊不定的 | |
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69
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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70
caustic
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| adj.刻薄的，腐蚀性的 | |
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71
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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72
reprehensible
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| adj.该受责备的 | |
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73
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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74
recalcitrance
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| n.固执，顽抗 | |
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75
lapse
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|
| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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76
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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77
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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78
twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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79
vex
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| vt.使烦恼，使苦恼 | |
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80
valiantly
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|
| adv.勇敢地，英勇地；雄赳赳 | |
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81
abhorred
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|
| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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82
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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83
ingratitude
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|
| n.忘恩负义 | |
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84
Flared
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|
| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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85
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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86
shrill
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|
| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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87
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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88
foul
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|
| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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89
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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90
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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91
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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92
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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93
provocation
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|
| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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94
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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95
humility
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|
| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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96
embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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97
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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98
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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99
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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100
thrifty
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|
| adj.节俭的；兴旺的；健壮的 | |
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101
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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102
scuttle
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| v.急赶，疾走，逃避；n.天窗；舷窗 | |
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103
scuttled
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| v.使船沉没( scuttle的过去式和过去分词 )；快跑，急走 | |
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104
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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105
emanated
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的过去式和过去分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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106
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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107
screeching
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的现在分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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108
inferno
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| n.火海；地狱般的场所 | |
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109
devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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110
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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111
blasphemous
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| adj.亵渎神明的，不敬神的 | |
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112
verity
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| n.真实性 | |
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113
blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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114
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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115
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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116
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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117
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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118
quailing
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| 害怕，发抖，畏缩( quail的现在分词 ) | |
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119
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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120
raucous
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| adj.(声音)沙哑的，粗糙的 | |
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121
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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122
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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123
compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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124
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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125
depredations
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| n.劫掠，毁坏( depredation的名词复数 ) | |
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126
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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127
rout
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| n.溃退，溃败；v.击溃，打垮 | |
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128
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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129
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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130
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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131
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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132
waggons
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| 四轮的运货马车( waggon的名词复数 )； 铁路货车； 小手推车 | |
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133
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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134
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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135
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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136
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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137
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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138
tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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139
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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140
cogitated
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| v.认真思考，深思熟虑( cogitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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141
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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142
chauffeur
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| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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143
omniscient
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| adj.无所不知的；博识的 | |
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144
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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145
levied
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| 征（兵）( levy的过去式和过去分词 )； 索取； 发动（战争）； 征税 | |
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146
provincials
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| n.首都以外的人，地区居民( provincial的名词复数 ) | |
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147
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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148
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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149
stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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150
majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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151
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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152
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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153
jolted
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| （使）摇动， （使）震惊( jolt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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154
swerved
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| v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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155
vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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156
looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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157
garish
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| adj.华丽而俗气的，华而不实的 | |
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158
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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159
transcending
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| 超出或超越（经验、信念、描写能力等）的范围( transcend的现在分词 )； 优于或胜过… | |
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160
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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161
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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162
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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163
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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164
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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165
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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166
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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167
plaque
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| n.饰板，匾，(医)血小板 | |
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168
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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169
munificence
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| n.宽宏大量，慷慨给与 | |
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170
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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171
cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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172
concierge
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| n.管理员；门房 | |
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173
gauche
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| adj.笨拙的，粗鲁的 | |
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174
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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175
clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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176
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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177
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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178
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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179
twine
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| v.搓，织，编饰；（使）缠绕 | |
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180
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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181
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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182
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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183
mimicked
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| v.（尤指为了逗乐而）模仿( mimic的过去式和过去分词 )；酷似 | |
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184
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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185
paraphrase
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| vt.将…释义，改写；n.释义，意义 | |
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186
avalanche
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| n.雪崩，大量涌来 | |
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187
peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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188
benign
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| adj.善良的，慈祥的；良性的，无危险的 | |
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189
sags
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| 向下凹或中间下陷( sag的第三人称单数 )； 松弛或不整齐地悬着 | |
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190
alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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191
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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192
unprecedented
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| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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193
expounded
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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194
grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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195
anguished
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| adj.极其痛苦的v.使极度痛苦(anguish的过去式) | |
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