“The Prussian drill-sergeant,” said the Mayor, “will soon see that there is no solidarity as far as Germany is concerned.”
“We have no drill-sergeants. The sous-officier is under the officer who is under the general who is bought by the men we are so besotted as to put into power to play into the hands of the enemy. Our Socialists will cleave16 to their infamous17 principles.” Thus declared Monsieur Viriot, who was a reactionary18 republican and regarded Socialism and Radicalism19 and Anti-clericalism as punishments inflicted20 by an outraged21 Heaven on a stiff-necked generation. “The Socialist will betray us,” he cried.
“Monsieur,” replied Bigourdin loftily, “you are wrong to accuse the loyalty22 of your compatriots. I am not a socialist. I, as every one knows, hold their mischievous23 ideas in detestation. But I have faith in the human soul. There’s not a Socialist, not an Anarchist25, not even an Apache, who, when the German cannon26 sounds in his ears, will not rush to shed his blood in the defence of the sacred soil of France.”
“Bravo!” cried one.
“C’est bien dit!” cried another.
“After all, the soil is in the blood,” said a third.
“Scratch even a Minister and you will find a Frenchman.”
And so the discussion—and who shall say it was a profitless one?—went on evening after evening, as it had gone on, in some sort of fashion conditioned by circumstances for over forty years.
On Christmas Eve came Félise, convoyed as far as Périgueux, where Bigourdin met her train, by the promised man from Cook’s. It was a changed little Félise, flushed with health and armoured in sophistication that greeted Martin. Her first preoccupation was no longer the disasters that might have occurred under helpless male rule during her absence.
“I’ve had the time of my life,” she asserted with a curious lazy accent. “It would take weeks to tell you. Monte Carlo is too heavenly for words. Lucilla committed perjury28 and swore I was over twenty-one and got me into the rooms and into the Sports Club, and what do you think? I won a thousand francs,” she tapped her bosom29. “I have it here in good French money.”
Martin stared. The face was the face of Félise, but the voice was the voice of Lucilla. The English too of Félise was no longer her pretty halting speech, but fluent, as though, by her frequentation of English-speaking folk, all the old vocabulary of childhood had returned, together with sundry30 accretions31. She rattled32 off a succinct33 account of the loveliness of the Azure34 Coast, with its flowers and seas and sunshine, the motor drives she had taken, the lunches, dinners and suppers she had eaten, the people she had met. Lucilla seemed to have friends everywhere, mainly English and American. They had seldom been alone. Félise had lived all the time in a social whirl.
“You will find Brant?me very dull now, Félise,” said Martin.
She laughed. “If you think my head’s turned, you’re mistaken. It’s a little head more solid than that.” Then, growing serious—“What I have seen and heard yonder, in a different sort of world, will enable me to form a truer judgment36 of things in Brant?me.”
Bigourdin came near the truth when he remarked later with a smile and a sigh:
“Here is our little girl transformed, in a twinkling, into a woman. She has acquired the art of hiding her troubles and of mocking at her tears. She will tell me henceforward only what it pleases her that I should know.”
Félise took up her duties cheerfully, performing them with the same thoroughness as before, but with a certain new and sedate37 authority. Her pretty assumption of dignified38 command had given place to calm assertion. Euphémie and Baptiste accustomed to girlish rebukes39 and rejoinders grumbled40 at the new phase. When Félise cut short the hitherto wonted argument by a: “Ma bonne Euphémie, the way it is to be done is the way I want it done,” and marched off like a duchess unperturbed, Euphémie shook her head and wondered whether she were still in the same situation. In her attitude towards Martin, she became more formal as a mistress and more superficial as friend. She had caught the trick of easy talk, which might have disconcerted him had the world been the same as it was before the advent41 of Lucilla. But the world had changed. He lived in Brant?me an automatic existence, his body there, his spirit far away. His mind dwelt little on any possible deepening or hardening in the character of Félise. So her altered attitude, though he could not help noticing it, caused him no disturbance42. He thought casually43: “Compared with the men she has met in the great world, I am but a person of mediocre44 interest.”
The New Year came in, heralded45 by snow and ice all over Europe. Beneath the steel-blue sky Brant?me looked pinched with cold. The hotel was almost empty, and Martin found it hard to occupy long hours of chilly46 idleness otherwise than by dreaming of Lucilla and palms and sunshine. Lucilla of course was always under the palms and the palms were in the sunshine; and he was talking to Lucilla, alone with her in the immensities of the desert. When he had dreamed long enough he shivered, for the H?tel des Grottes still depended for warmth on wood fires and there was no central heating and the bath in the famous bathroom received hot water through a gas geyser. And then he wondered whether the time had not come for him to make his momentous47 journey to Paris.
“I’ve had a letter from Miss Merriton,” said Félise one day, “she asks for news of you and sends you her kind regards.”
Martin, who, in shirt-sleeves and apron48, was laying tables in the salle-à-manger, flushed at his goddess’s message.
“It’s very good of her to remember me.”
“Oh, she remembers you right enough,” said Félise.
That meant that his goddess must have spoken of him, not only once but on various occasions. She had carried him so far in her thoughts as to be interested in his doings. Did her words imply a veiled query49 as to his journey into Egypt? A lover reads an infinity50 of significance in his mistress’s most casual utterance51, but blandly52 fails to interpret the obvious tone in which the woman with whom he is not in love makes an acid remark.
“Where is Miss Merriton now?” he asked.
She informed him coldly—not at all with the air of the wild flowers from which Alpine53 honey is made—that Lucilla was sailing next week for Alexandria. “And,” said she, “as I am a sort of messenger, what reply shall I make?”
Martin, who had developed a lover’s cunning, answered: “Give her my respectful greetings and say that I am very well.” No form of words could be less compromising.
That same evening, on their cold way back from the Café de l’Univers, Bigourdin said, using as he had done since the night of the intimate conversation the “tu” of familiarity:
“Now that Félise has returned, and all goes on wheels and business is slack, don’t you think it is a good opportunity for you to go to Paris for your holiday and your consultations54?”
“I will go the day after to-morrow,” replied Martin.
“Have you told Félise of your proposed journey?”
“Not yet,” said Martin.
“C’est bien. When you tell her, say it is for the sake of a change, your health, your little affairs, what you will. It is better that she should not know of our scheme until it is all arranged.”
“I think that would be wiser,” said Martin.
“In the event of your accepting my proposition,” said Bigourdin, after a pause, “have you ever thought of the possibility of becoming a naturalised Frenchman? Like that, perhaps, business might roll more smoothly55. We have already spoken, you and I, of your becoming a good Périgordin.”
Martin, hands in pockets and shoulders hunched56 so as to obtain ear-shelter beneath the upturned collar of his great coat, was silent for a few moments. Then—
“Nationality is a strange thing,” said he. “The more I live in France, the more proud I am of being an Englishman.”
Bigourdin sprang a pace apart, wounded to the quick. “Mais non par6 exemple! You of all men,” and it was the “vous” of formality, “ought not to say that.”
“Mais que tu es bête! You misunderstand me. You don’t let me proceed,” cried Martin, halting before him in the semi-darkness of the quay57. “In France I have learned the meaning of the word patriotism58. I have been surrounded here with the love of country, and I have reflected. This impulse is so strong in all French hearts, ought it not to be as strong in the heart of an Englishman? France has taught me the finest of lessons. I am as loyal a Frenchman as any of our friends at the Café de l’Univers, but—” adapting a vague reminiscence of the lyric59 to Lucasta—“I should not love France so much, if I did not love England more.”
“Mon brave ami!” cried Bigourdin, holding out both hands, in a Frenchman’s instinctive60 response to a noble sentiment adequately expressed, “Pardon me. Let us say no more about it. The true Englishman who loves France is a better friend to us than the Englishman who has lost his love for England.”
Martin went to bed in a somewhat tortured frame of mind. He was very simple, very honest, very conscientious61. It was true that the flame of French patriotism had kindled62 the fire of English patriotism within him. It was true that he had learned to love this sober, intense, kindly63 land of France. It was true that here was a generous bosom of France willing to enfold him, an alien, like one of her own sons. But it was equally true that in his ears rang a clarion64 call sounded not by mother England, not by foster-mother France, but by une petite sorcière Américaine, a fair witch neither of England nor of France, but from beyond the estranging65 seas. And the day after to-morrow he was journeying to Paris to take the advice of Fortinbras, Marchand de Bonheur. What would the dealer66 in happiness decide? To wait until some turn of Fortune’s wheel should change his career and set him free to wander forth67 across the world, or to invest his all in an inglorious though comfortable future? Either way there would be heart-racking.
But Bigourdin, as he secured the H?tel des Grottes with locks and bolts, whistled “Malbrouck s’en va-t-en guerre,” a sign of his being pleased with existence. He had no doubt of Fortinbras’s decision. Fortinbras had practically given it in a letter he had received that afternoon. For he had told Fortinbras his proposal, which was based on the certainty of a marriage between Félise and Martin, as soon as the latter should find himself in a position that would warrant a declaration up to now impossible to a man of delicate honour. “They think I am an old mole,” he had written, “but for certain things I have the eyes of a hawk68. Why did Félise suddenly refuse Lucien Viriot? Why has Martin during her last absence been in a state of depression lamentable69 to behold70? And now that Félise has returned, changed from a young girl into that thing of mystery, a woman, why are their relations once so fraternal marked by an exquisite71 politeness? And why must Martin travel painful hours in a train in order to consult the father of Félise? Tell me all that! When it comes to real diplomacy72, mon vieux Daniel, trust the solid head of Gaspard Bigourdin.”
Which excerpt73 affords a glimpse into the workings of a subtle yet ingenuous74 mind. He hummed “Malbrouck s’en var-t-en guerre” as he went upstairs. The little American witch never crossed his thoughts, nor did a possible application of the line “Ne sais quand reviendra.”
The High Gods hold this world in an uncertain balance; and, whenever they decree to turn things topsy-turvy, they have only to flick75 it the myriadth part of a millimetre. The very next day they gave it such a flick, and it was Bigourdin and not Martin who went to Paris.
“Ma petite Félise,” said Bigourdin the next day, “I have received this morning from Paris a telegram despatched last night summoning me thither76 on urgent business. I may be away three or four days, during which I have arranged for the excellent Madame Chauvet who devoted77 such maternal78 care to you on the journey to Chartres to stay here pour les convenances.”
The subtle diplomatist smiled; so that when she questioned him as to the nature of this urgent business and he replied that it was a worrying matter of lawyers and stockbrokers79, she accepted the explanation. But to Martin—
“Mon pauvre ami,” said he, with woe-begone face, “it is the mother of Félise. She is dying. A syncope. We must not let Félise know or she would insist on accompanying me, which would be impossible.”
Martin took a detached view of the situation.
“Why?” he asked. “She is a woman now and able to accept her share in the tragedy of life with courage and with reason. Why not let her go and learn the truth?”
Bigourdin waved a gesture of despair. “I detest24 like you this deception80. Lying is as foreign to my character as to yours. But que veux-tu? In the tragedy of my brother-in-law there is something at once infinitely81 piteous and sublime82. In a matter like this the commands of a father are sacred. Ah, my poor Cécile!” said he, passing a great hand swiftly across his eyes. “Twenty years ago, what a pretty girl she was! Of a character somewhat difficult and bizarre. But I loved her more than my sister Clothilde, who had all the virtues83 of the petite rosaire.” He fetched a deep sigh. “One is bound to believe in the eternal wisdom of the All-Powerful. There is nothing between that and the lunatic caprice of an almighty85 mad goat. That is why I hold to Christianity and embark87 on this terrible journey with fortitude88 and resignation.”
He held out his packet of Bastos to Martin. They lit cigarettes. To give this confidential89 information he had drawn90 Martin into the murky91 little bureau whose window looked upon the sad grey vestibule.
“I am sorry,” he said, “that your holiday has to be postponed92. But it will only be for a few days. In the meantime I leave Félise in the loyal care of yourself and the good Madame Chauvet.”
Bigourdin went to Paris and deposited his valise at a little hotel in a little street off the Boulevard Sébastopol, where generations of Bigourdins had stayed, perhaps even the famous Brigadier General himself; where the proposed entertainment of an Englishman would have caused the host as much consternation93 as that of a giraffe; where the beds were spotless, the cuisine94 irreproachable95 and other arrangements of a beloved and venerable antiquity96. Here the good Périgordin found a home from his home in Périgord. The last thing a solid and virtuous97 citizen of central France desires to do in Paris is to Parisianise himself. The solid and virtuous inhabitants of Périgord went to the H?tel de la Dordogne which flourishes now and feeds its customers as succulently as it did a hundred years ago.
Having deposited his valise at this historic hostelry, Bigourdin proceeded to the Rue35 Maugrabine. He had never been there before, and his heart sank, as the heart of Félise had sunk, when he mounted the grimy, icy stairs and sought the home of Fortinbras. His sister Clothilde, severe in awful mourning, admitted him, encaged him in a ghostly embrace and conducted him into the poverty-stricken living room where Fortinbras, in rusty98 black and dingy99 white tie, stood waiting to receive him.
“Unfortunately, my dear Gaspard,” said Fortinbras, “you are not in time.”
He opened the flimsy door set in the paper-covered match-board partition. Bigourdin entered the bedroom and there, with blinds drawn and candles burning at head and feet lay all that remained of Cécile Fortinbras. He returned soon afterwards drying his eyes, for memories of childhood had brought tears. He wrung100 Fortinbras by the hand.
“Here, mon vieux Daniel, is the very sad end of a life that was somewhat tragic101; but you can console yourself with the thought of your long devotion and tenderness.”
“I don’t see around me much evidence of those two qualities.”
“Your reproaches, Clothilde,” said Fortinbras, “are as just as Gaspard’s consolation103 is generous.”
“I am glad you acknowledge, at last, that it was you who dragged my unfortunate sister down to this misery104.”
Fortinbras made no reply. Lives like his one must understand and pardon as Bigourdin had done. Nothing that he could say could mitigate105 the animosity of Clothilde which he had originally incurred106 by marrying her sister. She would be moved by no pleading that it was his wife’s extravagance and intemperance107 that had urged him to the mad tampering108 with other people’s money (money honestly repaid, but all the same diverted wrongly for a time) which had caused him to be struck off the roll of solicitors and to leave England a disgraced man. She would have retorted that had he not been addicted109 to boissons alcooliques, a term which in France always means fiery110 spirits, and had he not led the life of the theatre and the restaurant, Cécile would have been sober and thrifty111 like herself and Gaspard. And Fortinbras would have beat his breast saying “Mea culpa.” He might have pleaded the after years of ceaseless struggle. But to what end? As soon as his wife was laid beneath the ground, Clothilde would gather together her skirts and pass for ever out of his life. Bigourdin knew of his remorse112, his home of unending horror, his efforts ever frustrated113, the weight at his feet that not only prevented him from rising, but dragged him gradually down, down, down.
But even Bigourdin, who had not been to Paris for ten years, had not appreciated till now the depths of poverty into which Fortinbras and his sister had sunk. His last visit to them had been painful. A drunken, dishevelled hostess, especially when she is your own sister, does not make for charm. But they lived in a reputable apartment at Auteuil, and there was a good carpet on the floor of the salon114 and chairs and tables such as are found in Christian86 dwellings115, and on the mantelpiece stood the ormolu clock, and on the walls hung the pictures which had once adorned116 their home in London. How had they come down to this? He shivered, cold and ill at ease.
“As you must be hungry after your long journey, Gaspard,” said Madame Robineau, “I should advise you to go out to a restaurant. The cuisine of the femme de journée I do not recommend. For me, I must keep watch, and it being Friday I fast as usual.”
Fortinbras made no pretence117 at hospitality. Had he been able to set forth a banquet, he felt that every morsel118 would have been turned into stone by the basilisk eyes of Clothilde. Both men rose simultaneously119, glad to be free. They went out, took an omnibus haphazard120 and eventually entered a restaurant in the neighbourhood of the Tour Saint-Jacques.
“Mon vieux Daniel,” said Bigourdin, as soon as they were seated. “Tell me frankly121, for I don’t understand. How comes it that you are in these dreadful straits?”
Fortinbras smiled sadly.
“One earns little by translating from French into English and still less by dispensing122 happiness to youth.”
“But——” Bigourdin hesitated. “But you have had other resources—not much certainly, but still something.”
“What do you mean?” asked Fortinbras. “You know that in five years Cécile scattered123 her own dowry to the winds and left me at the edge of a whirlpool of debt. All of my own I could scrape together and borrow I threw in to save myself from prison. She had no heritage from her father. On what else can we have lived save on my precarious124 earnings125?”
Bigourdin, both elbows on the table, plucked at his upstanding bristles126 and gazed intently at Fortinbras.
“Ever since the great misfortune, when you returned to France, Cécile has had her own income.”
“You are dreaming, Gaspard. From what source could she obtain an income?”
“From me, parbleu!” cried Bigourdin. “I always thought my father’s will was unjust. Cécile should have had her share. When I thought she needed assistance, I arranged with my lawyer, Ma?tre Dupuy, 33 Rue des Augustins, Paris, to allow her five thousand francs a year in monthly instalments, and I know—sacre bleu!—that it has been paid.”
Fortinbras also put his elbows on the table, and the two men looked close into each other’s faces.
“I know absolutely nothing about it. Cécile has not had one penny that I have not given to her.”
“It is horrible to speak like this,” said Bigourdin. “But one cannot drink to excess without spending much money. Where did she get it?”
“There are alcohols unknown to the H?tel des Grottes, which it takes little money to buy. To get that little she has pawned127 the sheets off the bed.”
“Nom de Dieu!” said Bigourdin.
It was a miserable128 meal, ending almost in silence. When it was over they called at the cabinet of Ma?tre Dupuy. They found everything in order. Every month for years past Madame Fortinbras had received the sum of four hundred and sixteen francs, sixty-five centimes. She had come personally for the money. Ma?tre Dupuy remembered his first interview with Madame. She had expressly forbidden him to send the money to the house lest it should fall into the hands of her husband. He infinitely regretted to make such a statement in the presence of Monsieur, but those were the facts.
“All this is evidence in favour of what I told you,” said Fortinbras.
“I never doubted you!” cried Bigourdin, “and this is proof. But what can she have done with all that money?”
It was a mystery. They went back to the Rue Maugrabine. On the way Fortinbras asked:
“Why have you never told me what you were doing?”
“I took it for granted that you knew, and that, par délicatesse, the subject was not to be mentioned between us.”
“And Clothilde?”
But Bigourdin was one of those who kept the left hand in ignorance of the generous actions of the right. He threw out his great arms, to the disturbance of pedestrian traffic.
“Tell Clothilde? What do you take me for?”
A day or two of continuous strain and hopelessness, and then under the auspices129 of the Pompes Funèbres and the clergy130 of the parish, the poor body of Cécile Fortinbras was laid to rest. Not till then did any one send word to Félise. Even Madame Robineau agreed that it was best she should not know. As she had left Chartres, self-willed and ungovernable, so, on the receipt of the news of her mother’s death, might she leave Brant?me. Her appearance amid these squalid happenings would be inconvenable.
“I have no reason to love Félise,” she added. “But she is a young girl of our family, and it is not correct that she should see such things.”
When the train carrying Madame Robineau back to Chartres steamed out of the Gare Montparnasse, both men drew a breath of relief.
“Mon ami,” said Bigourdin. “The Bible taught the Church the beautiful history of Jesus Christ. The Church told a Bishop131. The Bishop told a priest. The priest told the wife of the sub-prefect. The wife of the sub-prefect told the wife of the mayor. The wife of the mayor told the elderly, unmarried sister of the corn-chandler, and the unmarried sister of the corn-chandler told Clothilde. And that’s all she (Clothilde) knows about Christianity. Still,” he added, in his judicious132 way, “she is a woman of remarkable133 virtue84. She has a strong sense of duty. Without a particle of love animating134 her heart, she has just spent three days and nights without sleep, food or fresh air. It’s fine, all the same.”
“I am not ungrateful,” said Fortinbras.
They entered a café for the sake of shelter from the bitter January wind, and they talked, as they had done lately, of many intimate things; of the past, of Martin, of the immediate135 future. Fortinbras would not accompany Bigourdin to Brant?me. His presence would only add poignancy136 to the grief of Félise. It was more impossible now than ever to undeceive her, as one could not speak ill of the dead. No; he would remain in Paris, where he had much to do. First he must move from the Rue Maugrabine. The place would be haunted. Besides, what did one old vagabond want with two rooms and a kitchen? He would sell his few belongings137, and take a furnished room somewhere among the chimney-pots. . . . Bigourdin lifted his petit verre of Armagnac, and forgetting all about it, put it down again.
“What I am going to tell you,” said he, “may seem cynical138, but it is only common sense. Do not leave the Rue Maugrabine without having searched every corner, every box, every garment, every piece of furniture.”
“Search?—what for?”
“The little economies of Cécile,” said Bigourdin.
Fortinbras put up a protesting hand. Instinct revolted. “Impossible!” he declared.
Bigourdin persisted. “Although you have lived long in the country and been married to a Frenchwoman, you do not know, like myself who have it in my veins139, of what the peasant blood of France is capable where money is concerned. It is impossible on your own showing, that Cécile should have spent five thousand francs a year. You have seen for yourself that she received the money. What has she done with it?” He leaned across the table and with great forefinger140 tapped the shoulder of Fortinbras. “She has hoarded141 it. It is there in the Rue Maugrabine.”
Fortinbras shook his leonine head. “It was absurd. In the olden days, when she had money, had she not scattered it recklessly?” Bigourdin agreed.
“But then,” said he, “you struck misfortune, poverty. Did you not observe a change in her habits, and in her character? Of course, we have often spoken of it. It was the outer trappings of the bourgeois142 that had disappeared and the paysanne asserted herself. For many years my father supported my mother’s mother, a peasant from La Beauce who gave out that she was penniless. When she died they accidentally found the mattress143 of her bed stuffed with a little fortune. The blood of Grandmère Tidier ran in the veins of Cécile. And Cécile like all the family knew of the fortune of Grandmère Tidier.”
All that in Fortinbras was half-forgotten, buried beneath the rubbish heap of years, again protested: his gently nurtured144 childhood, his smooth English home, his impeccable Anglo-Indian father, Major-General Fortinbras, who had all the servants in morning and evening for family prayers and read the lessons in the little village church on Sundays, his school-days—Winchester, with its noble traditions—all, as we English understand it, that goes to the making of an honourable145 gentleman. If Pactolus, dammed by his wife, poured through the kitchen taps, he would not turn them.
“It is I then that will do it,” said Bigourdin. “I am not Anti-Semite in any way; but to present a Jew dealer, who is already very well off, with many thousands of francs is the act of an imbecile.”
He tossed off his glass of Armagnac, beckoned146 the waiter, threw down the coins for payment and rose.
“Allons!” said he.
Fortinbras, exhausted147 in mind and soul, followed him. An auto-taxi took them to the Rue Maugrabine. The desolate148 and haggard femme de journée was restoring the house of death to some sort of aimless order. Bigourdin put a ten-franc piece into her hand.
“That is for you. Come back in two hours’ time.”
The woman went. The two men were left alone in the wretched little room, whose poverty stared from its cracked and faded wall paper, from its bare floor, from the greasy149 plush couch with one maimed leg stuck in an old salmon150 tin.
Fortinbras threw himself with familiar recklessness on the latter article of furniture and covered his eyes with his hand.
“A quarter of a century is a long time, my dear Gaspard,” said he. “A quarter of a century’s daily and nightly intimate associations with another human being leaves a deep imprint151 in one’s soul. I have been very unhappy, it is true. But I have never been so unhappy and so hopeless as I am now. Let me be for a little. My head is stupefied.”
“Mon pauvre vieux,” said Bigourdin, very gently. He glanced around and seeing a blanket, which Clothilde had used during her vigil, neatly152 folded by the femme de Journée and laid upon a wooden chair, he threw it over the recumbent Fortinbras. “Mon pauvre vieux, you are exhausted. Stay there and go to sleep.”
The very weary man closed his eyes. Two hours later, the femme de journée appeared. Bigourdin, with his finger to his lips, pointed153 to the sleeper154 and told her to come in the morning. It was then six o’clock in the afternoon. Bigourdin wrapped in whatever coverings he could find, dozed155 in a ricketty armchair for many hours, until Fortinbras awoke with a start
“I must have fallen asleep,” he said. “I’m very sorry. What is the time?”
Bigourdin pulled out his watch.
“Midnight,” said he.
Fortinbras rose, passed both hands over his white flowing hair.
“I too, like Clothilde, haven’t slept for two or three nights. Sleep came upon me all of a sudden, let me see——” he touched his broad forehead—“you brought me back here for some purpose.”
“I did,” said Bigourdin. “Come and see.”
He took the lamp from the table and led his brother-in-law into the bedroom.
“I told you so,” said he, pointing to the bed.
The upper ticking had been ripped clean away. And there, in the horsehair, on the side where Cécile had slept, were five or six odd little nests. And each nest was stuffed tight with banknotes and gold.
“It’s all yours,” said Fortinbras.
Bigourdin, swinging arms like a windmill, swept imbeciles like Fortinbras to the thirty-two points of the compass.
“It is the property of Cécile. I have nothing to do with it. I am a man of honour, not a scoundrel. It belonged to Cécile. It now belongs to you.”
They argued for a long time until sheer hunger sent them forth. And over supper in a little restaurant of the quarter, they argued, until at last Bigourdin, very wearied, retired156 to the H?tel de la Dordogne, and Fortinbras returned to the Rue Maugrabine, to find himself the unwilling157 possessor of about two thousand pounds.
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chaos
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advisers
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consonant
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determined
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11
socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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12
socialists
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| 社会主义者( socialist的名词复数 ) | |
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13
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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14
solidarity
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| n.团结；休戚相关 | |
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15
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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16
cleave
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| v．(clave；cleaved)粘着，粘住；坚持；依恋 | |
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17
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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18
reactionary
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| n.反动者，反动主义者；adj.反动的，反动主义的，反对改革的 | |
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19
radicalism
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| n. 急进主义, 根本的改革主义 | |
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20
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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21
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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22
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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23
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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24
detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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25
anarchist
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| n.无政府主义者 | |
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26
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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27
mordancy
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| n.尖酸，刻薄 | |
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28
perjury
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| n.伪证；伪证罪 | |
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29
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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30
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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31
accretions
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| n.堆积( accretion的名词复数 )；连生；添加生长；吸积 | |
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32
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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33
succinct
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| adj.简明的，简洁的 | |
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34
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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35
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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36
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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37
sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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38
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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39
rebukes
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的第三人称单数 ) | |
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40
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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41
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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42
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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43
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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44
mediocre
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| adj.平常的，普通的 | |
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45
heralded
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| v.预示( herald的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
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46
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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47
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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48
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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49
query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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50
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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51
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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52
blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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53
alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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54
consultations
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| n.磋商（会议）( consultation的名词复数 )；商讨会；协商会；查找 | |
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55
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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56
hunched
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| （常指因寒冷、生病或愁苦）耸肩弓身的，伏首前倾的 | |
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57
quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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58
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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59
lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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60
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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61
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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62
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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63
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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64
clarion
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| n.尖音小号声；尖音小号 | |
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65
estranging
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| v.使疏远（尤指家庭成员之间）( estrange的现在分词 ) | |
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66
dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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67
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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68
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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69
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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70
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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71
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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72
diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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73
excerpt
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| n.摘录，选录，节录 | |
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74
ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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75
flick
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| n.快速的轻打，轻打声，弹开；v.轻弹，轻轻拂去，忽然摇动 | |
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76
thither
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|
| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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77
devoted
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|
| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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78
maternal
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|
| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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79
stockbrokers
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| n.股票经纪人( stockbroker的名词复数 ) | |
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80
deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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81
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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82
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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83
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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84
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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85
almighty
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|
| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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86
Christian
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|
| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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87
embark
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| vi.乘船，着手，从事，上飞机 | |
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88
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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89
confidential
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|
| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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90
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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91
murky
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|
| adj.黑暗的，朦胧的；adv.阴暗地，混浊地；n.阴暗；昏暗 | |
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92
postponed
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|
| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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93
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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94
cuisine
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| n.烹调，烹饪法 | |
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95
irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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96
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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97
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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98
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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99
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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100
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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101
tragic
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|
| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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102
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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103
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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104
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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105
mitigate
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| vt.（使）减轻，（使）缓和 | |
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106
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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107
intemperance
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| n.放纵 | |
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108
tampering
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| v.窜改( tamper的现在分词 )；篡改；（用不正当手段）影响；瞎摆弄 | |
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109
addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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110
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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111
thrifty
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| adj.节俭的；兴旺的；健壮的 | |
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112
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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113
frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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114
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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115
dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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116
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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117
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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118
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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119
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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120
haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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121
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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122
dispensing
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| v.分配( dispense的现在分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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123
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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124
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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125
earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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126
bristles
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| 短而硬的毛发，刷子毛( bristle的名词复数 ) | |
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127
pawned
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| v.典当，抵押( pawn的过去式和过去分词 )；以（某事物）担保 | |
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128
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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129
auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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130
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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131
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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132
judicious
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| adj.明智的，明断的，能作出明智决定的 | |
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133
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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134
animating
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| v.使有生气( animate的现在分词 )；驱动；使栩栩如生地动作；赋予…以生命 | |
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135
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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136
poignancy
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| n.辛酸事，尖锐 | |
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137
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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138
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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139
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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140
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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141
hoarded
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| v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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142
bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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143
mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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144
nurtured
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| 养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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145
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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146
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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147
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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148
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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149
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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150
salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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151
imprint
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| n.印痕，痕迹；深刻的印象；vt.压印，牢记 | |
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152
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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153
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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154
sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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155
dozed
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| v.打盹儿，打瞌睡( doze的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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156
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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157
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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