Mademoiselle Cormon was the card on which Athanase had staked his life; and the cold presentiment3 of a catastrophe4 was already upon him. When the soul and the imagination have magnified a misfortune and made it too heavy for the shoulders and the brain to bear; when a hope long cherished, the realization5 of which would pacify6 the vulture feeding on the heart, is balked7, and the man has faith neither in himself, despite his powers, nor in the future, despite of the Divine power,—then that man is lost. Athanase was a fruit of the Imperial system of education. Fatality8, the Emperor’s religion, had filtered down from the throne to the lowest ranks of the army and the benches of the lyceums. Athanase sat still, with his eyes fixed9 on Madame du Ronceret’s cards, in a stupor10 that might so well pass for indifference11 that Madame Granson herself was deceived about his feelings. This apparent unconcern explained her son’s refusal to make a sacrifice for this marriage of his liberal opinions,—the term “liberal” having lately been created for the Emperor Alexander by, I think, Madame de Stael, through the lips of Benjamin Constant.
After that fatal evening the young man took to rambling12 among the picturesque13 regions of the Sarthe, the banks of which are much frequented by sketchers who come to Alencon for points of view. Windmills are there, and the river is gay in the meadows. The shores of the Sarthe are bordered with beautiful trees, well grouped. Though the landscape is flat, it is not without those modest graces which distinguish France, where the eye is never wearied by the brilliancy of Oriental skies, nor saddened by constant fog. The place is solitary14. In the provinces no one pays much attention to a fine view, either because provincials15 are blases on the beauty around them, or because they have no poesy in their souls. If there exists in the provinces a mall, a promenade17, a vantage-ground from which a fine view can be obtained, that is the point to which no one goes. Athanase was fond of this solitude19, enlivened by the sparkling water, where the fields were the first to green under the earliest smiling of the springtide sun. Those persons who saw him sitting beneath a poplar, and who noticed the vacant eye which he turned to them, would say to Madame Granson:—
“Something is the matter with your son.”
“I know what it is,” the mother would reply; hinting that he was meditating20 over some great work.
Athanase no longer took part in politics: he ceased to have opinions; but he appeared at times quite gay,—gay with the satire21 of those who think to insult a whole world with their own individual scorn. This young man, outside of all the ideas and all the pleasures of the provinces, interested few persons; he was not even an object of curiosity. If persons spoke22 of him to his mother, it was for her sake, not his. There was not a single soul in Alencon that sympathized with his; not a woman, not a friend came near to dry his tears; they dropped into the Sarthe. If the gorgeous Suzanne had happened that way, how many young miseries23 might have been born of the meeting! for the two would surely have loved each other.
She did come, however. Suzanne’s ambition was early excited by the tale of a strange adventure which had happened at the tavern24 of the More,—a tale which had taken possession of her childish brain. A Parisian woman, beautiful as the angels, was sent by Fouche to entangle25 the Marquis de Montauran, otherwise called “The Gars,” in a love-affair (see “The Chouans”). She met him at the tavern of the More on his return from an expedition to Mortagne; she cajoled him, made him love her, and then betrayed him. That fantastic power—the power of beauty over mankind; in fact, the whole story of Marie de Verneuil and the Gars—dazzled Suzanne; she longed to grow up in order to play upon men. Some months after her hasty departure she passed through her native town with an artist on his way to Brittany. She wanted to see Fougeres, where the adventure of the Marquis de Montauran culminated26, and to stand upon the scene of that picturesque war, the tragedies of which, still so little known, had filled her childish mind. Besides this, she had a fancy to pass through Alencon so elegantly equipped that no one could recognize her; to put her mother above the reach of necessity, and also to send to poor Athanase, in a delicate manner, a sum of money,—which in our age is to genius what in the middle ages was the charger and the coat of mail that Rebecca conveyed to Ivanhoe.
One month passed away in the strangest uncertainties28 respecting the marriage of Mademoiselle Cormon. A party of unbelievers denied the marriage altogether; the believers, on the other hand, affirmed it. At the end of two weeks, the faction29 of unbelief received a vigorous blow in the sale of du Bousquier’s house to the Marquis de Troisville, who only wanted a simple establishment in Alencon, intending to go to Paris after the death of the Princess Scherbellof; he proposed to await that inheritance in retirement30, and then to reconstitute his estates. This seemed positive. The unbelievers, however, were not crushed. They declared that du Bousquier, married or not, had made an excellent sale, for the house had only cost him twenty-seven thousand francs. The believers were depressed31 by this practical observation of the incredulous. Choisnel, Mademoiselle Cormon’s notary32, asserted the latter, had heard nothing about the marriage contract; but the believers, still firm in their faith, carried off, on the twentieth day, a signal victory: Monsieur Lepressoir, the notary of the liberals, went to Mademoiselle Cormon’s house, and the contract was signed.
This was the first of the numerous sacrifices which Mademoiselle Cormon was destined33 to make to her husband. Du Bousquier bore the deepest hatred34 to Choisnel; to him he owed the refusal of the hand of Mademoiselle Armande,—a refusal which, as he believed, had influenced that of Mademoiselle Cormon. This circumstance alone made the marriage drag along. Mademoiselle received several anonymous35 letters. She learned, to her great astonishment36, that Suzanne was as truly a virgin37 as herself so far as du Bousquier was concerned, for that seducer38 with the false toupet could never be the hero of any such adventure. Mademoiselle Cormon disdained39 anonymous letters; but she wrote to Suzanne herself, on the ground of enlightening the Maternity40 Society. Suzanne, who had no doubt heard of du Bousquier’s proposed marriage, acknowledged her trick, sent a thousand francs to the society, and did all the harm she could to the old purveyor41. Mademoiselle Cormon convoked42 the Maternity Society, which held a special meeting at which it was voted that the association would not in future assist any misfortunes about to happen, but solely43 those that had happened.
In spite of all these various events which kept the town in the choicest gossip, the banns were published in the churches and at the mayor’s office. Athanase prepared the deeds. As a matter of propriety44 and public decency45, the bride retired46 to Prebaudet, where du Bousquier, bearing sumptuous47 and horrible bouquets48, betook himself every morning, returning home for dinner.
At last, on a dull and rainy morning in June, the marriage of Mademoiselle Cormon and the Sieur du Bousquier took place at noon in the parish church of Alencon, in sight of the whole town. The bridal pair went from their own house to the mayor’s office, and from the mayor’s office to the church in an open caleche, a magnificent vehicle for Alencon, which du Bousquier had sent for secretly to Paris. The loss of the old carriole was a species of calamity49 in the eyes of the community. The harness-maker of the Porte de Seez bemoaned50 it, for he lost the fifty francs a year which it cost in repairs. Alencon saw with alarm the possibility of luxury being thus introduced into the town. Every one feared a rise in the price of rents and provisions, and a coming invasion of Parisian furniture. Some persons were sufficiently51 pricked52 by curiosity to give ten sous to Jacquelin to allow them a close inspection53 of the vehicle which threatened to upset the whole economy of the region. A pair of horses, bought in Normandie, were also most alarming.
“If we bought our own horses,” said the Ronceret circle, “we couldn’t sell them to those who come to buy.”
Stupid as it was, this reasoning seemed sound; for surely such a course would prevent the region from grasping the money of foreigners. In the eyes of the provinces wealth consisted less in the rapid turning over of money than in sterile54 accumulation. It may be mentioned here that Penelope succumbed55 to a pleurisy which she acquired about six weeks before the marriage; nothing could save her.
Madame Granson, Mariette, Madame du Coudrai, Madame du Ronceret, and through them the whole town, remarked that Madame du Bousquier entered the church with her left foot,—an omen18 all the more dreadful because the term Left was beginning to acquire a political meaning. The priest whose duty it was to read the opening formula opened his book by chance at the De Profundis. Thus the marriage was accompanied by circumstances so fateful, so alarming, so annihilating56 that no one dared to augur57 well of it. Matters, in fact, went from bad to worse. There was no wedding party; the married pair departed immediately for Prebaudet. Parisian customs, said the community, were about to triumph over time-honored provincial16 ways.
The marriage of Jacquelin and Josette now took place: it was gay; and they were the only two persons in Alencon who refuted the sinister58 prophecies relating to the marriage of their mistress.
Du Bousquier determined59 to use the proceeds of the sale of his late residence in restoring and modernizing60 the hotel Cormon. He decided61 to remain through two seasons at Prebaudet, and took the Abbe de Sponde with them. This news spread terror through the town, where every individual felt that du Bousquier was about to drag the community into the fatal path of “comfort.” This fear increased when the inhabitants of Alencon saw the bridegroom driving in from Prebaudet one morning to inspect his works, in a fine tilbury drawn63 by a new horse, having Rene at his side in livery. The first act of his administration had been to place his wife’s savings64 on the Grand-Livre, which was then quoted at 67 fr. 50 cent. In the space of one year, during which he played constantly for a rise, he made himself a personal fortune almost as considerable as that of his wife.
But all these foreboding prophecies, these perturbing65 innovations, were superseded66 and surpassed by an event connected with this marriage which gave a still more fatal aspect to it.
On the very evening of the ceremony, Athanase and his mother were sitting, after their dinner, over a little fire of fagots, which the servant lighted usually at dessert.
“Well, we will go this evening to the du Roncerets’, inasmuch as we have lost Mademoiselle Cormon,” said Madame Granson. “Heavens! how shall I ever accustom67 myself to call her Madame du Bousquier! that name burns my lips.”
Athanase looked at his mother with a constrained68 and melancholy69 air; he could not smile; but he seemed to wish to welcome that naive70 sentiment which soothed71 his wound, though it could not cure his anguish72.
“Mamma,” he said, in the voice of his childhood, so tender was it, and using the name he had abandoned for several years,—“my dear mamma, do not let us go out just yet; it is so pleasant here before the fire.”
“Yes, let us stay, my child,” she said. “I like much better to talk with you and listen to your projects than to play at boston and lose my money.”
“You are so handsome to-night I love to look at you. Besides, I am in a current of ideas which harmonize with this poor little salon74 where we have suffered so much.”
“And where we shall still suffer, my poor Athanase, until your works succeed. For myself, I am trained to poverty; but you, my treasure! to see your youth go by without a joy! nothing but toil75 for my poor boy in life! That thought is like an illness to a mother; it tortures me at night; it wakes me in the morning. O God! what have I done? for what crime dost thou punish me thus?”
She left her sofa, took a little chair, and sat close to Athanase, so as to lay her head on the bosom76 of her child. There is always the grace of love in true motherhood. Athanase kissed her on the eyes, on her gray hair, on her forehead, with the sacred desire of laying his soul wherever he applied78 his lips.
“I shall never succeed,” he said, trying to deceive his mother as to the fatal resolution he was revolving79 in his mind.
“Pooh! don’t get discouraged. As you often say, thought can do all things. With ten bottles of ink, ten reams of paper, and his powerful will, Luther upset all Europe. Well, you’ll make yourself famous; you will do good things by the same means which he used to do evil things. Haven’t you said so yourself? For my part, I listen to you; I understand you a great deal more than you think I do,—for I still bear you in my bosom, and your every thought still stirs me as your slightest motion did in other days.”
“I shall never succeed here, mamma; and I don’t want you to witness the sight of my struggles, my misery80, my anguish. Oh, mother, let me leave Alencon! I want to suffer away from you.”
“And I wish to be at your side,” replied his mother, proudly. “Suffer without your mother!—that poor mother who would be your servant if necessary; who will efface81 herself rather than injure you; your mother, who will never shame you. No, no, Athanase; we must not part.”
“But I wish it, nevertheless. If not, you will lose me; this double grief, yours and mine, is killing83 me. You would rather I lived than died?”
Madame Granson looked at her son with a haggard eye.
“So this is what you have been brooding?” she said. “They told me right. Do you really mean to go?”
“Yes.”
“You will not go without telling me; without warning me? You must have an outfit84 and money. I have some louis sewn into my petticoat; I shall give them to you.”
Athanase wept.
“That’s all I wanted to tell you,” he said. “Now I’ll take you to the du Roncerets’. Come.”
The mother and the son went out. Athanase left his mother at the door of the house where she intended to pass the evening. He looked long at the light which came through the shutters85; he clung closely to the wall, and a frenzied86 joy came over him when he presently heard his mother say, “He has great independence of heart.”
“Poor mother! I have deceived her,” he cried, as he made his way to the Sarthe.
He reached the noble poplar beneath which he had meditated87 so much for the last forty days, and where he had placed two heavy stones on which he now sat down. He contemplated88 that beautiful nature lighted by the moon; he reviewed once more the glorious future he had longed for; he passed through towns that were stirred by his name; he heard the applauding crowds; he breathed the incense89 of his fame; he adored that life long dreamed of; radiant, he sprang to radiant triumphs; he raised his stature90; he evoked91 his illusions to bid them farewell in a last Olympic feast. The magic had been potent92 for a moment; but now it vanished forever. In that awful hour he clung to the beautiful tree to which, as to a friend, he had attached himself; then he put the two stones into the pockets of his overcoat, which he buttoned across his breast. He had come intentionally93 without a hat. He now went to the deep pool he had long selected, and glided94 into it resolutely95, trying to make as little noise as possible, and, in fact, making scarcely any.
When, at half-past nine o’clock, Madame Granson returned home, her servant said nothing of Athanase, but gave her a letter. She opened it and read these few words,—
“My good mother, I have departed; don’t be angry with me.”
“A pretty trick he has played me!” she thought. “And his linen96! and the money! Well, he will write to me, and then I’ll follow him. These poor children think they are so much cleverer than their fathers and mothers.”
And she went to bed in peace.
During the preceding morning the Sarthe had risen to a height foreseen by the fisherman. These sudden rises of muddy water brought eels97 from their various runlets. It so happened that a fisherman had spread his net at the very place where poor Athanase had flung himself, believing that no one would ever find him. About six o’clock in the morning the man drew in his net, and with it the young body. The few friends of the poor mother took every precaution in preparing her to receive the dreadful remains98. The news of this suicide made, as may well be supposed, a great excitement in Alencon. The poor young man of genius had no protector the night before, but on the morrow of his death a thousand voices cried aloud, “I would have helped him.” It is so easy and convenient to be charitable gratis99!
The suicide was explained by the Chevalier de Valois. He revealed, in a spirit of revenge, the artless, sincere, and genuine love of Athanase for Mademoiselle Cormon. Madame Granson, enlightened by the chevalier, remembered a thousand little circumstances which confirmed the chevalier’s statement. The story then became touching100, and many women wept over it. Madame Granson’s grief was silent, concentrated, and little understood. There are two forms of mourning for mothers. Often the world can enter fully101 into the nature of their loss: their son, admired, appreciated, young, perhaps handsome, with a noble path before him, leading to fortune, possibly to fame, excites universal regret; society joins in the grief, and alleviates102 while it magnifies it. But there is another sorrow of mothers who alone know what their child was really; who alone have received his smiles and observed the treasures of a life too soon cut short. That sorrow hides its woe103, the blackness of which surpasses all other mourning; it cannot be described; happily there are but few women whose heart-strings are thus severed104.
Before Madame du Bousquier returned to town, Madame du Ronceret, one of her good friends, had driven out to Prebaudet to fling this corpse105 upon the roses of her joy, to show her the love she had ignored, and sweetly shed a thousand drops of wormwood into the honey of her bridal month. As Madame du Bousquier drove back to Alencon, she chanced to meet Madame Granson at the corner of the rue77 Val-Noble. The glance of the mother, dying of her grief, struck to the heart of the poor woman. A thousand maledictions, a thousand flaming reproaches, were in that look: Madame du Bousquier was horror-struck; that glance predicted and called down evil upon her head.
The evening after the catastrophe, Madame Granson, one of the persons most opposed to the rector of the town, and who had hitherto supported the minister of Saint-Leonard, began to tremble as she thought of the inflexible106 Catholic doctrines107 professed108 by her own party. After placing her son’s body in its shroud109 with her own hands, thinking of the mother of the Saviour110, she went, with a soul convulsed by anguish, to the house of the hated rector. There she found the modest priest in an outer room, engaged in putting away the flax and yarns111 with which he supplied poor women, in order that they might never be wholly out of work,—a form of charity which saved many who were incapable112 of begging from actual penury113. The rector left his yarns and hastened to take Madame Granson into his dining-room, where the wretched mother noticed, as she looked at his supper, the frugal114 method of his own living.
“Monsieur l’abbe,” she said, “I have come to implore115 you—” She burst into tears, unable to continue.
“I know what brings you,” replied the saintly man. “I must trust to you, madame, and to your relation, Madame du Bousquier, to pacify Monseigneur the Bishop116 at Seez. Yes, I will pray for your unhappy child; yes, I will say the masses. But we must avoid all scandal, and give no opportunity for evil-judging persons to assemble in the church. I alone, without other clergy117, at night—”
“Yes, yes, as you think best; if only he may lie in consecrated118 ground,” said the poor mother, taking the priest’s hand and kissing it.
Toward midnight a coffin119 was clandestinely120 borne to the parish church by four young men, comrades whom Athanase had liked the best. A few friends of Madame Granson, women dressed in black, and veiled, were present; and half a dozen other young men who had been somewhat intimate with this lost genius. Four torches flickered121 on the coffin, which was covered with crape. The rector, assisted by one discreet122 choirboy, said the mortuary mass. Then the body of the suicide was noiselessly carried to a corner of the cemetery123, where a black wooden cross, without inscription124, was all that indicated its place hereafter to the mother. Athanase lived and died in shadow. No voice was raised to blame the rector; the bishop kept silence. The piety125 of the mother redeemed126 the impiety127 of the son’s last act.
Some months later, the poor woman, half beside herself with grief, and moved by one of those inexplicable128 thirsts which misery feels to steep its lips in the bitter chalice129, determined to see the spot where her son was drowned. Her instinct may have told her that thoughts of his could be recovered beneath that poplar; perhaps, too, she desired to see what his eyes had seen for the last time. Some mothers would die of the sight; others give themselves up to it in saintly adoration130. Patient anatomists of human nature cannot too often enunciate132 the truths before which all educations, laws, and philosophical133 systems must give way. Let us repeat continually: it is absurd to force sentiments into one formula: appearing as they do, in each individual man, they combine with the elements that form his nature and take his own physiognomy.
Madame Granson, as she stood on that fatal spot, saw a woman approach it, who exclaimed,—
“Was it here?”
That woman wept as the mother wept. It was Suzanne. Arriving that morning at the hotel du More, she had been told of the catastrophe. If poor Athanase had been living, she meant to do as many noble souls, who are moneyless, dream of doing, and as the rich never think of doing,—she meant to have sent him several thousand francs, writing up the envelope the words: “Money due to your father from a comrade who makes restitution134 to you.” This tender scheme had been arranged by Suzanne during her journey.
The courtesan caught sight of Madame Granson and moved rapidly away, whispering as she passed her, “I loved him!”
Suzanne, faithful to her nature, did not leave Alencon on this occasion without changing the orange-blossoms of the bride to rue. She was the first to declare that Madame du Bousquier would never be anything but Mademoiselle Cormon. With one stab of her tongue she revenged poor Athanase and her dear chevalier.
Alencon now witnessed a suicide that was slower and quite differently pitiful from that of poor Athanase, who was quickly forgotten by society, which always makes haste to forget its dead. The poor Chevalier de Valois died in life; his suicide was a daily occurrence for fourteen years. Three months after the du Bousquier marriage society remarked, not without astonishment, that the linen of the chevalier was frayed135 and rusty136, that his hair was irregularly combed and brushed. With a frowsy head the Chevalier de Valois could no longer be said to exist! A few of his ivory teeth deserted137, though the keenest observers of human life were unable to discover to what body they had hitherto belonged, whether to a foreign legion or whether they were indigenous138, vegetable or animal; whether age had pulled them from the chevalier’s mouth, or whether they were left forgotten in the drawer of his dressing-table. The cravat139 was crooked140, indifferent to elegance141. The negroes’ heads grew pale with dust and grease. The wrinkles of the face were blackened and puckered142; the skin became parchment. The nails, neglected, were often seen, alas143! with a black velvet144 edging. The waistcoat was tracked and stained with droppings which spread upon its surface like autumn leaves. The cotton in the ears was seldom changed. Sadness reigned145 upon that brow, and slipped its yellowing tints146 into the depths of each furrow147. In short, the ruins, hitherto so cleverly hidden, now showed through the cracks and crevices148 of that fine edifice149, and proved the power of the soul over the body; for the fair and dainty man, the cavalier, the young blood, died when hope deserted him. Until then the nose of the chevalier was ever delicate and nice; never had a damp black blotch150, nor an amber151 drop fall from it; but now that nose, smeared152 with tobacco around the nostrils153, degraded by the driblets which took advantage of the natural gutter154 placed between itself and the upper lip,—that nose, which no longer cared to seem agreeable, revealed the infinite pains which the chevalier had formerly155 taken with his person, and made observers comprehend, by the extent of its degradation156, the greatness and persistence157 of the man’s designs upon Mademoiselle Cormon.
Alas, too, the anecdotes158 went the way of the teeth; the clever sayings grew rare. The appetite, however, remained; the old nobleman saved nothing but his stomach from the wreck159 of his hopes; though he languidly prepared his pinches of snuff, he ate alarming dinners. Perhaps you will more fully understand the disaster that this marriage was to the mind and heart of the chevalier when you learn that his intercourse160 with the Princess Goritza became less frequent.
One day he appeared in Mademoiselle Armande’s salon with the calf161 of his leg on the shin-bone. This bankruptcy162 of the graces was, I do assure you, terrible, and struck all Alencon with horror. The late young man had become an old one; this human being, who, by the breaking-down of his spirit, had passed at once from fifty to ninety years of age, frightened society. Besides, his secret was betrayed; he had waited and watched for Mademoiselle Cormon; he had, like a patient hunter, adjusted his aim for ten whole years, and finally had missed the game! In short, the impotent Republic had won the day from Valiant163 Chivalry164, and that, too, under the Restoration! Form triumphed; mind was vanquished165 by matter, diplomacy166 by insurrection. And, O final blow! a mortified167 grisette revealed the secret of the chevalier’s mornings, and he now passed for a libertine168. The liberals cast at his door all the foundlings hitherto attributed to du Bousquier. But the faubourg Saint-Germain of Alencon accepted them proudly: it even said, “That poor chevalier, what else could he do?” The faubourg pitied him, gathered him closer to their circle, and brought back a few rare smiles to his face; but frightful169 enmity was piled upon the head of du Bousquier. Eleven persons deserted the Cormon salon, and passed to that of the d’Esgrignons.
The old maid’s marriage had a signal effect in defining the two parties in Alencon. The salon d’Esgrignon represented the upper aristocracy (the returning Troisvilles attached themselves to it); the Cormon salon represented, under the clever influence of du Bousquier, that fatal class of opinions which, without being truly liberal or resolutely royalist, gave birth to the 221 on that famous day when the struggle openly began between the most august, grandest, and only true power, royalty170, and the most false, most changeful, most oppressive of all powers,—the power called parliamentary, which elective assemblies exercise. The salon du Ronceret, secretly allied171 to the Cormon salon, was boldly liberal.
The Abbe de Sponde, after his return from Prebaudet, bore many and continual sufferings, which he kept within his breast, saying no word of them to his niece. But to Mademoiselle Armande he opened his heart, admitting that, folly172 for folly, he would much have preferred the Chevalier de Valois to Monsieur du Bousquier. Never would the dear chevalier have had the bad taste to contradict and oppose a poor old man who had but a few days more to live; du Bousquier had destroyed everything in the good old home. The abbe said, with scanty173 tears moistening his aged27 eyes,—
“Mademoiselle, I haven’t even the little grove174 where I have walked for fifty years. My beloved lindens are all cut down! At the moment of my death the Republic appears to me more than ever under the form of a horrible destruction of the Home.”
“You must pardon your niece,” said the Chevalier de Valois. “Republican ideas are the first error of youth which seeks for liberty; later it finds it the worst of despotisms,—that of an impotent canaille. Your poor niece is punished where she sinned.”
“What will become of me in a house where naked women are painted on the walls?” said the poor abbe. “Where shall I find other lindens beneath which to read my breviary?”
Like Kant, who was unable to collect his thoughts after the fir-tree at which he was accustomed to gaze while meditating was cut down, so the poor abbe could never attain175 the ardor of his former prayers while walking up and down the shadeless paths. Du Bousquier had planted an English garden.
“It was best,” said Madame du Bousquier, without thinking so; but the Abbe Couterier had authorized176 her to commit many wrongs to please her husband.
These restorations destroyed all the venerable dignity, cordiality, and patriarchal air of the old house. Like the Chevalier de Valois, whose personal neglect might be called an abdication177, the bourgeois178 dignity of the Cormon salon no longer existed when it was turned to white and gold, with mahogany ottomans covered in blue satin. The dining-room, adorned179 in modern taste, was colder in tone than it used to be, and the dinners were eaten with less appetite than formerly. Monsieur du Coudrai declared that he felt his puns stick in his throat as he glanced at the figures painted on the walls, which looked him out of countenance180. Externally, the house was still provincial; but internally everything revealed the purveyor of the Directory and the bad taste of the money-changer,—for instance, columns in stucco, glass doors, Greek mouldings, meaningless outlines, all styles conglomerated, magnificence out of place and out of season.
The town of Alencon gabbled for two weeks over this luxury, which seemed unparalleled; but a few months later the community was proud of it, and several rich manufacturers restored their houses and set up fine salons181. Modern furniture came into the town, and astral lamps were seen!
The Abbe de Sponde was among the first to perceive the secret unhappiness this marriage now brought to the private life of his beloved niece. The character of noble simplicity182 which had hitherto ruled their lives was lost during the first winter, when du Bousquier gave two balls every month. Oh, to hear violins and profane183 music at these worldly entertainments in the sacred old house! The abbe prayed on his knees while the revels184 lasted. Next the political system of the sober salon was slowly perverted185. The abbe fathomed187 du Bousquier; he shuddered188 at his imperious tone; he saw the tears in his niece’s eyes when she felt herself losing all control over her own property; for her husband now left nothing in her hands but the management of the linen, the table, and things of a kind which are the lot of women. Rose had no longer any orders to give. Monsieur’s will was alone regarded by Jacquelin, now become coachman, by Rene, the groom62, and by the chef, who came from Paris, Mariette being reduced to kitchen maid. Madame du Bousquier had no one to rule but Josette. Who knows what it costs to relinquish189 the delights of power? If the triumph of the will is one of the intoxicating190 pleasures in the lives of great men, it is the ALL of life to narrow minds. One must needs have been a minister dismissed from power to comprehend the bitter pain which came upon Madame du Bousquier when she found herself reduced to this absolute servitude. She often got into the carriage against her will; she saw herself surrounded by servants who were distasteful to her; she no longer had the handling of her dear money,—she who had known herself free to spend money, and did not spend it.
All imposed limits make the human being desire to go beyond them. The keenest sufferings come from the thwarting191 of self-will. The beginning of this state of things was, however, rose-colored. Every concession192 made to marital193 authority was an effect of the love which the poor woman felt for her husband. Du Bousquier behaved, in the first instance, admirably to his wife: he was wise; he was excellent; he gave her the best of reasons for each new encroachment194. So for the first two years of her marriage Madame du Bousquier appeared to be satisfied. She had that deliberate, demure195 little air which distinguishes young women who have married for love. The rush of blood to her head no longer tormented196 her. This appearance of satisfaction routed the scoffers, contradicted certain rumors197 about du Bousquier, and puzzled all observers of the human heart. Rose-Marie-Victoire was so afraid that if she displeased198 her husband or opposed him, she would lose his affection and be deprived of his company, that she would willingly have sacrificed all to him, even her uncle. Her silly little forms of pleasure deceived even the poor abbe for a time, who endured his own trials all the better for thinking that his niece was happy, after all.
Alencon at first thought the same. But there was one man more difficult to deceive than the whole town put together. The Chevalier de Valois, who had taken refuge on the Sacred Mount of the upper aristocracy, now passed his life at the d’Esgrignons. He listened to the gossip and the gabble, and he thought day and night upon his vengeance199. He meant to strike du Bousquier to the heart.
The poor abbe fully understood the baseness of this first and last love of his niece; he shuddered as, little by little, he perceived the hypocritical nature of his nephew and his treacherous200 manoeuvres. Though du Bousquier restrained himself, as he thought of the abbe’s property, and wished not to cause him vexation, it was his hand that dealt the blow that sent the old priest to his grave. If you will interpret the word intolerance as firmness of principle, if you do not wish to condemn201 in the catholic soul of the Abbe de Sponde the stoicism which Walter Scott has made you admire in the puritan soul of Jeanie Deans’ father; if you are willing to recognize in the Roman Church the Potius mori quam foedari that you admire in republican tenets,—you will understand the sorrow of the Abbe de Sponde when he saw in his niece’s salon the apostate202 priest, the renegade, the pervert186, the heretic, that enemy of the Church, the guilty taker of the Constitutional oath. Du Bousquier, whose secret ambition was to lay down the law to the town, wished, as a first proof of his power, to reconcile the minister of Saint-Leonard with the rector of the parish, and he succeeded. His wife thought he had accomplished203 a work of peace where the immovable abbe saw only treachery. The bishop came to visit du Bousquier, and seemed glad of the cessation of hostilities204. The virtues206 of the Abbe Francois had conquered prejudice, except that of the aged Roman Catholic, who exclaimed with Cornelle, “Alas! what virtues do you make me hate!”
The abbe died when orthodoxy thus expired in the diocese.
In 1819, the property of the Abbe de Sponde increased Madame du Bousquier’s income from real estate to twenty-five thousand francs without counting Prebaudet or the house in the Val-Noble. About this time du Bousquier returned to his wife the capital of her savings which she had yielded to him; and he made her use it in purchasing lands contiguous to Prebaudet, which made that domain207 one of the most considerable in the department, for the estates of the Abbe de Sponde also adjoined it. Du Bousquier thus passed for one of the richest men of the department. This able man, the constant candidate of the liberals, missing by seven or eight votes only in all the electoral battles fought under the Restoration, and who ostensibly repudiated208 the liberals by trying to be elected as a ministerial royalist (without ever being able to conquer the aversion of the administration),—this rancorous republican, mad with ambition, resolved to rival the royalism and aristocracy of Alencon at the moment when they once more had the upper hand. He strengthened himself with the Church by the deceitful appearance of a well-feigned piety: he accompanied his wife to mass; he gave money for the convents of the town; he assisted the congregation of the Sacre-Coeur; he took sides with the clergy on all occasions when the clergy came into collision with the town, the department, or the State. Secretly supported by the liberals, protected by the Church, calling himself a constitutional royalist, he kept beside the aristocracy of the department in the one hope of ruining it,—and he did ruin it. Ever on the watch for the faults and blunders of the nobility and the government, he laid plans for his vengeance against the “chateau-people,” and especially against the d’Esgrignons, in whose bosom he was one day to thrust a poisoned dagger209.
Among other benefits to the town he gave money liberally to revive the manufacture of point d’Alencon; he renewed the trade in linens210, and the town had a factory. Inscribing211 himself thus upon the interests and heart of the masses, by doing what the royalists did not do, du Bousquier did not really risk a farthing. Backed by his fortune, he could afford to wait results which enterprising persons who involve themselves are forced to abandon to luckier successors.
Du Bousquier now posed as a banker. This miniature Lafitte was a partner in all new enterprises, taking good security. He served himself while apparently212 serving the interests of the community. He was the prime mover of insurance companies, the protector of new enterprises for public conveyance213; he suggested petitions for asking the administration for the necessary roads and bridges. Thus warned, the government considered this action an encroachment of its own authority. A struggle was begun injudiciously, for the good of the community compelled the authorities to yield in the end. Du Bousquier embittered214 the provincial nobility against the court nobility and the peerage; and finally he brought about the shocking adhesion of a strong party of constitutional royalists to the warfare215 sustained by the “Journal des Debats,” and M. de Chateaubriand against the throne,—an ungrateful opposition216 based on ignoble217 interests, which was one cause of the triumph of the bourgeoisie and journalism218 in 1830.
Thus du Bousquier, in common with the class he represented, had the satisfaction of beholding219 the funeral of royalty. The old republican, smothered220 with masses, who for fifteen years had played that comedy to satisfy his vendetta221, himself threw down with his own hand the white flag of the mayoralty to the applause of the multitude. No man in France cast upon the new throne raised in August, 1830, a glance of more intoxicated222, joyous223 vengeance. The accession of the Younger Branch was the triumph of the Revolution. To him the victory of the tricolor meant the resurrection of Montagne, which this time should surely bring the nobility down to the dust by means more certain than that of the guillotine, because less violent. The peerage without heredity; the National Guard, which puts on the same camp-bed the corner grocer and the marquis; the abolition224 of the entails225 demanded by a bourgeois lawyer; the Catholic Church deprived of its supremacy226; and all the other legislative227 inventions of August, 1830,—were to du Bousquier the wisest possible application of the principles of 1793.
Since 1830 this man has been a receiver-general. He relied for his advancement228 on his relations with the Duc d’Orleans, father of Louis Philippe, and with Monsieur de Folmon, formerly steward229 to the Duchess-dowager of Orleans. He receives about eighty thousand francs a year. In the eyes of the people about him Monsieur du Bousquier is a man of means,—a respectable man, steady in his principles, upright, and obliging. Alencon owes to him its connection with the industrial movement by which Brittany may possibly some day be joined to what is popularly called modern civilization. Alencon, which up to 1816 could boast of only two private carriages, saw, without amazement230, in the course of ten years, coupes, landaus, tilburies, and cabriolets rolling through her streets. The burghers and the land-owners, alarmed at first lest the price of everything should increase, recognized later that this increase in the style of living had a contrary effect upon their revenues. The prophetic remark of du Ronceret, “Du Bousquier is a very strong man,” was adopted by the whole country-side.
But, unhappily for the wife, that saying has a double meaning. The husband does not in any way resemble the public politician. This great citizen, so liberal to the world about him, so kindly231 inspired with love for his native place, is a despot in his own house, and utterly232 devoid233 of conjugal234 affection. This man, so profoundly astute235, hypocritical, and sly; this Cromwell of the Val-Noble,—behaves in his home as he behaves to the aristocracy, whom he caresses236 in hopes to throttle237 them. Like his friend Bernadotte, he wears a velvet glove upon his iron hand. His wife has given him no children. Suzanne’s remark and the chevalier’s insinuations were therefore justified238. But the liberal bourgeoisie, the constitutional-royalist-bourgeoisie, the country-squires, the magistracy, and the “church party” laid the blame on Madame du Bousquier. “She was too old,” they said; “Monsieur du Bousquier had married her too late. Besides, it was very lucky for the poor woman; it was dangerous at her age to bear children!” When Madame du Bousquier confided239, weeping, her periodic despair to Mesdames du Coudrai and du Ronceret, those ladies would reply,—
“But you are crazy, my dear; you don’t know what you are wishing for; a child would be your death.”
Many men, whose hopes were fastened on du Bousquier’s triumph, sang his praises to their wives, who in turn repeated them to the poor wife in some such speech as this:—
“You are very lucky, dear, to have married such an able man; you’ll escape the misery of women whose husbands are men without energy, incapable of managing their property, or bringing up their children.”
“Your husband is making you queen of the department, my love. He’ll never leave you embarrassed, not he! Why, he leads all Alencon.”
“But I wish,” said the poor wife, “that he gave less time to the public and—”
“You are hard to please, my dear Madame du Bousquier. I assure you that all the women in town envy you your husband.”
Misjudged by society, which began by blaming her, the pious240 woman found ample opportunity in her home to display her virtues. She lived in tears, but she never ceased to present to others a placid241 face. To so Christian242 a soul a certain thought which pecked forever at her heart was a crime: “I loved the Chevalier de Valois,” it said; “but I have married du Bousquier.” The love of poor Athanase Granson also rose like a phantom243 of remorse244, and pursued her even in her dreams. The death of her uncle, whose griefs at the last burst forth245, made her life still more sorrowful; for she now felt the suffering her uncle must have endured in witnessing the change of political and religious opinion in the old house. Sorrow often falls like a thunderbolt, as it did on Madame Granson; but in this old maid it slowly spread like a drop of oil, which never leaves the stuff that slowly imbibes246 it.
The Chevalier de Valois was the malicious247 manipulator who brought about the crowning misfortune of Madame du Bousquier’s life. His heart was set on undeceiving her pious simplicity; for the chevalier, expert in love, divined du Bousquier, the married man, as he had divined du Bousquier, the bachelor. But the wary248 republican was difficult of attack. His salon was, of course, closed to the Chevalier de Valois, as to all those who, in the early days of his marriage, had slighted the Cormon mansion249. He was, moreover, impervious250 to ridicule251; he possessed252 a vast fortune; he reigned in Alencon; he cared as little for his wife as Richard III. cared for the dead horse which had helped him win a battle. To please her husband, Madame du Bousquier had broken off relations with the d’Esgrignon household, where she went no longer, except that sometimes when her husband left her during his trips to Paris, she would pay a brief visit to Mademoiselle Armande.
About three years after her marriage, at the time of the Abbe de Sponde’s death, Mademoiselle Armande joined Madame du Bousquier as they were leaving Saint-Leonard’s, where they had gone to hear a requiem253 said for him. The generous demoiselle thought that on this occasion she owed her sympathy to the niece in trouble. They walked together, talking of the dear deceased, until they reached the forbidden house, into which Mademoiselle Armande enticed254 Madame du Bousquier by the charm of her manner and conversation. The poor desolate255 woman was glad to talk of her uncle with one whom he truly loved. Moreover, she wanted to receive the condolences of the old marquis, whom she had not seen for nearly three years. It was half-past one o’clock, and she found at the hotel d’Esgrignon the Chevalier de Valois, who had come to dinner. As he bowed to her, he took her by the hands.
“Well, dear, virtuous256, and beloved lady,” he said, in a tone of emotion, “we have lost our sainted friend; we share your grief. Yes, your loss is as keenly felt here as in your own home,—more so,” he added, alluding257 to du Bousquier.
After a few more words of funeral oration131, in which all present spoke from the heart, the chevalier took Madame du Bousquier’s arm, and, gallantly258 placing it within his own, pressed it adoringly as he led her to the recess259 of a window.
“Are you happy?” he said in a fatherly voice.
“Yes,” she said, dropping her eyes.
Hearing that “Yes,” Madame de Troisville, the daughter of the Princess Scherbellof, and the old Marquise de Casteran came up and joined the chevalier, together with Mademoiselle Armande. They all went to walk in the garden until dinner was served, without any perception on the part of Madame du Bousquier that a little conspiracy260 was afoot. “We have her! now let us find out the secret of the case,” were the words written in the eyes of all present.
“To make your happiness complete,” said Mademoiselle Armande, “you ought to have children,—a fine lad like my nephew—”
Tears seemed to start in Madame du Bousquier’s eyes.
“I have heard it said that you were the one to blame in the matter, and that you feared the dangers of a pregnancy,” said the chevalier.
On the question thus started a discussion arose, conducted by Madame de Troisville and the old Marquise de Casteran with such delicacy262 and adroitness263 that the poor victim revealed, without being aware of it, the secrets of her house. Mademoiselle Armande had taken the chevalier’s arm, and walked away so as to leave the three women free to discuss wedlock264. Madame du Bousquier was then enlightened on the various deceptions265 of her marriage; and as she was still the same simpleton she had always been, she amused her advisers266 by delightful267 naivetes.
Although at first the deceptive268 marriage of Mademoiselle Cormon made a laugh throughout the town, which was soon initiated269 into the story of the case, before long Madame du Bousquier won the esteem270 and sympathy of all the women. The fact that Mademoiselle Cormon had flung herself headlong into marriage without succeeding in being married, made everybody laugh at her; but when they learned the exceptional position in which the sternness of her religious principles placed her, all the world admired her. “That poor Madame du Bousquier” took the place of “That good Mademoiselle Cormon.”
Thus the chevalier contrived271 to render du Bousquier both ridiculous and odious272 for a time; but ridicule ends by weakening; when all had said their say about him, the gossip died out. Besides, at fifty-seven years of age the dumb republican seemed to many people to have a right to retire. This affair, however, envenomed the hatred which du Bousquier already bore to the house of Esgrignon to such a degree that it made him pitiless when the day of vengeance came. [See “The Gallery of Antiquities273.”] Madame du Bousquier received orders never again to set foot into that house. By way of reprisals274 upon the chevalier for the trick thus played him, du Bousquier, who had just created the journal called the “Courrier de l’Orne,” caused the following notice to be inserted in it:—
“Bonds to the amount of one thousand francs a year will be paid to
any person who can prove the existence of one Monsieur de
Pombreton before, during, or after the Emigration.”
Although her marriage was essentially275 negative, Madame du Bousquier saw some advantages in it: was it not better to interest herself in the most remarkable276 man in the town than to live alone? Du Bousquier was preferable to a dog, or cat, or those canaries that spinsters love. He showed for his wife a sentiment more real and less selfish than that which is felt by servants, confessors, and hopeful heirs. Later in life she came to consider her husband as the instrument of divine wrath277; for she then saw innumerable sins in her former desires for marriage; she regarded herself as justly punished for the sorrow she had brought on Madame Granson, and for the hastened death of her uncle. Obedient to that religion which commands us to kiss the rod with which the punishment is inflicted278, she praised her husband, and publicly approved him. But in the confessional, or at night, when praying, she wept often, imploring279 God’s forgiveness for the apostasy280 of the man who thought the contrary of what he professed, and who desired the destruction of the aristocracy and the Church,—the two religions of the house of Cormon.
With all her feelings bruised281 and immolated282 within her, compelled by duty to make her husband happy, attached to him by a certain indefinable affection, born, perhaps, of habit, her life became one perpetual contradiction. She had married a man whose conduct and opinions she hated, but whom she was bound to care for with dutiful tenderness. Often she walked with the angels when du Bousquier ate her preserves or thought the dinner good. She watched to see that his slightest wish was satisfied. If he tore off the cover of his newspaper and left it on a table, instead of throwing it away, she would say:—
“Rene, leave that where it is; monsieur did not place it there without intention.”
If du Bousquier had a journey to take, she was anxious about his trunk, his linen; she took the most minute precautions for his material benefit. If he went to Prebaudet, she consulted the barometer283 the evening before to know if the weather would be fine. She watched for his will in his eyes, like a dog which hears and sees its master while sleeping. When the stout284 du Bousquier, touched by this scrupulous285 love, would take her round the waist and kiss her forehead, saying, “What a good woman you are!” tears of pleasure would come into the eyes of the poor creature. It is probably that du Bousquier felt himself obliged to make certain concessions286 which obtained for him the respect of Rose-Marie-Victoire; for Catholic virtue205 does not require a dissimulation287 as complete as that of Madame du Bousquier. Often the good saint sat mutely by and listened to the hatred of men who concealed288 themselves under the cloak of constitutional royalists. She shuddered as she foresaw the ruin of the Church. Occasionally she risked a stupid word, an observation which du Bousquier cut short with a glance.
The worries of such an existence ended by stupefying Madame du Bousquier, who found it easier and also more dignified289 to concentrate her intelligence on her own thoughts and resign herself to lead a life that was purely290 animal. She then adopted the submission291 of a slave, and regarded it as a meritorious292 deed to accept the degradation in which her husband placed her. The fulfilment of his will never once caused her to murmur293. The timid sheep went henceforth in the way the shepherd led her; she gave herself up to the severest religious practices, and thought no more of Satan and his works and vanities. Thus she presented to the eyes of the world a union of all Christian virtues; and du Bousquier was certainly one of the luckiest men in the kingdom of France and of Navarre.
“She will be a simpleton to her last breath,” said the former collector, who, however, dined with her twice a week.
This history would be strangely incomplete if no mention were made of the coincidence of the Chevalier de Valois’s death occurring at the same time as that of Suzanne’s mother. The chevalier died with the monarchy294, in August, 1830. He had joined the cortege of Charles X. at Nonancourt, and piously295 escorted it to Cherbourg with the Troisvilles, Casterans, d’Esgrignons, Verneuils, etc. The old gentleman had taken with him fifty thousand francs,—the sum to which his savings then amounted. He offered them to one of the faithful friends of the king for transmission to his master, speaking of his approaching death, and declaring that the money came originally from the goodness of the king, and, moreover, that the property of the last of the Valois belonged of right to the crown. It is not known whether the fervor296 of his zeal297 conquered the reluctance298 of the Bourbon, who abandoned his fine kingdom of France without carrying away with him a farthing, and who ought to have been touched by the devotion of the chevalier. It is certain, however, that Cesarine, the residuary legate of the old man, received from his estate only six hundred francs a year. The chevalier returned to Alencon, cruelly weakened by grief and by fatigue299; he died on the very day when Charles X. arrived on a foreign shore.
Madame du Val-Noble and her protector, who was just then afraid of the vengeance of the liberal party, were glad of a pretext300 to remain incognito301 in the village where Suzanne’s mother died. At the sale of the chevalier’s effects, which took place at that time, Suzanne, anxious to obtain a souvenir of her first and last friend, pushed up the price of the famous snuff-box, which was finally knocked down to her for a thousand francs. The portrait of the Princess Goritza was alone worth that sum. Two years later, a young dandy, who was making a collection of the fine snuff-boxes of the last century, obtained from Madame du Val-Noble the chevalier’s treasure. The charming confidant of many a love and the pleasure of an old age is now on exhibition in a species of private museum. If the dead could know what happens after them, the chevalier’s head would surely blush upon its left cheek.
If this history has no other effect than to inspire the possessors of precious relics302 with holy fear, and induce them to make codicils303 to secure these touching souvenirs of joys that are no more by bequeathing them to loving hands, it will have done an immense service to the chivalrous304 and romantic portion of the community; but it does, in truth, contain a far higher moral. Does it not show the necessity for a new species of education? Does it not invoke305, from the enlightened solicitude306 of the ministers of Public Instruction, the creation of chairs of anthropology307,—a science in which Germany outstrips308 us? Modern myths are even less understood than ancient ones, harried309 as we are with myths. Myths are pressing us from every point; they serve all theories, they explain all questions. They are, according to human ideas, the torches of history; they would save empires from revolution if only the professors of history would force the explanations they give into the mind of the provincial masses. If Mademoiselle Cormon had been a reader or a student, and if there had existed in the department of the Orne a professor of anthropology, or even had she read Ariosto, the frightful disasters of her conjugal life would never have occurred. She would probably have known why the Italian poet makes Angelica prefer Medoro, who was a blond Chevalier de Valois, to Orlando, whose mare310 was dead, and who knew no better than to fly into a passion. Is not Medoro the mythic form for all courtiers of feminine royalty, and Orlando the myth of disorderly, furious, and impotent revolutions, which destroy but cannot produce? We publish, but without assuming any responsibility for it, this opinion of a pupil of Monsieur Ballanche.
No information has reached us as to the fate of the negroes’ heads in diamonds. You may see Madame du Val-Noble every evening at the Opera. Thanks to the education given her by the Chevalier de Valois, she has almost the air of a well-bred woman.
Madame du Bousquier still lives; is not that as much as to say she still suffers? After reaching the age of sixty—the period at which women allow themselves to make confessions—she said confidentially311 to Madame du Coudrai, that she had never been able to endure the idea of dying an old maid.
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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pacify
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| vt.使(某人)平静(或息怒)；抚慰 | |
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balked
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| v.畏缩不前，犹豫( balk的过去式和过去分词 )；（指马）不肯跑 | |
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fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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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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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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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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promenade
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omen
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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meditating
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| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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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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miseries
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tavern
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entangle
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| vt.缠住，套住；卷入，连累 | |
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culminated
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| v.达到极点( culminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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aged
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uncertainties
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| 无把握( uncertainty的名词复数 )； 不确定； 变化不定； 无把握、不确定的事物 | |
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faction
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retirement
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depressed
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notary
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destined
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hatred
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anonymous
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astonishment
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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38
seducer
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| n.诱惑者,骗子,玩弄女性的人 | |
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39
disdained
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| 鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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40
maternity
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| n.母性，母道，妇产科病房；adj.孕妇的，母性的 | |
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41
purveyor
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| n.承办商，伙食承办商 | |
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42
convoked
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| v.召集，召开（会议）( convoke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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44
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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45
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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46
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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47
sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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48
bouquets
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| n.花束( bouquet的名词复数 )；（酒的）芳香 | |
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49
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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50
bemoaned
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| v.为（某人或某事）抱怨( bemoan的过去式和过去分词 )；悲悼；为…恸哭；哀叹 | |
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51
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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52
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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53
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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54
sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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55
succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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56
annihilating
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的现在分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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57
augur
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| n.占卦师；v.占卦 | |
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58
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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59
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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60
modernizing
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| 使现代化，使适应现代需要( modernize的现在分词 )； 现代化，使用现代方法 | |
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61
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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62
groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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63
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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64
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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65
perturbing
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| v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的现在分词 ) | |
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66
superseded
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| [医]被代替的，废弃的 | |
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67
accustom
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| vt.使适应，使习惯 | |
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68
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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69
melancholy
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|
| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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70
naive
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|
| adj.幼稚的，轻信的；天真的 | |
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71
soothed
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|
| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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72
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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73
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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74
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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75
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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76
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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77
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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78
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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79
revolving
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|
| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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80
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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81
efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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82
ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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83
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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84
outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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85
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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86
frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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87
meditated
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|
| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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88
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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89
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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90
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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91
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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92
potent
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| adj.强有力的，有权势的；有效力的 | |
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93
intentionally
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| ad.故意地，有意地 | |
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94
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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95
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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96
linen
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|
| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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97
eels
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|
| abbr. 电子发射器定位系统（=electronic emitter location system） | |
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98
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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99
gratis
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| adj.免费的 | |
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100
touching
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|
| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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101
fully
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|
| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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102
alleviates
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| 减轻，缓解，缓和( alleviate的名词复数 ) | |
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103
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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104
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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105
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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106
inflexible
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|
| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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107
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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108
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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109
shroud
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| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
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110
saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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111
yarns
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| n.纱( yarn的名词复数 )；纱线；奇闻漫谈；旅行轶事 | |
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112
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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113
penury
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| n.贫穷，拮据 | |
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114
frugal
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|
| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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115
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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116
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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117
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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118
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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119
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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120
clandestinely
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| adv.秘密地，暗中地 | |
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121
flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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122
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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123
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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124
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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125
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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126
redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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127
impiety
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| n.不敬；不孝 | |
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128
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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129
chalice
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| n.圣餐杯；金杯毒酒 | |
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130
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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131
oration
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| n.演说，致辞，叙述法 | |
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132
enunciate
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| v.发音；（清楚地）表达 | |
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133
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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134
restitution
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| n.赔偿；恢复原状 | |
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135
frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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136
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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137
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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138
indigenous
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| adj.土产的，土生土长的，本地的 | |
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139
cravat
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| n.领巾，领结；v.使穿有领结的服装，使结领结 | |
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140
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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141
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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142
puckered
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| v.（使某物）起褶子或皱纹( pucker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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143
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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144
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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145
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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146
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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147
furrow
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| n.沟；垄沟；轨迹；车辙；皱纹 | |
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148
crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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149
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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150
blotch
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| n.大斑点；红斑点；v.使沾上污渍，弄脏 | |
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151
amber
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|
| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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152
smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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153
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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154
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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155
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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156
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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157
persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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158
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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159
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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160
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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161
calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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162
bankruptcy
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| n.破产；无偿付能力 | |
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163
valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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164
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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165
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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166
diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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167
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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168
libertine
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| n.淫荡者；adj.放荡的，自由思想的 | |
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169
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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170
royalty
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| n.皇家，皇族 | |
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171
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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172
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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173
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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174
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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175
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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176
authorized
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| a.委任的，许可的 | |
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177
abdication
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| n.辞职；退位 | |
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178
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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179
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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180
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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181
salons
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| n.（营业性质的）店( salon的名词复数 )；厅；沙龙（旧时在上流社会女主人家的例行聚会或聚会场所）；（大宅中的）客厅 | |
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182
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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183
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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184
revels
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| n.作乐( revel的名词复数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉v.作乐( revel的第三人称单数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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185
perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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186
pervert
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| n.堕落者，反常者；vt.误用，滥用；使人堕落，使入邪路 | |
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187
fathomed
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| 理解…的真意( fathom的过去式和过去分词 )； 彻底了解； 弄清真相 | |
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188
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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189
relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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190
intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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191
thwarting
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| 阻挠( thwart的现在分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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192
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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193
marital
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| adj.婚姻的，夫妻的 | |
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194
encroachment
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| n.侵入，蚕食 | |
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195
demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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196
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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197
rumors
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| n.传闻( rumor的名词复数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷v.传闻( rumor的第三人称单数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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198
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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199
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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200
treacherous
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|
| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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201
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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202
apostate
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| n.背叛者，变节者 | |
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203
accomplished
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|
| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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204
hostilities
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| n.战争；敌意(hostility的复数)；敌对状态；战事 | |
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205
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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206
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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207
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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208
repudiated
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| v.（正式地）否认( repudiate的过去式和过去分词 )；拒绝接受；拒绝与…往来；拒不履行（法律义务） | |
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209
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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210
linens
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| n.亚麻布( linen的名词复数 )；家庭日用织品 | |
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211
inscribing
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的现在分词 ) | |
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212
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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213
conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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214
embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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215
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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216
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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217
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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218
journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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219
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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220
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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221
vendetta
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| n.世仇，宿怨 | |
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222
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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223
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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224
abolition
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| n.废除，取消 | |
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225
entails
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| 使…成为必要( entail的第三人称单数 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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226
supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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227
legislative
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|
| n.立法机构，立法权；adj.立法的，有立法权的 | |
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228
advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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229
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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230
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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231
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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232
utterly
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|
| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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233
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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234
conjugal
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| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
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235
astute
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| adj.机敏的，精明的 | |
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236
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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237
throttle
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| n.节流阀，节气阀，喉咙；v.扼喉咙，使窒息，压 | |
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238
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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239
confided
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|
| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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240
pious
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|
| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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241
placid
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|
| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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242
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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243
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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244
remorse
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|
| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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245
forth
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|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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246
imbibes
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| v.吸收( imbibe的第三人称单数 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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247
malicious
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|
| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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248
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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249
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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250
impervious
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|
| adj.不能渗透的，不能穿过的，不易伤害的 | |
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251
ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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252
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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253
requiem
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| n.安魂曲，安灵曲 | |
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254
enticed
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| 诱惑，怂恿( entice的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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255
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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256
virtuous
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|
| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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257
alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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258
gallantly
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|
| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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259
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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260
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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261
purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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262
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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263
adroitness
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264
wedlock
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| n.婚姻，已婚状态 | |
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265
deceptions
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| 欺骗( deception的名词复数 )； 骗术，诡计 | |
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266
advisers
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| 顾问，劝告者( adviser的名词复数 )； （指导大学新生学科问题等的）指导教授 | |
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267
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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268
deceptive
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| adj.骗人的，造成假象的，靠不住的 | |
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269
initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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270
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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271
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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272
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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273
antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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274
reprisals
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| n.报复（行为）( reprisal的名词复数 ) | |
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275
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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276
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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277
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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278
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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279
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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280
apostasy
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| n.背教，脱党 | |
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281
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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282
immolated
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| v.宰杀…作祭品( immolate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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283
barometer
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| n.气压表，睛雨表，反应指标 | |
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285
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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286
concessions
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|
| n.（尤指由政府或雇主给予的）特许权( concession的名词复数 )；承认；减价；（在某地的）特许经营权 | |
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287
dissimulation
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| n.掩饰，虚伪，装糊涂 | |
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288
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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289
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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290
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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291
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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292
meritorious
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|
| adj.值得赞赏的 | |
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293
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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294
monarchy
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| n.君主，最高统治者；君主政体，君主国 | |
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295
piously
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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296
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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297
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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298
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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299
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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300
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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301
incognito
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| adv.匿名地；n.隐姓埋名；adj.化装的，用假名的，隐匿姓名身份的 | |
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302
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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303
codicils
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| n.遗嘱的附件( codicil的名词复数 ) | |
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304
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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305
invoke
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| v.求助于(神、法律)；恳求，乞求 | |
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306
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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307
anthropology
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| n.人类学 | |
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308
outstrips
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| v.做得比…更好，（在赛跑等中）超过( outstrip的第三人称单数 ) | |
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309
harried
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| v.使苦恼( harry的过去式和过去分词 )；不断烦扰；一再袭击；侵扰 | |
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310
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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311
confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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