Horatio.—No, my good lord.
SHAKESPEARE.
Here on my knees by heaven’s blest nower I swear,
If you persist, I ne’er henceforth will see you;
But rather wander through the world a beggar,
For, though to fortune lost, I’ll still inherit
The day following that on which Paul had been made acquainted with the secret of his birth, the inhabitants of the castle of Auray awoke more than ever absorbed in the fears and hopes which their several interests had created, for that day must necessarily prove a decisive one to the whole of them. The marchioness, whom our readers have ere this discovered, was neither perverse6 or wicked, but a haughty7 and inflexible8 woman, saw in it the termination of those heart-rending apprehensions10, which for so many years, had been her daily companions; for it was above all, in the eyes of her children, that she wished to preserve that unsullied reputation, the usurpation11 of which had been purchased at such cost. To her, Lectoure was not only a fitting son-in-law, being the bearer of a name as noble as her own, but more than this, a man, or rather a good genius, who at the same moment would bear away not only her daughter, whom he would take with him as his wife, but her son also, to whom the minister, thanks to this alliance, had promised to give a regiment12. Both her children gone, her first-born might come, and the secret revealed to him, would find no echo. Moreover, there were a thousand methods by which to close his lips. The fortune of the marchioness was immense, and gold was one of those resources, which, in such a case, she deemed infallible. The more terrible her fears, the more ardently13 did she desire this union; so that she not only encouraged the anxiety of Lectoure, but she also excited that of Emanuel. As to the latter, tired of living unknown at Paris, or immured14 in Brittany, lost in the crowd of brilliant young men who formed the household of the King, or shut up in the antique castle of his ancestors, having their portraits as his sole companions, he knocked with impatient eagerness at the golden door which his intended brother-in-law was to open for him, at Versailles. The grief and tears of his sister had, certainly, for a time afflicted15 him; for he was ambitious, more from a dread16 of the ennui17, which would consume him if compelled to live on his estate, and from the desire of parading at the head of his regiment, captivating the hearts of all the ladies by the richness and good taste of his uniform, than from either pride or hardness of heart. Being himself incapable18 of forming any serious attachment19, and despite the fatal consequences of his sister’s love, he considered that love, merely as a childish fancy, which the tumult20 and pleasure of the world would soon efface21 from her memory, and he really believed that before a year had elapsed, she would be the first to thank him for having thus done violence to her feelings.
As to Marguerite, poor victim, so irrevocably condemned22 to be immolated23 to the fear of the one, and to the ambition of the other, the scene of the preceding day had made a profound impression on her mind. She could not at all account to herself for the extraordinary feelings which the young man who had transmitted to her the words of Lusignan, had awakened24 in her heart; who had tranquillized her as to the fate of the unhappy exile, and had concluded by pressing her to his heart, and calling her his sister. A vague and instinctive25 hope whispered to her heart, that this man, as he had told her, had received from heaven the mission to protect her. But as she was ignorant of the tie which bound him to her, of the secret which made him master of his mother’s will, of the influence he might exercise over her future life, she did not dare allow herself to dream of happiness, habituated as she had been for six months, to consider death as the only term to her misfortunes.
The marquis, alone, amid the various emotions which agitated26 all around him, had remained coldly and impassibly indifferent; for to him the world had ceased to move since the dreadful day on which reason had abandoned him; continually absorbed by one fixed27 idea, that of his mortal combat, without seconds. The only words he ever uttered, were those pronounced by the Count de Morlaix, when he forgave him his death. He was an old man, weak as an infant, and whom his wife could overawe by a gesture, and who received from her cold and continuous will, every impulsion, which, for twenty years, the vegetating28 instinct had received, and which, on him, had usurped29 the place of reason and free will. On this day, however, a great change had taken place in his monotonous30 mode of life. A valet de chambre had entered his apartment, and had succeeded to the marchioness in the cares of his toilette; he had dressed him in his uniform of steward31 of the household, had decorated his breast with the several orders that had been conferred upon him; and then the marchioness, placing a pen in his hand, had ordered him to try to sign his name, and he had obeyed, passively and negligently32, without imagining that he was studying the part of an executioner.
About three in the afternoon, a postchaise, the sound of whose wheels had very differently impressed the hearts of the three persons who were expecting it, entered the court-yard of the castle. Emanuel had eagerly run down to the vestibule to receive his future brother-in-law, for it was he who had arrived. Lectoure sprang lightly from his carriage. He had halted for some time at the last post-house, to attire33 himself in a presentable costume, so that he arrived in an elegant court dress of the latest fashion. Emanuel smiled at this evidence of his anxiety, for it was clearly to be perceived, that Lectoure was determined34 not to lose the advantage of a first favorable impression, by presenting himself in a dusty travelling dress. His intercourse35 with the fair sex had taught him, that they almost invariably judge from the first glance, and the effect which it produces upon their minds or hearts, let it be favorable or unfavorable, is with difficulty removed. Moreover, it is but rendering36 justice to the baron37 to acknowledge that his person was graceful38 and elegant, and might have been dangerous to any woman whose heart was not already occupied by another.
“Permit me, my dear baron,” said Emanuel, advancing toward him, “in the momentary39 absence of the ladies, to do the honors of the mansion40 of my ancestors. See,” continued he, when they had reached the top of the stone steps leading into the hall, and pointing to the turrets41 and the bastions, “these date from the time of Philip Augustus, as to architecture, and from Henry IV., in point of ornament42.”
“Upon my honor,” replied the baron, in the affected43 tone which the young men of that day had adopted, “it is a most charming fortress44, and throws around it, to a distance of at least three leagues, a baronial odour, which would perfume even an army contractor45. If ever,” continued he, as they passed through the hall and entered a gallery ornamented46 on each side with long lines of family portraits, “I should take a fancy to enter into a rebellion against his most Christian47 Majesty48, I shall entreat49 you to lend me this jewel of a place; and,” added he, casting his eyes on the long rows of ancestors which offered themselves to his view, “the garrison50 with it.”
“Thirty-three quarters—I will not say in flesh and blood,” replied Emanuel, “for they are long since turned to dust—but in painting, as you see. They begin with a certain Chevalier Hugues d’Auray, who accompanied King Louis VII. to the crusades; that one, it is pretended, is my aunt Deborah, whom you see decked out as Judith; and all this eventually ends in the male line, in the last member of this illustrious family, your very humble51 and very obedient servant, Emanuel d’Auray.”
“Yes; but as I do not feel that I have, as yet, become sufficiently54 a patriarch,” rejoined Emanuel, passing before the baron to show him the way to the apartment which had been prepared for him, “to spend my days in such formidable society, I hope, baron, that you have thought of the means by which I can withdraw from it?”
“Undoubtedly, my dear count,” said Lectoure, following him. “I wished even to have been myself the bearer of your commission, as my wedding gift to you. I knew of a vacancy55 in the queen’s dragoon’s, and called yesterday on M. de Maurepas to solicit56 it for you, when I heard that it had been granted, at the request of I know not what mysterious admiral, a sort of corsair, pirate, or fantastic being, whom the queen has made the fashion by giving him her hand to kiss, and whom the king has taken a great affection to because he beat the English, I know not where—so that his majesty has conferred upon him the order of military merit, and presented him a sword with a gold hilt, just as he would have done to one of the nobility. In short, the game is lost on that side, but do not be alarmed, we will turn round to another.”
“Very well,” replied Emanuel, “I care not what regiment it may be in; what I desire is, that it should be a rank suitable to my name, and a position which would be becoming to our wealth.”
“Precisely—you shall have them.”
“But how,” said Emanuel, wishing to change the subject of conversation, “how did you manage to get rid of the thousand engagements you must have had on your hands.”
“Why,” said the baron, with that perfectly free and easy air, which belonged only to that distinguished57 class, and stretching himself upon a couch, for they had at length reached the apartment destined58 for him, “why, by frankly59 stating the fact to them. I announced at the queen’s card table, I was going to be married.”
“Oh! good heaven! Why, this was perfect heroism60! Above all, if you acknowledged you were about to seek a wife in the depths of Lower Brittany.”
“I did acknowledge it.”
“Gad! you will readily comprehend, my dear count,” said Lectoure, putting one knee over the other and, balancing his leg with a motion as regular as that of a pendulum62, “our women of the court believe that the sun rises at Paris, and sets at Versailles—all the rest of France, is, in their idea, a Lapland, Greenland, Nova Zembla! So that they expect, as you have hinted, my dear count, to see me bring back with me from my voyage to the pole some large hands, and formidable feet! Fortunately, they are mistaken,” he added, with an accent half timorous63, half interrogatory; “is it not so, Emanuel? for you told me that your sister”——
“You will see her,” replied Emanuel.
“It will be a dreadful disappointment to that poor Madame de Chaulne—it cannot be helped—and she must console herself. What is it?”
This question was induced by the entrance of Emanuel’s valet-de-chambre; who had half opened the door, and remained upon the threshold, waiting, as was then the custom of all servants in great houses, till his master should address him.
“What is it? repeated Emanuel.
“Mademoiselle Marguerite d’ Auray requests that Monsieur, the Baron de Lectoure, will honor her with a private interview.”
“Me!” said Lectoure, rising from the sofa, “certainly, with the greatest pleasure.”
“But no! it is a mistake!” exclaimed Emanuel; “you must be mistaken, Celestin.”
“I have the honor to assure your lordship,” replied the valet de chambre, “that I have correctly and faithfully executed the order which was given to me.”
“Impossible!” said Emanuel, uneasy to the highest degree, at the step his sister had ventured to take: “Baron, if you will be advised by me, you will send the little simpleton about her business.”
“By no means! by no means,” replied Lectoure. “What does this bluebeard of a brother mean? Celestin! Did you not call this lad, Celestin?”
Emanuel impatiently bowed his head in the affirmative. “Well then, Celestin, tell my lovely betrothed65 that I throw myself at her knees, at her feet, and that I await her orders either to go to her or to receive her here;—and there, take this for the charges of your embassy.”
He threw him his purse.
“And you, count,” rejoined Lectoure, “I trust that you have confidence enough in me, to permit this tête-à-tête?”
“But it is so perfectly absurd!”
“Not at all,” replied Lectoure; “on the contrary, it is perfectly befitting. I am not a crowned head, that I should marry a woman upon her portrait, and by proxy66. I wish to see her in person. Come, Emanuel,” he continued, pushing his friend toward a side door, that he might not meet his sister—“Come, now, tell me frankly—in confidence, between ourselves—is there any—deformity?”
“Why, no, by heaven!” replied the young count, “no—on the contrary, she is as lovely as an angel.”
“Well, then!” said the baron, “what does all this opposition67 mean? Come, now, begone, or must I call my guards?”
“No; but on my word, I am afraid that this little simpleton, who has not the slightest notion of the world, is coming to destroy all that has been arranged between us.”
“Oh! if that is all you fear,” replied Lectoure, opening the door, “you may be perfectly at ease. I like the brother too well not to look over some caprice—some extraordinary fantasies in the sister—and I pledge you my word as a gentleman, unless the devil should play us some strange trick, (whom, I trust, is at this moment fully64 occupied in some other corner of the world!) that Mademoiselle Marguerite d’Auray, shall be Madame the Baroness68 de Lectoure, and that in a month you shall have your regiment.”
This promise appeared in some degree to pacify69 Emanuel, who allowed himself to be pushed out of the door without making further difficulty. Lectoure immediately ran to a looking-glass to repair the slight traces of disorder70, which the jolting71 over the three last leagues had occasioned in his dress. He had scarcely given to his, hair and garments the most becoming turn and folds, when the door again opened, and Celestin announced—
“Mademoiselle Marguerite d’Auray.”
The baron turned round, and perceived his betrothed standing72 pale and trembling on the threshold of the door. Although the promises of Emanuel had inspired him with some degree of hope, a certain residue73 of doubt had still remained on his mind, if not as to the beauty, at all events, with regard to the deportment of the lady who was about to become his wife. His surprise was therefore unbounded, when he saw that delicate and graceful creature standing before him, and whom the most fastidious critic of female elegance74 could only have reproached with being in a slight degree too pallid75. Marriages, such as the one about to be contracted by Lectoure, were by no means rare in an age in which questions as to rank and suitableness of fortune in general, decided76 alliances between noble houses; but that which was scarcely found once in a thousand times, was, that a man in the baron’s position should meet, immured in a distant province, a lady possessed77 of an immense fortune, and whom, at the first glance, he could discern, was worthy78, by her demeanor79, her elegance, and her beauty, to shine in the most brilliant circles of the court. He, therefore, advanced toward her, no longer with the feeling of superiority as a courtier, addressing a country girl, but with all the respectful ease which distinguished good society at that time.
“Pardon me, mademoiselle,” said he, offering her his hand to conduct her to an arm chair, but which she did not accept; “it was to me to solicit the favor you have bestowed80 upon me; and believe me, it was the apprehension9 of being considered indiscreet, which alone has occasioned the apparent neglect of allowing myself to be forestalled81.”
“I truly appreciate this delicacy82, sir,” replied Marguerite, in a trembling voice, and retreating one step, she remained standing. “It strengthens me still more in the confidence which, without having seen you, without knowing you, I had placed in your honor and good faith.”
“Whatever aim this confidence may have had, I am honored by it, mademoiselle, and I will endeavor to render myself worthy of it. But, good heaven, what can so affect you?”
“Nothing, sir, nothing,” replied Marguerite, endeavoring to overcome her emotion; “but it is—it is—that I have to tell you that—but—really—I am not sufficiently mistress of myself to—”
She staggered, and appeared as if about to fall; the baron sprang toward her to offer his support, but he had scarcely touched her when a flush of crimson83 suffused84 the cheeks of the young girl, and with a feeling, which might be attributed as well to modesty85 as to repugnance86, she disengaged herself from his arms. Lectoure had taken her hand, and conducted her to a chair, against which she leaned, but would not seat herself in it.
“Good God!” exclaimed the baron, still retaining her hand, “it must then be something very difficult to utter, that has brought you hither! Or, without my at all suspecting it, has my being affianced to you already conferred upon me the imposing87 air of a husband?” Marguerite made another effort to withdraw her hand from the baron, and which induced the latter to observe it.
“How!” said he, “not satisfied with having the most adorable of faces, the elegant figure of a fairy, but you must have such lovely hands!—hands perfectly royal in their shape—why, ‘tis enough to make me expire at once.”
“I trust M. le Baron,” rejoined Marguerite, and making a last effort, she withdrew her hand from his grasp, “that the words with which you are now addressing me, are merely words of gallantry.”
“No, by my soul! they are the sincere truth.”
“Well then, I hope, should it be, which I much doubt, that you really think that which you have been pleased to say—I trust, I say, that such motives88 will not lead you to attach a higher value to the union which has been projected?”
“They will, indeed, and that I swear to you.”
“And yet,” continued Marguerite, gasping89 for breath, so much was her heart oppressed, “and yet, sir, you consider marriage as a solemn matter?”
“That is as it may happen,” smilingly replied Lectoure; “for example, if I were about to marry an old dowager.”
“In short,” rejoined Marguerite, in a more determined tone, “I beg your pardon, sir, if I have been mistaken; I thought, perhaps, that with regard to the alliance proposed between us, you had formed some idea of reciprocity of feeling.”
“Never!” cried Lectoure, interrupting her, for he appeared as eager to avoid the frank explanation, which Marguerite desired, as she seemed to provoke it. “Never! and above all, since I have seen you, I could not hope to be worthy of your love. And yet my name, my position in society, notwithstanding I should fail to influence your heart, may yet give me a title to your hand.”
“But how, sir,” said Marguerite, timidly, “how can you separate the one from the other?”
“As do three-fourths of the people who get married, mademoiselle,” replied Lectoure, with a carelessness which would have at once deterred90 the confidence of a woman less candid91 than Marguerite. “A man marries in order to have a wife, the wife to have a husband; it is a social compact, an arrangement of convenience. What can love have to do in a matter of this nature?”
“Your pardon, sir; perhaps I have not clearly expressed my meaning,” continued Marguerite, making an effort to control her feelings, and to conceal92 from the man upon whom her future fate depended, the impression his words had produced upon her mind. “But you must attribute my hesitation93, sir, to the timidity of a young girl, compelled by imperious circumstances to speak on such a subject.”
“Not at all, mademoiselle,” replied Lectoure, bowing and giving to his voice a tone which nearly approached raillery; “on the contrary, you speak like Clarissa Harlowe, and all you say is as clear as daylight. God has endowed me with a mind sufficiently quick-sighted perfectly to comprehend things which are but hinted at.”
“How, sir!” cried Marguerite, “you comprehend what I had the intention of saying, and you allow me to continue? How would it be if on looking deeply into my heart and interrogating94 all its feelings, I found it impossible to love—to love the person who had been presented to me as my future husband?”
“Why,” replied Lectoure, in the same sarcastic95 tone in which he had before spoken, “in my opinion the best course to pursue would be not to tell him of it.”
“And why not, sir?”
“Because—but—but—because it would really be too simple.”
“And if that avowal96 were made, not from simplicity97 but from delicacy? If I added, and may the shame of such an avowal fall back on those who compel me to make it—if I added sir, that I have loved, that I still love?”
“Oh! some little romance, is it not so?” said Lectoure, carelessly, crossing his leg and playing with the frill of his shirt; “upon my honor, the race of little cousins is an accursed race. But fortunately we know what these ephemeral attachments98 are; and there is not a school-girl, who, after the holidays, does not return to her convent but with a passion in her little heart.”
“Unfortunately for me,” replied Marguerite, with, a voice as sorrowful and grave as that of the baron was sarcastic and light, “unfortunately, I am no longer a school-girl, sir; and although still young, I have long ago passed the age of childish games and infantine attachments. When I speak to the man who does me the honor to solicit my hand and to offer me his name, of my love for another, he ought to understand that I am speaking of a serious, profound, and eternal love; of one of those passions, in fine, which leave their traces in the heart, and imprint99 them there for ever.”
“The devil!” exclaimed Lectoure, as if beginning to attach some importance to Marguerite’s confession100; “why, this is perfectly pastoral. But let us see! is it a young man whom one can receive at one’s house?”
“Oh! sir,” cried Marguerite, catching101 at the hope which these words seemed to inspire: “oh! believe me, he is the most estimable being, the most devoted102 soul——”
“Why, I am not asking you to tell me this—I was not speaking of the qualities of his heart—he has all these, of course, that’s perfectly understood. I ask you whether he is noble? if he is of good race? in short, whether a woman of quality could acknowledge him, and that without degrading her husband?”
“His father, whom he lost when very young, and who was my father’s friend from infancy103, was a counsellor at the Court of Rennes.”
“Nobility of the bar!” exclaimed Lectoure, dropping his nether104 lip with a contemptuous shrug105; “I would rather it were otherwise—is he a knight106 of Malta, at least?”
“He was educated for a military life.”
“Oh! then, we must get a regiment for him, to give him rank and standing in society. Well, that’s all arranged, and it is well. Now, listen to me: he will absent himself for six months, merely for decency’s sake, will obtain leave of absence, no difficult matter now, as we are not at war—he will get himself presented to you for form’s sake, by some mutual107 friend, and then all will go on rightly.”
“I do not understand you, sir,” replied Marguerite, looking at the baron with an expression of profound astonishment108.
“What I have said to you is, notwithstanding, perfectly pellucid,” rejoined the latter, with some show of impatience109; “you have engagements on your side—I have on mine—but that is no reason for preventing an union which is perfectly suitable in every respect; and once accomplished110, why, I think, we are bound to render it as bearable as we can. Do you comprehend me now?”
“Oh! pardon me, sir, pardon me,” cried Marguerite, starting back, as though these words had outraged111 her; “I have been very imprudent, very culpable112 perhaps; but whatever I may have been, I did not dream I could have merited so gross an insult. Oh! sir, the blush of shame is now scorching113 my cheek, but more for you than for myself. Yes, I understand you—an apparent love and a concealed114 one; the face of vice and the mask of virtue4; and it is to me—to me, the daughter of the Marquis d’Auray, that so shameful115, so humiliating, so infamous116 a bargain is proposed. Oh!” continued she, falling into an arm-chair, and hiding her face with both her hands, “I must then be a most unfortunate, most contemptible117 lost creature! Oh! my God! my God!”
“Emanuel! Emanuel!” cried the baron, opening the door, at which he rightly suspected Marguerite’s brother had remained; “come in, my dear friend; your sister is attacked with spasms118; these things ought to be attended to, or they may become chronic119; Madame do Moulan died of them. Here, take my scent120 bottle, and let her smell at it. As to myself, I am going down into the park. If you have nothing else to do, you can rejoin me there, and bring me, if you please, news of your sister.”
Saying these words, the Baron de Lectoure left the room with miraculous121 calmness, leaving Marguerite and Emanuel together.
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1
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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3
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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8
inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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usurpation
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| n.篡位；霸占 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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immured
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| v.禁闭，监禁( immure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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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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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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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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vegetating
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| v.过单调呆板的生活( vegetate的现在分词 )；植物似地生长；（瘤、疣等）长大 | |
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usurped
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| 篡夺，霸占( usurp的过去式和过去分词 )； 盗用； 篡夺，篡权 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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negligently
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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34
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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35
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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36
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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37
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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38
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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40
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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41
turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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42
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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contractor
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| n.订约人，承包人，收缩肌 | |
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46
ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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47
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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48
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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50
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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51
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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53
authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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solicit
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| vi.勾引；乞求；vt.请求，乞求；招揽(生意) | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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pendulum
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| n.摆，钟摆 | |
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timorous
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| adj.胆怯的，胆小的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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proxy
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| n.代理权，代表权；（对代理人的）委托书；代理人 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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baroness
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| n.男爵夫人，女男爵 | |
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pacify
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| vt.使(某人)平静(或息怒)；抚慰 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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jolting
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| adj.令人震惊的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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residue
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| n.残余，剩余，残渣 | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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demeanor
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| n.行为；风度 | |
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80
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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forestalled
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| v.先发制人，预先阻止( forestall的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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83
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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87
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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89
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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deterred
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| v.阻止，制止( deter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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92
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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interrogating
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| n.询问技术v.询问( interrogate的现在分词 )；审问；（在计算机或其他机器上）查询 | |
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95
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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96
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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97
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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98
attachments
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| n.（用电子邮件发送的）附件( attachment的名词复数 )；附着；连接；附属物 | |
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99
imprint
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| n.印痕，痕迹；深刻的印象；vt.压印，牢记 | |
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100
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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101
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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102
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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103
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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104
nether
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| adj.下部的，下面的；n.阴间；下层社会 | |
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105
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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106
knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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107
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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108
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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109
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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110
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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111
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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112
culpable
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| adj.有罪的，该受谴责的 | |
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113
scorching
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| adj. 灼热的 | |
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114
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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115
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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116
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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117
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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118
spasms
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| n.痉挛( spasm的名词复数 )；抽搐；（能量、行为等的）突发；发作 | |
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119
chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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120
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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121
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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