The cottage where M. Lacheneur had taken refuge was situated1 on a hill overlooking the water.
It was, as he had said, a small and humble2 dwelling3, but it was rather less miserable4 than the abodes5 of most of the peasants of the district.
It was only one story high, but it was divided into three rooms, and the roof was covered with thatch7.
In front was a tiny garden, in which a few fruit-trees, some withered8 cabbages, and a vine which covered the cottage to the roof, managed to find subsistence.
This garden was a mere9 nothing, but even this slight conquest over the sterility10 of the soil had cost Lacheneur’s deceased aunt almost unlimited11 courage and patience.
For more than twenty years the poor woman had never, for a single day, failed to throw upon her garden three or four basketfuls of richer soil, which she was obliged to bring more than half a league.
It had been more than a year since she died; but the little pathway which her patient feet had worn in the performance of this daily task was still distinctly visible.
This was the path which M. d’Escorval, faithful to his resolution, took the following day, in the hope of wresting12 from Marie-Anne’s father the secret of his inexplicable13 conduct.
He was so engrossed14 in his own thoughts that he failed to notice the overpowering heat as he climbed the rough hill-side in the full glare of the noonday sun.
When he reached the summit, however, he paused to take breath; and while wiping the perspiration15 from his brow, he turned to look back on the road which he had traversed.
It was the first time he had visited the spot, and he was surprised at the extent of the landscape which stretched before him.
From this point, which is the most elevated in the surrounding country, one can survey the entire valley of the Oiselle, and discern, in the distance, the redoubtable16 citadel17 of Montaignac, built upon an almost inaccessible18 rock.
This last circumstance, which the baron19 was afterward20 doomed21 to recall in the midst of the most terrible scenes, did not strike him then. Lacheneur’s house absorbed all his attention.
His imagination pictured vividly22 the sufferings of this unfortunate man, who, only two days before, had relinquished23 the splendors24 of the Chateau25 de Sairmeuse to repair to this wretched abode6.
He rapped at the door of the cottage.
“Come in!” said a voice.
The baron lifted the latch26 and entered.
The room was small, with un-white-washed walls, but with no other floor than the ground; no ceiling save the thatch that formed the roof.
A bed, a table and two wooden benches constituted the entire furniture.
Seated upon a stool, near the tiny window, sat Marie-Anne, busily at work upon a piece of embroidery27.
She had abandoned her former mode of dress, and her costume was that worn by the peasant girls.
When M. d’Escorval entered she rose, and for a moment they remained silently standing28, face to face, she apparently29 calm, he visibly agitated30.
He was looking at Marie-Anne; and she seemed to him transfigured. She was much paler and considerably31 thinner; but her beauty had a strange and touching32 charm — the sublime33 radiance of heroic resignation and of duty nobly fulfilled.
Still, remembering his son, he was astonished to see this tranquillity34.
“You do not ask me for news of Maurice,” he said, reproachfully.
“I had news of him this morning, Monsieur, as I have had every day. I know that he is improving; and that, since day before yesterday, he has been allowed to take a little nourishment35.”
“You have not forgotten him, then?”
She trembled; a faint blush suffused36 throat and forehead, but it was in a calm voice that she replied:
“Maurice knows that it would be impossible for me to forget him, even if I wished to do so.”
“And yet you have told him that you approve your father’s decision!”
“I told him so, Monsieur, and I shall have the courage to repeat it.”
“But you have made Maurice wretched, unhappy, child; he has almost died.”
She raised her head proudly, sought M. d’Escorval’s eyes, and when she had found them:
“Look at me, Monsieur. Do you think that I, too, do not suffer?”
M. d’Escorval was abashed37 for a moment; but recovering himself, he took Marie-Anne’s hand, and pressing it affectionately, he said:
“So Maurice loves you; you love him; you suffer; he has nearly died, and still you reject him!”
“It must be so, Monsieur.”
“You say this, my dear child — you say this, and you undoubtedly38 believe it. But I, who have sought to discover the necessity of this immense sacrifice, have failed to find it. Explain to me, then, why this must be so, Marie-Anne. Who knows but you are frightened by chimeras39, which my experience can scatter40 with a breath? Have you no confidence in me? Am I not an old friend? It may be that your father, in his despair, has adopted extreme resolutions. Speak, let us combat them together. Lacheneur knows how devotedly43 I am attached to him. I will speak to him; he will listen to me.”
“I can tell you nothing, Monsieur.”
“What! you are so cruel as to remain inflexible44 when a father entreats45 you on his knees — a father who says to you: ‘Marie-Anne, you hold in your hands the happiness, the life, the reason of my son ——’”
Tears glittered in Marie-Anne’s eyes, but she drew away her hand.
“Ah! it is you who are cruel, Monsieur; it is you who are without pity. Do you not see what I suffer, and that it is impossible for me to endure further torture? No, I have nothing to tell you; there is nothing you can say to my father. Why do you seek to impair46 my courage when I require it all to struggle against my despair? Maurice must forget me; he must never see me again. This is fate; and he must not fight against it. It would be folly47. We are parted forever. Beseech48 Maurice to leave the country, and if he refuses, you, who are his father, must command him to do so. And you, too, Monsieur, in Heaven’s name, flee from us. We shall bring misfortune upon you. Never return here; our house is accursed. The fate that overshadows us will ruin you also.”
She spoke49 almost wildly. Her voice was so loud that it penetrated50 an adjoining room.
The communicating door opened and M. Lacheneur appeared upon the threshold.
At the sight of M. d’Escorval he uttered an oath. But there was more sorrow and anxiety than anger in his manner, as he said:
“You, Monsieur, you here!”
The consternation51 into which Marie-Anne’s words had thrown M. d’Escorval was so intense that it was with great difficulty he stammered52 out a response.
“You have abandoned us entirely53; I was anxious about you. Have you forgotten our old friendship? I come to you ——”
The brow of the former master of Sairmeuse remained overcast54.
“Why did you not inform me of the honor that the baron had done me, Marie-Anne?” he said sternly.
She tried to speak, but could not; and it was the baron who replied:
“Why, I have but just come, my dear friend.”
M. Lacheneur looked suspiciously, first at his daughter, then at the baron.
“What did they say to each other while they were alone?” he was evidently wondering.
But, however great may have been his disquietude, he seemed to master it; and it was with his old-time affability of manner that he invited M. d’Escorval to follow him into the adjoining room.
“It is my reception-room and my cabinet combined,” he said, smiling.
This room, which was much larger than the first, was as scantily55 furnished; but it contained several piles of small books and an infinite number of tiny packages.
Two men were engaged in arranging and sorting these articles.
One was Chanlouineau.
M. d’Escorval did not remember that he had ever seen the other, who was a young man.
“This is my son, Jean, Monsieur,” said Lacheneur. “He has changed since you last saw him ten years ago.”
It was true. It had been, at least, ten years since the baron had seen Lacheneur’s son.
How time flies! He had left him a boy; he found him a man.
Jean was just twenty; but his haggard features and his precocious56 beard made him appear much older.
He was tall and well formed, and his face indicated more than average intelligence.
Still he did not impress one favorably. His restless eyes were always invading yours; and his smile betrayed an unusual degree of shrewdness, amounting almost to cunning.
As his father presented him, he bowed profoundly; but he was very evidently out of temper.
M. Lacheneur resumed:
“Having no longer the means to maintain Jean in Paris, I have made him return. My ruin will, perhaps, be a blessing57 to him. The air of great cities is not good for the son of a peasant. Fools that we are, we send them there to teach them to rise above their fathers. But they do nothing of the kind. They think only of degrading themselves.”
“Father,” interrupted the young man; “father, wait, at least, until we are alone!”
“Monsieur d’Escorval is not a stranger.” Chanlouineau evidently sided with the son, since he made repeated signs to M. Lacheneur to be silent.
Either he did not see them, or he pretended not to see them, for he continued:
“I must have wearied you, Monsieur, by telling you again and again: ‘I am pleased with my son. He has a commendable58 ambition; he is working faithfully; he will succeed.’ Ah! I was a poor, foolish father! The friend who carried Jean the order to return has enlightened me, to my sorrow. This model young man you see here left the gaming-house only to run to public balls. He was in love with a wretched little ballet-girl in some low theatre; and to please this creature, he also went upon the stage, with his face painted red and white.”
“To appear upon the stage is not a crime.”
“No; but it is a crime to deceive one’s father and to affect virtues60 which one does not possess! Have I ever refused you money? No. Notwithstanding that, you have contracted debts everywhere, and you owe at least twenty thousand francs.”
Jean hung his head; he was evidently angry, but he feared his father.
“Twenty thousand francs!” repeated M. Lacheneur. “I had them a fortnight ago; now I have nothing. I can hope to obtain this sum only through the generosity61 of the Duc de Sairmeuse and his son.” These words from Lacheneur’s lips astonished the baron.
Lacheneur perceived it, and it was with every appearance of sincerity62 and good faith that he resumed:
“Does what I say surprise you? I understand why. My anger at first made me give utterance63 to all sorts of absurd threats. But I am calm now, and I realize my injustice64. What could I expect the duke to do? To make me a present of Sairmeuse? He was a trifle brusque, I confess, but that is his way; at heart he is the best of men.”
“Have you seen him again?”
“No; but I have seen his son. I have even been with him to the chateau to designate the articles which I desire to keep. Oh! he refused me nothing. Everything was placed at my disposal — everything. I selected what I wished — furniture, clothing, linen65. It is all to be brought here; and I shall be quite a grand seigneur.”
“Why not seek another house? This ——”
“This pleases me, Monsieur. Its situation suits me perfectly66.”
In fact, why should not the Sairmeuse have regretted their odious67 conduct? Was it impossible that Lacheneur, in spite of his indignation, should conclude to accept honorable separation? Such were M. d’Escorval’s reflections.
“To say that the marquis has been kind is saying too little,” continued Lacheneur. “He has shown us the most delicate attentions. For example, having noticed how much Marie-Anne regrets the loss of her flowers, he has declared that he is going to send her plants to stock our small garden, and that they shall be renewed every month.”
Like all passionate68 men, M. Lacheneur overdid69 his part. This last remark was too much; it awakened70 a sinister71 suspicion in M. d’Escorval’s mind.
“Good God!” he thought, “does this wretched man meditate72 some crime?”
He glanced at Chanlouineau, and his anxiety increased. On hearing the names of the marquis and of Marie-Anne, the robust73 farmer had turned livid. “It is decided,” said Lacheneur, with an air of the lost satisfaction, “that they will give me the ten thousand francs bequeathed to me by Mademoiselle Armande. Moreover, I am to fix upon such a sum as I consider a just recompense for my services. And that is not all; they have offered me the position of manager at Sairmeuse; and I was to be allowed to occupy the gamekeeper’s cottage, where I lived so long. But on reflection I refused this offer. After having enjoyed for so long a time a fortune which did not belong to me, I am anxious to amass74 a fortune of my own.”
“Would it be indiscreet in me to inquire what you intend to do?”
“Not the least in the world. I am going to turn pedler.”
M. d’Escorval could not believe his ears. “Pedler?” he repeated.
“Yes, Monsieur. Look, there is my pack in that corner.”
“But this is absurd!” exclaimed M. d’Escorval. “People can scarcely earn their daily bread in this way.”
“You are wrong, Monsieur. I have considered the subject carefully; the profits are thirty per cent. And if besides, there will be three of us to sell goods, for I shall confide41 one pack to my son, and another to Chanlouineau.”
“What! Chanlouineau?”
“He has become my partner in the enterprise.”
“And his farm — who will take care of that?”
“He will employ day-laborers.”
And then, as if wishing to make M. d’Escorval understand that his visit had lasted quite long enough, Lacheneur began arranging the little packages which were destined75 to fill the pack of the travelling merchant.
But the baron was not to be gotten rid of so easily, now that his suspicions had become almost a certainty.
“I must speak with you,” he said, brusquely.
M. Lacheneur turned.
“I am very busy,” he replied, with a very evident reluctance76.
“I ask only five minutes. But if you have not the time to spare to-day, I will return to-morrow — day after to-morrow — and every day until I can see you in private.”
Lacheneur saw plainly that it would be impossible to escape this interview, so, with the gesture of a man who resigns himself to a necessity, addressing his son and Chanlouineau, he said:
“Go outside for a few moments.”
They obeyed, and as soon as the door had closed behind them, Lacheneur said:
“I know very well, Monsieur, the arguments you intend to advance; and the reason of your coming. You come to ask me again for Marie-Anne. I know that my refusal has nearly killed Maurice. Believe me, I have suffered cruelly at the thought; but my refusal is none the less irrevocable. There is no power in the world capable of changing my resolution. Do not ask my motives77; I shall not reveal them; but rest assured that they are sufficient.”
“Are we not your friends?”
“You, Monsieur!” exclaimed Lacheneur, in tones of the most lively affection, “you! ah! you know it well! You are the best, the only friends, I have here below. I should be the basest and the most miserable of men if I did not guard the recollection of all your kindnesses until my eyes close in death. Yes, you are my friends; yes, I am devoted42 to you — and it is for that very reason that I answer: no, no, never!”
There could no longer be any doubt. M. d’Escorval seized Lacheneur’s hands, and almost crushing them in his grasp:
“Unfortunate man!” he exclaimed, hoarsely78, “what do you intend to do? Of what terrible vengeance79 are you dreaming?”
“I swear to you ——”
“Oh! do not swear. You cannot deceive a man of my age and of my experience. I divine your intentions — you hate the Sairmeuse family more mortally than ever.”
“I?”
“Yes, you; and if you pretend to forget it, it is only that they may forget it. These people have offended you too cruelly not to fear you; you understand this, and you are doing all in your power to reassure80 them. You accept their advances — you kneel before them — why? Because they will be more completely in your power when you have lulled81 their suspicions to rest, and then you can strike them more surely ——”
He paused; the communicating door opened, and Marie-Anne appeared upon the threshold.
“Father,” said she, “here is the Marquis de Sairmeuse.”
This name, which Marie-Anne uttered in a voice of such perfect composure, in the midst of this excited discussion, possessed82 such a powerful significance, that M. d’Escorval stood as if petrified83.
“He dares to come here!” he thought. “How can it be that he does not fear the walls will fall and crush him?”
M. Lacheneur cast a withering84 glance at his daughter. He suspected her of a ruse85 which would force him to reveal his secret. For a second, the most furious passion contracted his features.
But, by a prodigious86 effort of will, he succeeded in regaining87 his composure. He sprang to the door, pushed Marie-Anne aside, and leaning out, he said:
“Deign to excuse me, Monsieur, if I take the liberty of asking you to wait a moment; I am just finishing some business, and I will be with you in a moment.”
Neither agitation88 nor anger could be detected in his voice; but, rather, a respectful deference89, and a feeling of profound gratitude90.
Having said this, he closed the door and turned to M. d’Escorval.
The baron, still standing with folded arms, had witnessed this scene with the air of a man who distrusts the evidence of his own senses; and yet he understood the meaning of it only too well.
“So this young man comes here?” he said to Lacheneur.
“Almost every day — not at this hour, usually, but a trifle later.”
“And you receive him? you welcome him?”
“Certainly, Monsieur. How can I be insensible to the honor he confers upon me? Moreover, we have subjects of mutual91 interest to discuss. We are now occupied in legalizing the restitution92 of Sairmeuse. I can, also, give him much useful information, and many hints regarding the management of the property.”
“And do you expect to make me, your old friend, believe that a man of your superior intelligence is deceived by the excuses the marquis makes for these frequent visits? Look me in the eye, and then tell me, if you dare, that you believe these visits are addressed to you!”
Lacheneur’s eye did not waver.
“To whom else could they be addressed?” he inquired.
This obstinate93 serenity94 disappointed the baron’s expectations. He could not have received a heavier blow.
“Take care, Lacheneur,” he said, sternly. “Think of the situation in which you place your daughter, between Chanlouineau, who wishes to make her his wife, and Monsieur de Sairmeuse, who desires to make her ——”
“Who desires to make her his mistress — is that what you mean? Oh, say the word. But what does that matter? I am sure of Marie-Anne.”
“In other words,” said he, in bitter indignation, “you make your daughter’s honor and reputation your stake in the game you are playing.”
This was too much. Lacheneur could restrain his furious passion no longer.
“Well, yes!” he exclaimed, with a frightful96 oath, “yes, you have spoken the truth. Marie-Anne must be, and will be, the instrument of my plans. A man situated as I am is free from the considerations that restrain other men. Fortune, friends, life, honor — I have been forced to sacrifice all. Perish my daughter’s virtue59 — perish my daughter herself — what do they matter, if I can but succeed?”
He was terrible in his fanaticism97; and in his mad excitement he clinched98 his hands as if he were threatening some invisible enemy; his eyes were wild and bloodshot.
The baron seized him by the coat as if to prevent his escape.
“You admit it, then?” he said. “You wish to revenge yourself on the Sairmeuse family, and you have made Chanlouineau your accomplice99?”
But Lacheneur, with a sudden movement, freed himself.
“I admit nothing,” he replied. “And yet I wish to reassure you ——”
He raised his hand as if to take an oath, and in a solemn voice, he said:
“Before God, who hears my words, by all that I hold sacred in this world, by the memory of my sainted wife who lies beneath the sod, I swear that I am plotting nothing against the Sairmeuse family; that I had no thought of touching a hair of their heads. I use them only because they are absolutely indispensable to me. They will aid me without injuring themselves.”
Lacheneur, this time, spoke the truth. His hearer felt it; still he pretended to doubt. He thought by retaining his own self-possession, and exciting the anger of this unfortunate man still more, he might, perhaps, discover his real intentions. So it was with an air of suspicion that he said:
“How can one believe this assurance after the avowal100 you have just made?”
Lacheneur saw the snare101; he regained102 his self-possession as if by magic.
“So be it, Monsieur, refuse to believe me. But you will wring103 from me only one more word on this subject. I have said too much already. I know that you are guided solely104 by friendship for me; my gratitude is great, but I cannot reply to your question. The events of the past few days have dug a deep abyss between you and me. Do not endeavor to pass it. Why should we ever meet again? I must say to you, what I said only yesterday to Abbe Midon. If you are my friend, you will never come here again — never — by night or by day, or under any pretext105 whatever. Even if they tell you that I am dying, do not come. This house is fatal. And if you meet me, turn away; shun106 me as you would a pestilence107 whose touch is deadly!”
The baron was silent. This was in substance what Marie-Anne had said to him, only under another form.
“But there is still a wiser course that you might pursue. Everything here is certain to augment108 the sorrow and despair which afflicts109 your son. There is not a path, nor a tree, nor a flower which does not cruelly remind him of his former happiness. Leave this place; take him with you, and go far away.”
“Ah! how can I do this? Fouche has virtually imprisoned110 me here.”
“All the more reason why you should listen to my advice. You were a friend of the Emperor, hence you are regarded with suspicion; you are surrounded by spies. Your enemies are watching for an opportunity to ruin you. The slightest pretext would suffice to throw you into prison — a letter, a word, an act capable of being misconstrued. The frontier is not far off; go, and wait in a foreign land for happier times.”
“That is something which I will not do,” said M. d’Escorval, proudly.
His words and accent showed the folly of further discussion. Lacheneur understood this only too well, and seemed to despair.
“Ah! you are like Abbe Midon,” he said, sadly; “you will not believe. Who knows how much your coming here this morning will cost you? It is said that no one can escape his destiny. But if some day the hand of the executioner is laid upon your shoulder, remember that I warned you, and do not curse me.”
He paused, and seeing that even this sinister prophecy produced no impression upon the baron, he pressed his hand as if to bid him an eternal farewell, and opened the door to admit the Marquis de Sairmeuse.
Martial111 was, perhaps, annoyed at meeting M. d’Escorval; but he nevertheless bowed with studied politeness, and began a lively conversation with M. Lacheneur, telling him that the articles he had selected at the chateau were on their way.
M. d’Escorval could do no more. To speak with Marie-Anne was impossible: Chanlouineau and Jean would not let him go out of their sight.
He reluctantly departed, and oppressed by cruel forebodings, he descended112 the hill which he had climbed an hour before so full of hope.
What should he say to Maurice?
He had reached the little grove113 of pines when a hurried footstep behind him made him turn.
The Marquis de Sairmeuse was following him, and motioned him to stop. The baron paused, greatly surprised; Martial, with that air of ingenuousness114 which he knew so well how to assume, and in an almost brusque tone, said:
“I hope, Monsieur, that you will excuse me for having followed you, when you hear what I have to say. I am not of your party; I loathe115 what you adore; but I have none of the passion nor the malice116 of your enemies. For this reason I tell you that if I were in your place I would take a journey. The frontier is but a few miles away; a good horse, a short gallop117, and you have crossed it. A word to the wise is — salvation118!”
And without waiting for any response, he turned and retraced119 his steps.
M. d’Escorval was amazed and confounded.
“One might suppose there was a conspiracy120 to drive me away!” he murmured. “But I have good reason to distrust the disinterestedness121 of this young man.”
Martial was already far off. Had he been less preoccupied122, he would have perceived two figures in the wood. Mlle. Blanche de Courtornieu, followed by the inevitable123 Aunt Medea, had come to play the spy.
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situated
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humble
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dwelling
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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abodes
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| 住所( abode的名词复数 )； 公寓； （在某地的）暂住； 逗留 | |
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abode
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thatch
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withered
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mere
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sterility
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unlimited
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wresting
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inexplicable
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engrossed
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perspiration
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redoubtable
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citadel
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inaccessible
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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afterward
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doomed
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vividly
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relinquished
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splendors
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chateau
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latch
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embroidery
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standing
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apparently
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agitated
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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32
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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33
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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34
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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35
nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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36
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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37
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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39
chimeras
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| n.（由几种动物的各部分构成的）假想的怪兽( chimera的名词复数 )；不可能实现的想法；幻想；妄想 | |
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40
scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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41
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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42
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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43
devotedly
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| 专心地； 恩爱地； 忠实地； 一心一意地 | |
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44
inflexible
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| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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45
entreats
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的第三人称单数 ) | |
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46
impair
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| v.损害，损伤；削弱，减少 | |
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47
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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48
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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49
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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50
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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51
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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52
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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54
overcast
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| adj.阴天的，阴暗的，愁闷的；v.遮盖，（使）变暗，包边缝；n.覆盖，阴天 | |
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55
scantily
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| adv.缺乏地；不充足地；吝啬地；狭窄地 | |
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56
precocious
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| adj.早熟的；较早显出的 | |
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57
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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58
commendable
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| adj.值得称赞的 | |
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59
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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60
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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61
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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62
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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63
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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64
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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65
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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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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67
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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69
overdid
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| v.做得过分( overdo的过去式 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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70
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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71
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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72
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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73
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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74
amass
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| vt.积累，积聚 | |
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75
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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76
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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77
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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78
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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79
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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80
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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81
lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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82
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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83
petrified
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| adj.惊呆的；目瞪口呆的v.使吓呆，使惊呆；变僵硬；使石化(petrify的过去式和过去分词) | |
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84
withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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85
ruse
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| n.诡计，计策；诡计 | |
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86
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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87
regaining
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| 复得( regain的现在分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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88
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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89
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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90
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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91
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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92
restitution
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| n.赔偿；恢复原状 | |
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93
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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94
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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95
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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96
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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97
fanaticism
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| n.狂热，盲信 | |
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98
clinched
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| v.（尤指两人）互相紧紧抱[扭]住( clinch的过去式和过去分词 )；解决（争端、交易），达成（协议） | |
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99
accomplice
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| n.从犯，帮凶，同谋 | |
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100
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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101
snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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102
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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103
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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104
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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105
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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106
shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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107
pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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108
augment
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| vt.(使)增大，增加，增长，扩张 | |
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109
afflicts
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的名词复数 ) | |
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110
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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112
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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113
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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114
ingenuousness
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| n.率直；正直；老实 | |
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115
loathe
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| v.厌恶，嫌恶 | |
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116
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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117
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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118
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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119
retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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120
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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121
disinterestedness
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122
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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123
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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