Essentially1 a woman in grace and beauty, as well as in devotion and tenderness, Marie-Anne was capable of a virile2 bravery. Her energy and her coolness during those trying days had been the admiration3 and the astonishment4 of all around her.
But human endurance has its limits. Always after excessive efforts comes a moment when the shrinking flesh fails the firmest will.
When Marie-Anne tried to begin her journey anew, she found that her strength was exhausted5; her swollen6 feet would no longer sustain her, her limbs sank under her, her head whirled, and an intense freezing coldness crept over her heart.
Maurice and the old soldier were obliged to support her, almost carry her. Fortunately they were not far from the village, whose church-tower they had discerned through the gray mists of morning.
Soon the fugitives7 could distinguish the houses on the outskirts8 of the town. The corporal suddenly stopped short with an oath.
“Mille tonnerres!” he exclaimed; “and my uniform! To enter the village in this rig would excite suspicion at once; before we had a chance to sit down, the Piedmontese gendarmes9 would arrest us.”
He reflected for a moment, twirling his mustache furiously; then, in a tone that would have made a passerby10 tremble, he said:
“All things are fair in love and war. The next peasant who passes —”
“But I have money,” interrupted Maurice, unbuckling a belt filled with gold, which he had put on under his clothing on the night of the revolt.
“Eh! we are fortunate!” cried Bavois. “Give me some, and I will soon find some shop in the suburbs where I can purchase a change of clothing.” He departed; but it was not long before he reappeared, transformed by a peasant’s costume, which fitted him perfectly11. His small, thin face was almost hidden beneath an immense broad-brimmed hat.
“Now, steady, forward, march!” he said to Maurice and Marie-Anne, who scarcely recognized him in this disguise.
The town, which they soon reached, was called Saliente. They read the name upon a guide-post.
The fourth house after entering the place was a hostelry, the Traveller’s Rest. They entered it, and ordered the hostess to take the young lady to a room and to assist her in disrobing.
The order was obeyed, and Maurice and the corporal went into the dining-room and ordered something to eat.
The desired refreshments12 were served, but the glances cast upon the guests were by no means friendly. It was evident that they were regarded with suspicion.
A large man, who was apparently13 the proprietor14 of the house, hovered15 around them, and at last embraced a favorable opportunity to ask their names.
“My name is Dubois,” replied Maurice, without the slightest hesitation16. “I am travelling on business, and this man here is my farmer.”
These replies seemed to reassure17 the host a little.
“And what is your business?” he inquired.
“I came into this land of inquisitive18 people to buy mules19,” laughed Maurice, striking his belt of money.
On hearing the jingle20 of the coin the man lifted his cap deferentially21. Raising mules was the chief industry of the country. This bourgeois22 was very young, but he had a well-filled purse, and that was enough.
“You will excuse me,” resumed the host, in quite a different tone. “You see, we are obliged to be very careful. There has been some trouble in Montaignac.”
The imminence23 of the peril24 and the responsibility devolving upon him, gave Maurice an assurance unusual to him; and it was in the most careless, off-hand manner possible that he concocted25 a quite plausible26 story to explain his early arrival on foot accompanied by a sick wife. He congratulated himself upon his address, but the old corporal was far from satisfied.
“We are too near the frontier to bivouac here,” he grumbled27. “As soon as the young lady is on her feet again we must hurry on.”
He believed, and Maurice hoped, that twenty-four hours of rest would restore Marie-Anne.
They were mistaken. The very springs of life in her existence seemed to have been drained dry. She did not appear to suffer, but she remained in a death-like torpor28, from which nothing could arouse her. They spoke29 to her but she made no response. Did she hear? did she comprehend? It was extremely doubtful.
By rare good fortune the mother of the proprietor proved to be a good, kind-hearted old woman, who would not leave the bedside of Marie-Anne — of Mme. Dubois, as she was called at the Traveller’s Rest.
It was not until the evening of the third day that they heard Marie-Anne utter a word.
“Poor girl!” she sighed; “poor, wretched girl!”
It was of herself that she spoke.
By a phenomenon not very unusual after a crisis in which reason has been temporarily obscured, it seemed to her that it was someone else who had been the victim of all the misfortunes, whose recollections gradually returned to her like the memory of a painful dream.
What strange and terrible events had taken place since that August Sabbath, when, on leaving the church with her father, she heard of the arrival of the Duc de Sairmeuse.
And that was only eight months ago.
What a difference between those days when she lived happy and envied in that beautiful Chateau30 de Sairmeuse, of which she believed herself the mistress, and at the present time, when she found herself lying in the comfortless room of a miserable31 country inn, attended by an old woman whom she did not know, and with no other protection than that of an old soldier — a deserter, whose life was in constant danger — and that of her proscribed32 lover.
From this total wreck33 of her cherished ambitions, of her hopes, of her fortune, of her happiness, and of her future, she had not even saved her honor.
But was she alone responsible? Who had imposed upon her the odious34 role which she had played with Maurice, Martial35, and Chanlouineau?
As this last name darted36 through her mind, the scene in the prison-cell rose suddenly and vividly37 before her.
Chanlouineau had given her a letter, saying as he did so:
“You will read this when I am no more.”
She might read it now that he had fallen beneath the bullets of the soldiery. But what had become of it? From the moment that he gave it to her until now she had not once thought of it.
She raised herself in bed, and in an imperious voice:
“My dress,” she said to the old nurse, seated beside her; “give me my dress.”
The woman obeyed; with an eager hand Marie-Anne examined the pocket.
She uttered an exclamation38 of joy on finding the letter there.
She opened it, read it slowly twice, then, sinking back on her pillows, she burst into tears.
Maurice anxiously approached her.
“What is the matter?” he inquired anxiously.
She handed him the letter, saying: “Read.”
Chanlouineau was only a poor peasant. His entire education had been derived39 from an old country pedagogue40, whose school he attended for three winters, and who troubled himself much less about the progress of his students than about the size of the books which they carried to and from the school.
This letter, which was written upon the commonest kind of paper, was sealed with a huge wafer, as large as a two-sou piece, which he had purchased from a grocer in Sairmeuse.
The chirography was labored41, heavy and trembling; it betrayed the stiff hand of a man more accustomed to guiding the plough than the pen.
The lines zigzagged42 toward the top or toward the bottom of the page, and faults of orthography43 were everywhere apparent.
But if the writing was that of a vulgar peasant, the thoughts it expressed were worthy44 of the noblest, the proudest in the land.
This was the letter which Chanlouineau had written, probably on the eve of the insurrection:
“Marie-Anne — The outbreak is at hand. Whether it succeeds, or
whether it fails, I shall die. That was decided45 on the day when I
learned that you could marry none other than Maurice d’Escorval.
“But the conspiracy46 will not succeed; and I understand your father
well enough to know that he will not survive its defeat. And if
Maurice and your brother should both be killed, what would become
of you? Oh, my God, would you not be reduced to beggary?
“The thought has haunted me continually. I have reflected, and this
is my last will:
“I give and bequeath to you all my property, all that I possess:
“My house, the Borderie, with the gardens and vineyards pertaining47
thereto, the woodland and the pastures of Berarde, and five lots
of land at Valrollier.
“You will find an inventory48 of this property, and of my other
possessions which I devise to you, deposited with the lawyer at
Sairmeuse.
“You can accept this bequest49 without fear; for, having no parents,
my control over my property is absolute.
“If you do not wish to remain in France, this property will sell
for at least forty thousand francs.
“But it would, it seems to me, be better for you to remain in your
own country. The house on the Borderie is comfortable and
convenient, since I have had it divided into three rooms and
thoroughly50 repaired.
“Upstairs is a room that has been fitted up by the best upholsterer
in Montaignac. I intended it for you. Beneath the hearth-stone in
this room you will find a box containing three hundred and twenty-
seven louis d’or and one hundred and forty-six livres.
“If you refuse this gift, it will be because you scorn me even
after I am dead. Accept it, if not for your own sake, for the sake
of — I dare not write it; but you will understand my meaning only
too well.
“If Maurice is not killed, and I shall try my best to stand between
him and danger, he will marry you. Then you will, perhaps, be
obliged to ask his consent in order to accept my gift. I hope that
he will not refuse it. One is not jealous of the dead!
“Besides, he knows well that you have scarcely vouchsafed51 a glance
to the poor peasant who has loved you so much.
“Do not be offended at anything I have said, I am in such agony
that I cannot weigh my words.
“Adieu, adieu, Marie-Anne.
“Chanlouineau.”
Maurice also read twice, before handing it back, this letter whose every word palpitated with sublime52 passion.
He was silent for a moment, then, in a husky voice, he said:
“You cannot refuse; it would be wrong.”
His emotion was so great that he could not conceal53 it, and he left the room.
He was overwhelmed by the grandeur54 of soul exhibited by this peasant, who, after saving the life of his successful rival at the Croix d’Arcy, had wrested55 Baron56 d’Escorval from the hands of his executioners, and who had never allowed a complaint nor a reproach to escape his lips, and whose protection over the woman he adored extended even from beyond the grave.
In comparison with this obscure hero, Maurice felt himself insignificant57, mediocre58, unworthy.
Good God! what if this comparison should arise in Marie-Anne’s mind as well? How could he compete with the memory of such nobility of soul and heroic self-sacrifice?
Chanlouineau was mistaken; one, may, perhaps, be jealous of the dead!
But Maurice took good care to conceal this poignant59 anxiety and these sorrowful thoughts, and during the days that followed, he presented himself in Marie-Anne’s room with a calm, even cheerful face.
For she, unfortunately, was not restored to health. She had recovered the full possession of her mental faculties60, but her strength had not yet returned. She was still unable to sit up; and Maurice was forced to relinquish61 all thought of quitting Saliente, though he felt the earth burn beneath his feet.
This persistent62 weakness began to astonish the old nurse. Her faith in herbs, gathered by the light of the moon, was considerably63 shaken.
Honest Bavois was the first to suggest the idea of consulting a physician whom he had found in this land of savages64.
Yes; he had found a really skilful65 physician in the neighborhood, a man of superior ability. Attached at one time to the beautiful court of Prince Eugene, he had been obliged to flee from Milan, and had taken refuge in this secluded66 spot.
This physician was summoned, and promptly67 made his appearance. He was one of those men whose age it is impossible to determine. His past, whatever it might have been, had wrought68 deep furrows69 on his brow, and his glance was as keen and piercing as his lancet.
After visiting the sick-room, he drew Maurice aside.
“Is this young lady really your wife, Monsieur — Dubois?”
He hesitated so strangely over this name, Dubois, that Maurice felt his face crimson70 to the roots of his hair.
“I do not understand your question,” he retorted, angrily.
“I beg your pardon, of course, but you seem very young for a married man, and your hands are too soft to belong to a farmer. And when I spoke to this young lady of her husband, she blushed scarlet71. The man who accompanies you has terrible mustaches for a farmer. Besides, you must remember that there have been troubles across the frontier at Montaignac.”
From crimson Maurice had turned white. He felt that he was discovered — that he was in this man’s power.
What should he do?
What good would denial do?
He reflected that confession72 is sometimes the height of prudence73, and that extreme confidence often meets with sympathy and protection; so, in a voice trembling with anxiety, he said:
“You are not mistaken, Monsieur. My friend and myself both are fugitives, undoubtedly74 condemned75 to death in France at this moment.”
And without giving the doctor time to respond, he narrated76 the terrible events that had happened at Sairmeuse, and the history of his unfortunate love-affair.
He omitted nothing. He neither concealed77 his own name nor that of Marie-Anne.
When his recital78 was completed, the physician pressed his hand.
“It is just as I supposed,” said he. “Believe me, Monsieur — Dubois, you must not tarry here. What I have discovered others will discover. And above all, do not warn the hotel-keeper of your departure. He has not been deceived by your explanation. Self-interest alone has kept his mouth closed. He has seen your money, and so long as you spend it at his house he will hold his tongue; but if he discovers that you are going away, he will probably betray you.”
“Ah! sir, but how is it possible for us to leave this place?”
“In two days the young lady will be on her feet again,” interrupted the physician. “And take my advice. At the next village, stop and give your name to Mademoiselle Lacheneur.”
“Ah! sir,” Maurice exclaimed; “have you considered the advice you offer me? How can I, a proscribed man — a man condemned to death perhaps — how can I obtain the necessary papers?”
The physician shook his head.
“Excuse me, you are no longer in France, Monsieur d’Escorval, you are in Piedmont.”
“Another difficulty!”
“No, because in this country, people marry, or at least they can marry, without all the formalities that cause you so much anxiety.”
“Is it possible?” Maurice exclaimed.
“Yes, if you can find a priest who will consent to your union, inscribe79 your name upon his parish register and give you a certificate, you will be so indissolubly united, Mademoiselle Lacheneur and you, that the court of Rome would never grant you a divorce.”
To suspect the truth of these affirmations was difficult, and yet Maurice doubted still.
“So, sir,” he said, hesitatingly, “in case I was able to find a priest ——”
The physician was silent. One might have supposed he was blaming himself for meddling80 with matters that did not concern him.
Then, almost brusquely, he said:
“Listen to me attentively81, Monsieur d’Escorval. I am about to take my leave, but before I go, I shall take occasion to recommend a good deal of exercise for the sick lady — I will do this before your host. Consequently, day after to-morrow, Wednesday, you will hire mules, and you, Mademoiselle Lacheneur and your old friend, the soldier, will leave the hotel as if going on a pleasure excursion. You will push on to Vigano, three leagues from here, where I live. I will take you to a priest, one of my friends; and he, upon my recommendation, will perform the marriage ceremony. Now reflect, shall I expect you on Wednesday?”
“Oh, yes, yes, Monsieur. How can I ever thank you?”
“By not thanking me at all. See, here is the innkeeper; you are Monsieur Dubois, again.”
Maurice was intoxicated82 with joy. He understood the irregularity of such a marriage, but he knew it would reassure Marie-Anne’s troubled conscience. Poor girl! she was suffering an agony of remorse83. It was that which was killing84 her.
He did not speak to her on the subject, however, fearing something might occur to interfere85 with the project.
But the old physician had not given his word lightly, and everything took place as he had promised.
The priest at Vigano blessed the marriage of Maurice d’Escorval and of Marie-Anne Lacheneur, and after inscribing86 their names upon the church register, he gave them a certificate, upon which the physician and Corporal Bavois figured as witnesses.
That same evening the mules were sent back to Saliente, and the fugitives resumed their journey.
Abbe Midon had counselled them to reach Turin as quickly as possible.
“It is a large city,” he said; “you will be lost in the crowd. I have more than one friend there, whose name and address are upon this paper. Go to them, and in that way I will try to send you news of your father.”
So it was toward Turin that Maurice, Marie-Anne, and Corporal Bavois directed their steps.
But their progress was very slow, for they were obliged to avoid frequented roads, and renounce87 the ordinary modes of transportation.
The fatigue88 of travel, instead of exhausting Marie-Anne, seemed to revive her. After five or six days the color came back to her cheek and her strength returned.
“Fate seems to have relaxed her rigor,” said Maurice, one day. “Who knows what compensations the future may have in store for us!”
No, fate had not taken pity upon them; it was only a short respite89 granted by destiny. One lovely April morning the fugitives stopped for breakfast at an inn on the outskirts of a large city.
Maurice having finished his repast was just leaving the table to settle with the hostess, when a despairing cry arrested him.
Marie-Anne, deadly pale, and with eyes staring wildly at a paper which she held in her hand, exclaimed in frenzied90 tones:
“Here! Maurice! Look!”
It was a French journal about a fortnight old, which had probably been left there by some traveller.
Maurice seized it and read:
“Yesterday, Lacheneur, the leader of the revolt in Montaignac, was
executed. The miserable mischief-maker exhibited upon the scaffold
the audacity91 for which he has always been famous.”
“My father has been put to death!” cried Marie-Anne, “and I— his daughter — was not there to receive his last farewell!”
She rose, and in an imperious voice:
“I will go no farther,” she said; “we must turn back now without losing an instant. I wish to return to France.”
To return to France was to expose themselves to frightful92 peril. What good would it do? Was not the misfortune irreparable?
So Corporal Bavois suggested, very timidly. The old soldier trembled at the thought that they might suspect him of being afraid.
But Maurice would not listen.
He shuddered93. It seemed to him that Baron d’Escorval must have been discovered and arrested at the same time that Lacheneur was captured.
“Yes, let us start at once on our return!” he exclaimed.
They immediately procured94 a carriage to convey them to the frontier. One important question, however, remained to be decided. Should Maurice and Marie-Anne make their marriage public? She wished to do so, but Maurice entreated95 her, with tears in his eyes, to conceal it.
“Our marriage certificate will not silence the evil disposed,” said he. “Let us keep our secret for the present. We shall doubtless remain in France only a few days.”
Unfortunately, Marie-Anne yielded.
“Since you wish it,” said she, “I will obey you. No one shall know it.”
The next day, which was the 14th of April, the fugitives at nightfall reached Father Poignot’s house.
Maurice and Corporal Bavois were disguised as peasants.
The old soldier had made one sacrifice that drew tears from his eyes; he had shaved off his mustache.
收听单词发音 |
1
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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virile
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| adj.男性的；有男性生殖力的；有男子气概的；强有力的 | |
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3
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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4
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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6
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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7
fugitives
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| n.亡命者，逃命者( fugitive的名词复数 ) | |
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8
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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9
gendarmes
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| n.宪兵，警官( gendarme的名词复数 ) | |
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10
passerby
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| n.过路人，行人 | |
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11
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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12
refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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13
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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14
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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15
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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16
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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17
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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18
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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19
mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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20
jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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21
deferentially
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| adv.表示敬意地，谦恭地 | |
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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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23
imminence
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| n.急迫，危急 | |
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24
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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25
concocted
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| v.将（尤指通常不相配合的）成分混合成某物( concoct的过去式和过去分词 )；调制；编造；捏造 | |
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26
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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27
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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28
torpor
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| n.迟钝；麻木；（动物的）冬眠 | |
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29
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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30
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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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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proscribed
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| v.正式宣布（某事物）有危险或被禁止( proscribe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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pedagogue
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| n.教师 | |
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labored
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| adj.吃力的，谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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zigzagged
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| adj.呈之字形移动的v.弯弯曲曲地走路，曲折地前进( zigzag的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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orthography
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| n.拼字法，拼字式 | |
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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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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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pertaining
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| 与…有关系的，附属…的，为…固有的(to) | |
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inventory
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| n.详细目录，存货清单 | |
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bequest
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| n.遗赠；遗产，遗物 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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wrested
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| （用力）拧( wrest的过去式和过去分词 )； 费力取得； （从…）攫取； （ 从… ） 强行取去… | |
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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mediocre
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| adj.平常的，普通的 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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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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savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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furrows
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| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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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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narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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inscribe
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| v.刻；雕；题写；牢记 | |
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meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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inscribing
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的现在分词 ) | |
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renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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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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procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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