To quit Sairmeuse without any display of violence had cost Blanche an almost superhuman effort.
The wildest anger convulsed her soul at the very moment, when, with an assumption of melancholy1 dignity, she murmured those words of forgiveness.
Ah! had she obeyed the dictates2 of her resentment3!
But her indomitable vanity aroused within her the heroism4 of a gladiator dying on the arena5, with a smile upon his lips.
Falling, she intended to fall gracefully6.
“No one shall see me weep; no one shall hear me complain,” she said to her despondent7 father; “try to imitate me.”
And on her return to the Chateau8 de Courtornieu, she was a stoic9.
Her face, although pale, was as immobile as marble, beneath the curious gaze of the servants.
“I am to be called mademoiselle as in the past,” she said, imperiously. “Anyone forgetting this order will be dismissed.”
A maid forgot that very day, and uttered the prohibited word, “madame.” The poor girl was instantly dismissed, in spite of her tears and protestations.
All the servants were indignant.
“Does she hope to make us forget that she is married and that her husband has deserted10 her?” they queried11.
Alas12! she wished to forget it herself. She wished to annihilate13 all recollection of that fatal day whose sun had seen her a maiden14, a wife, and a widow.
For was she not really a widow?
Only it was not death which had deprived her of her husband, but an odious15 rival — an infamous16 and perfidious17 creature lost to all sense of shame.
And yet, though she had been disdained18, abandoned, and repulsed19, she was no longer free.
She belonged to the man whose name she bore like a badge of servitude — to the man who hated her, who fled from her.
She was not yet twenty; and this was the end of her youth, of her life, of her hopes, and even of her dreams.
Society condemned20 her to solitude21, while Martial22 was free to rove wheresoever fancy might lead him.
Now she saw the disadvantage of isolating23 one’s self. She had not been without friends in her school-girl days; but after leaving the convent she had alienated24 them by her haughtiness25, on finding them not as high in rank, nor as rich as herself. She was now reduced to the irritating consolations26 of Aunt Medea, who was a worthy27 person, undoubtedly28, but her tears flowed quite as freely for the loss of a cat, as for the death of a relative.
But Blanche bravely resolved that she would conceal29 her grief and despair in the recesses30 of her own heart.
She drove about the country; she wore the prettiest dresses in her trousseau; she forced herself to appear gay and indifferent.
But on going to attend high mass in Sairmeuse the following Sunday, she realized the futility31 of her efforts.
People did not look at her haughtily32, or even curiously33; but they turned away their heads to laugh, and she overheard remarks upon the maiden widow which pierced her very soul.
They mocked her; they ridiculed34 her!
“Oh! I will have my revenge!” she muttered.
But she had not waited for these insults before thinking of vengeance35; and she had found her father quite ready to assist her in her plans.
For the first time the father and the daughter were in accord.
“The Duc de Sairmeuse shall learn what it costs to aid in the escape of a prisoner and to insult a man like me. Fortune, favor, position — he shall lose all! I hope to see him ruined and dishonored at my feet. You shall see that day! you shall see that day!” said the marquis, vehemently36.
But, unfortunately for him and his plans, he was extremely ill for three days, after the scene at Sairmeuse; then he wasted three days more in composing a report, which was intended to crush his former ally.
This delay ruined him, since it gave Martial time to perfect his plans and to send the Duc de Sairmeuse to Paris skilfully37 indoctrinated.
And what did the duke say to the King, who accorded him such a gracious reception?
He undoubtedly pronounced the first reports false, reduced the Montaignac revolution to its proper proportions, represented Lacheneur as a fool, and his followers38 as inoffensive idiots.
Perhaps he led the King to suppose that the Marquis de Courtornieu might have provoked the outbreak by undue39 severity. He had served under Napoleon, and possibly had thought it necessary to make a display of his zeal40. There have been such cases.
So far as he himself was concerned, he deeply deplored41 the mistakes into which he had been led by the ambitious marquis, upon whom he cast most of the responsibility for the blood which had been shed.
The result of all this was, that when the Marquis de Courtornieu’s report reached Paris, it was answered by a decree depriving him of the office of grand prevot.
This unexpected blow crushed him.
To think that a man as shrewd, as subtle-minded, as quick-witted, and adroit42 as himself — a man who had passed through so many troubled epochs, who had served with the same obsequious43 countenance44 all the masters who would accept his services — to think that such a man should have been thus duped and betrayed!
“It must be that old imbecile, the Duc de Sairmeuse, who has manoeuvred so skilfully, and with so much address,” he said. “But who advised him? I cannot imagine who it could have been.”
Who it was Mme. Blanche knew only too well.
She recognized Martial’s hand in all this, as Marie-Anne had done.
“Ah! I was not deceived in him,” she thought; “he is the great diplomatist I believed him to be. At his age to outwit my father, an old politician of such experience and acknowledged astuteness45! And he does all this to please Marie-Anne,” she continued, frantic46 with rage. “It is the first step toward obtaining pardon for the friends of that vile47 creature. She has unbounded influence over him, and so long as she lives there is no hope for me. But, patience.”
She was patient, realizing that he who wishes to surely attain48 his revenge must wait, dissimulate49, prepare an opportunity, but not force it.
What her revenge should be she had not yet decided50; but she already had her eye upon a man whom she believed would be a willing instrument in her hands, and capable of doing anything for money.
But how had such a man chanced to cross the path of Mme. Blanche? How did it happen that she was cognizant of the existence of such a person?
It was the result of one of those simple combinations of circumstances which go by the name of chance.
Burdened with remorse51, despised and jeered52 at, and stoned whenever he showed himself upon the street, and horror-stricken whenever he thought of the terrible threats of Balstain, the Piedmontese innkeeper, Chupin left Montaignac and came to beg an asylum53 at the Chateau de Sairmeuse.
In his ignorance, he thought that the grand seigneur who had employed him, and who had profited by his treason, owed him, over and above the promised reward, aid and protection.
But the servants shunned54 him. They would not allow him a seat at the kitchen-table, nor would the grooms55 allow him to sleep in the stables. They threw him a bone, as they would have thrown it to a dog; and he slept where he could.
He bore all this uncomplainingly, deeming himself fortunate in being able to purchase comparative safety at such a price.
But when the duke returned from Paris with a policy of forgetfulness and conciliation56 in his pocket, he would no longer tolerate the presence of this man, who was the object of universal execration57.
He ordered the dismissal of Chupin.
The latter resisted, swearing that he would not leave Sairmeuse unless he was forcibly expelled, or unless he received the order from the lips of the duke himself.
This obstinate58 resistance was reported to the duke. It made him hesitate; but the necessity of the moment, and a word from Martial, decided him.
He sent for Chupin and told him that he must not visit Sairmeuse again under any pretext59 whatever, softening60 the harshness of expulsion, however, by the offer of a small sum of money.
But Chupin sullenly61 refused the money, gathered his belongings62 together, and departed, shaking his clinched63 fist at the chateau, and vowing64 vengeance on the Sairmeuse family. Then he went to his old home, where his wife and his two boys still lived.
He seldom left the house, and then only to satisfy his passion for hunting. At such times, instead of hiding and surrounding himself with every precaution, as he had done, before shooting a squirrel or a few partridges, in former times, he went boldly to the Sairmeuse or the Courtornieu forests, shot his game, and brought it home openly, almost defiantly65.
The rest of the time he spent in a state of semi-intoxication, for he drank constantly and more and more immoderately. When he had taken more than usual, his wife and his sons generally attempted to obtain money from him, and if persuasions66 failed they resorted to blows.
For he had never given them the reward of his treason. What had he done with the twenty thousand francs in gold which had been paid him? No one knew. His sons believed he had buried it somewhere; but they tried in vain to wrest67 his secret from him.
All the people in the neighborhood were aware of this state of affairs, and regarded it as a just punishment for the traitor68. Mme. Blanche overheard one of the gardeners telling the story to two of his assistants:
“Ah, the man is an old scoundrel!” he said, his face crimson69 with indignation. “He should be in the galleys70, and not at large among respectable people.”
“He is a man who would serve your purpose,” the voice of hatred71 whispered in Blanche’s ear.
“But how can I find an opportunity to confer with him?” she wondered. Mme. Blanche was too prudent72 to think of hazarding a visit to his house, but she remembered that he hunted occasionally in the Courtornieu woods, and that it might be possible for her to meet him there.
“It will only require a little perseverance73 and a few long walks,” she said to herself.
But it cost poor Aunt Medea, the inevitable74 chaperon, two long weeks of almost continued walking.
“Another freak!” groaned75 the poor relative, overcome with fatigue76; “my niece is certainly crazy!”
But one lovely afternoon in May Blanche discovered what she sought.
It was in a sequestered77 spot near the lake. Chupin was tramping sullenly along with his gun and glancing suspiciously on every side! Not that he feared the game-keeper or a verbal process, but wherever he went, he fancied he saw Balstain walking in his shadow, with that terrible knife in his hand.
Seeing Mme. Blanche he tried to hide himself in the forest, but she prevented it by calling:
“Father Chupin!”
He hesitated for a moment, then he paused, dropped his gun, and waited.
Aunt Medea was pale with fright.
“Blessed Jesus!” she murmured, pressing her niece’s arm; “why do you call that terrible man?”
“I wish to speak with him.”
“What, Blanche, do you dare ——”
“I must!”
“No, I cannot allow it. I must not ——”
“There, that is enough,” said Blanche, with one of those imperious glances that deprive a dependent of all strength and courage; “quite enough.”
Then, in gentler tones:
“I must talk with this man,” she added.
“You, Aunt Medea, will remain at a little distance. Keep a close watch on every side, and if you see anyone approaching, call me, whoever it may be.”
Aunt Medea, submissive as she was ever wont78 to be, obeyed; and Mme. Blanche advanced toward the old poacher, who stood as motionless as the trunks of the giant trees around him.
“Well, my good Father Chupin, what sort of sport have you had to-day?” she began, when she was a few steps from him.
“What do you want with me?” growled79 Chupin; “for you do want something, or you would not trouble yourself about such as I.”
It required all Blanche’s determination to repress a gesture of fright and of disgust; but, in a resolute80 tone, she replied:
“Yes, it is true that I have a favor to ask you.”
“Ah, ha! I supposed so.”
“A mere81 trifle which will cost you no trouble and for which you shall be well paid.”
She said this so carelessly that one would really have supposed the service was unimportant; but cleverly as she played her part, Chupin was not deceived.
“No one asks trifling82 services of a man like me,” he said coarsely.
“Since I have served the good cause, at the peril83 of my life, people seem to suppose that they have a right to come to me with their money in their hands, when they desire any dirty work done. It is true that I was well paid for that other job; but I would like to melt all the gold and pour it down the throats of those who gave it to me.
“Ah! I know what it costs the humble84 to listen to the words of the great! Go your way; and if you have any wickedness in your head, do it yourself!”
He shouldered his gun and was moving away, when Mme. Blanche said, coldly:
“It was because I knew your wrongs that I stopped you; I thought you would be glad to serve me, because I hate the Sairmeuse.”
These words excited the interest of the old poacher, and he paused.
“I know very well that you hate the Sairmeuse now — but ——”
“But what!”
“In less than a month you will be reconciled. And you will pay the expenses of the war and of the reconciliation85? That old wretch86, Chupin ——”
“We shall never be reconciled.”
“Hum!” he growled, after deliberating awhile. “And if I should aid you, what compensation will you give me?”
“I will give you whatever you desire — money, land, a house ——”
“Many thanks. I desire something quite different.”
“What? Name your conditions.”
Chupin reflected a moment, then he replied:
“This is what I desire. I have enemies — I do not even feel safe in my own house. My sons abuse me when I have been drinking; my wife is quite capable of poisoning my wine; I tremble for my life and for my money. I cannot endure this existence much longer. Promise me an asylum in the Chateau de Courtornieu, and I am yours. In your house I shall be safe. But let it be understood, I will not be ill-treated by the servants as I was at Sairmeuse.”
“It shall be as you desire.”
“Swear it by your hope of heaven.”
“I swear.”
There was such an evident sincerity87 in her accent that Chupin was reassured88. He leaned toward her, and said, in a low voice:
“Now tell me your business.”
His small gray eyes glittered with a demoniac light; his thin lips were tightly drawn89 over his sharp teeth; he was evidently expecting some proposition to murder, and he was ready.
His attitude showed this so plainly that Blanche shuddered91.
“Really, what I ask of you is almost nothing,” she replied. “I only wish you to watch the Marquis de Sairmeuse.”
“Your husband?”
“Yes; my husband. I wish to know what he does, where he goes, and what persons he sees. I wish to know how each moment of his time is spent.”
“What! seriously, frankly92, is this all that you desire of me?” Chupin asked.
“For the present, yes. My plans are not yet decided. It depends upon circumstances what action I shall take.”
“You can rely upon me,” he responded; “but I must have a little time.”
“Yes, I understand. To-day is Saturday; will you be ready to report on Thursday?”
“In five days? Yes, probably.”
“In that case, meet me here on Thursday, at this same hour.”
A cry from Aunt Medea interrupted them.
“Someone is coming!” Mme. Blanche exclaimed. “Quick! we must not be seen together. Conceal yourself.”
With a bound the old poacher disappeared in the forest.
A servant had approached Aunt Medea, and was speaking to her with great animation93.
Blanche hastened toward them.
“Ah! Mademoiselle,” exclaimed the servant, “we have been seeking you everywhere for three hours. Your father, monsieur le marquis — mon Dieu! what a misfortune! A physician has been summoned.”
“Is my father dead?”
“No, Mademoiselle, no; but — how can I tell you? When the marquis went out this morning his actions were very strange, and — and — when he returned ——”
As he spoke94 the servant tapped his forehead with the end of his forefinger95.
“You understand me, Mademoiselle — when he returned, reason had fled!”
Without waiting for her terrified aunt, Blanche darted96 in the direction of the chateau.
“How is the marquis?” she inquired of the first servant whom she met.
“He is in his room on the bed; he is more quiet now.”
She had already reached his room. He was seated upon the bed, and two servants were watching his every movement. His face was livid, and a white foam97 had gathered upon his lips. Still, he recognized his daughter.
“Here you are,” said he. “I was waiting for you.”
She remained upon the threshold, quite overcome, although she was neither tender-hearted nor impressionable.
“My father!” she faltered98. “Good heavens! what has happened?”
He uttered a discordant99 laugh.
“Ah, ha!” he exclaimed, “I met him. Do you doubt me? I tell you that I saw the wretch. I know him well; have I not seen his cursed face before my eyes for more than a month — for it never leaves me. I saw him. It was in the forest near the Sanguille rocks. You know the place; it is always dark there, on account of the trees. I was returning slowly, thinking of him, when suddenly he sprang up before me, extending his arms as if to bar my passage.
“‘Come,’ said he, ‘you must come and join me.’ He was armed with a gun; he fired ——”
The marquis paused, and Blanche summoned sufficient courage to approach him. For more than a minute she fastened upon him that cold and persistent100 look that is said to exercise such power over those who have lost their reason; then, shaking him energetically by the arm, she said, almost roughly:
“Control yourself, father. You are the victim of an hallucination. It is impossible that you have seen the man of whom you speak.”
Who it was that M. de Courtornieu supposed he had seen, Blanche knew only too well; but she dared not, could not, utter the name.
But the marquis had resumed his incoherent narrative101.
“Was I dreaming?” he continued. “No, it was certainly Lacheneur who confronted me. I am sure of it, and the proof is, that he reminded me of a circumstance which occurred in my youth, and which was known only to him and me. It happened during the Reign102 of Terror. He was all-powerful in Montaignac; and I was accused of being in correspondence with the emigres. My property had been confiscated103; and every moment I was expecting to feel the hand of the executioner upon my shoulder, when Lacheneur took me into his house. He concealed104 me; he furnished me with a passport; he saved my money, and he saved my head — I sentenced him to death. That is the reason why I have seen him again. I must rejoin him; he told me so — I am a dying man!”
He fell back upon his pillows, pulled the sheet up over his face, and, lying there, rigid105 and motionless, one might readily have supposed it was a corpse106, whose outlines could be vaguely107 discerned through the bed-coverings.
Mute with horror, the servants exchanged frightened glances.
Such baseness and ingratitude108 amazed them. It seemed incomprehensible to them, under such circumstances, that the marquis had not pardoned Lacheneur.
Mme. Blanche alone retained her presence of mind. Turning to her father’s valet, she said:
“It is not possible that anyone has attempted to injure my father?”
“I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle, a little more and he would have been killed.”
“How do you know this?”
“In undressing the marquis I noticed that he had received a wound in the head. I also examined his hat, and in it I found three holes, which could only have been made by bullets.”
The worthy valet de chambre was certainly more agitated109 than the daughter.
“Then someone must have attempted to assassinate110 my father,” she murmured, “and this attack of delirium111 has been brought on by fright. How can we find out who the would-be murderer was?”
The servant shook his head.
“I suspect that old poacher, who is always prowling around, is the guilty man — Chupin.”
“No, it could not have been he.”
“Ah! I am almost sure of it. There is no one else in the neighborhood capable of such an evil deed.”
Mme. Blanche could not give her reasons for declaring Chupin innocent. Nothing in the world would have induced her to admit that she had met him, talked with him for more than half an hour, and just parted from him.
She was silent. In a few moments the physician arrived.
He removed the covering from M. de Courtornieu’s face — he was almost compelled to use force to do it — examined the patient with evident anxiety, then ordered mustard plasters, applications of ice to the head, leeches112, and a potion, for which a servant was to gallop113 to Montaignac at once. All was bustle114 and confusion.
When the physician left the sick-room, Mme. Blanche followed him.
“Well, Doctor,” she said, with a questioning look.
With considerable hesitation115, he replied:
“People sometimes recover from such attacks.”
It really mattered little to Blanche whether her father recovered or died, but she felt that an opportunity to recover her lost prestige was now afforded her. If she desired to turn public opinion against Martial, she must improvise116 for herself an entirely117 different reputation. If she could erect118 a pedestal upon which she could pose as a patient victim, her satisfaction would be intense. Such an occasion now offered itself, and she seized it at once.
Never did a devoted119 daughter lavish120 more touching121 and delicate attentions upon a sick father. It was impossible to induce her to leave his bedside for a moment. It was only with great difficulty that they could persuade her to sleep for a couple of hours, in an armchair in the sick-room.
But while she was playing the role of Sister of Charity, which she had imposed upon herself, her thoughts followed Chupin. What was he doing in Montaignac? Was he watching Martial as he had promised? How slow the day appointed for the meeting was in coming!
It came at last, however, and after intrusting her father to the care of Aunt Medea, Blanche made her escape.
The old poacher was awaiting her at the appointed place.
“Speak!” said Mme. Blanche.
“I would do so willingly, only I have nothing to tell you.”
“What! you have not watched the marquis?”
“Your husband? Excuse me, I have followed him; like his own shadow. But what would you have me say to you; since the duke left for Paris, your husband has charge of everything. Ah! you would not recognize him! He is always busy now. He is up at cock-crow and he goes to bed with the chickens. He writes letters all the morning. In the afternoon he receives all who call upon him. The retired122 officers are hand and glove in with him. He has reinstated five or six of them, and he has granted pensions to two others. He seldom goes out, and never in the evening.”
He paused and for more than a minute Blanche was silent. She was confused and agitated by the question that rose to her lips. What humiliation123! But she conquered her embarrassment124, and turning away her head to hide her crimson face, she said:
“But he certainly has a mistress!”
Chupin burst into a noisy laugh.
“Well, we have come to it at last,” he said, with an audacious familiarity that made Blanche shudder90. “You mean that scoundrel Lacheneur’s daughter, do you not? that stuck-up minx, Marie-Anne?”
Blanche felt that denial was useless.
“Yes,” she answered; “it is Marie-Anne that I mean.”
“Ah, well! she has been neither seen nor heard from. She must have fled with another of her lovers, Maurice d’Escorval.”
“You are mistaken.”
“Oh, not at all! Of all the Lacheneurs only Jean remains125, and he lives like the vagabond that he is, by poaching and stealing. Day and night he rambles126 through the woods with his gun on his shoulder. He is frightful127 to look upon, a perfect skeleton, and his eyes glitter like live coals. If he ever meets me, my account will be settled then and there.”
Blanche turned pale. It was Jean Lacheneur who had fired at the marquis then. She did not doubt it in the least.
“Very well!” said she, “I, myself, am sure that Marie-Anne is in the neighborhood, concealed in Montaignac, probably. I must know. Endeavor to discover her retreat before Monday, when I will meet you here again.”
“I will try,” Chupin answered.
He did indeed try; he exerted all his energy and cunning, but in vain. He was fettered128 by the precautions which he took against Balstain and against Jean Lacheneur. On the other hand, no one in the neighborhood would have consented to give him the least information.
“Still no news!” he said to Mme. Blanche at each interview.
But she would not yield. Jealousy129 will not yield even to evidence.
Blanche had declared that Marie-Anne had taken her husband from her, that Martial and Marie-Anne loved each other, hence it must be so, all proofs to the contrary notwithstanding.
But one morning she found her spy jubilant.
“Good news!” he cried, as soon as he saw her; “we have caught the minx at last.”
收听单词发音 |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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dictates
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| n.命令，规定，要求( dictate的名词复数 )v.大声讲或读( dictate的第三人称单数 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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stoic
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| n.坚忍克己之人，禁欲主义者 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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annihilate
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| v.使无效；毁灭；取消 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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perfidious
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| adj.不忠的，背信弃义的 | |
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disdained
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| 鄙视( disdain的过去式和过去分词 )； 不屑于做，不愿意做 | |
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repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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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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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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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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isolating
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| adj.孤立的，绝缘的v.使隔离( isolate的现在分词 )；将…剔出（以便看清和单独处理）；使（某物质、细胞等）分离；使离析 | |
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alienated
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| adj.感到孤独的，不合群的v.使疏远( alienate的过去式和过去分词 )；使不友好；转让；让渡（财产等） | |
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haughtiness
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| n.傲慢；傲气 | |
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consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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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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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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30
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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31
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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32
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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33
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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34
ridiculed
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| v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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36
vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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37
skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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38
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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39
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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40
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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41
deplored
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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42
adroit
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| adj.熟练的，灵巧的 | |
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43
obsequious
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| adj.谄媚的，奉承的，顺从的 | |
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44
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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45
astuteness
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| n.敏锐；精明；机敏 | |
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46
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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47
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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48
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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49
dissimulate
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| v.掩饰，隐藏 | |
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50
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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51
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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52
jeered
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| v.嘲笑( jeer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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54
shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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55
grooms
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| n.新郎( groom的名词复数 )；马夫v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的第三人称单数 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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56
conciliation
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| n.调解，调停 | |
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57
execration
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| n.诅咒，念咒，憎恶 | |
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58
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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59
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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60
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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61
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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62
belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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63
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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64
vowing
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的现在分词形式） | |
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65
defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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66
persuasions
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| n.劝说，说服（力）( persuasion的名词复数 )；信仰 | |
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wrest
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| n.扭，拧，猛夺；v.夺取，猛扭，歪曲 | |
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68
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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69
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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70
galleys
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| n.平底大船，战舰( galley的名词复数 )；（船上或航空器上的）厨房 | |
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71
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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72
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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73
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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74
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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75
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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76
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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77
sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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78
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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79
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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80
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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81
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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82
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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83
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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84
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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85
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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86
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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87
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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88
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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89
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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90
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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91
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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92
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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93
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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94
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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95
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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96
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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97
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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98
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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99
discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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100
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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101
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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102
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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103
confiscated
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| 没收，充公( confiscate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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105
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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106
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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107
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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108
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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109
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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110
assassinate
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| vt.暗杀，行刺，中伤 | |
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111
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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112
leeches
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| n.水蛭( leech的名词复数 )；蚂蟥；榨取他人脂膏者；医生 | |
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113
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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114
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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115
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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116
improvise
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| v.即兴创作；临时准备，临时凑成 | |
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117
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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118
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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119
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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120
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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121
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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122
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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123
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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124
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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125
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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126
rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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127
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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128
fettered
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| v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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129
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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