A few lines of the article consecrated1 to Martial2 de Sairmeuse in the “General Biography of the Men of the Century,” give the history of his life after his marriage.
“Martial de Sairmeuse,” it says there, “brought to the service of
his party a brilliant intellect and admirable endowments. Called
to the front at the moment when political strife3 was raging with
the utmost violence, he had courage to assume the sole
responsibility of the most extreme measures.
“Compelled by almost universal opprobrium4 to retire from office, he
left behind him animosities which will be extinguished only with
life.”
But what this article does not state is this: if Martial was wrong — and that depends entirely5 upon the point of view from which his conduct is regarded — he was doubly wrong, since he was not possessed6 of those ardent7 convictions verging9 upon fanaticism10 which make men fools, heroes, and martyrs11.
He was not even ambitious.
Those associated with him, witnessing his passionate12 struggle and his unceasing activity, thought him actuated by an insatiable thirst for power.
He cared little or nothing for it. He considered its burdens heavy; its compensations small. His pride was too lofty to feel any satisfaction in the applause that delights the vain, and flattery disgusted him. Often, in his princely drawing-rooms, during some brilliant fete, his acquaintances noticed a shade of gloom steal over his features, and seeing him thus thoughtful and preoccupied13, they respectfully refrained from disturbing him.
“His mind is occupied with momentous15 questions,” they thought. “Who can tell what important decisions may result from this revery?”
They were mistaken.
At the very moment when his brilliant success made his rivals pale with envy — when it would seem that he had nothing left to wish for in this world, Martial was saying to himself:
“What an empty life! What weariness and vexation of spirit! To live for others — what a mockery!”
He looked at his wife, radiant in her beauty, worshipped like a queen, and he sighed.
He thought of her who was dead — Marie-Anne — the only woman whom he had ever loved.
She was never absent from his mind. After all these years he saw her yet, cold, rigid16, lifeless, in that luxurious17 room at the Borderie; and time, far from effacing18 the image of the fair girl who had won his youthful heart, made it still more radiant and endowed his lost idol19 with almost superhuman grace of person and of character.
If fate had but given him Marie-Anne for his wife! He said this to himself again and again, picturing the exquisite20 happiness which a life with her would have afforded him.
They would have remained at Sairmeuse. They would have had lovely children playing around them! He would not be condemned21 to this continual warfare22 — to this hollow, unsatisfying, restless life.
The truly happy are not those who parade their satisfaction and good fortune before the eyes of the multitude. The truly happy hide themselves from the curious gaze, and they are right; happiness is almost a crime.
So thought Martial; and he, the great statesman, often said to himself, in a sort of rage:
“To love, and to be loved — that is everything! All else is vanity.”
He had really tried to love his wife; he had done his best to rekindle23 the admiration24 with which she had inspired him at their first meeting. He had not succeeded.
Between them there seemed to be a wall of ice which nothing could melt, and which was constantly increasing in height and thickness.
“Why is it?” he wondered, again and again. “It is incomprehensible. There are days when I could swear that she loved me. Her character, formerly25 so irritable26, is entirely changed; she is gentleness itself.”
But he could not conquer his aversion; it was stronger than his own will.
These unavailing regrets, and the disappointments and sorrow that preyed27 upon him, undoubtedly28 aggravated29 the bitterness and severity of Martial’s policy.
But he, at least, knew how to fall nobly.
He passed, without even a change of countenance30, from almost omnipotence31 to a position so compromising that his very life was endangered.
On seeing his ante-chambers, formerly thronged33 with flatterers and office-seekers, empty and deserted34, he laughed, and his laugh was unaffected.
“The ship is sinking,” said he; “the rats have deserted it.”
He did not even pale when the noisy crowd came to hoot35 and curse and hurl36 stones at his windows; and when Otto, his faithful valet de chambre, entreated37 him to assume a disguise and make his escape through the gardens, he responded:
“By no means! I am simply odious38; I do not wish to become ridiculous!”
They could not even dissuade39 him from going to a window and looking down upon the rabble40 in the street below.
A singular idea had just occurred to him.
“If Jean Lacheneur is still alive,” he thought, “how much he would enjoy this! And if he is alive, he is undoubtedly there in the foremost rank, urging on the crowd.”
And he wished to see.
But Jean Lacheneur was in Russia at that epoch41. The excitement subsided42; the Hotel de Sairmeuse was not seriously threatened. Still Martial realized that it would be better for him to go away for a while, and allow people to forget him.
He did not ask the duchess to accompany him.
“The fault has been mine entirely,” he said to her, “and to make you suffer for it by condemning43 you to exile would be unjust. Remain here; I think it will be much better for you to remain here.”
She did not offer to go with him. It would have been a pleasure to her, but she dared not leave Paris. She knew that she must remain in order to insure the silence of her persecutors. Both times she had left Paris before, all came near being discovered, and yet she had Aunt Medea, then, to take her place.
Martial went away, accompanied only by his devoted44 servant, Otto. In intelligence, this man was decidedly superior to his position; he possessed an independent fortune, and he had a hundred reasons — one, by the way, was a very pretty one — for desiring to remain in Paris; but his master was in trouble, and he did not hesitate.
For four years the Duc de Sairmeuse wandered over Europe, ever accompanied by his ennui46 and his dejection, and chafing47 beneath the burden of a life no longer animated48 by interest or sustained by hope.
He remained awhile in London, then he went to Vienna, afterward49 to Venice. One day he was seized by an irresistible50 desire to see Paris again, and he returned.
It was not a very prudent51 step, perhaps. His bitterest enemies — personal enemies, whom he had mortally offended and persecuted52 — were in power; but he did not hesitate. Besides, how could they injure him, since he had no favors to ask, no cravings of ambition to satisfy?
The exile which had weighed so heavily upon him, the sorrow, the disappointments and loneliness he had endured had softened53 his nature and inclined his heart to tenderness; and he returned firmly resolved to overcome his aversion to his wife, and seek a reconciliation54.
“Old age is approaching,” he thought. “If I have not a beloved wife at my fireside, I may at least have a friend.”
His manner toward her, on his return, astonished Mme. Blanche. She almost believed she saw again the Martial of the little blue salon55 at Courtornieu; but the realization56 of her cherished dream was now only another torture added to all the others.
Martial was striving to carry his plan into execution, when the following laconic57 epistle came to him one day through the post:
“Monsieur le Duc — I, if I were in your place, would watch my wife.”
It was only an anonymous58 letter, but Martial’s blood mounted to his forehead.
“Can it be that she has a lover?” he thought.
Then reflecting on his own conduct toward his wife since their marriage, he said to himself:
“And if she has, have I any right to complain? Did I not tacitly give her back her liberty?”
He was greatly troubled, and yet he would not have degraded himself so much as to play the spy, had it not been for one of those trifling59 circumstances which so often decide a man’s destiny.
He was returning from a ride on horseback one morning about eleven o’clock, and he was not thirty paces from the Hotel de Sairmeuse when he saw a lady hurriedly emerge from the house. She was very plainly dressed — entirely in black — but her whole appearance was strikingly that of the duchess.
“It is certainly my wife; but why is she dressed in such a fashion?” he thought.
Had he been on foot he would certainly have entered the house; as it was, he slowly followed Mme. Blanche, who was going up the Rue60 Crenelle. She walked very quickly, and without turning her head, and kept her face persistently61 shrouded62 in a very thick veil.
When she reached the Rue Taranne, she threw herself into one of the fiacres at the carriage-stand.
The coachman came to the door to speak to her; then nimbly sprang upon the box, and gave his bony horses one of those cuts of the whip that announce a princely pourboire.
The carriage had already turned the corner of the Rue du Dragon, and Martial, ashamed and irresolute63, had not moved from the place where he had stopped his horse, just around the corner of the Rue Saint Pares.
Not daring to admit his suspicions, he tried to deceive himself.
“Nonsense!” he thought, giving the reins64 to his horse, “what do I risk in advancing? The carriage is a long way off by this time, and I shall not overtake it.”
He did overtake it, however, on reaching the intersection65 of the Croix-Rouge, where there was, as usual, a crowd of vehicles.
It was the same fiacre; Martial recognized it by its green body, and its wheels striped with white.
Emerging from the crowd of carriages, the driver whipped up his horses, and it was at a gallop66 that they flew up the Rue du Vieux Columbier — the narrowest street that borders the Place Saint Sulpice — and gained the outer boulevards.
Martial’s thoughts were busy as he trotted67 along about a hundred yards behind the vehicle.
“She is in a terrible hurry,” he said to himself. “This, however, is scarcely the quarter for a lover’s rendezvous68.”
The carriage had passed the Place d’Italie. It entered the Rue du Chateau-des-Rentiers and soon paused before a tract69 of unoccupied ground.
The door was at once opened, and the Duchesse de Sairmeuse hastily alighted.
Without stopping to look to the right or to the left, she hurried across the open space.
A man, by no means prepossessing in appearance, with a long beard, and with a pipe in his mouth, and clad in a workman’s blouse, was seated upon a large block of stone not far off.
“Will you hold my horse a moment?” inquired Martial.
“Certainly,” answered the man.
Had Martial been less preoccupied, his suspicions might have been aroused by the malicious70 smile that curved the man’s lips; and had he examined his features closely, he would perhaps have recognized him.
For it was Jean Lacheneur.
Since addressing that anonymous letter to the Duc de Sairmeuse, he had made the duchess multiply her visits to the Widow Chupin; and each time he had watched for her coming.
“So, if her husband decides to follow her I shall know it,” he thought.
It was indispensable for the success of his plans that Mme. Blanche should be watched by her husband.
For Jean Lacheneur had decided45 upon his course. From a thousand schemes for revenge he had chosen the most frightful71 and ignoble72 that a brain maddened and enfevered by hatred73 could possibly conceive.
He longed to see the haughty74 Duchesse de Sairmeuse subjected to the vilest76 ignominy, Martial in the hands of the lowest of the low. He pictured a bloody77 struggle in this miserable78 den8; the sudden arrival of the police, summoned by himself, who would arrest all the parties indiscriminately. He gloated over the thought of a trial in which the crime committed at the Borderie would be brought to light; he saw the duke and the duchess in prison, and the great names of Sairmeuse and of Courtornieu shrouded in eternal disgrace.
And he believed that nothing was wanting to insure the success of his plans. He had at his disposal two miserable wretches79 who were capable of any crime; and an unfortunate youth named Gustave, made his willing slave by poverty and cowardice81, was intended to play the part of Marie-Anne’s son.
These three accomplices82 had no suspicion of his real intentions. As for the Widow Chupin and her son, if they suspected some infamous83 plot, the name of the duchess was all they really knew in regard to it. Moreover, Jean held Polyte and his mother completely under his control by the wealth which he had promised them if they served him docilely84.
And if Martial followed his wife into the Poivriere, Jean had so arranged matters that the duke would at first suppose that she had been led there by charity.
“But he will not go in,” thought Lacheneur, whose heart throbbed85 wildly with sinister86 joy as he held Martial’s horse. “Monsieur le Duc is too fine for that.”
And Martial did not go in. Though he was horrified87 when he saw his wife enter that vile75 den, as if she were at home there, he said to himself that he should learn nothing by following her.
He, therefore, contented88 himself by making a thorough examination of the outside of the house; then, remounting his horse, he departed on a gallop. He was completely mystified; he did not know what to think, what to imagine, what to believe.
But he was fully14 resolved to fathom89 this mystery and as soon as he returned home he sent Otto out in search of information. He could confide90 everything to this devoted servant; he had no secrets from him.
About four o’clock his faithful valet de chambre returned, an expression of profound consternation91 visible upon his countenance.
“What is it?” asked Martial, divining some great misfortune.
“Ah, sir, the mistress of that wretched den is the widow of Chupin’s son ——”
Martial’s face became as white as his linen92.
He knew life too well not to understand that since the duchess had been compelled to submit to the power of these people, they must be masters of some secret which she was willing to make any sacrifice to preserve. But what secret?
The years which had silvered Martial’s hair, had not cooled the ardor93 of his blood. He was, as he had always been, a man of impulses.
He rushed to his wife’s apartments.
“Madame has just gone down to receive the Countess de Mussidan and the Marquise d’Arlange,” said the maid.
“Very well; I will wait for her here. Retire.”
And Martial entered the chamber32 of Mme. Blanche.
The room was in disorder94, for the duchess, after returning from the Poivriere, was still engaged in her toilet when the visitors were announced.
The wardrobe-doors were open, the chairs were encumbered95 with wearing apparel, the articles which Mme. Blanche used daily — her watch, her purse, and several bunches of keys — were lying upon the dressing-table and mantel.
Martial did not sit down. His self-possession was returning.
“No folly,” he thought, “if I question her, I shall learn nothing. I must be silent and watchful96.”
He was about to retire, when, on glancing about the room, his eyes fell upon a large casket, inlaid with silver, which had belonged to his wife ever since she was a young girl, and which accompanied her everywhere.
“That, doubtless, holds the solution of the mystery,” he said to himself.
It was one of those moments when a man obeys the dictates97 of passion without pausing to reflect. He saw the keys upon the mantel; he seized them, and endeavored to find one that would fit the lock of the casket. The fourth key opened it. It was full of papers.
With feverish98 haste, Martial examined the contents. He had thrown aside several unimportant letters, when he came to a bill that read as follows:
“Search for the child of Madame de Sairmeuse. Expenses for the third quarter of the year 18 —.”
Martial’s brain reeled.
A child! His wife had a child!
He read on: “For services of two agents at Sairmeuse, ——. For expenses attending my own journey, ——. Divers99 gratuities100, ——. Etc., etc.” The total amounted to six thousand francs. The bill was signed “Chelteux.”
With a sort of cold rage, Martial continued his examination of the contents of the casket, and found a note written in a miserable hand, that said: “Two thousand francs this evening, or I will tell the duke the history of the affair at the Borderie.” Then several more bills from Chelteux; then a letter from Aunt Medea in which she spoke101 of prison and of remorse102. And finally, at the bottom of the casket, he found the marriage-certificate of Marie-Anne Lacheneur and Maurice d’Escorval, drawn103 up by the Cure of Vigano and signed by the old physician and Corporal Bavois.
The truth was as clear as daylight.
Stunned104, frozen with horror, Martial scarcely had strength to return the letters to the casket and restore it to its place.
Then he tottered105 back to his own room, clinging to the walls for support.
“It was she who murdered Marie-Anne,” he murmured.
He was confounded, terror-stricken by the perfidy106 and baseness of this woman who was his wife — by her criminal audacity107, by her cool calculation and assurance, by her marvellous powers of dissimulation108.
He swore he would discover all, either through the duchess or through the Widow Chupin; and he ordered Otto to procure109 a costume for him such as was generally worn by the habitues of the Poivriere. He did not know how soon he might have use for it.
This happened early in February, and from that moment Mme. Blanche did not take a single step without being watched. Not a letter reached her that her husband had not previously110 read.
And she had not the slightest suspicion of the constant espionage111 to which she was subjected.
Martial did not leave his room; he pretended to be ill. To meet his wife and be silent, was beyond his powers. He remembered the oath of vengeance112 which he had pronounced over Marie-Anne’s lifeless form too well.
But there were no new revelations, and for this reason: Polyte Chupin had been arrested under charge of theft, and this accident caused a delay in the execution of Lacheneur’s plans. But, at last, he judged that all would be in readiness on the 20th of February, Shrove Sunday.
The evening before the Widow Chupin, in conformance with his instructions, wrote to the duchess that she must come to the Poivriere Sunday evening at eleven o’clock.
On that same evening Jean was to meet his accomplices at a ball at the Rainbow — a public-house bearing a very unenviable reputation — and give them their last instructions.
These accomplices were to open the scene; he was to appear only in the denouement113.
“All is well arranged; the mechanism114 will work of its own accord,” he said to himself.
But the “mechanism,” as he styled it, failed to work.
Mme. Blanche, on receiving the Widow Chupin’s summons, revolted for a moment. The lateness of the hour, the isolation115 of the spot designated, frightened her.
But she was obliged to submit, and on the appointed evening she furtively116 left the house, accompanied by Camille, the same servant who had witnessed Aunt Medea’s last agony.
The duchess and her maid were attired117 like women of the very lowest order, and felt no fear of being seen or recognized.
And yet a man was watching them, and he quickly followed them. It was Martial.
Knowing of this rendezvous even before his wife, he had disguised himself in the costume Otto had procured118 for him, which was that of a laborer119 about the quays120; and, as he was a man who did perfectly121 whatever he attempted to do, he had succeeded in rendering122 himself unrecognizable. His hair and beard were rough and matted; his hands were soiled and grimed with dirt; he was really the abject123 wretch80 whose rags he wore.
Otto had begged to be allowed to accompany him; but the duke refused, saying that the revolver which he would take with him would be sufficient protection. He knew Otto well enough, however, to be certain he would disobey him.
Ten o’clock was sounding when Mme. Blanche and Camille left the house, and it did not take them five minutes to reach the Rue Taranne.
There was one fiacre on the stand — one only.
They entered it and it drove away.
This circumstance drew from Martial an oath worthy124 of his costume. Then he reflected that, since he knew where to find his wife, a slight delay in finding a carriage did not matter.
He soon obtained one; and the coachman, thanks to a pourboire of ten francs, drove to the Rue du Chateau-des-Rentiers as fast as his horses could go.
But the duke had scarcely set foot on the ground before he heard the rumbling125 of another carriage which stopped abruptly126 at a little distance.
“Otto is evidently following me,” he thought.
And he started across the open space in the direction of the Poivriere.
Gloom and silence prevailed on every side, and were made still more oppressive by a chill fog that heralded127 an approaching thaw128. Martial stumbled and slipped at almost every step upon the rough, snow-covered ground.
It was not long before he could distinguish a dark mass in the midst of the fog. It was the Poivriere. The light within filtered through the heart-shaped openings in the blinds, looking at a distance like lurid129 eyes gleaming in the darkness.
Could it really be possible that the Duchesse de Sairmeuse was there!
Martial cautiously approached the window, and clinging to the hinges of one of the shutters130, he lifted himself up so he could peer through the opening.
Yes, his wife was indeed there in that vile den.
She and Camille were seated at a table before a large punch-bowl, and in company with two ragged131, leering scoundrels, and a soldier, quite youthful in appearance.
In the centre of the room stood the Widow Chupin, with a small glass in her hand, talking volubly and punctuating132 her sentences by copious133 draughts134 of brandy.
The impression produced upon Martial was so terrible that his hold relaxed and he dropped to the ground.
A ray of pity penetrated135 his soul, for he vaguely136 realized the frightful suffering which had been the chastisement137 of the murderess.
But he desired another glance at the interior of the hovel, and he again lifted himself up to the opening and looked in.
The old woman had disappeared; the young soldier had risen from the table and was talking and gesticulating earnestly. Mme. Blanche and Camille were listening to him with the closest attention.
The two men who were sitting face to face, with their elbows upon the table, were looking at each other; and Martial saw them exchange a significant glance.
He was not wrong. The scoundrels were plotting “a rich haul.”
Mme. Blanche, who had dressed herself with such care, that to render her disguise perfect she had encased her feet in large, coarse shoes that were almost killing138 her — Mme. Blanche had forgotten to remove her superb diamond ear-rings.
She had forgotten them, but Lacheneur’s accomplices had noticed them, and were now regarding them with eyes that glittered more brilliantly than the diamonds themselves.
While awaiting Lacheneur’s coming, these wretches, as had been agreed upon, were playing the part which he had imposed upon them. For this, and their assistance afterward, they were to receive a certain sum of money.
But they were thinking that this sum was not, perhaps, a quarter part of the value of these jewels, and they exchanged glances that said:
“Ah! if we could only get them and make our escape before Lacheneur comes!”
The temptation was too strong to be resisted.
One of them rose suddenly, and, seizing the duchess by the back of the neck, he forced her head down upon the table.
The diamonds would have been torn from the ears of Mme. Blanche had it not been for Camille, who bravely came to the aid of her mistress.
Martial could endure no more. He sprang to the door of the hovel, opened it, and entered, bolting it behind him.
“Martial!”
“Monsieur le Duc!”
These cries escaping the lips of Mme. Blanche and Camille in the same breath, changed the momentary139 stupor140 of their assailants into fury; and they both precipitated141 themselves upon Martial, determined142 to kill him.
With a spring to one side, Martial avoided them. He had his revolver in his hand; he fired twice and the wretches fell. But he was not yet safe, for the young soldier threw himself upon him, and attempted to disarm143 him.
Through all the furious struggle, Martial did not cease crying, in a panting voice:
“Fly! Blanche, fly! Otto is not far off. The name — save the honor of the name!”
The two women obeyed, making their escape through the back door, which opened upon the garden; and they had scarcely done so, before a violent knocking was heard at the front door.
The police were coming! This increased Martial’s frenzy144; and with one supreme145 effort to free himself from his assailant, he gave him such a violent push that his adversary146 fell, striking his head against the corner of the table, after which he lay like one dead.
But the Widow Chupin, who had come downstairs on hearing the uproar147, was shrieking148 upon the stairs. At the door someone was crying: “Open in the name of the law!”
Martial might have fled; but if he fled, the duchess might be captured, for he would certainly be pursued. He saw the peril149 at a glance, and his decision was made.
He shook the Widow Chupin violently by the arm, and said, in an imperious voice:
“If you know how to hold your tongue you shall have one hundred thousand francs.”
Then, drawing a table before the door opening into the adjoining room, he intrenched himself behind it as behind a rampart, and awaited the approach of the enemy.
The next moment the door was forced open, and a squad150 of police, under the command of Inspector151 Gevrol, entered the room.
“Surrender!” cried the inspector.
Martial did not move; his pistol was turned upon the intruder.
“If I can parley152 with them, and hold them in check only two minutes, all may yet be saved,” he thought.
He obtained the wished-for delay; then he threw his weapon to the ground, and was about to bound through the back-door, when a policeman, who had gone round to the rear of the house, seized him about the body, and threw him to the floor.
From this side he expected only assistance, so he cried:
“Lost! It is the Prussians who are coming!”
In the twinkling of an eye he was bound; and two hours later he was an inmate153 of the station-house at the Place d’Italie.
He had played his part so perfectly, that he had deceived even Gevrol. The other participants in the broil154 were dead, and he could rely upon the Widow Chupin. But he knew that the trap had been set for him by Jean Lacheneur; and he read a whole volume of suspicion in the eyes of the young officer who had cut off his retreat, and who was called Lecoq by his companions.
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consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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opprobrium
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| n.耻辱，责难 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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verging
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| 接近，逼近（verge的现在分词形式） | |
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fanaticism
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| n.狂热，盲信 | |
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martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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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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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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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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effacing
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| 谦逊的 | |
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idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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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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warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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23
rekindle
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| v.使再振作；再点火 | |
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24
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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25
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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26
irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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27
preyed
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| v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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28
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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29
aggravated
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| 使恶化( aggravate的过去式和过去分词 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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30
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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31
omnipotence
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| n.全能，万能，无限威力 | |
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32
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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33
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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35
hoot
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| n.鸟叫声，汽车的喇叭声； v.使汽车鸣喇叭 | |
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36
hurl
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| vt.猛投，力掷，声叫骂 | |
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37
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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39
dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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40
rabble
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|
| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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41
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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42
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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43
condemning
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|
| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的现在分词 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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44
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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45
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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46
ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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47
chafing
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|
| n.皮肤发炎v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的现在分词 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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48
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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49
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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50
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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51
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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52
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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53
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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54
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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55
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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56
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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57
laconic
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| adj.简洁的；精练的 | |
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58
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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59
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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60
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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61
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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62
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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63
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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64
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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65
intersection
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| n.交集，十字路口，交叉点；[计算机] 交集 | |
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66
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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67
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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68
rendezvous
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|
| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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69
tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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70
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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71
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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72
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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73
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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74
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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75
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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76
vilest
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| adj.卑鄙的( vile的最高级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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77
bloody
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|
| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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78
miserable
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|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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79
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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80
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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81
cowardice
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|
| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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82
accomplices
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| 从犯，帮凶，同谋( accomplice的名词复数 ) | |
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83
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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84
docilely
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|
| adv.容易教地，易驾驶地，驯服地 | |
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85
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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86
sinister
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|
| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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87
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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88
contented
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|
| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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89
fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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90
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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91
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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92
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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93
ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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94
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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95
encumbered
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
watchful
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|
| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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97
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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98
feverish
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|
| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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99
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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100
gratuities
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| n.报酬( gratuity的名词复数 )；小账；小费；养老金 | |
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101
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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102
remorse
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|
| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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103
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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104
stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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105
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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106
perfidy
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| n.背信弃义，不忠贞 | |
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107
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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108
dissimulation
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| n.掩饰，虚伪，装糊涂 | |
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109
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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110
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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111
espionage
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| n.间谍行为，谍报活动 | |
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112
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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113
denouement
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| n.结尾，结局 | |
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114
mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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115
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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116
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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117
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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118
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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119
laborer
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| n.劳动者，劳工 | |
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120
quays
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| 码头( quay的名词复数 ) | |
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121
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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122
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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123
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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124
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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125
rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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126
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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127
heralded
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| v.预示( herald的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
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128
thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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129
lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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130
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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131
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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132
punctuating
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| v.（在文字中）加标点符号，加标点( punctuate的现在分词 )；不时打断某事物 | |
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133
copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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134
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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135
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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136
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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137
chastisement
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| n.惩罚 | |
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138
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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139
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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140
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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141
precipitated
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|
| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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142
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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143
disarm
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| v.解除武装，回复平常的编制，缓和 | |
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144
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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145
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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146
adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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147
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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148
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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149
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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150
squad
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| n.班，小队，小团体；vt.把…编成班或小组 | |
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151
inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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152
parley
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| n.谈判 | |
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153
inmate
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| n.被收容者；(房屋等的)居住人；住院人 | |
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154
broil
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| v.烤，烧，争吵，怒骂；n.烤，烧，争吵，怒骂 | |
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