A. DE MUSSET.
Chapter I.
THE Purple Emperor watched me in silence. I cast again, spinning out six feet more of waterproof1 silk, and, as the line hissed2 through the air far across the pool, I saw my three flies fall on the water like drifting thistledown. The Purple Emperor sneered3.
“You see,” he said, “I am right. There is not a trout4 in Brittany that will rise to a tailed fly.”
“They do in America,” I replied.
“Zut! for America!” observed the Purple Emperor.
“And trout take a tailed fly in England,” I insisted sharply.
“Now do I care what things or people do in England?” demanded the Purple Emperor.
“You don’t care for anything except yourself and your wriggling5 caterpillars,” I said, more annoyed than I had yet been.
The Purple Emperor sniffed6. His broad, hairless, sunburnt features bore that obstinate7 expression which always irritated me. Perhaps the manner in which he wore his hat intensified8 the irritation9, for the flapping brim rested on both ears, and the two little velvet10 ribbons which hung from the silver buckle11 in front wiggled and fluttered with every trivial breeze. His cunning eyes and sharp-pointed12 nose were out of all keeping with his fat red face. When he met my eye, he chuckled13.
“I know more about insects than any man in Morbihan — or Finistère either, for that matter,” he said.
“The Red Admiral knows as much as you do,” I retorted.
“He doesn’t,” replied the Purple Emperor angrily.
“And his collection of butterflies is twice as large as yours,” I added, moving down the stream to a spot directly opposite him.
“It is, is it?” sneered the Purple Emperor. “Well, let me tell you, Monsieur Darrel, in all his collection he hasn’t a specimen14, a single specimen, of that magnificent butterfly, Apatura Iris15, commonly known as the ‘Purple Emperor.’”
“Everybody in Brittany knows that,” I said, casting across the sparkling water; “but just because you happen to be the only man who ever captured a ‘Purple Emperor’ in Morbihan, it — doesn’t follow that you are an authority on sea-trout flies. Why do you say that a Breton sea-trout won’t touch a tailed fly?”
“It’s so,” he replied.
“Why? There are plenty of May-flies about the stream.”
“Let ’em fly!” snarled17 the Purple Emperor, “you won’t see a trout touch ’em.”
My arm was aching, but I grasped my split bamboo more firmly, and, half turning, waded18 out into the stream and began to whip the ripples19 at the head of the pool. A great green dragon-fly came drifting by on the summer breeze and hung a moment above the pool, glittering like an emerald.
“There’s a chance! Where is your butterfly net?” I called across the stream.
“What for? That dragonfly? I’ve got dozens — Anax Junius, Drury, characteristic, anal angle of posterior wings, in male, round; thorax marked with —”
“That will do,” I said fiercely. “Can’t I point out an insect in the air without this burst of erudition? Can you tell me, in simple everyday French, what this little fly is this one, flitting over the eel20 grass here beside me? See, it has fallen on the water.”
“Huh!” sneered the Purple Emperor, “that’s a Linnobia annulus.”
“What’s that?” I demanded.
Before he could answer there came a heavy splash in the pool, and the fly disappeared.
“He! he! he!” tittered the Purple Emperor. “Didn’t I tell you the fish knew their business? That was a sea-trout. I hope you don’t get him.”
He gathered up his butterfly net, collecting box, chloroform bottle, and cyanide jar. Then he rose, swung the box over his shoulder, stuffed the poison bottles into the pockets of his silver-buttoned velvet coat, and lighted his pipe. This latter operation was a demoralizing spectacle, for the Purple Emperor, like all Breton peasants, smoked one of those microscopical22 Breton pipes which requires ten minutes to find, ten minutes to fill, ten minutes to light, and ten seconds to finish. With true Breton stolidity23 he went through this solemn rite24, blew three puffs25 of smoke into the air, scratched his pointed nose reflectively, and waddled26 away, calling back an ironical27 “Au revoir, and bad luck to all Yankees!”
I watched him out of sight, thinking sadly of the young girl whose life he made a hell upon earth — Lys Trevec, his niece. She never admitted it, but we all knew what the black-and-blue marks meant on her soft, round arm, and it made me sick to see the look of fear come into her eyes when the Purple Emperor waddled into the café of the Groix Inn.
It was commonly said that he half-starved her. This she denied. Marie Joseph and ‘Fine Lelocard had seen him strike her the day after the Pardon of the Birds because she had liberated28 three bullfinches which he had limed the day before. I asked Lys if this were true, and she refused to speak to me for the rest of the week. There was nothing to do about it. If the Purple Emperor had not been avaricious29, I should never have seen Lys at all, but he could not resist the thirty francs a week which I offered him; and Lys posed for me all day long, happy as a linnet in a pink thorn hedge. Nevertheless, the Purple Emperor hated me, and constantly threatened to send Lys back to her dreary30 flax-spinning. He was suspicious, too, and when he had gulped31 down the single glass of cider which proves fatal to the sobriety of most Bretons, he would pound the long, discoloured oaken table and roar curses on me, on Yves Terrec, and on the Red Admiral. We were the three objects in the world which he most hated: me, because I was a foreigner, and didn’t care a rap for him and his butterflies; and the Red Admiral, because he was a rival entomologist.
He had other reasons for hating Terrec.
The Red Admiral, a little wizened33 wretch34, with a badly adjusted glass eye and a passion for brandy, took his name from a butterfly which predominated in his collection. This butterfly, commonly known to amateurs as the “Red Admiral,” and to entomologists as Vanessa Atalanta, had been the occasion of scandal among the entomologists of France and Brittany. For the Red Admiral had taken one of these common insects, dyed it a brilliant yellow by the aid of chemicals, and palmed it off on a credulous35 collector as a South African species, absolutely unique. The fifty francs which he gained by this rascality36 were, however, absorbed in a suit for damages brought by the outraged37 amateur month later; and when he had sat in the Quimperlé jail for a month, he reappeared in the little village of St. Gildas soured, thirsty, and burning for revenge. Of course we named him the Red Admiral, and he accepted the name with suppressed fury.
The Purple Emperor, on the other hand, had gained his imperial title legitimately38, for it was an undisputed fact that the only specimen of that beautiful butterfly, Apatura Iris, or the Purple Emperor, as it is called by amateurs — the only specimen that had ever been taken in Finistère or in Morbihan — was captured and brought home alive by Joseph Marie Gloanec, ever afterward39 to be known as the Purple Emperor.
When the capture of this rare butterfly became known the Red Admiral nearly went crazy. Every day for a week he trotted40 over to the Groix Inn, where the Purple Emperor lived with his niece, and brought his microscope to bear on the rare newly captured butterfly, in hopes of detecting a fraud. But this specimen was genuine, and he leered through his microscope in vain.
“No chemicals there, Admiral,” grinned the Purple Emperor; and the Red Admiral chattered41 with rage.
To the scientific world of Brittany and France the capture of an Apatura Iris in Morbihan was of great importance. The Museum of Quimper offered to purchase the butterfly, but the Purple Emperor, though a hoarder42 of gold, was a monomaniac on butterflies, and he jeered43 at the Curator of the Museum. From all parts of Brittany and France letters of inquiry44 and congratulation poured in upon him. The French Academy of Sciences awarded him a prize, and the Paris Entomological Society made him an honorary member. Being a Breton peasant, and a more than commonly pig-headed one at that, these honours did not disturb his equanimity45; but when the little hamlet of St. Gildas elected him mayor, and, as is the custom in Brittany under such circumstances, he left his thatched house to take up an official life in the little Groix Inn, his head became completely turned. To be mayor in a village of nearly one hundred and fifty people! It was an empire! So he became unbearable46, drinking himself viciously drunk every night of his life, maltreating his niece, Lys Trevec, like the barbarous old wretch that he was, and driving the Red Admiral nearly frantic47 with his eternal harping48, on the capture of Apatura Iris. Of course he refused to tell where he had caught the butterfly. The Red Admiral stalked his footsteps, but in vain.
“He! he! he!” nagged49 the Purple Emperor, cuddling his chin over a glass of cider; “I saw you sneaking50 about the St. Gildas spinny yesterday morning. So you think you can find another Apatura Iris by running after me? It won’t do, Admiral, it won’t do, d’ye see?”
The Red Admiral turned yellow with mortification51 and envy, but the next day he actually took to his bed, for the Purple Emperor had brought home not a butterfly but a live chrysalis, which, if successfully hatched, would become a perfect specimen of the invaluable52 Apatura Iris. This was the last straw. The Red Admiral shut himself up in his little stone cottage, and for weeks now he had been invisible to everybody except ‘Fine Lelocard who carried him a loaf of bread and a mullet or langouste every morning.
The withdrawal53 of the Red Admiral from the society of St. Gildas excited first the derision and finally the suspicion of the Purple Emperor. What deviltry could he be hatching? Was he experimenting with chemicals again, or was he engaged in some deeper plot, the object of which was to discredit54 the Purple Emperor? Roux, the postman, who carried the mail on foot once a day from Bannalec, a distance of fifteen miles each way, had brought several suspicious letters, bearing English stamps, to the Red Admiral, and the next day the Admiral had been observed at his window grinning up into the sky and rubbing his hands together. A night or two after this apparition56 the postman left two packages at the Groix Inn for a moment while he ran across the way to drink a glass of cider with me. The Purple Emperor, who was roaming about the café, snooping into everything that did not concern him, came upon the packages and examined the postmarks and addresses. One of the packages was square and heavy, and felt like a book. The other was also square, but very light, and felt like a pasteboard box. They were both addressed to the Red Admiral, and they bore English stamps.
When Roux, the postman, came back, the Purple Emperor tried to pump him, but the poor little postman knew nothing about the contents of the packages, and after he had taken them around the corner to the cottage of the Red Admiral the Purple Emperor ordered a glass of cider, and deliberately57 fuddled himself until Lys came in and tearfully supported him to his room. Here he became so abusive and brutal58 that Lys called to me, and I went and settled the trouble without wasting any words. This also the Purple Emperor remembered, and waited his chance to get even with me.
That had happened a week ago, and until to-day he had not deigned59 to speak to me.
Lys had posed for me all the week, and today being Saturday, and I lazy, we had decided60 to take a little relaxation61, she to visit and gossip with her little black-eyed friend Yvette in the neighbouring hamlet of St. Julien, and I to try the appetites of the Breton trout with the contents of my American fly book.
I had thrashed the stream very conscientiously62 for three hours, but not a trout had risen to my cast, and I was piqued63. I had begun to believe that there were no trout in the St. Gildas stream, and would probably have given up had I not seen the sea-trout snap the little fly which the Purple Emperor had named so scientifically. That set me thinking. Probably the Purple Emperor was right, for he certainly was an expert in everything that crawled and wriggled64 in Brittany. So I matched, from my American fly book, the fly that the sea-trout had snapped up, and withdrawing the cast of three, knotted a new leader to the silk and slipped a fly on the loop. It was a queer fly. It was one of those unnameable experiments which fascinate anglers in sporting stores and which generally prove utterly65 useless. Moreover, it was a tailed fly, but of course I easily remedied that with a stroke of my penknife. Then I was all ready, and I stepped out into the hurrying rapids and cast straight as an arrow to the spot where the sea-trout had risen. Lightly as a plume66 the fly settled on the bosom67 of the pool; then came a startling splash, a gleam of silver, and the line tightened68 from the vibrating rod-tip to the shrieking69 reel. Almost instantly I checked the fish, and as he floundered for a moment, making the water boil along his glittering sides, I sprang to the bank again, for I saw that the fish was a heavy one and I should probably be in for a long run down the stream. The five-ounce rod swept in a splendid circle, quivering under the strain. “Oh, for a gaff-hook!” I said aloud, for I was now firmly convinced that I had a salmon70 to deal with, and no sea-trout at all.
Then as I stood, bringing every ounce to bear on the sulking fish, a lithe71, slender girl came hurriedly along the opposite bank calling out to me by name.
“Why, Lys!” I said, glancing up for a second, “I thought you were at St. Julien with Yvette.”
“Yvette has gone to Bannalec. I went home and found an awful fight going on at the Groix Inn, and I was so frightened that I came to, tell you.”
The fish dashed off at that moment, carrying all the line my reel held, and I was compelled to follow him at a jump. Lys, active and graceful72 as a young deer, in spite of her Pont–Aven sabots, followed along the opposite bank until the fish settled in a deep pool, shook the line savagely73 once or twice, and then relapsed into the sulks.
“Fight at the Groix Inn?” I called across the water. “What fight?”
“Not exactly fight,” quavered Lys, “but the Red Admiral has come out of his house at last, and he and my uncle are drinking together and disputing about butterflies. I never saw my uncle so angry, and the Red Admiral is sneering74 and grinning. Oh, it is almost wicked to see such a face!”
“But Lys,” I said, scarcely able to repress a smile, “your uncle and the Red Admiral are always quarrelling and drinking.”
“I know oh, dear me! — but this is different, Monsieur Darrel. The Red Admiral has grown old and fierce since he shut himself up three weeks ago, and — oh, dear! I never saw such a look in my uncle’s eyes before. He seemed insane with fury. His eyes — I can’t speak of it — and then Terrec came in.”
“Oh,” I said more gravely, “that was unfortunate. What did the Red Admiral say to his son?”
Lys sat down on a rock among the ferns, and gave me a mutinous75 glance from her blue eyes.
Yves Terrec, loafer, poacher, and son of Louis Jean Terrec, otherwise the Red Admiral, had been kicked out by his father, and had also been forbidden the village by the Purple Emperor, in his majestic76 capacity of mayor. Twice the young ruffian had returned: once to rifle the bedroom of the Purple Emperor — an unsuccessful enterprise — and another time to rob his own father. He succeeded in the latter attempt, but was never caught, although he was frequently seen roving about the forests and moors77 with his gun. He openly menaced the Purple Emperor; vowed78 that he would marry Lys in spite of all gendarmes80 in Quimperlé; and these same gendarmes he led many a long chase through brier-filled swamps and over miles of yellow gorse.
What he did to the Purple Emperor — what he intended to do — disquieted81 me but little; but I worried over his threat concerning Lys. During the last three months this had bothered me a great deal; for when Lys came to St. Gildas from the convent the first thing she captured was my heart. For a long time I had refused to believe that any tie of blood linked this dainty blue-eyed creature with the Purple Emperor. Although she dressed in the velvet-laced bodice and blue petticoat of Finistère, and wore the bewitching white coiffe of St. Gildas, it seemed like a pretty masquerade. To me she was as sweet and as gently bred as many a maiden82 of the noble Faubourg who danced with her cousins at a Louis XV fête champêtre. So when Lys said that Yves Terrec had returned openly to St. Gildas, I felt that I had better be there also.
“What did Terrec say, Lys?” I asked, watching the line vibrating above the placid83 pool.
The wild rose colour crept into her cheeks. “Oh,” she answered, with a little toss of her chin, “you know what he always says.”
“That he will carry you away?”
“Yes.”
“In spite of the Purple Emperor, the Red Admiral, and the gendarmes?”
“Yes.”
“And what do you say, Lys?”
“I? Oh, nothing.”
“Then let me say it for you.”
Lys looked at her delicate pointed sabots, the sabots from Pont–Aven, made to order. They fitted her little foot. They were her only luxury.
“Will you let me answer for you, Lys?” I asked.
“You, Monsieur Darrel?”
“Yes. Will you let me give him his answer?”
“Mon Dieu, why should you concern yourself, Monsieur Darrel?”
The fish lay very quiet, but the rod in my hand trembled.
“Because I love you, Lys.”
The wild rose colour in her cheeks deepened; she gave a gentle gasp84, then hid her curly head in her hands.
“I love you, Lys.”
“Do you know what you say?” she stammered85.
“Yes, I love you.”
She raised her sweet face and looked at me across the pool.
“I love you,” she said, while the tears stood like stars in her eyes. “Shall I come over the brook87 to you?”
Chapter ii.
That night Yves Terrec left the village of St. Gildas vowing88 vengeance89 against his father, who refused him shelter.
I can see him now, standing90 in the road, his bare legs rising like pillars of bronze from his straw-stuffed sabots, his short velvet jacket torn and soiled by exposure and dissipation, and his eyes, fierce, roving, bloodshot — while the Red Admiral squeaked91 curses on him, and hobbled away into his little stone cottage.
“I will not forget you!” cried Yves Terrec, and stretched out his hand toward his father with a terrible gesture. Then he whipped his gun to his cheek and took a short step forward, but I caught him by the throat before he could fire, and a second later we were rolling in the dust of Bannalec road. I had to hit him a heavy blow behind the ear before he would let go, and then, rising and shaking myself, I dashed his muzzle-loading fowling92 piece to bits against a wall, and threw his knife into the river. The Purple Emperor was looking on with a queer light in his eyes. It was plain that he was sorry Terrec had not choked me to death.
“He would have killed his father,” I said, as I passed him, going toward the Groix Inn.
“That’s his business,” snarled the Purple Emperor. There was a deadly light in his eyes. For a moment I thought he was going to attack me; but he was merely viciously drunk, so I shoved him out of my way and went to bed, tired and disgusted.
The worst of it was I couldn’t sleep, for I feared that the Purple Emperor might begin to abuse Lys. I lay restlessly tossing among the sheets until I could stay there no longer. I did not dress entirely93; I merely slipped on a pair of chaussons and sabots, a pair of knickerbockers, a jersey94, and a cap. Then, loosely tying a handkerchief about my throat, I went down the worm-eaten stairs and out into the moonlit road. There was a candle flaring95 in the Purple Emperor’s window, but I could not see him.
“He’s probably dead drunk,” I thought, and looked up at the window where, three years before, I had first seen Lys.
“Asleep, thank Heaven!” I muttered, and wandered out along the road. Passing the small cottage of the Red Admiral, I saw that it was dark, but the door was open. I stepped inside the hedge to shut it, thinking, in case Yves Terrec should be roving about, his father would lose whatever he had left.
Then after fastening the door with a stone, I wandered on through the dazzling Breton moonlight. A nightingale was singing in a willow96 swamp below, and from the edge of the mere86, among the tall swamp grasses, myriads97 of frogs chanted a bass98 chorus.
When I returned, the eastern sky was beginning to lighten, and across the meadows on the cliffs, outlined against the paling horizon, I saw a seaweed gatherer going to his work among the curling breakers on the coast. His long rake was balanced on his shoulder, and the sea wind carried his song across the meadows to me:
St. Gildas!
St. Gildas!
Pray for us.
Shelter us.
Us who toil99 in the sea.
Passing the shrine100 at the entrance of the village, I took off my cap and knelt in prayer to Our Lady of Fa?uet; and if I neglected myself in that prayer, surely I believed Our Lady of Fa?uet would be kinder to Lys. It is said that the shrine casts white shadows. I looked, but saw only the moonlight. Then very peacefully I went to bed again, and was only awakened101 by the clank of sabres and the trample102 of horses in the road below my window.
“Good gracious!” I thought, “it must be eleven o’clock, for there are the gendarmes from Quimperlé.”
I looked at my watch; it was only half-past eight, and as the gendarmes made their rounds every Thursday at eleven, I wondered what had brought them out so early to St. Gildas.
“Of course,” I grumbled103, rubbing my eyes, “they are after Terrec,” and I jumped into my limited bath.
Before I was completely dressed I heard a timid knock, and opening my door, razor in hand, stood astonished and silent. Lys, her blue eyes wide with terror, leaned on the threshold.
“My darling!” I cried, “what on earth is the matter?” But she only clung to me, panting like a wounded sea gull104. At last, when I drew her into the room and raised her face to mine, she spoke105 in a heart-breaking voice:
“Oh, Dick! they are going to arrest you, but I will die before I believe one word of what they say. No, don’t ask me,” and she began to sob32 desperately106.
When I found that something really serious was the matter, I flung on my coat and cap, and, slipping one arm about her waist, went down the stairs and out into the road. Four gendarmes sat on their horses in front of the café door; beyond them, the entire population of St. Gildas gaped107, ten deep.
“Hello, Durand!” I said to the brigadier, “what the devil is this I hear about arresting me?”
“It’s true, mon ami,” replied Durand with sepulchral108 sympathy. I looked him over from the tip of his spurred boots to his sulphur-yellow sabre belt, then upward, button by button, to his disconcerted face.
“What for?” I said scornfully. “Don’t try any cheap sleuth work on me! Speak up, man, what’s the trouble?”
The Emperor, who sat in the doorway109 staring at me, started to speak, but thought better of it and got up and went into the house. The gendarmes rolled their eyes mysteriously and looked wise.
“Come, Durand,” I said impatiently, “what’s the charge?”
“Murder,” he said in a faint voice.
“What!” I cried incredulously. “Nonsense! Do I look like a murderer? Get off your horse, you stupid, and tell me who’s murdered.” Durand got down, looking very silly, and came up to me, offering his hand with a propitiatory110 grin.
“It was the Purple Emperor who denounced you! See, they found your handkerchief at his door —”
“Whose door, for Heaven’s sake?” I cried.
“Why, the Red Admiral’s!”
“The Red Admiral’s? What has he done?”
“Nothing — he’s only been murdered.”
I could scarcely believe my senses, although they took me over to the little stone cottage and pointed out the blood-spattered room. But the horror of the thing was that the corpse111 of the murdered man had disappeared, and there only remained a nauseating112 lake of blood on the stone floor, in the centre of which lay a human hand. There was no doubt as to whom the hand belonged, for everybody who had ever seen the Red Admiral knew that the shrivelled bit of flesh which lay in the thickening blood was the hand of the Red Admiral. To me it looked like the severed113 claw of some gigantic bird.
“Well,” I said, “there’s been murder committed. Why don’t you do something?”
“What?” asked Durand.
“I don’t know. Send for the Commissaire.”
“He’s at Quimperlé. I telegraphed.”
“Then send for a doctor, and find out how long this blood has been coagulating.”
“The chemist from Quimperlé is here; he’s a doctor.”
“What does he say?”
“He says that he doesn’t know.”
“And who are you going to arrest?” I inquired, turning away from the spectacle on the floor.
“I don’t know,” said the brigadier solemnly; “you are denounced by the Purple Emperor, because he found your handkerchief at the door when he went out this morning.”
“Just like a pig-headed Breton!” I exclaimed thoroughly114 angry. “Did he not mention Yves Terrec?”
“No.”
“Of course not,” I said. “He overlooked the fact that Terrec tried to shoot his father last night and that I took away his gun. All that counts for nothing when he finds my handkerchief at the murdered man’s door.”
“Come into the café,” said Durand, much disturbed, “we can talk it over, there. Of course, Monsieur Darrel, I have never had the faintest idea that you were the murderer!”
The four gendarmes and I walked across the road to the Groix Inn and entered the café. It was crowded with Britons, smoking, drinking, and jabbering115 in half a dozen dialects, all equally unsatisfactory to a civilized116 ear; and I pushed through the crowd to where little Max Fortin, the chemist of Quimperlé, stood smoking a vile117 cigar.
“This is a bad business,” he said, shaking hands and offering me the mate to his cigar, which I politely declined.
“Now, Monsieur Fortin,” I said, “it appears that the Purple Emperor found my handkerchief near the murdered man’s door this morning, and so he concludes”— here I glared at the Purple Emperor —“that I am the assassin. I will now ask him a question,” and turning on him suddenly, I shouted, “What were you doing at the Red Admiral’s door?”
The Purple Emperor started and turned pale, and I pointed at him triumphantly118.
“See what a sudden question will do. Look how embarrassed he is, and yet I do not charge him with murder; and I tell you, gentlemen, that man there knows as well as I do who was the murderer of the Red Admiral!”
“I don’t!” bawled119 the Purple Emperor.
“You do,” I said. “It was Yves Terrec.”
“I don’t believe it,” he said obstinately120, dropping his voice.
“Of course not, being pig-headed.”
“I am not pig-headed,” he roared again, “but I am mayor of St. Gildas, and I do not believe that Yves Terrec killed his father.”
“You saw him try to kill him last night?”
The mayor grunted121.
“And you saw what I did.”
He grunted again.
“And,” I went on, “you heard Yves Terrec threaten to kill his father. You heard him curse the Red Admiral and swear to kill him. Now the father is murdered and his body is gone.”
“And your handkerchief?” sneered the Purple Emperor.
“I dropped it of course.”
“And the seaweed gatherer who saw you last night lurking122 about the Red Admiral’s cottage,” grinned the Purple Emperor.
I was startled at the man’s malice123.
“That will do,” I said. “It is perfectly124 true that I was walking on the Bannalec road last night, and that I stopped to close the Red Admiral’s door, which was ajar, although his light was not burning. After that I went up the road to the Dinez Woods, and then walked over by St. Julien, whence I saw the seaweed gatherer on the cliffs. He was near enough for me to hear what he sang. What of that?”
“What did you do then?”
“Then I stopped at the shrine and said a prayer, and then I went to bed and slept until Brigadier Durand’s gendarmes awoke me with their clatter125.”
“Now, Monsieur Darrel,” said the Purple Emperor, lifting a fat finger and shooting a wicked glance at me, “Now, Monsieur Darrel, which did you wear last night on your midnight stroll — sabots or shoes?”
I thought a moment. “Shoes — no, sabots. I just slipped on my chaussons and went out in my sabots.”
“Which was it, shoes or sabots?” snarled the Purple Emperor.
“Sabots, you fool.”
“Are these your sabots?” he asked, lifting up a wooden shoe with my initials cut on the instep.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Then how did this blood come on the other one?” he shouted, and held up a sabot, the mate to the first, on which a drop of blood had spattered.
“I haven’t the least idea,” I said calmly; but my heart was beating very fast and I was furiously angry.
“You blockhead!” I said, controlling my rage, “I’ll make you pay for this when they catch Yves Terrec and convict him. Brigadier Durand, do your duty if you think I am under suspicion. Arrest me, but grant me one favour. Put me in the Red Admiral’s cottage, and I’ll see whether I can’t find some clew that you have overlooked. Of course, I won’t disturb anything until the Commissaire arrives. Bah! You all make me very ill.”
“He’s hardened,” observed the Purple Emperor, wagging his head.
“What motive126 had I to kill the Red Admiral?” I asked them all scornfully. And they all cried:
“None! Yves Terrec is the man!”
Passing out the door I swung around and shook my finger at the Purple Emperor.
“Oh, I’ll make you dance for this, my friend,” I said; and I followed Brigadier Durand across the street to the cottage of the murdered man.
Chapter iii.
They took me at my word and placed a gendarme79 with a bared sabre at the gateway127 by the hedge.
“Give me your parole,” said poor Durand, “and I will let you go where you wish.” But I refused, and began prowling about the cottage looking for clews. I found lots of things that some people would have considered most important, such as ashes from the Red Admiral’s pipe, footprints in a dusty vegetable bin55, bottles smelling of Pouldu cider, and dust — oh lots of dust. I was not an expert, only a stupid, everyday amateur; so I defaced the footprints with my thick shooting boots, and I declined to examine the pipe ashes through a microscope, although the Red Admiral’s microscope stood on the table close at hand.
At last I found what I had been looking for, some long wisps of straw, curiously128 depressed129 and flattened130 in the middle, and I was certain I had found the evidence that would settle Yves Terrec for the rest of his life. It was plain as the nose on your face. The straws were sabot straws, flattened where the foot had pressed them, and sticking straight out where they projected beyond the sabot. Now nobody in St. Gildas used straw in sabots except a fisherman who lived near St. Julien, and the straw in his sabots was ordinary yellow wheat straw! This straw, or rather these straws, were from the stalks of the red wheat which only grows inland, and which, everybody in St. Gildas knew, Yves Terrec wore in his sabots. I was perfectly satisfied; and when, three hours later, a hoarse131 shouting from the Bannalec Road brought me to the window, I was not surprised to see Yves Terrec, bloody132, dishevelled, hatless, with his strong arms bound behind him, walking with bent133 head between two mounted gendarmes. The crowd around him swelled134 every minute, crying: “Parricide135! parricide! Death to the murderer!” As he passed my window I saw great clots136 of mud on his dusty sabots, from the heels of which projected wisps of red wheat straw. Then I walked back into the Red Admiral’s study, determined137 to find what the microscope would show on the wheat straws. I examined each one very carefully, and then, my eyes aching, I rested my chin on my hand and leaned back in the chair. I had not been as fortunate as some detectives, for there was no evidence that the straws had ever been used in a sabot at all. Furthermore, directly across the hallway stood a carved Breton chest, and now I noticed for the first time that, from beneath the closed lid, dozens of similar red wheat straws projected, bent exactly as mine were bent by the lid.
I yawned in disgust. It was apparent that I was not cut out for a detective, and I bitterly pondered over the difference between clews in real life and clews in a detective story. After a while I rose, walked over to the chest and opened the lid. The interior was wadded with the red wheat straws, and on this wadding lay two curious glass jars, two or three small vials, several empty bottles labelled chloroform, a collecting jar of cyanide of potassium, and a book. In a farther corner of the chest were some letters bearing English stamps, and also the torn coverings of two parcels, all from England, and all directed to the Red Admiral under his proper name of “Sieur Louis Jean Terrec, St. Gildas, par16 Mo?lan, Finistère.”
All these traps I carried over to the desk, shut the lid of the chest, and sat down to read the letters. They were written in commercial French, evidently by an Englishman.
Freely translated, the contents of the first letter were as follows:
“LONDON, June 12, 1894.
“DEAR MONSIEUR (sic): Your kind favour of the 19th inst. received and contents noted138. The latest work on the Lepidoptera of England is Blowzer’s How to catch British Butterflies, with notes and tables, and an introduction by Sir Thomas Sniffer. The price of this work (in one volume, calf) is ￡5 or 125 francs of French money. A post-office order will receive our prompt attention. We beg to remain.
“Yours, etc..
“FRADLEY TOOMER.
“470 Regent Square, London, S.W.”
The next letter was even less interesting. It merely stated that the money had been received and the book would be forwarded. The third engaged my attention, and I shall quote it, the translation being a free one:
“DEAR SIR: Your letter of the 1st of July was duly received, and we at once referred it to Mr. Fradley himself. Mr. Fradley being much interested in your question, sent your letter to Professor Schweineri, of the Berlin Entomological Society, whose note Blowzer refers to on page 630, in his How to catch British Butterflies. We have just received an answer from Professor Schweineri, which we translate into French —(see inclosed slip). Professor Schweineri begs to present to you two jars of cythyl, prepared under his own supervision139. We forward the same to you. Trusting that you will find everything satisfactory, we remain.
“Yours sincerely.
“FRADLEY TOOMER.
The inclosed slip read as follows:
“Messrs. FRADLEY TOOMER. “GENTLEMEN: Cythaline, a complex hydrocarbon140. was first used by Professor Schnoot, of Antwerp, a year ago. I discovered an analogous141 formula about the same time and named it cythyl. I have used it with great success everywhere. It is as certain as a magnet. I beg to present you three small jars, and would be pleased to have you forward two of them to your correspondent in St. Gildas with my compliments. Blowzer’s quotation142 of me on page 630 of his glorious work, How to catch British Butterflies, is correct.
“Yours, etc.
“HEINRICH SCHWEINERI.
P.H.D., D.D., D.S., M.S.”
When I had finished this letter I folded it up and put it into my pocket with the others. Then I opened Blowzer’s valuable work, How to catch British Butterflies, and turned to page 630.
Now, although the Red Admiral could only have acquired the book very recently, and although all the other pages were perfectly clean, this particular page was thumbed black, and heavy pencil marks inclosed a paragraph at the bottom of the page. This the paragraph:
“Professor Schweineri says: ‘Of the two
old methods used by collectors for the capture of
the swift-winged, high-flying Apatura Iris, or
Purple Emperor, the first, which was using a
long-handled net, proved successful once in a
thousand times; and the second, the placing of
bait upon the ground, such as decayed meat.
dead cats, rats, etc., was not only disagreeable.
even for an enthusiastic collector, but also very
uncertain. Once in five hundred times would
the splendid butterfly leave the tops of his
favourite oak trees to circle about the fetid bait
offered. I have found cythyl a perfectly sure
bait to draw this beautiful butterfly to the
ground, where it can be easily captured. An
ounce of cythyl placed in a yellow saucer under
an oak tree, will draw to it every Apatura Iris
within a radius143 of twenty miles. So, if any
collector who possesses a little cythyl, even
though it be in a sealed bottle in his pocket — if
such a collector does not find a single Apatura
Iris fluttering close about him within an hour.
let him be satisfied that the Apatura Iris does
not inhabit his country.’”
When I had finished reading this note I sat for a long while thinking hard. Then I examined the two jars. They were labelled “Cythyl.” One was full, the other nearly full. “The rest must be on the corpse of the Red Admiral,” I thought, “no matter if it is in a corked144 bottle —”
I took all the things back to the chest, laid them carefully on the straw, and closed the lid. The gendarme sentinel at the gate saluted145 me respectfully as I crossed over to the Groix Inn. The inn was surrounded by an excited crowd, and the hallway was choked with gendarmes and peasants. On every side they greeted me cordially, announcing that the real murderer was caught; but I pushed by them without a word and ran upstairs to find Lys. She opened her door when I knocked and threw both arms about my neck. I took her to my breast and kissed her. After a moment I asked her if she would obey me no matter what I commanded, and she said she would, with a proud humility146 that touched me.
“Then go at once to Yvette in St. Julien,” I said. “Ask her to harness the dog-cart and drive to the convent in Quimperlé. Wait for me there. Will you do this without questioning me, my darling?”
She raised her face to mine. “Kiss me,” she said innocently; the next moment she had vanished.
I walked deliberately into the Purple Emperor’s room and peered into the gauze-covered box which held the chrysalis of Apatura Iris. It was as I expected. The chrysalis was empty and transparent147, and a great crack ran down the middle of its back, but, on the netting inside the box, a magnificent butterfly slowly waved its burnished148 purple wings; for the chrysalis had given up its silent tenant149, the butterfly symbol of immortality150. Then a great fear fell upon me. I know now that it was the fear of the Black Priest, but neither then nor for years after did I know that the Black Priest had ever lived on earth. As I bent over the box I heard a confused murmur151 outside the house which ended in a furious shout of “Parricide!” and I heard the gendarmes ride away behind a wagon152 which rattled153 sharply on the flinty highway. I went to the window. In the wagon sat Yves Terrec, bound and wild-eyed, two gendarmes at either side of him, and all around the wagon rode mounted gendarmes whose bared sabres scarcely kept the crowd away.
“Parricide!” they howled. “Let him die!”
I stepped back and opened the gauze-covered box. Very gently but firmly I took the splendid butterfly by its closed fore21 wings and lifted it unharmed between my thumb and forefinger154. Then, holding it concealed155 behind my back, I went down into the café.
Of all the crowd that had filled it, shouting for the death of Yves Terrec, only three persons remained seated in front of the huge empty fireplace. They were the Brigadier Durand, Max Fortin, the chemist of Quimperlé, and the Purple Emperor. The latter looked abashed156 when I entered, but I paid no attention to him and walked straight to the chemist.
“Monsieur Fortin,” I said, “do you know much about hydrocarbons157?”
“They are my specialty,” he said astonished.
“Have you ever heard of such thing as cythyl?”
“Schweineri’s cythyl? Oh, yes! We use it in perfumery.”
“Good!” I said. “Has it an odour?”
“No — and yes. One is always aware of its presence, but nobody can affirm it has an odour. It is curious,” he continued, looking at me, “it is very curious you should have asked me that, for all day I have been imagining I detected the presence of cythyl.”
“Do you imagine so now?” I asked.
“Yes, more than ever.”
I sprang to the front door and tossed out the butterfly. The splendid creature beat the air for a moment, flitted uncertainly hither and thither158, and then, to my astonishment159, sailed majestically160 back into the café and alighted on the hearthstone. For a moment I was non-plussed, but when my eyes rested on the Purple Emperor I comprehended in a flash.
“Lift that hearthstone!” I cried to the Brigadier Durand; “pry it up with your scabbard!”
The Purple Emperor suddenly fell forward in his chair, his face ghastly white, his jaw161 loose with terror.
“What is cythyl?” I shouted, seizing him by the arm; but he plunged162 heavily from his chair, face downward on the floor, and at the moment a cry from the chemist made me turn. There stood the Brigadier Durand, one hand supporting the hearthstone, one hand raised in horror. There stood Max Fortin, the chemist, rigid163 with excitement, and below, in the hollow bed where the hearthstone had rested, lay a crushed mass of bleeding human flesh, from the midst of which stared a cheap glass eye. I seized the Purple Emperor and dragged him to his feet.
“Look!” I cried; “look at your old friend, the Red Admiral!” but he only smiled in a vacant way, and rolled his head muttering; “Bait for butterflies! Cythyl! Oh, no, no, no! You can’t do it, Admiral, d’ye see. I alone own the Purple Emperor! I alone am the Purple Emperor!”
And the same carriage that bore me to Quimperlé to claim my bride, carried him to Quimper, gagged and bound, a foaming164, howling lunatic.
. . . . . . .
This, then, is the story of the Purple Emperor. I might tell you a pleasanter story if I chose; but concerning the fish that I had hold of, whether it was a salmon, a grilse, or a sea-trout, I may not say, because I have promised Lys, and she has promised me, that no power on earth shall wring165 from our lips the mortifying166 confession167 that the fish escaped.
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1
waterproof
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| n.防水材料；adj.防水的；v.使...能防水 | |
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2
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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3
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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4
trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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5
wriggling
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的现在分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等）；蠕蠕 | |
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6
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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7
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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8
intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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9
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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10
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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11
buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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12
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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13
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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14
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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15
iris
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| n.虹膜，彩虹 | |
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16
par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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17
snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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18
waded
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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19
ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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20
eel
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| n.鳗鲡 | |
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21
fore
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| adv.在前面；adj.先前的；在前部的；n.前部 | |
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22
microscopical
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| adj.显微镜的，精微的 | |
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23
stolidity
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| n.迟钝，感觉麻木 | |
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24
rite
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| n.典礼，惯例，习俗 | |
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25
puffs
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| n.吸( puff的名词复数 )；（烟斗或香烟的）一吸；一缕（烟、蒸汽等）；（呼吸或风的）呼v.使喷出( puff的第三人称单数 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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26
waddled
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| v.（像鸭子一样）摇摇摆摆地走( waddle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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27
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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28
liberated
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| a.无拘束的，放纵的 | |
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29
avaricious
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| adj.贪婪的，贪心的 | |
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30
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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31
gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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32
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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33
wizened
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| adj.凋谢的；枯槁的 | |
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34
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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35
credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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36
rascality
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| 流氓性，流氓集团 | |
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37
outraged
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| a.震惊的，义愤填膺的 | |
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38
legitimately
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| ad.合法地；正当地，合理地 | |
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39
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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40
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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41
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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42
hoarder
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| n.囤积者，贮藏者 | |
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43
jeered
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| v.嘲笑( jeer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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45
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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46
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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47
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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48
harping
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| n.反复述说 | |
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49
nagged
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| adj.经常遭责怪的；被压制的；感到厌烦的；被激怒的v.不断地挑剔或批评（某人）( nag的过去式和过去分词 )；不断地烦扰或伤害（某人）；无休止地抱怨；不断指责 | |
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50
sneaking
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| a.秘密的，不公开的 | |
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51
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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52
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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53
withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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54
discredit
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| vt.使不可置信；n.丧失信义；不信，怀疑 | |
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55
bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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56
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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57
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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58
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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59
deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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61
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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62
conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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63
piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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64
wriggled
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的过去式和过去分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等） | |
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65
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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66
plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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67
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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68
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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69
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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70
salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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71
lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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72
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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73
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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74
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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75
mutinous
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| adj.叛变的，反抗的；adv.反抗地，叛变地；n.反抗，叛变 | |
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76
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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77
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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78
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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79
gendarme
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| n.宪兵 | |
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80
gendarmes
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| n.宪兵，警官( gendarme的名词复数 ) | |
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81
disquieted
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| v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
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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83
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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84
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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85
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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87
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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88
vowing
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的现在分词形式） | |
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89
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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90
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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91
squeaked
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的过去式和过去分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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92
fowling
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| 捕鸟，打鸟 | |
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93
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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94
jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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95
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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96
willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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97
myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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98
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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99
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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100
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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101
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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102
trample
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| vt.踩，践踏；无视，伤害，侵犯 | |
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103
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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104
gull
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| n.鸥；受骗的人；v.欺诈 | |
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105
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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106
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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107
gaped
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| v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的过去式和过去分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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108
sepulchral
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| adj.坟墓的，阴深的 | |
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109
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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110
propitiatory
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| adj.劝解的；抚慰的；谋求好感的；哄人息怒的 | |
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111
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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112
nauseating
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| adj.令人恶心的，使人厌恶的v.使恶心，作呕( nauseate的现在分词 ) | |
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113
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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114
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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115
jabbering
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| v.急切而含混不清地说( jabber的现在分词 )；急促兴奋地说话；结结巴巴 | |
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116
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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117
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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118
triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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119
bawled
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的过去式和过去分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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120
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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121
grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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122
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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123
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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124
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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125
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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126
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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127
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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128
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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129
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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130
flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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131
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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132
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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133
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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134
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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135
parricide
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| n.杀父母；杀亲罪 | |
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136
clots
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| n.凝块( clot的名词复数 )；血块；蠢人；傻瓜v.凝固( clot的第三人称单数 ) | |
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137
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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138
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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139
supervision
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| n.监督，管理 | |
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140
hydrocarbon
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| n.烃，碳氢化合物 | |
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141
analogous
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| adj.相似的；类似的 | |
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142
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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143
radius
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| n.半径，半径范围；有效航程，范围，界限 | |
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144
corked
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| adj.带木塞气味的，塞着瓶塞的v.用瓶塞塞住( cork的过去式 ) | |
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145
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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146
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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147
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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148
burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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149
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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150
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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151
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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152
wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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153
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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154
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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155
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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156
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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157
hydrocarbons
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| n.碳氢化合物，烃( hydrocarbon的名词复数 ) | |
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158
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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159
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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160
majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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161
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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162
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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163
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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164
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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165
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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166
mortifying
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| adj.抑制的，苦修的v.使受辱( mortify的现在分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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167
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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