《代号星期四》11第九章 戴眼镜的人（在线收听）

CHAPTER IX. THE MAN IN SPECTACLES

 “BURGUNDY is a jolly thing,” said the Professor sadly, as he set his glass down.

“You don’t look as if it were,” said Syme; “you drink it as if it were medicine.”

“You must excuse my manner,” said the Professor dismally, “my position is rather a curious one. Inside I am really bursting with boyish merriment; but I acted the paralytic Professor so well, that now I can’t leave off. So that when I am among friends, and have no need at all to disguise myself, I still can’t help speaking slow and wrinkling my forehead—just as if it were my forehead. I can be quite happy, you understand, but only in a paralytic sort of way. The most buoyant exclamations leap up in my heart, but they come out of my mouth quite different. You should hear me say, ‘Buck up, old cock!’ It would bring tears to your eyes.”

“It does,” said Syme; “but I cannot help thinking that apart from all that you are really a bit worried.”

The Professor started a little and looked at him steadily.

“You are a very clever fellow,” he said, “it is a pleasure to work with you. Yes, I have rather a heavy cloud in my head. There is a great problem to face,” and he sank his bald brow in his two hands.

Then he said in a low voice—

“Can you play the piano?”

“Yes,” said Syme in simple wonder, “I’m supposed to have a good touch.”

Then, as the other did not speak, he added—

“I trust the great cloud is lifted.”

After a long silence, the Professor said out of the cavernous shadow of his hands—

“It would have done just as well if you could work a typewriter.”

“Thank you,” said Syme, “you flatter me.”

“Listen to me,” said the other, “and remember whom we have to see tomorrow. You and I are going tomorrow to attempt something which is very much more dangerous than trying to steal the Crown Jewels out of the Tower. We are trying to steal a secret from a very sharp, very strong, and very wicked man. I believe there is no man, except the President, of course, who is so seriously startling and formidable as that little grinning fellow in goggles. He has not perhaps the white-hot enthusiasm unto death, the mad martyrdom for anarchy, which marks the Secretary. But then that very fanaticism in the Secretary has a human pathos, and is almost a redeeming trait. But the little Doctor has a brutal sanity that is more shocking than the Secretary’s disease. Don’t you notice his detestable virility and vitality. He bounces like an india-rubber ball. Depend on it, Sunday was not asleep (I wonder if he ever sleeps?) when he locked up all the plans of this outrage in the round, black head of Dr. Bull.”

“And you think,” said Syme, “that this unique monster will be soothed if I play the piano to him?”

“Don’t be an ass,” said his mentor. “I mentioned the piano because it gives one quick and independent fingers. Syme, if we are to go through this interview and come out sane or alive, we must have some code of signals between us that this brute will not see. I have made a rough alphabetical cypher corresponding to the five fingers—like this, see,” and he rippled with his fingers on the wooden table—“B A D, bad, a word we may frequently require.”

Syme poured himself out another glass of wine, and began to study the scheme. He was abnormally quick with his brains at puzzles, and with his hands at conjuring, and it did not take him long to learn how he might convey simple messages by what would seem to be idle taps upon a table or knee. But wine and companionship had always the effect of inspiring him to a farcical ingenuity, and the Professor soon found himself struggling with the too vast energy of the new language, as it passed through the heated brain of Syme.

“We must have several word-signs,” said Syme seriously—“words that we are likely to want, fine shades of meaning. My favourite word is ‘coeval’. What’s yours?”

“Do stop playing the goat,” said the Professor plaintively. “You don’t know how serious this is.”

“‘Lush’ too,” said Syme, shaking his head sagaciously, “we must have ‘lush’—word applied to grass, don’t you know?”

“Do you imagine,” asked the Professor furiously, “that we are going to talk to Dr. Bull about grass?”

“There are several ways in which the subject could be approached,” said Syme reflectively, “and the word introduced without appearing forced. We might say, ‘Dr. Bull, as a revolutionist, you remember that a tyrant once advised us to eat grass; and indeed many of us, looking on the fresh lush grass of summer...’”

“Do you understand,” said the other, “that this is a tragedy?”

“Perfectly,” replied Syme; “always be comic in a tragedy. What the deuce else can you do? I wish this language of yours had a wider scope. I suppose we could not extend it from the fingers to the toes? That would involve pulling off our boots and socks during the conversation, which however unobtrusively performed—”

“Syme,” said his friend with a stern simplicity, “go to bed!”

Syme, however, sat up in bed for a considerable time mastering the new code. He was awakened next morning while the east was still sealed with darkness, and found his grey-bearded ally standing like a ghost beside his bed.

Syme sat up in bed blinking; then slowly collected his thoughts, threw off the bed-clothes, and stood up. It seemed to him in some curious way that all the safety and sociability of the night before fell with the bedclothes off him, and he stood up in an air of cold danger. He still felt an entire trust and loyalty towards his companion; but it was the trust between two men going to the scaffold.

“Well,” said Syme with a forced cheerfulness as he pulled on his trousers, “I dreamt of that alphabet of yours. Did it take you long to make it up?”

The Professor made no answer, but gazed in front of him with eyes the colour of a wintry sea; so Syme repeated his question.

“I say, did it take you long to invent all this? I’m considered good at these things, and it was a good hour’s grind. Did you learn it all on the spot?”

The Professor was silent; his eyes were wide open, and he wore a fixed but very small smile.

“How long did it take you?”

The Professor did not move.

“Confound you, can’t you answer?” called out Syme, in a sudden anger that had something like fear underneath. Whether or no the Professor could answer, he did not.

Syme stood staring back at the stiff face like parchment and the blank, blue eyes. His first thought was that the Professor had gone mad, but his second thought was more frightful. After all, what did he know about this queer creature whom he had heedlessly accepted as a friend? What did he know, except that the man had been at the anarchist breakfast and had told him a ridiculous tale? How improbable it was that there should be another friend there beside Gogol! Was this man’s silence a sensational way of declaring war? Was this adamantine stare after all only the awful sneer of some threefold traitor, who had turned for the last time? He stood and strained his ears in this heartless silence. He almost fancied he could hear dynamiters come to capture him shifting softly in the corridor outside.

Then his eye strayed downwards, and he burst out laughing. Though the Professor himself stood there as voiceless as a statue, his five dumb fingers were dancing alive upon the dead table. Syme watched the twinkling movements of the talking hand, and read clearly the message—

“I will only talk like this. We must get used to it.”

He rapped out the answer with the impatience of relief—

“All right. Let’s get out to breakfast.”

They took their hats and sticks in silence; but as Syme took his sword-stick, he held it hard.

They paused for a few minutes only to stuff down coffee and coarse thick sandwiches at a coffee stall, and then made their way across the river, which under the grey and growing light looked as desolate as Acheron. They reached the bottom of the huge block of buildings which they had seen from across the river, and began in silence to mount the naked and numberless stone steps, only pausing now and then to make short remarks on the rail of the banisters. At about every other flight they passed a window; each window showed them a pale and tragic dawn lifting itself laboriously over London. From each the innumerable roofs of slate looked like the leaden surges of a grey, troubled sea after rain. Syme was increasingly conscious that his new adventure had somehow a quality of cold sanity worse than the wild adventures of the past. Last night, for instance, the tall tenements had seemed to him like a tower in a dream. As he now went up the weary and perpetual steps, he was daunted and bewildered by their almost infinite series. But it was not the hot horror of a dream or of anything that might be exaggeration or delusion. Their infinity was more like the empty infinity of arithmetic, something unthinkable, yet necessary to thought. Or it was like the stunning statements of astronomy about the distance of the fixed stars. He was ascending the house of reason, a thing more hideous than unreason itself.

By the time they reached Dr. Bull’s landing, a last window showed them a harsh, white dawn edged with banks of a kind of coarse red, more like red clay than red cloud. And when they entered Dr. Bull’s bare garret it was full of light.

Syme had been haunted by a half historic memory in connection with these empty rooms and that austere daybreak. The moment he saw the garret and Dr. Bull sitting writing at a table, he remembered what the memory was—the French Revolution. There should have been the black outline of a guillotine against that heavy red and white of the morning. Dr. Bull was in his white shirt and black breeches only; his cropped, dark head might well have just come out of its wig; he might have been Marat or a more slipshod Robespierre.

Yet when he was seen properly, the French fancy fell away. The Jacobins were idealists; there was about this man a murderous materialism. His position gave him a somewhat new appearance. The strong, white light of morning coming from one side creating sharp shadows, made him seem both more pale and more angular than he had looked at the breakfast on the balcony. Thus the two black glasses that encased his eyes might really have been black cavities in his skull, making him look like a death’s-head. And, indeed, if ever Death himself sat writing at a wooden table, it might have been he.

He looked up and smiled brightly enough as the men came in, and rose with the resilient rapidity of which the Professor had spoken. He set chairs for both of them, and going to a peg behind the door, proceeded to put on a coat and waistcoat of rough, dark tweed; he buttoned it up neatly, and came back to sit down at his table.

The quiet good humour of his manner left his two opponents helpless. It was with some momentary difficulty that the Professor broke silence and began, “I’m sorry to disturb you so early, comrade,” said he, with a careful resumption of the slow de Worms manner. “You have no doubt made all the arrangements for the Paris affair?” Then he added with infinite slowness, “We have information which renders intolerable anything in the nature of a moment’s delay.”

Dr. Bull smiled again, but continued to gaze on them without speaking. The Professor resumed, a pause before each weary word—

“Please do not think me excessively abrupt; but I advise you to alter those plans, or if it is too late for that, to follow your agent with all the support you can get for him. Comrade Syme and I have had an experience which it would take more time to recount than we can afford, if we are to act on it. I will, however, relate the occurrence in detail, even at the risk of losing time, if you really feel that it is essential to the understanding of the problem we have to discuss.”

He was spinning out his sentences, making them intolerably long and lingering, in the hope of maddening the practical little Doctor into an explosion of impatience which might show his hand. But the little Doctor continued only to stare and smile, and the monologue was uphill work. Syme began to feel a new sickness and despair. The Doctor’s smile and silence were not at all like the cataleptic stare and horrible silence which he had confronted in the Professor half an hour before. About the Professor’s makeup and all his antics there was always something merely grotesque, like a gollywog. Syme remembered those wild woes of yesterday as one remembers being afraid of Bogy in childhood. But here was daylight; here was a healthy, square-shouldered man in tweeds, not odd save for the accident of his ugly spectacles, not glaring or grinning at all, but smiling steadily and not saying a word. The whole had a sense of unbearable reality. Under the increasing sunlight the colours of the Doctor’s complexion, the pattern of his tweeds, grew and expanded outrageously, as such things grow too important in a realistic novel. But his smile was quite slight, the pose of his head polite; the only uncanny thing was his silence.

“As I say,” resumed the Professor, like a man toiling through heavy sand, “the incident that has occurred to us and has led us to ask for information about the Marquis, is one which you may think it better to have narrated; but as it came in the way of Comrade Syme rather than me—”

His words he seemed to be dragging out like words in an anthem; but Syme, who was watching, saw his long fingers rattle quickly on the edge of the crazy table. He read the message, “You must go on. This devil has sucked me dry!”

Syme plunged into the breach with that bravado of improvisation which always came to him when he was alarmed.

“Yes, the thing really happened to me,” he said hastily. “I had the good fortune to fall into conversation with a detective who took me, thanks to my hat, for a respectable person. Wishing to clinch my reputation for respectability, I took him and made him very drunk at the Savoy. Under this influence he became friendly, and told me in so many words that within a day or two they hope to arrest the Marquis in France.

“So unless you or I can get on his track—”

The Doctor was still smiling in the most friendly way, and his protected eyes were still impenetrable. The Professor signalled to Syme that he would resume his explanation, and he began again with the same elaborate calm.

“Syme immediately brought this information to me, and we came here together to see what use you would be inclined to make of it. It seems to me unquestionably urgent that—”

All this time Syme had been staring at the Doctor almost as steadily as the Doctor stared at the Professor, but quite without the smile. The nerves of both comrades-in-arms were near snapping under that strain of motionless amiability, when Syme suddenly leant forward and idly tapped the edge of the table. His message to his ally ran, “I have an intuition.”

The Professor, with scarcely a pause in his monologue, signalled back, “Then sit on it.”

Syme telegraphed, “It is quite extraordinary.”

The other answered, “Extraordinary rot!”

Syme said, “I am a poet.”

The other retorted, “You are a dead man.”

Syme had gone quite red up to his yellow hair, and his eyes were burning feverishly. As he said he had an intuition, and it had risen to a sort of lightheaded certainty. Resuming his symbolic taps, he signalled to his friend, “You scarcely realise how poetic my intuition is. It has that sudden quality we sometimes feel in the coming of spring.”

He then studied the answer on his friend’s fingers. The answer was, “Go to hell!”

The Professor then resumed his merely verbal monologue addressed to the Doctor.

“Perhaps I should rather say,” said Syme on his fingers, “that it resembles that sudden smell of the sea which may be found in the heart of lush woods.”

His companion disdained to reply.

“Or yet again,” tapped Syme, “it is positive, as is the passionate red hair of a beautiful woman.”

The Professor was continuing his speech, but in the middle of it Syme decided to act. He leant across the table, and said in a voice that could not be neglected—

“Dr. Bull!”

The Doctor’s sleek and smiling head did not move, but they could have sworn that under his dark glasses his eyes darted towards Syme.

“Dr. Bull,” said Syme, in a voice peculiarly precise and courteous, “would you do me a small favour? Would you be so kind as to take off your spectacles?”

The Professor swung round on his seat, and stared at Syme with a sort of frozen fury of astonishment. Syme, like a man who has thrown his life and fortune on the table, leaned forward with a fiery face. The Doctor did not move.

For a few seconds there was a silence in which one could hear a pin drop, split once by the single hoot of a distant steamer on the Thames. Then Dr. Bull rose slowly, still smiling, and took off his spectacles.

Syme sprang to his feet, stepping backwards a little, like a chemical lecturer from a successful explosion. His eyes were like stars, and for an instant he could only point without speaking.

The Professor had also started to his feet, forgetful of his supposed paralysis. He leant on the back of the chair and stared doubtfully at Dr. Bull, as if the Doctor had been turned into a toad before his eyes. And indeed it was almost as great a transformation scene.

The two detectives saw sitting in the chair before them a very boyish-looking young man, with very frank and happy hazel eyes, an open expression, cockney clothes like those of a city clerk, and an unquestionable breath about him of being very good and rather commonplace. The smile was still there, but it might have been the first smile of a baby.

“I knew I was a poet,” cried Syme in a sort of ecstasy. “I knew my intuition was as infallible as the Pope. It was the spectacles that did it! It was all the spectacles. Given those beastly black eyes, and all the rest of him his health and his jolly looks, made him a live devil among dead ones.”

“It certainly does make a queer difference,” said the Professor shakily. “But as regards the project of Dr. Bull—”

“Project be damned!” roared Syme, beside himself. “Look at him! Look at his face, look at his collar, look at his blessed boots! You don’t suppose, do you, that that thing’s an anarchist?”

“Syme!” cried the other in an apprehensive agony.

“Why, by God,” said Syme, “I’ll take the risk of that myself! Dr. Bull, I am a police officer. There’s my card,” and he flung down the blue card upon the table.

The Professor still feared that all was lost; but he was loyal. He pulled out his own official card and put it beside his friend’s. Then the third man burst out laughing, and for the first time that morning they heard his voice.

“I’m awfully glad you chaps have come so early,” he said, with a sort of schoolboy flippancy, “for we can all start for France together. Yes, I’m in the force right enough,” and he flicked a blue card towards them lightly as a matter of form.

Clapping a brisk bowler on his head and resuming his goblin glasses, the Doctor moved so quickly towards the door, that the others instinctively followed him. Syme seemed a little distrait, and as he passed under the doorway he suddenly struck his stick on the stone passage so that it rang.

“But Lord God Almighty,” he cried out, “if this is all right, there were more damned detectives than there were damned dynamiters at the damned Council!”

“We might have fought easily,” said Bull; “we were four against three.”

The Professor was descending the stairs, but his voice came up from below.

“No,” said the voice, “we were not four against three—we were not so lucky. We were four against One.”

The others went down the stairs in silence.

The young man called Bull, with an innocent courtesy characteristic of him, insisted on going last until they reached the street; but there his own robust rapidity asserted itself unconsciously, and he walked quickly on ahead towards a railway inquiry office, talking to the others over his shoulder.

“It is jolly to get some pals,” he said. “I’ve been half dead with the jumps, being quite alone. I nearly flung my arms round Gogol and embraced him, which would have been imprudent. I hope you won’t despise me for having been in a blue funk.”

“All the blue devils in blue hell,” said Syme, “contributed to my blue funk! But the worst devil was you and your infernal goggles.”

The young man laughed delightedly.

“Wasn’t it a rag?” he said. “Such a simple idea—not my own. I haven’t got the brains. You see, I wanted to go into the detective service, especially the anti-dynamite business. But for that purpose they wanted someone to dress up as a dynamiter; and they all swore by blazes that I could never look like a dynamiter. They said my very walk was respectable, and that seen from behind I looked like the British Constitution. They said I looked too healthy and too optimistic, and too reliable and benevolent; they called me all sorts of names at Scotland Yard. They said that if I had been a criminal, I might have made my fortune by looking so like an honest man; but as I had the misfortune to be an honest man, there was not even the remotest chance of my assisting them by ever looking like a criminal. But at last I was brought before some old josser who was high up in the force, and who seemed to have no end of a head on his shoulders. And there the others all talked hopelessly. One asked whether a bushy beard would hide my nice smile; another said that if they blacked my face I might look like a negro anarchist; but this old chap chipped in with a most extraordinary remark. ‘A pair of smoked spectacles will do it,’ he said positively. ‘Look at him now; he looks like an angelic office boy. Put him on a pair of smoked spectacles, and children will scream at the sight of him.’ And so it was, by George! When once my eyes were covered, all the rest, smile and big shoulders and short hair, made me look a perfect little devil. As I say, it was simple enough when it was done, like miracles; but that wasn’t the really miraculous part of it. There was one really staggering thing about the business, and my head still turns at it.”

“What was that?” asked Syme.

“I’ll tell you,” answered the man in spectacles. “This big pot in the police who sized me up so that he knew how the goggles would go with my hair and socks—by God, he never saw me at all!”

Syme’s eyes suddenly flashed on him.

“How was that?” he asked. “I thought you talked to him.”

“So I did,” said Bull brightly; “but we talked in a pitch-dark room like a coalcellar. There, you would never have guessed that.”

“I could not have conceived it,” said Syme gravely.

“It is indeed a new idea,” said the Professor.

Their new ally was in practical matters a whirlwind. At the inquiry office he asked with businesslike brevity about the trains for Dover. Having got his information, he bundled the company into a cab, and put them and himself inside a railway carriage before they had properly realised the breathless process. They were already on the Calais boat before conversation flowed freely.

“I had already arranged,” he explained, “to go to France for my lunch; but I am delighted to have someone to lunch with me. You see, I had to send that beast, the Marquis, over with his bomb, because the President had his eye on me, though God knows how. I’ll tell you the story some day. It was perfectly choking. Whenever I tried to slip out of it I saw the President somewhere, smiling out of the bow-window of a club, or taking off his hat to me from the top of an omnibus. I tell you, you can say what you like, that fellow sold himself to the devil; he can be in six places at once.”

“So you sent the Marquis off, I understand,” asked the Professor. “Was it long ago? Shall we be in time to catch him?”

“Yes,” answered the new guide, “I’ve timed it all. He’ll still be at Calais when we arrive.”

“But when we do catch him at Calais,” said the Professor, “what are we going to do?”

At this question the countenance of Dr. Bull fell for the first time. He reflected a little, and then said—

“Theoretically, I suppose, we ought to call the police.”

“Not I,” said Syme. “Theoretically I ought to drown myself first. I promised a poor fellow, who was a real modern pessimist, on my word of honour not to tell the police. I’m no hand at casuistry, but I can’t break my word to a modern pessimist. It’s like breaking one’s word to a child.”

“I’m in the same boat,” said the Professor. “I tried to tell the police and I couldn’t, because of some silly oath I took. You see, when I was an actor I was a sort of all-round beast. Perjury or treason is the only crime I haven’t committed. If I did that I shouldn’t know the difference between right and wrong.”

“I’ve been through all that,” said Dr. Bull, “and I’ve made up my mind. I gave my promise to the Secretary—you know him, man who smiles upside down. My friends, that man is the most utterly unhappy man that was ever human. It may be his digestion, or his conscience, or his nerves, or his philosophy of the universe, but he’s damned, he’s in hell! Well, I can’t turn on a man like that, and hunt him down. It’s like whipping a leper. I may be mad, but that’s how I feel; and there’s jolly well the end of it.”

“I don’t think you’re mad,” said Syme. “I knew you would decide like that when first you—”

“Eh?” said Dr. Bull.

“When first you took off your spectacles.”

Dr. Bull smiled a little, and strolled across the deck to look at the sunlit sea. Then he strolled back again, kicking his heels carelessly, and a companionable silence fell between the three men.

“Well,” said Syme, “it seems that we have all the same kind of morality or immorality, so we had better face the fact that comes of it.”

“Yes,” assented the Professor, “you’re quite right; and we must hurry up, for I can see the Grey Nose standing out from France.”

“The fact that comes of it,” said Syme seriously, “is this, that we three are alone on this planet. Gogol has gone, God knows where; perhaps the President has smashed him like a fly. On the Council we are three men against three, like the Romans who held the bridge. But we are worse off than that, first because they can appeal to their organization and we cannot appeal to ours, and second because—”

“Because one of those other three men,” said the Professor, “is not a man.”

Syme nodded and was silent for a second or two, then he said—

“My idea is this. We must do something to keep the Marquis in Calais till tomorrow midday. I have turned over twenty schemes in my head. We cannot denounce him as a dynamiter; that is agreed. We cannot get him detained on some trivial charge, for we should have to appear; he knows us, and he would smell a rat. We cannot pretend to keep him on anarchist business; he might swallow much in that way, but not the notion of stopping in Calais while the Czar went safely through Paris. We might try to kidnap him, and lock him up ourselves; but he is a well-known man here. He has a whole bodyguard of friends; he is very strong and brave, and the event is doubtful. The only thing I can see to do is actually to take advantage of the very things that are in the Marquis’s favour. I am going to profit by the fact that he is a highly respected nobleman. I am going to profit by the fact that he has many friends and moves in the best society.”

“What the devil are you talking about?” asked the Professor.

“The Symes are first mentioned in the fourteenth century,” said Syme; “but there is a tradition that one of them rode behind Bruce at Bannockburn. Since 1350 the tree is quite clear.”

“He’s gone off his head,” said the little Doctor, staring.

“Our bearings,” continued Syme calmly, “are ‘argent a chevron gules charged with three cross crosslets of the field.’ The motto varies.”

The Professor seized Syme roughly by the waistcoat.

“We are just inshore,” he said. “Are you seasick or joking in the wrong place?”

“My remarks are almost painfully practical,” answered Syme, in an unhurried manner. “The house of St. Eustache also is very ancient. The Marquis cannot deny that he is a gentleman. He cannot deny that I am a gentleman. And in order to put the matter of my social position quite beyond a doubt, I propose at the earliest opportunity to knock his hat off. But here we are in the harbour.”

They went on shore under the strong sun in a sort of daze. Syme, who had now taken the lead as Bull had taken it in London, led them along a kind of marine parade until he came to some cafes, embowered in a bulk of greenery and overlooking the sea. As he went before them his step was slightly swaggering, and he swung his stick like a sword. He was making apparently for the extreme end of the line of cafes, but he stopped abruptly. With a sharp gesture he motioned them to silence, but he pointed with one gloved finger to a cafe table under a bank of flowering foliage at which sat the Marquis de St. Eustache, his teeth shining in his thick, black beard, and his bold, brown face shadowed by a light yellow straw hat and outlined against the violet sea.

第九章 戴眼镜的人

    “勃艮地红葡萄酒令人愉快。”教授放下酒杯哀伤地说道。

    “你的样子看起来并不愉快，”赛姆说，“你喝酒的样子就像在喝药。”

    “你必须原谅我的仪态，”教授忧郁地说，“因为我的处境相当怪异。我的内心确实充满了孩童般的欢欣；但我对中风教授角色入戏太深，所以现在我无法停止扮演。即便是在我与朋友们相处，不必再伪装自己时，我仍然会忍不住慢条斯理地讲话，并且在额头上撑起皱纹——就像我的额头就这是这样。我可以显得很快乐，你懂的，但表现的是一种中风病人的方式。我心头涌动着最活泼的呼喊，但它们从我嘴里出来时却完全不同了。你会听见我说，‘快点，老兄！’这会使你落泪的。”

    “确实如此，”赛姆道，“不过我觉得，除此之外，你还有其他的担忧。”

    教授动了一下身子又盯着他看。

    “你是一个非常聪明的家伙，”他说，“与你合作令我愉快。是的，我心头有一片沉重的阴云。我要面对一个巨大的问题。”说完，他把裸露的额头埋进了双手里。然后他低声说——

    “你会弹钢琴吗？”

    “会的，”赛姆有点惊讶地说，“我应该有这方面的特长。”对方不说话，他就接着又说：“我相信沉重的阴云已经被移走了。”

    长时间的沉默之后，教授在双手阴影里开了腔——

    “如果你会使用打字机的话也很不错。”

    “谢谢你，”赛姆说道，“你在恭维我。”

    “听我说，”对方说，“你要记住明天我们去见谁。你和我明天将要做的事情比从伦敦塔里偷窃王冠上的宝石还要危险得多。我们将从一个非常狡猾、强硬、邪恶的人身上盗取秘密。我相信，除了星期天之外，没人会像那个戴太阳镜、龇牙咧嘴的小个子医生一样令人惊讶和畏惧。他可能没有对死亡的那种狂热，那种对无政府主义的疯狂的殉教精神，而这些正是那位秘书的典型特征。不过秘书的狂热具有一种人性化的感伤力，而且几乎是一种补偿性的特征。但这个小个子医生具有一种野性的理智，这比那位秘书的病态更令人震惊。你不会没有注意到他可憎的男子气和活力。他蹦蹦跳跳像一只印度皮球。基于这个，当星期天把关于这次暴行的所有计划锁进布尔医生黑色的圆脑袋时，他不会睡着（我怀疑他是否睡过觉。）。”

    “你认为，”赛姆说道，“如果我对他弹钢琴，这个独特的恶魔就会平静下来吗？”

    “别傻了，”他的朋友说，“我提到钢琴，是因为它给人敏捷而不受约束的手指。赛姆，如果我们既要经历这次面谈，又要活着清醒地出来的话，我们之间必须有一套这个畜生看不出的暗号规则。我做了一套和五个手指相对应的粗略的字母密码——就像这样，瞧，”他在木桌上摆弄着手指说，“B A D，bad，这个词我们经常要用到。”

    赛姆又为自己倒了一杯酒，开始琢磨这个方案。他的脑子对解难题是出奇的快，而且玩魔术他的手也很巧。很快的，他就学会了在桌子或膝盖上随意地敲击出要传达的简单信号。不过酒和友谊总是会激励赛姆表现出滑稽的睿智，教授很快发现自己应付不了新语汇的过于庞大的能量，而这些新语汇正是从赛姆兴奋的大脑蹦出来的。

    “我们必须要几个词语暗号，”赛姆严肃地说，“就是我们会需要表达细微意义差异的词语。我最喜欢的词是‘coeval’。你呢？”

    “别装傻了，”教授悲哀地说道，“你不知道这有多严肃。”

    “还有‘lush’，”赛姆敏锐地摇了摇头说，“我们必须有‘lush’，这个词可以指草，你不知道？”

    “你以为，”教授愤怒地问道，“我们将和布尔医生谈草的事？”

    “我们可以用好几种方式来处理这个话题，”赛姆沉思着说道，“而且可以毫不牵强地引用这个词。我们可以说，‘布尔医生，作为一个革命者，你应该记得有一个暴君曾经建议我们吃草；事实上，我们很多人看着新鲜繁茂的夏天的绿草……’”

    “你明不明白，”对方说，“这是一个悲剧？”

    “完全明白，”赛姆答道，“悲剧中也要喜气一点才好。除了这，你还能他妈的做什么？我希望你的这种语汇有更宽广的应用范围。我想我们不能把它从手指延伸到脚趾吗？那就需要我们在谈话中脱掉靴子和袜子，不管我们如何低调地完成——”

    “赛姆，”他的朋友严厉而简洁地说道，“上床睡觉！”

    不过，在床上，赛姆还是花很长时间来掌握这套密码。第二天早晨，东方还是漆黑一团，他醒来的那一刻发现他灰白胡子的盟友如鬼魂般站在他床边。

    赛姆眯着眼睛从床上坐了起来；然后才慢慢回过神，甩开毯子，站了起来。最为怪异的是，赛姆头天晚上所感受到的安全和友善都随着毯子从他身上滑落那一刻消失，此刻他只觉得寒冷和危险。不过，他对他的伙伴仍怀着满满的信任和忠诚，这是即将走上绞刑台的两个人之间的信任。

    “对了，”赛姆边穿裤子，边强作欢笑地说，“我梦到了你的那套密码。你把它编出来花了很长时间吧？”

    教授没有回答，双眼盯着前方风雪交加的海面，所以赛姆又重复了一下他的问题。

    “我说，你发明这些花了很长时间吧？别人以为我擅长这些，这是很费时间的苦差事。你是当场背下来的吗？”

    教授一声不吭，双眼圆睁着，他脸上挂着肤浅的笑容。

    “你花了多长时间？”

    教授一动不动。

    “去你的，你不会回答吗？”赛姆叫道，蓦地蹿起一股火，骨子里却是恐惧。不管教授能不能回答，他总归没有回答。

    赛姆转过头去，盯着那张羊皮纸一般的僵硬的脸和那双失神的蓝眼睛。第一个念头是教授发了疯，但他的第二个念头却更为可怕，毕竟，他对这个视为朋友的怪异家伙了解有多少呢？除了这个家伙参加过无政府主义者的早餐会以及一个可笑的故事，还有什么呢？除了果戈理之外，竟然还会遇到一个朋友，这太不可能了！这家伙是想通过沉默别出心裁地宣战吗？他现在凝视的仅仅是一个最新叛变的三重身份的叛徒吗？他站在这种冷酷无情的沉默中，尽力张大耳朵。他几乎幻想着他听到来抓他的炸弹刺客在外面的走廊里轻轻移动的声音。

    赛姆的眼睛不由自主地朝下看，接着大笑起来。尽管教授像一尊塑像无声地站在那里，五根默然的手指却在死寂的桌面上舞动着。赛姆注视着那灵巧的手指在灯光下的动作，完全明白他要传达意思。

    “我将只用这种方式来表达。我们必须习惯这种方式。”他带着不耐烦厉声回答道。“好吧。我们出去吃早餐吧。”

    他们一言不发地取了帽子和手杖；当赛姆拿到他的剑杖时，他握得紧紧的。

    他们在一个流动咖啡摊上待了几分钟，喝了咖啡，吃了粗糙而厚实的三明治，然后过了桥。这时的河，在灰蒙蒙的、却越来越亮的天光下显得如地狱般荒凉。他们来到他们在河对岸见过的那栋大楼的下面，开始无声地攀登无数裸露的石台阶。他们时不时停下来，靠在栏杆上简短地谈论几句。大约每隔一层楼梯，他们会经过一扇窗户；每扇窗户都向他们展示了一个苍白而悲惨的黎明，太阳正在艰难地在伦敦上空升起。透过每扇窗户无数的石板瓦，屋顶看起来就像雨后涌起的灰色海洋的灰色波涛。赛姆越来越清晰地感觉到，他崭新的冒险之旅具有某种冷酷而清醒的特质，这比以前疯狂的冒险更糟糕。比如，昨天晚上在梦中，这幢高耸的廉价公寓就像一座塔。此刻他正走上这些乏味而无休止的台阶上，台阶连绵不绝的样子几乎使他困惑和气馁。可是，这不是梦境或任何可能导致夸大或错觉的东西所造成的强烈恐惧。台阶的连绵不绝更像是空洞而无限的算术题，它难以想象，却对思维必不可少；或者它就像天文学中描述恒星距离的令人眩晕的表达式。他正在攀登理性之屋，这件事比非理性本身更可怕。

    当他们登上了布尔医生家的楼梯平台时，最后一扇窗户向他们展示了一个刺眼的白色黎明，而天边一团团的艳红，与其说是红色的云彩，倒不如说是红色的泥土。当他们走进布尔医生空无一物的阁楼时，那里一片光明。

    萦绕在赛姆心头的是一种和这些空房间以及严峻的黎明相关的半新半旧的记忆。他一看到正在阁楼的书桌上埋头写东西的布尔医生，他就想起了那段记忆——法国大革命。那里本该有一架断头台映衬着刺眼的红白色晨光。布尔医生只穿着白衬衫和黑马裤，剃过的黑色脑袋就像刚脱掉假发，他也许是马拉或者更为懒散的罗伯斯庇尔

    当看清楚布尔医生时，法式的想象消失了。雅各宾派都是空想家，而这位男士身上却有一种危险的实利主义。他的位置给了他一种崭新的外表。来自强烈白色晨光的那边勾勒出明显的阴影，使他比先前在饭店阳台上吃早餐时显得更苍白消瘦。而包围他的两只眼睛的两块黑镜片就像他脑袋上的两个黑洞，使他看起来就像个死神头。确实，如果死神本人曾经坐在木桌旁写东西，那很可能就是布尔医生。

    当这两个人进来时，布尔医生抬起头来，极力维持微笑，同时像弹簧似的迅速站起身来，这种敏捷，教授以前曾提到过。他为他俩放好椅子，走向门后的衣帽钩旁，穿上黑色粗花呢制的外套和马甲；他麻利地扣上扣子，又坐回桌旁。

    他良好的情绪和安静的仪态使他的两个对手无可奈何。短暂的犹豫之后，教授打破沉默说：“很抱歉这么早就打扰你，同志。”他小心翼翼地延续着慢吞吞的德·沃姆斯风格。“毫无疑问，你为巴黎行动作好一切安排了吧？”他无限地拉长语调继续说，“我们得到的讯息使我们不能容忍任何的拖延。”

    布尔医生又笑了，但仍然一言不发地盯着他们。教授又开口了，每说出一个乏味的词之前，都是一个停顿——

    “请不要认为我过于唐突。我建议你改变那些计划，如果已经太迟了，就带着尽可能多的支持跟随你派出的行动者。如果我们要进行这个计划，赛姆同志和我倒有一段来不及讲述的经历可供参考。不过，如果你真的觉得我们的经历对于理解我们即将讨论的问题必不可少的话，我将冒着丧失时机的风险来详细地讲述这件事。”

    教授竭力拉长他的句子，使其冗长且拖延到令人无法忍受，实际是想逼迫这个务实的小个子医生不耐烦地发火，从而使他摊牌。但是这个小个子医生只是瞪大眼睛微笑着，如此一来教授的长篇大论就变成吃力不讨好的活了。

    赛姆开始感到一种新的恶心和绝望，布尔医生的微笑和沉默一点也不像他半小时之前在教授身上看到的那种僵硬式的凝视和可怕的沉默。教授的乔装和他所有的滑稽动作就像来自一个形状怪异的黑脸玩偶，只会令人感到古怪可笑。赛姆想起来，昨天那疯狂的困境就像在童年时害怕过的幽灵。可现在是白天，在这里的是一个穿粗花呢衣服的健康结实的男子，除了他难看的眼镜外，他并不瞪眼怒视或露齿而笑，只是一言不发地保持微笑，这些并不古怪，但这一切却给人一种难以忍受的现实感。在越来越强的阳光下，布尔医生的面色和他的粗花呢衣服的图案惊人地增大和膨胀，仿佛那样的东西在一部现实主义小说里变得很重大。但他的微笑却很柔和，他的样子很礼貌；唯一不可思议的是他的沉默。

    “我说，”教授就像一个在厚沙地里艰难通过的人，他又开了口，“对于我们碰到的导致我们询问关于侯爵事件的信息，你可能认为我最好把它讲出来；不过它主要是妨碍了赛姆同志，而不是我。”

    教授把每个词语说得像圣歌里的歌词一样，拖长声调发出来；不过看着他的赛姆发现他修长的手指在桌子边缘疯狂而敏捷地答答答敲着。他看懂了这条信息，“你必须接着说了。这个魔鬼把我榨干了！”

    赛姆断然决定不进行虚张声势的即兴发挥，而这种即兴发挥在他受惊时极容易出现。

    “是的，我真的碰到了这种事，”赛姆匆忙地说，“我有幸和一个侦探搭上了话，因为我戴的帽子，他把我当作了一个体面的人。为了维护我体面的声誉，我把他带到萨瓦。并把他灌醉。在醉意中他变得很友好，而且告诉我一两天之内他们希望在法国逮捕侯爵。所以除非你和我能够跟踪他——”

    布尔医生仍然极为友善地微笑着，他受保护的双眼仍然令人费解。教授向赛姆示意他会继续他的解释，于是又带着同样煞费苦心的平静说开了。

    “赛姆马上把这给我消息告诉给了我，然后我们一起来这儿看看你会怎么利用它。我觉得着实紧迫的是——”

    赛姆像布尔医生盯着教授一样，几乎一动不动地盯着布尔医生，但脸上没有一丝笑容。在这种静止而紧张的和蔼劲头下，两位战友的神经几乎要崩断了，突然赛姆向前侧过身去悠闲地敲了敲桌子边缘。他发给盟友的信息是“我有一种直觉”。

    几乎没有在长篇大论中，停顿一下的教授反馈道：“别管它。”

    赛姆继续：“它很特别。”

    对方回答：“特别个屁！”

    赛姆道：“我是一个诗人。”

    对方反驳道：“你是一个死人。”

    赛姆的脸一直红到黄色的头发根，他的眼睛兴奋得发烫。他说过他有一种直觉，而这种直觉已经上升到了一种飘飘然的确信。他继续通过敲击密码发信息给他的朋友，“你根本没有意识到我的直觉多么富有诗意。它具有我们有时候在春天到来时感到的那种突然的特质。”

    然后他仔细观察他朋友手指的回答。他的回答是“去死吧”。

    接着教授继续对布尔医生讲他的长篇大论。

    “可能我不如说，”赛姆用手指道，“它就像我们在茂密的树林深处发现的那种突然的大海的气息。”

    他的朋友不屑回答。

    “或者说，”赛姆敲道，“它像美女热情洋溢的红头发般真实。”

    教授还在发言，不过中途赛姆决定要行动了。他在桌上俯身过去，以一种无法漠视的声音说：“布尔医生！”

    布尔医生油光光微笑的脑袋没有动，不过他们可以发誓，他的黑镜片下的双眼扫向了赛姆。

    “布尔医生，”赛姆以一种特别清晰而礼貌的嗓音说道，“你帮我个小忙好吗？你能不能摘掉你的眼镜？”

    教授在座位上转过身来，带着一种呆板的惊讶而愤怒的表情看着赛姆。赛姆仿佛把他的生命和财富都扔在桌上似的，带着一张热烈的面孔俯过身去。医生仍然一动不动。

    在几秒钟的沉默中，他们几乎可以听到别针掉在地上的声音，而这沉默一度被泰晤士河上一艘遥远的汽船的一声汽笛鸣响所打断。然后，布尔医生慢吞吞地站起来，仍然微笑着，摘下了他的眼镜。

    就像一位化学讲师遇到了一次成功的爆炸，赛姆跳了起来，后退了一小步。赛姆的双眼像星星一样发亮，他对着医生一下子说不出话来。

    教授也跳了起来，忘记了他本该假装的中风样子。他靠在椅子背上疑惑地盯着布尔医生，仿佛医生在他眼前变成了一只癞蛤蟆。不过，这确实就是一个巨大的变形景象。

    这两位侦探看到，坐在他们面前椅子里的是一个模样非常孩子气的男青年，长着一双坦率而快乐的淡褐色眼睛，表情很单纯，穿着城市职员一样的伦敦式服装，带着一种毫无疑问的善良而平凡的气息。微笑还在那儿，不过它可能是婴儿的第一个笑容。

    “我就知道我是个诗人，”赛姆狂喜地叫道，“我就知道我的直觉像教皇一样绝对可靠。都是眼镜造成的！都是眼镜。这双野兽般的黑眼睛，以及他的其余部分，他的健康和他快乐的表情，把他变成了幽灵中的一个活生生的恶魔。”

    “这当然造成了奇怪的不同，”教授颤抖着说道，“可是关于布尔医生的计划——”

    “该死的计划！”赛姆咆哮着失去了理智，“看看他！看看他的脸，看看他的领子，看看他该死的靴子！你该不会认为那个家伙是一个无政府主义者吧？”

    “赛姆！”对方忧虑而痛苦地叫道。

    “嗨，老天作证，”赛姆道，“我自己来承担风险！布尔医生，我是一个警察。这是我的证件。”然后他把蓝色的卡片扔到桌上。

    教授还在害怕满盘皆输，不过他还算忠诚，掏出自己的官方证件放在他朋友证件的旁边。然后第三方爆发出一阵大笑，这是那天早晨他们第一次听到他的声音。

    “我很高兴你们这两个家伙来得这么早，”他轻慢地说道，“我们可以一起动身去法国了。而且，我也参加警队很久了。”接着他像照规矩似的把一张蓝色的卡片弹到他们面前。

    医生把一顶活泼的圆顶礼帽戴到头上，又戴上了丑陋的眼镜，然后迅速走到门边，另两个人本能地跟着他。赛姆有点心不在焉，当他经过门口时，他突然用手杖在石砌走廊上敲出了响声。

    “但是万能的上帝，”他喊道，“如果这是真的，就让该死的理事会里该死的侦探比该死的炸弹刺客多吧！”

    “这样我们就可以轻松地战斗了，”布尔医生说，“我们可能是四对三。”

    教授正在走下楼梯，但他的声音却从下面传了上来。

    “不，”这个声音说道，“我们可能不是四对三——我们可能没有那么幸运。我们可能是四对一。”

    其他人在沉默中走下了楼梯。

    这个名叫布尔的年轻人的特点是率真而礼貌，他坚持在走到街上之前，他一直要走在最后面；但很快的，他的强健和敏捷就无意识地表露出来，他一边迅速地走向火车站问讯处，一边回头和另两个人说话。

    “很高兴能得到你们这两个朋友，”他说，“我一直怕得要死，也非常孤独。当时我几乎要伸开双臂去拥抱果戈理，当然这很鲁莽。我希望你们不会因为我的恐惧而鄙视我。”

    “在下流的地狱里的所有下流的魔鬼，”赛姆道，“造成了我的恐惧！但最坏的魔鬼是你和你恶魔般的太阳镜。”

    年轻人高兴地笑了。

    “这不是一个恶作剧吗？”他说，“这种简单的主意——并不是我的。我没有这种智力。你瞧，我以前想做一名警探，特别想做防爆工作。为了工作，他们需要有人伪装成炸弹刺客，而他们都发了毒誓说我看起来一点也不像炸弹刺客。他们说我的步态很可敬，如果从背后看，我就像英国宪法。他们说我的外貌太健康、乐观，而且太可靠、仁慈；在伦敦警察厅，他们取各种绰号来侮辱我。他们说如果我是一个罪犯的话，我可以通过自己极其诚实的外表而发迹；但不幸的是我本质很诚实，所以我装不了罪犯，也没有任何机会帮助他们了。最后，我被带到了一个职位很高的老家伙面前，他肩膀上的脑袋似乎大得无边无际，而在场的其他人都在绝望地谈论着。有一个人问浓密的胡子是否可以掩盖我纯真的笑容；另一个人说如果他们涂黑我的面孔，我可能看起来就像一个黑人无政府主义者；不过这个老家伙插进来一句最离奇的评论，‘一副黑色太阳镜就行了，’他很自信地说。‘现在看看他，他看起来就像一个天使般的办公室男孩。给他戴上一副黑色太阳镜，然后孩子们看到他就会尖叫。’确实就是如此！当我的双眼被遮住了，我其他的地方，笑容和宽阔的肩膀以及短头发使我看起来就是一个活脱脱小恶魔。我说，这么做是非常简单的，就像发生了奇迹；但那还不是这件事最神奇的部分。关于这件事还有一个真正惊人的方面，我的脑袋至今还因此而眩晕。”

    “那是怎么一回事？”赛姆问。

    “我会告诉你，”这个戴眼镜的人答道，“这个警方的大人物了解了我的情况后知道，这副眼镜很配我的头发和袜子——老天作证，他绝对没有看见我！”

    赛姆的目光突然扫到他身上。

    “怎么会？”他问道，“我想你有跟他谈话吧！”

    “是在谈话，”布尔欢快地说，“可我们是在一间像贮煤的地下室一样漆黑的房间里谈话。确实，这种情况你绝对猜不到。”

    “我也无法想象。”赛姆严肃地说。

    “这确实是一个新主意。”教授说道。

    他们的新盟友办起事来像一阵急旋风。在问讯处，他简洁高效地询问了前往多佛的火车。了解清楚后，他们三个人匆匆地搭了一辆马车赶往车站，到站后就进了火车车厢，然后他们才真正完成了这个扣人心弦的过程。他们登上了前往法国加来的渡船后，谈话更显自由。

    “我已经安排好了，”他解释道，“到法国吃午餐，我很高兴有人和我一起吃。你们瞧，先前我不得不派遣那个畜生侯爵带上炸弹出发，因为星期天监视着我。天知道他是怎么监视的。有朝一日我会告诉你们这个故事，绝对令人窒息。每当我想要悄悄溜走时，我都会与星期天不期而遇，他或是在一家俱乐部的弓形窗里朝我微笑，或是在一辆巴士的上层脱下帽子向我致意。我告诉你们，不管你们怎么说，反正这个家伙已经把自己卖给了魔鬼；他可以同时出现在六个地点。”

    “我明白，你确实送走了侯爵，”教授说，“他已经走了很久了吗？我们能不能及时追上他？”

    “是的，”这位新向导答道，“我已经安排好了时机。我们到达加来时，他仍然会在那里。”

    “可是当我们在加来追上他时，”教授说，“我们该怎么做？”

    听到这个问题，布尔医生的脸色首次阴沉下来。他想了一下，然后说道：“理论上，我认为，我们应该通知警方。”

    “我不这么认为。”赛姆说，“理论上，我应该首先把自己淹死。我答应过一个可怜的家伙，他是一个真正的当代厌世主义者，我承诺不报告警方。我不擅长诡辩，不过我不会对一个当代厌世主义者背弃我的诺言。这就像对一个孩子背弃诺言。”

    “我和你处境相同，”教授说道，“先前我想要报告警方，但是我不能，因为我发过愚蠢的誓言。你们看，当我还是演员时，我是一个无恶不作的畜生，我唯一没有犯过的是叛国罪。要是我犯了叛国罪，我就分不清对和错了。”

    “我也有同样的经历，”布尔医生说道，“我下定了决心。我向那位秘书发过誓——你们知道他，他的笑容是错乱的。我的朋友们，那个人是最不幸的一个人。这可能是因为他的消化不良，或者良心不安，或者神经错乱，或者宇宙观颠倒，但他是该死的，他处在地狱中！呃，我不能痛骂像这样的一个人，而且追捕他。这就像鞭笞一个麻风病人。我可能疯了，但这是我真实的感受。事情就是如此。”

    “我认为你没疯，”赛姆道，“我知道你会那么决定的，当时你第一次……”

    “呃？”布尔医生说。

    “当时你第一次摘下你的眼镜。”

    布尔医生笑了一下，就在甲板上走过去欣赏阳光照耀的海面。然后他又走了回来，漫不经心地踢着脚后跟，一种友善的沉默就降临在这三人之间。

    “嗯，”赛姆说，“我们都有过同样的善行和恶行，所以我们最好面对衍生的问题。”

    “是的，”教授表示同意，“你说得很对；我们要赶紧了，我几乎能看见神秘的告密者就要在法国动手了。”

    “衍生的问题，”赛姆严肃地说，“就是，我们在这个星球上是孤孤单单的三个人。果戈理走了，天知道去了哪里；也许星期天把他像个苍蝇一样弄死了。我们就像守桥的罗马人，在理事会里我们是三对三。不过我们可能要比这更糟，首先因为他们能够求助于他们的组织，而我们不能求助于我们的组织，其次是因为——”

    “是因为另外那三个人中的一个，”教授说道，“不是人。”

    赛姆点头沉默了一两秒，然后他开了口——

    “我的想法是这样的。我们必须行动，以确保到明天中午为止侯爵一直待在加来。我心里仔细考虑了二十个方案。我们不能揭发他是炸弹刺客；这点我们都同意。尽管我们要有所表现，但我们不能依据微不足道的指控就扣留他；他了解我们，他可能会因此察觉到什么而生疑。我们不能假装使他专注于无政府主义者的行动，在那方面他可能会接受我们的主意；不过他不大会接受待在加来，让沙皇安全地通过巴黎的主意。我们可以绑架他，然后把他拘禁起来。但是他在这里是个名人，他有很多朋友保护他；他强壮而且勇敢，事件的进展难以预测。我看我们唯一能做的事情就是利用侯爵的嗜好。我将获益的地方是，我是一个极受尊敬的贵族，有很多在上流社会出入的朋友。”

    “你到底在说些什么？”教授问道。

    “赛姆家族首次被提及是在十四世纪，”赛姆说道：“据传，巴诺克伯恩赛姆家族的一员骑马跟随在布鲁斯的后面。自从1350年以来赛姆家族的家谱就非常清晰。”

    “他发疯了。”小个子医生边说，边盯着他。

    “我们家族的纹章，”赛姆继续平静地说道，“是底子上装饰着表示苦难的小十字架的银色或红色纹章。上面的格言不尽相同。”

    教授粗暴地抓住了赛姆的马甲。

    “我们就要靠岸了，”他说，“你是晕船了还是在一个错误的地点开玩笑？”

    “我的话尽管很恼人，但很实用。”赛姆从容地答道，“圣尤斯塔奇家族的历史也很古老。侯爵无法否认他是一位绅士。他无法否认我也是一位绅士。为了让我的社会地位显得确定无疑，我建议尽早打掉他的帽子。不过现在我们进港了。”

    他们在强烈的阳光下恍恍惚惚地上了岸。就跟布尔在伦敦带头走在最前面一样，赛姆此刻带着他们沿着海边的商店街走去，一直走到一排绿荫遮蔽的俯瞰大海的咖啡馆前。赛姆领头，所以有点昂首阔步，而且他把手杖像剑一样舞动着。他走向了这排咖啡馆的尽头，然后突然停住了。他做了个敏捷的手势示意他们安静，然后他用戴手套的手指指向一长排有花植物下边的一张咖啡桌，在那里坐着的正是圣·尤斯塔奇侯爵，他的牙齿在浓密的黑色胡子里闪闪发光，而他显眼的棕色面孔被一顶淡黄色的草帽遮盖，而背后映衬着紫色的大海。