《代号星期四》12第十章 决斗（在线收听）

CHAPTER X. THE DUEL

 SYME sat down at a cafe table with his companions, his blue eyes sparkling like the bright sea below, and ordered a bottle of Saumur with a pleased impatience. He was for some reason in a condition of curious hilarity. His spirits were already unnaturally high; they rose as the Saumur sank, and in half an hour his talk was a torrent of nonsense. He professed to be making out a plan of the conversation which was going to ensue between himself and the deadly Marquis. He jotted it down wildly with a pencil. It was arranged like a printed catechism, with questions and answers, and was delivered with an extraordinary rapidity of utterance.

“I shall approach. Before taking off his hat, I shall take off my own. I shall say, ‘The Marquis de Saint Eustache, I believe.’ He will say, ‘The celebrated Mr. Syme, I presume.’ He will say in the most exquisite French, ‘How are you?’ I shall reply in the most exquisite Cockney, ‘Oh, just the Syme—‘”

“Oh, shut it,” said the man in spectacles. “Pull yourself together, and chuck away that bit of paper. What are you really going to do?”

“But it was a lovely catechism,” said Syme pathetically. “Do let me read it you. It has only forty-three questions and answers, and some of the Marquis’s answers are wonderfully witty. I like to be just to my enemy.”

“But what’s the good of it all?” asked Dr. Bull in exasperation.

“It leads up to my challenge, don’t you see,” said Syme, beaming. “When the Marquis has given the thirty-ninth reply, which runs—”

“Has it by any chance occurred to you,” asked the Professor, with a ponderous simplicity, “that the Marquis may not say all the forty-three things you have put down for him? In that case, I understand, your own epigrams may appear somewhat more forced.”

Syme struck the table with a radiant face.

“Why, how true that is,” he said, “and I never thought of it. Sir, you have an intellect beyond the common. You will make a name.”

“Oh, you’re as drunk as an owl!” said the Doctor.

“It only remains,” continued Syme quite unperturbed, “to adopt some other method of breaking the ice (if I may so express it) between myself and the man I wish to kill. And since the course of a dialogue cannot be predicted by one of its parties alone (as you have pointed out with such recondite acumen), the only thing to be done, I suppose, is for the one party, as far as possible, to do all the dialogue by himself. And so I will, by George!” And he stood up suddenly, his yellow hair blowing in the slight sea breeze.

A band was playing in a cafe chantant hidden somewhere among the trees, and a woman had just stopped singing. On Syme’s heated head the bray of the brass band seemed like the jar and jingle of that barrel-organ in Leicester Square, to the tune of which he had once stood up to die. He looked across to the little table where the Marquis sat. The man had two companions now, solemn Frenchmen in frock-coats and silk hats, one of them with the red rosette of the Legion of Honour, evidently people of a solid social position. Besides these black, cylindrical costumes, the Marquis, in his loose straw hat and light spring clothes, looked Bohemian and even barbaric; but he looked the Marquis. Indeed, one might say that he looked the king, with his animal elegance, his scornful eyes, and his proud head lifted against the purple sea. But he was no Christian king, at any rate; he was, rather, some swarthy despot, half Greek, half Asiatic, who in the days when slavery seemed natural looked down on the Mediterranean, on his galley and his groaning slaves. Just so, Syme thought, would the brown-gold face of such a tyrant have shown against the dark green olives and the burning blue.

“Are you going to address the meeting?” asked the Professor peevishly, seeing that Syme still stood up without moving.

Syme drained his last glass of sparkling wine.

“I am,” he said, pointing across to the Marquis and his companions, “that meeting. That meeting displeases me. I am going to pull that meeting’s great ugly, mahogany-coloured nose.”

He stepped across swiftly, if not quite steadily. The Marquis, seeing him, arched his black Assyrian eyebrows in surprise, but smiled politely.

“You are Mr. Syme, I think,” he said.

Syme bowed.

“And you are the Marquis de Saint Eustache,” he said gracefully. “Permit me to pull your nose.”

He leant over to do so, but the Marquis started backwards, upsetting his chair, and the two men in top hats held Syme back by the shoulders.

“This man has insulted me!” said Syme, with gestures of explanation.

“Insulted you?” cried the gentleman with the red rosette, “when?”

“Oh, just now,” said Syme recklessly. “He insulted my mother.”

“Insulted your mother!” exclaimed the gentleman incredulously.

“Well, anyhow,” said Syme, conceding a point, “my aunt.”

“But how can the Marquis have insulted your aunt just now?” said the second gentleman with some legitimate wonder. “He has been sitting here all the time.”

“Ah, it was what he said!” said Syme darkly.

“I said nothing at all,” said the Marquis, “except something about the band. I only said that I liked Wagner played well.”

“It was an allusion to my family,” said Syme firmly. “My aunt played Wagner badly. It was a painful subject. We are always being insulted about it.”

“This seems most extraordinary,” said the gentleman who was decore, looking doubtfully at the Marquis.

“Oh, I assure you,” said Syme earnestly, “the whole of your conversation was simply packed with sinister allusions to my aunt’s weaknesses.”

“This is nonsense!” said the second gentleman. “I for one have said nothing for half an hour except that I liked the singing of that girl with black hair.”

“Well, there you are again!” said Syme indignantly. “My aunt’s was red.”

“It seems to me,” said the other, “that you are simply seeking a pretext to insult the Marquis.”

“By George!” said Syme, facing round and looking at him, “what a clever chap you are!”

The Marquis started up with eyes flaming like a tiger’s.

“Seeking a quarrel with me!” he cried. “Seeking a fight with me! By God! there was never a man who had to seek long. These gentlemen will perhaps act for me. There are still four hours of daylight. Let us fight this evening.”

Syme bowed with a quite beautiful graciousness.

“Marquis,” he said, “your action is worthy of your fame and blood. Permit me to consult for a moment with the gentlemen in whose hands I shall place myself.”

In three long strides he rejoined his companions, and they, who had seen his champagne-inspired attack and listened to his idiotic explanations, were quite startled at the look of him. For now that he came back to them he was quite sober, a little pale, and he spoke in a low voice of passionate practicality.

“I have done it,” he said hoarsely. “I have fixed a fight on the beast. But look here, and listen carefully. There is no time for talk. You are my seconds, and everything must come from you. Now you must insist, and insist absolutely, on the duel coming off after seven tomorrow, so as to give me the chance of preventing him from catching the 7.45 for Paris. If he misses that he misses his crime. He can’t refuse to meet you on such a small point of time and place. But this is what he will do. He will choose a field somewhere near a wayside station, where he can pick up the train. He is a very good swordsman, and he will trust to killing me in time to catch it. But I can fence well too, and I think I can keep him in play, at any rate, until the train is lost. Then perhaps he may kill me to console his feelings. You understand? Very well then, let me introduce you to some charming friends of mine,” and leading them quickly across the parade, he presented them to the Marquis’s seconds by two very aristocratic names of which they had not previously heard.

Syme was subject to spasms of singular common sense, not otherwise a part of his character. They were (as he said of his impulse about the spectacles) poetic intuitions, and they sometimes rose to the exaltation of prophecy.

He had correctly calculated in this case the policy of his opponent. When the Marquis was informed by his seconds that Syme could only fight in the morning, he must fully have realised that an obstacle had suddenly arisen between him and his bomb-throwing business in the capital. Naturally he could not explain this objection to his friends, so he chose the course which Syme had predicted. He induced his seconds to settle on a small meadow not far from the railway, and he trusted to the fatality of the first engagement.

When he came down very coolly to the field of honour, no one could have guessed that he had any anxiety about a journey; his hands were in his pockets, his straw hat on the back of his head, his handsome face brazen in the sun. But it might have struck a stranger as odd that there appeared in his train, not only his seconds carrying the sword-case, but two of his servants carrying a portmanteau and a luncheon basket.

Early as was the hour, the sun soaked everything in warmth, and Syme was vaguely surprised to see so many spring flowers burning gold and silver in the tall grass in which the whole company stood almost knee-deep.

With the exception of the Marquis, all the men were in sombre and solemn morning-dress, with hats like black chimney-pots; the little Doctor especially, with the addition of his black spectacles, looked like an undertaker in a farce. Syme could not help feeling a comic contrast between this funereal church parade of apparel and the rich and glistening meadow, growing wild flowers everywhere. But, indeed, this comic contrast between the yellow blossoms and the black hats was but a symbol of the tragic contrast between the yellow blossoms and the black business. On his right was a little wood; far away to his left lay the long curve of the railway line, which he was, so to speak, guarding from the Marquis, whose goal and escape it was. In front of him, behind the black group of his opponents, he could see, like a tinted cloud, a small almond bush in flower against the faint line of the sea.

The member of the Legion of Honour, whose name it seemed was Colonel Ducroix, approached the Professor and Dr. Bull with great politeness, and suggested that the play should terminate with the first considerable hurt.

Dr. Bull, however, having been carefully coached by Syme upon this point of policy, insisted, with great dignity and in very bad French, that it should continue until one of the combatants was disabled. Syme had made up his mind that he could avoid disabling the Marquis and prevent the Marquis from disabling him for at least twenty minutes. In twenty minutes the Paris train would have gone by.

“To a man of the well-known skill and valour of Monsieur de St. Eustache,” said the Professor solemnly, “it must be a matter of indifference which method is adopted, and our principal has strong reasons for demanding the longer encounter, reasons the delicacy of which prevent me from being explicit, but for the just and honourable nature of which I can—”

“Peste!” broke from the Marquis behind, whose face had suddenly darkened, “let us stop talking and begin,” and he slashed off the head of a tall flower with his stick.

Syme understood his rude impatience and instinctively looked over his shoulder to see whether the train was coming in sight. But there was no smoke on the horizon.

Colonel Ducroix knelt down and unlocked the case, taking out a pair of twin swords, which took the sunlight and turned to two streaks of white fire. He offered one to the Marquis, who snatched it without ceremony, and another to Syme, who took it, bent it, and poised it with as much delay as was consistent with dignity.

Then the Colonel took out another pair of blades, and taking one himself and giving another to Dr. Bull, proceeded to place the men.

Both combatants had thrown off their coats and waistcoats, and stood sword in hand. The seconds stood on each side of the line of fight with drawn swords also, but still sombre in their dark frock-coats and hats. The principals saluted. The Colonel said quietly, “Engage!” and the two blades touched and tingled.

When the jar of the joined iron ran up Syme’s arm, all the fantastic fears that have been the subject of this story fell from him like dreams from a man waking up in bed. He remembered them clearly and in order as mere delusions of the nerves—how the fear of the Professor had been the fear of the tyrannic accidents of nightmare, and how the fear of the Doctor had been the fear of the airless vacuum of science. The first was the old fear that any miracle might happen, the second the more hopeless modern fear that no miracle can ever happen. But he saw that these fears were fancies, for he found himself in the presence of the great fact of the fear of death, with its coarse and pitiless common sense. He felt like a man who had dreamed all night of falling over precipices, and had woke up on the morning when he was to be hanged. For as soon as he had seen the sunlight run down the channel of his foe’s foreshortened blade, and as soon as he had felt the two tongues of steel touch, vibrating like two living things, he knew that his enemy was a terrible fighter, and that probably his last hour had come.

He felt a strange and vivid value in all the earth around him, in the grass under his feet; he felt the love of life in all living things. He could almost fancy that he heard the grass growing; he could almost fancy that even as he stood fresh flowers were springing up and breaking into blossom in the meadow—flowers blood red and burning gold and blue, fulfilling the whole pageant of the spring. And whenever his eyes strayed for a flash from the calm, staring, hypnotic eyes of the Marquis, they saw the little tuft of almond tree against the sky-line. He had the feeling that if by some miracle he escaped he would be ready to sit for ever before that almond tree, desiring nothing else in the world.

But while earth and sky and everything had the living beauty of a thing lost, the other half of his head was as clear as glass, and he was parrying his enemy’s point with a kind of clockwork skill of which he had hardly supposed himself capable. Once his enemy’s point ran along his wrist, leaving a slight streak of blood, but it either was not noticed or was tacitly ignored. Every now and then he riposted, and once or twice he could almost fancy that he felt his point go home, but as there was no blood on blade or shirt he supposed he was mistaken. Then came an interruption and a change.

At the risk of losing all, the Marquis, interrupting his quiet stare, flashed one glance over his shoulder at the line of railway on his right. Then he turned on Syme a face transfigured to that of a fiend, and began to fight as if with twenty weapons. The attack came so fast and furious, that the one shining sword seemed a shower of shining arrows. Syme had no chance to look at the railway; but also he had no need. He could guess the reason of the Marquis’s sudden madness of battle—the Paris train was in sight.

But the Marquis’s morbid energy over-reached itself. Twice Syme, parrying, knocked his opponent’s point far out of the fighting circle; and the third time his riposte was so rapid, that there was no doubt about the hit this time. Syme’s sword actually bent under the weight of the Marquis’s body, which it had pierced.

Syme was as certain that he had stuck his blade into his enemy as a gardener that he has stuck his spade into the ground. Yet the Marquis sprang back from the stroke without a stagger, and Syme stood staring at his own sword-point like an idiot. There was no blood on it at all.

There was an instant of rigid silence, and then Syme in his turn fell furiously on the other, filled with a flaming curiosity. The Marquis was probably, in a general sense, a better fencer than he, as he had surmised at the beginning, but at the moment the Marquis seemed distraught and at a disadvantage. He fought wildly and even weakly, and he constantly looked away at the railway line, almost as if he feared the train more than the pointed steel. Syme, on the other hand, fought fiercely but still carefully, in an intellectual fury, eager to solve the riddle of his own bloodless sword. For this purpose, he aimed less at the Marquis’s body, and more at his throat and head. A minute and a half afterwards he felt his point enter the man’s neck below the jaw. It came out clean. Half mad, he thrust again, and made what should have been a bloody scar on the Marquis’s cheek. But there was no scar.

For one moment the heaven of Syme again grew black with supernatural terrors. Surely the man had a charmed life. But this new spiritual dread was a more awful thing than had been the mere spiritual topsy-turvydom symbolised by the paralytic who pursued him. The Professor was only a goblin; this man was a devil—perhaps he was the Devil! Anyhow, this was certain, that three times had a human sword been driven into him and made no mark. When Syme had that thought he drew himself up, and all that was good in him sang high up in the air as a high wind sings in the trees. He thought of all the human things in his story—of the Chinese lanterns in Saffron Park, of the girl’s red hair in the garden, of the honest, beer-swilling sailors down by the dock, of his loyal companions standing by. Perhaps he had been chosen as a champion of all these fresh and kindly things to cross swords with the enemy of all creation. “After all,” he said to himself, “I am more than a devil; I am a man. I can do the one thing which Satan himself cannot do—I can die,” and as the word went through his head, he heard a faint and far-off hoot, which would soon be the roar of the Paris train.

He fell to fighting again with a supernatural levity, like a Mohammedan panting for Paradise. As the train came nearer and nearer he fancied he could see people putting up the floral arches in Paris; he joined in the growing noise and the glory of the great Republic whose gate he was guarding against Hell. His thoughts rose higher and higher with the rising roar of the train, which ended, as if proudly, in a long and piercing whistle. The train stopped.

Suddenly, to the astonishment of everyone the Marquis sprang back quite out of sword reach and threw down his sword. The leap was wonderful, and not the less wonderful because Syme had plunged his sword a moment before into the man’s thigh.

“Stop!” said the Marquis in a voice that compelled a momentary obedience. “I want to say something.”

“What is the matter?” asked Colonel Ducroix, staring. “Has there been foul play?”

“There has been foul play somewhere,” said Dr. Bull, who was a little pale. “Our principal has wounded the Marquis four times at least, and he is none the worse.”

The Marquis put up his hand with a curious air of ghastly patience.

“Please let me speak,” he said. “It is rather important. Mr. Syme,” he continued, turning to his opponent, “we are fighting today, if I remember right, because you expressed a wish (which I thought irrational) to pull my nose. Would you oblige me by pulling my nose now as quickly as possible? I have to catch a train.”

“I protest that this is most irregular,” said Dr. Bull indignantly.

“It is certainly somewhat opposed to precedent,” said Colonel Ducroix, looking wistfully at his principal. “There is, I think, one case on record (Captain Bellegarde and the Baron Zumpt) in which the weapons were changed in the middle of the encounter at the request of one of the combatants. But one can hardly call one’s nose a weapon.”

“Will you or will you not pull my nose?” said the Marquis in exasperation. “Come, come, Mr. Syme! You wanted to do it, do it! You can have no conception of how important it is to me. Don’t be so selfish! Pull my nose at once, when I ask you!” and he bent slightly forward with a fascinating smile. The Paris train, panting and groaning, had grated into a little station behind the neighbouring hill.

Syme had the feeling he had more than once had in these adventures—the sense that a horrible and sublime wave lifted to heaven was just toppling over. Walking in a world he half understood, he took two paces forward and seized the Roman nose of this remarkable nobleman. He pulled it hard, and it came off in his hand.

He stood for some seconds with a foolish solemnity, with the pasteboard proboscis still between his fingers, looking at it, while the sun and the clouds and the wooded hills looked down upon this imbecile scene.

The Marquis broke the silence in a loud and cheerful voice.

“If anyone has any use for my left eyebrow,” he said, “he can have it. Colonel Ducroix, do accept my left eyebrow! It’s the kind of thing that might come in useful any day,” and he gravely tore off one of his swarthy Assyrian brows, bringing about half his brown forehead with it, and politely offered it to the Colonel, who stood crimson and speechless with rage.

“If I had known,” he spluttered, “that I was acting for a poltroon who pads himself to fight—”

“Oh, I know, I know!” said the Marquis, recklessly throwing various parts of himself right and left about the field. “You are making a mistake; but it can’t be explained just now. I tell you the train has come into the station!”

“Yes,” said Dr. Bull fiercely, “and the train shall go out of the station. It shall go out without you. We know well enough for what devil’s work—”

The mysterious Marquis lifted his hands with a desperate gesture. He was a strange scarecrow standing there in the sun with half his old face peeled off, and half another face glaring and grinning from underneath.

“Will you drive me mad?” he cried. “The train—”

“You shall not go by the train,” said Syme firmly, and grasped his sword.

The wild figure turned towards Syme, and seemed to be gathering itself for a sublime effort before speaking.

“You great fat, blasted, blear-eyed, blundering, thundering, brainless, Godforsaken, doddering, damned fool!” he said without taking breath. “You great silly, pink-faced, towheaded turnip! You—”

“You shall not go by this train,” repeated Syme.

“And why the infernal blazes,” roared the other, “should I want to go by the train?”

“We know all,” said the Professor sternly. “You are going to Paris to throw a bomb!”

“Going to Jericho to throw a Jabberwock!” cried the other, tearing his hair, which came off easily.

“Have you all got softening of the brain, that you don’t realise what I am? Did you really think I wanted to catch that train? Twenty Paris trains might go by for me. Damn Paris trains!”

“Then what did you care about?” began the Professor.

“What did I care about? I didn’t care about catching the train; I cared about whether the train caught me, and now, by God! it has caught me.”

“I regret to inform you,” said Syme with restraint, “that your remarks convey no impression to my mind. Perhaps if you were to remove the remains of your original forehead and some portion of what was once your chin, your meaning would become clearer. Mental lucidity fulfils itself in many ways. What do you mean by saying that the train has caught you? It may be my literary fancy, but somehow I feel that it ought to mean something.”

“It means everything,” said the other, “and the end of everything. Sunday has us now in the hollow of his hand.”

“Us!” repeated the Professor, as if stupefied. “What do you mean by ‘us’?”

“The police, of course!” said the Marquis, and tore off his scalp and half his face.

The head which emerged was the blonde, well brushed, smooth-haired head which is common in the English constabulary, but the face was terribly pale.

“I am Inspector Ratcliffe,” he said, with a sort of haste that verged on harshness. “My name is pretty well known to the police, and I can see well enough that you belong to them. But if there is any doubt about my position, I have a card,” and he began to pull a blue card from his pocket.

The Professor gave a tired gesture.

“Oh, don’t show it us,” he said wearily; “we’ve got enough of them to equip a paper-chase.”

The little man named Bull, had, like many men who seem to be of a mere vivacious vulgarity, sudden movements of good taste. Here he certainly saved the situation. In the midst of this staggering transformation scene he stepped forward with all the gravity and responsibility of a second, and addressed the two seconds of the Marquis.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “we all owe you a serious apology; but I assure you that you have not been made the victims of such a low joke as you imagine, or indeed of anything undignified in a man of honour. You have not wasted your time; you have helped to save the world. We are not buffoons, but very desperate men at war with a vast conspiracy. A secret society of anarchists is hunting us like hares; not such unfortunate madmen as may here or there throw a bomb through starvation or German philosophy, but a rich and powerful and fanatical church, a church of eastern pessimism, which holds it holy to destroy mankind like vermin. How hard they hunt us you can gather from the fact that we are driven to such disguises as those for which I apologise, and to such pranks as this one by which you suffer.”

The younger second of the Marquis, a short man with a black moustache, bowed politely, and said—

“Of course, I accept the apology; but you will in your turn forgive me if I decline to follow you further into your difficulties, and permit myself to say good morning! The sight of an acquaintance and distinguished fellow-townsman coming to pieces in the open air is unusual, and, upon the whole, sufficient for one day. Colonel Ducroix, I would in no way influence your actions, but if you feel with me that our present society is a little abnormal, I am now going to walk back to the town.”

Colonel Ducroix moved mechanically, but then tugged abruptly at his white moustache and broke out—

“No, by George! I won’t. If these gentlemen are really in a mess with a lot of low wreckers like that, I’ll see them through it. I have fought for France, and it is hard if I can’t fight for civilization.”

Dr. Bull took off his hat and waved it, cheering as at a public meeting.

“Don’t make too much noise,” said Inspector Ratcliffe, “Sunday may hear you.”

“Sunday!” cried Bull, and dropped his hat.

“Yes,” retorted Ratcliffe, “he may be with them.”

“With whom?” asked Syme.

“With the people out of that train,” said the other.

“What you say seems utterly wild,” began Syme. “Why, as a matter of fact—But, my God,” he cried out suddenly, like a man who sees an explosion a long way off, “by God! if this is true the whole bally lot of us on the Anarchist Council were against anarchy! Every born man was a detective except the President and his personal secretary. What can it mean?”

“Mean!” said the new policeman with incredible violence. “It means that we are struck dead! Don’t you know Sunday? Don’t you know that his jokes are always so big and simple that one has never thought of them? Can you think of anything more like Sunday than this, that he should put all his powerful enemies on the Supreme Council, and then take care that it was not supreme? I tell you he has bought every trust, he has captured every cable, he has control of every railway line—especially of that railway line!” and he pointed a shaking finger towards the small wayside station. “The whole movement was controlled by him; half the world was ready to rise for him. But there were just five people, perhaps, who would have resisted him... and the old devil put them on the Supreme Council, to waste their time in watching each other. Idiots that we are, he planned the whole of our idiocies! Sunday knew that the Professor would chase Syme through London, and that Syme would fight me in France. And he was combining great masses of capital, and seizing great lines of telegraphy, while we five idiots were running after each other like a lot of confounded babies playing blind man’s buff.”

“Well?” asked Syme with a sort of steadiness.

“Well,” replied the other with sudden serenity, “he has found us playing blind man’s buff today in a field of great rustic beauty and extreme solitude. He has probably captured the world; it only remains to him to capture this field and all the fools in it. And since you really want to know what was my objection to the arrival of that train, I will tell you. My objection was that Sunday or his Secretary has just this moment got out of it.”

Syme uttered an involuntary cry, and they all turned their eyes towards the far-off station. It was quite true that a considerable bulk of people seemed to be moving in their direction. But they were too distant to be distinguished in any way.

“It was a habit of the late Marquis de St. Eustache,” said the new policeman, producing a leather case, “always to carry a pair of opera glasses. Either the President or the Secretary is coming after us with that mob. They have caught us in a nice quiet place where we are under no temptations to break our oaths by calling the police. Dr. Bull, I have a suspicion that you will see better through these than through your own highly decorative spectacles.”

He handed the field-glasses to the Doctor, who immediately took off his spectacles and put the apparatus to his eyes.

“It cannot be as bad as you say,” said the Professor, somewhat shaken. “There are a good number of them certainly, but they may easily be ordinary tourists.”

“Do ordinary tourists,” asked Bull, with the fieldglasses to his eyes, “wear black masks half-way down the face?”

Syme almost tore the glasses out of his hand, and looked through them. Most men in the advancing mob really looked ordinary enough; but it was quite true that two or three of the leaders in front wore black half-masks almost down to their mouths. This disguise is very complete, especially at such a distance, and Syme found it impossible to conclude anything from the clean-shaven jaws and chins of the men talking in the front. But presently as they talked they all smiled and one of them smiled on one side.

第十章 决斗

    赛姆和他的同伴们一起在一张咖啡桌旁坐下，他蓝色的双眼像下面明亮的大海，闪闪发光，他开心而不耐烦地点了一瓶索米尔白葡萄酒。因为某种原因，他此刻处于好奇而兴奋的状态。他不寻常的兴致，随着葡萄酒下肚不断高涨，半个小时后他滔滔不绝地讲起了胡话。他宣称要和这个不共戴天的侯爵进行一次谈话，并用铅笔胡乱地把计划记了下来。按照设计，它就像一个印刷好的带有问题和答案的教义问答，赛姆用非常快的语速把它宣布了。

    “我要走到他身边。在他摘掉帽子之前，我要先摘掉我的帽子。我会说，‘我相信你是圣·尤斯塔奇侯爵。’他会说，‘我猜你是着名的赛姆先生。’然后他会用最优雅的法语说，‘你好吗？’我会用最优雅的伦敦英语回答，‘哦，只不过是赛姆——’”

    “哦，闭嘴，”戴眼镜的人说，“你要振作起来，而且扔掉那张纸。你到底要做什么？”

    “但这是一份可爱的教义问答，”赛姆可怜地说，“让我读给你听吧。它只有四十三个问题和答案，而侯爵的某些回答极其精彩。我要对我的敌人公平些。”

    “可这有什么好处呢？”布尔医生恼火地问。

    “难道你没发现，它会引出我的盘问，”赛姆笑容满面地说，“当侯爵给出了第三十九个回答，它是这样的——”

    “难道你没有想过，”教授以沉闷而简洁的语气问道，“侯爵可能不会谈论你给他设计的四十三个话题，对于这一点，我认为你计划显得有点过于牵强。”

    容光焕发的赛姆敲了一下桌子。

    “嗨，说得太对了，”他说，“我从未想到这一点。先生，你的才智超过常人。你将来会出名的。”

    “哦，你醉得像一只猫头鹰！”医生道。

    “我需要，”赛姆继续镇定地说，“采取另一种打破我自己和那个我希望杀掉的人之间的坚冰（如果我可以这么说的话）的方法。既然交谈的过程无法单单由交谈的一方来预料（正如你用自己的睿智所指出的那样），那么我认为唯一要做的事情就是尽可能由交谈的一方完成全部谈话。而我的确就将这么做！”他突然站了起来，黄色的头发在轻柔的海风里飘动着。

    掩映在树丛中的一家音乐咖啡馆里，一支乐队正在演奏，一个女人刚刚停止歌唱。在赛姆兴奋的脑袋里，这个铜管乐队的喧嚣声就像莱瑟斯特广场上那架手风琴的刺耳的鸣响，正是合着它的曲调，他一度勇敢地面对死亡。他把目光扫向侯爵坐着的那张小桌子。这个人此刻有两个同伴，都是穿着长礼服、戴着丝帽的严肃的法国人，其中一个戴着红色的玫瑰花形荣誉勋章，显然都是有一定社会地位的人。除了这些黑色圆桶状的服装，戴着宽松的草帽、穿着轻便的春装的侯爵看起来野蛮而放荡；不过他看起来就像一位侯爵。实际上，可以说他的畜生般的优雅，轻蔑的眼神，以及他的映衬着紫色大海高昂起的骄傲头颅，使他看起来就像一个国王。但他绝不是一个基督徒国王，而是一个半希腊半亚细亚血统的黑皮肤的暴君，他在奴隶制时期就无情地藐视地中海，藐视他的大帆船以及他的痛苦呻吟的奴隶。赛姆认为，有着这样一种做派的这个暴君，金棕色脸庞会跟墨绿色的橄榄树和那片火热的蓝海形成尖锐的对比。

    “你要去主导这次谈话吗？”教授急躁地问，发现赛姆仍然一动不动地站着。

    赛姆喝完藏书网了最后一杯发泡的葡萄酒。

    “我就是，”他边说，边指向侯爵和他的同伴，“这次会谈。这次会谈让我不痛快。我将扯下这次会谈的丑陋的红色大鼻子。”

    他敏捷而不太稳当地走了过去。侯爵看见他，惊讶地蹙起了黑色的亚述人的眉头，不过还是礼貌地微笑着。

    “我想，你就是赛姆先生。”他说道。

    赛姆回个礼。

    “你就是圣尤斯塔奇侯爵，”他斯文地说道，“让我扯下你的鼻子。”

    他俯过身去动手，可是侯爵向后退，弄翻了他的椅子，而他的两个戴大礼帽的同伴拖住了赛姆的肩膀。

    “这个人侮辱了我！”赛姆一边说，一边比划着解释。

    “侮辱了你？”戴着红色的玫瑰花形荣誉勋章的绅士叫道，“什么时候？”

    “哦，就刚才，”赛姆不顾一切地说道，“他侮辱了我的母亲。”

    “侮辱了你的母亲！”这位绅士怀疑地叫道。

    “那么，至少，”赛姆让了一步道，“我的姨妈。”

    “但是侯爵刚才怎么会侮辱你的姨妈？”第二位绅士带着某种合理的怀疑问道，“他一直坐在这里。”

    “啊，他说的话侮辱了我的姨妈！”赛姆生气地说道。

    “我什么都没说，”侯爵道，“除了关于那个乐队的话。我只说过我喜欢他们把瓦格纳的曲子演奏得那么棒。”

    “这就是对我家族的暗示，”赛姆坚定地说，“我姨妈把瓦格纳的曲子弹得很糟。这是一个令人痛苦的话题。有人常常借此侮辱我们。”

    “这太奇怪了。”那位端庄的绅士边说边疑惑地看着侯爵。

    “哦，我告诉你吧，”赛姆认真地说，“你们的整个谈话充满了对我姨妈弱点的恶毒暗示。”

    “胡说八道！”第二位绅士道，“我这半个小时里除了讲到我喜欢那个黑头发姑娘的歌声，什么都没说。”

    “嗨，又是侮辱！”赛姆愤怒道，“我姨妈的头发是红色的。”

    “依我看，”对方说道，“你就是找借口来侮辱侯爵。”

    “确实如此！”赛姆边说边转过脸去看着他，“你是一个多么聪明的家伙！”

    侯爵跳了起来，双眼冒火。

    “你是要故意和我吵架！”他叫道，“你是要故意和我打架！老天作证！找茬寻衅再容易不过了。这两位绅士会帮助我的。离天黑还有四小时。今天晚上我们打一架吧。”

    赛姆优雅而亲切地鞠了一躬。

    “侯爵，”他说，“你的行为配得上你的名声和血统。不过先让我和那些我信赖的绅士们商量一下。”

    迈了三个大步，他就走到了同伴们身边，他们目睹了他借着酒挑衅，也听到了他白痴般的自圆其说，对他表现非常惊讶。不过他回来时非常清醒，面色有点苍白，他低沉的嗓音显得兴奋而务实。

    “事儿成了，”他嘶哑地说道，“我确定要和那个畜生打一架。但是瞧这儿，仔细听吧。没有时间聊了。你们是我的助手，一切取决于你们。现在你们必须坚持，必须绝对地坚持，让这场决斗在明天七点以后举行，这样就让我有机会阻止他赶上七点四十五分开往巴黎的火车。他一旦错过了火车，他就错过了犯罪的机会。他无法拒绝你们对于时间和地点的小小要求。不过他会这么做。他会选择靠近路边火车站的一块空地，这样他就能搭上火车。他是一个非常高明的剑客，他会盼望着尽快地杀死我，然后及时赶上火车。不过我击剑的水平也不错，我想我无论如何能够拖住他，直到火车出发。然后他可能会杀死我来安抚他的情绪。你们明白了？那么好吧，让我把你们介绍给我的几个迷人的朋友。”说完，他迅速带着他们穿过街面，用他们先前没有听说过的两个非常贵族化的名字把他们介绍给了侯爵的助手。

    赛姆时不时会有非凡的判断力突然闪现，这原本不是他的名声的一部分。它们是（正如他谈到的对于眼镜的冲动）诗意的直觉，它们有时就表现为预言能力的提升。

    在这件事上，赛姆对对手策略的估计是正确的。当侯爵从他的助手得知赛姆只愿在早晨决斗，他一定完全意识到有一个障碍突然出现在他和他在法国首都扔炸弹的任务之间。当然，侯爵跟他的朋友解释这个障碍，所以他就选择了赛姆预言的那种做法。他让他的助手和对方约定了离铁道不远的一小块草地，而他确信第一回合就能置对手于死地。

    当侯爵非常冷静地来到决斗场时，人们都看不出他正焦急地盼望出行；他双手插在口袋里，草帽挂在脑后，英俊的脸庞在阳光下现出黄铜色。不过可能会使陌生人感到奇怪的是，在他的随从中不仅有他的助手背着剑匣，而且他的两个仆人还带着旅行皮箱和午餐篮。

    时间尚早，温暖的阳光浸润了一切，赛姆略微惊讶地发现无数金色、银色的春天的花朵在高高的草丛里怒放，草儿几乎把在场的人的膝盖都遮住了。

    除了侯爵所有人都穿着庄重的暗色长礼服，戴着黑色烟囱式的高顶礼帽；特别是那个小个子医生，还戴了一副黑色眼镜，看起来就像一出滑稽戏里的殡葬师。赛姆体会到，这是衣冠楚楚的教堂葬礼队伍和绚烂而闪光、到处开满野花的草地之间的滑稽对比。但实际上，黄花与黑帽子之间的滑稽对比，象征着黄花与凶险事件之间的凄惨对比。侯爵的右边是一片小树林，左边远处是漫长而弯曲的铁道线，这是侯爵的目标和逃跑路线，可以说赛姆把它从侯爵面前挡住了。在他前面，在他的黑色对手团队的后面，他可以看到，一小丛开着淡黄褐色花朵的灌木像着色的云彩般映衬着模糊的海平面。

    作为荣誉军团一员的杜克洛埃上校极其礼貌地走到教授和布尔医生身边，建议一旦有人受重伤决斗就终止。

    可是，在这点策略上，被赛姆仔细叮嘱过的布尔医生却以强烈的尊严和蹩脚的法语坚持说，决斗必须持续到其中一位格斗者被击倒为止。赛姆信心满满地认为在至少二十分钟时间里，他能够避免击倒侯爵，也能够防止侯爵击倒他。而二十分钟后开往巴黎的火车就会扬长而去。

    “对拥有出名的技能和勇气的德·圣尤斯塔奇先生这个人来说，”教授严肃地说道，“他肯定不会在乎采取什么方法，可我们的头儿有充分的理由要求决斗得更久，这些理由的微妙之处使我不能说得太多，不过对于它们正义而高尚的本质我可以——”

    “少废话！”侯爵从后面把他打断了，脸色突然阴沉，“我们别说了，开始吧。”他用手杖削掉了一株高耸的花冠。

    赛姆理解他的粗鲁和不耐烦，他本能地回过头去看火车有没有出现。可是地平线上没有烟雾。

    杜克洛埃上校跪在地上打开了剑匣，取出一对一模一样的剑，在阳光下反射出两道白色的火焰。他把其中一把递给侯爵，另一把递给赛姆；侯爵不拘礼节地拿了剑，赛姆接过剑，并折弯，然后以个人尊严所允许的最大时间限度使它保持这种姿势。

    然后上校取出另外一对剑，自己拿了一把，把另外一把交给了布尔医生，又上前确认双方的人员。

    两位格斗者都甩掉了他们的外套和马甲，手里拿着剑站好了。双方的助手也都拿着剑站在各自的战线一方，不过穿着黑色长礼服、戴着黑礼帽的他们仍然显得阴郁。双方的头儿敬了礼。上校平静地说道，“开始！”随即两把剑碰出了叮当声。

    当两剑交锋带来的震动波及赛姆的手臂时，所有成为这个故事主题的荒诞的恐惧迅速从他心里消失，就跟一个人在床上醒来梦境消失一样。不过在他的记忆里，它们清晰而有条理——对教授的恐惧如何变成了对噩梦中残酷灾祸的恐惧，对医生的恐惧如何变成了对科学的密闭真空的恐惧。第一个恐惧是一种古老的恐惧，即任何奇迹都可能发生；第二个恐惧是一种更为绝望的现代人的恐惧，即任何奇迹都不可能发生。不过他看清了这些恐惧都是幻想，因为他发现自己正面临着死亡的恐惧，其情其理藏书网严峻而冷酷。他的感觉就像一个整夜梦见自己跌下悬崖的人，一早醒来却要被吊死。他一看到阳光从他对手的剑身的凹槽流泻下来，他感受到两把铁器交锋就像两个有生命的东西一样震动，他明白他的敌人是一个可怕的剑客，可能他的大限到来了。

    周围所有的一切都使他感到一种奇特而生动的价值；所有有生命的东西都使他感到了对生命的热爱。每当他的眼睛瞬间躲开侯爵平静、执着而迷惑人的目光时，就会看见映衬着天际的一小簇杏树。他想，如果他能奇迹般地逃脱，他就要在那棵杏树前永远坐下去，此外没有任何别的奢望。

    大地、天空以及其他的一切东西都具有一种迷失般的生命之美，而他的脑袋的另一边如玻璃般清晰，他用一种娴熟的技能挡开了对方的剑，这种技能的拥有连他自己都没想到。他对手的剑头一度刺中他的手腕，留下了一条轻微的血痕，不过他不是没注意到，就是有意忽视了。他时不时地迅速反击，有一两次他几乎感到他的剑刺中了对方，但是因为剑上或衬衫上没有血迹，他认为自己搞错了。然后格斗暂停，他又换了招式。

    侯爵冒的是满盘皆输的风险，他不再平静地盯着对方，而是转过头迅速地朝右边的铁道线扫了一眼。然后他突然对赛姆装出了一副朋友的嘴脸，开始激烈的战斗。他的攻击迅猛而激烈，把闪闪发光的剑挥舞成一阵闪亮的剑雨。赛姆没有机会再看铁路了，不过他也不需要看。他猜得出侯爵突然疯狂进攻的原因——开往巴黎的火车已经要到了。

    可侯爵病态的体能已经透支了。赛姆两次挡开了他的剑，并把剑远远地震出了格斗圈；第三次他的反击非常迅速，毫无疑问他击中了对方。赛姆的剑刺中了侯爵的身体，在他的重压之下弯了一下。

    赛姆确信他把剑刺入了对手的身体，就像一个园丁确信他把铁锹插进了土地。可是侯爵在攻击之下往后跳了一步，连个趔趄都没有，赛姆像个白痴一样盯着他自己的剑头，上面没有一丝血迹。

    刹那间是一种呆板的沉默，然后轮到赛姆猛烈地扑向对方，心里充满了火热的好奇。平心而论，侯爵可能是一个比他高明的剑客，正如他在开头估计的那样，此刻侯爵似乎心烦意乱导致处于下风，他胡乱而无力地击剑，不断转过头去向铁道线张望，仿佛他担心火车更甚于担心刺过来的剑。而赛姆挥击得又凶猛又小心，充满了理性的暴怒，急切地想解开他的剑头无血之谜。为了这个目的，他较少攻击侯爵的身体，更多地攻击他的喉咙和脑袋。一分半钟之后，他感到他的剑头刺入了对方颌下的脖子，抽回时却没有一丝血。半似疯狂的他又刺了一下，这次应该就在侯爵的脸颊上留下一道血淋淋的伤痕了。可是仍然没有伤痕。

    一下子，赛姆再次带着不可思议的恐惧由极度的兴奋变得沮丧了。这个人的生命肯定受到了魔力的保护。但是这种新的精神恐惧比先前追踪他的那位中风教授所象征的单纯的精神紊乱更糟糕。教授只是一个妖精；这个人却是一个恶魔——甚至他可能就是撒旦！总之，有一点是肯定的，那就是一把普通的剑三次刺进他的身体却没有留下任何痕迹。想到这儿，赛姆挺直了身体，身上所有正义的力量都在空中高歌，就像狂风在树林中呼啸。他想到了他的故事中所有充溢着人性的东西——塞夫伦庄园的中式灯笼，花园里姑娘的红头发，码头边畅饮啤酒的诚实水手，以及站在他身边的忠实同伴。也许他被选为所有这些鲜活善良的人与物的扞卫者来和宇宙的敌人交锋。“毕竟，”他告诉自己，“我要超过恶魔。我是一个人。我能做一件撒旦做不了的事情——我能够死。”当这个词在他的头脑里一闪，他就听到了远方传来的隐隐约约的汽笛声，开往巴黎的火车就要呼啸而过了。

    他就像一个渴望天堂的教徒，带着不可思议的多变招式重新投入了战斗。随着火车越来越近，他想象着自己走过人们在巴黎用鲜花搭起了拱门，他走入了喧闹的人群分享着伟大共和国的荣耀，而正是他守卫着共和国的大门，使它免受地狱的侵袭。随着火车的轰鸣声越来越响，他的思绪也越来越高涨。然后火车的轰鸣以一阵似乎自豪的拉长的刺耳汽笛声结束。火车停住了。

    突然之间，使所有人感到惊讶的是，侯爵往后跳出了对方的攻击范围，并把自己的剑扔在地上。这一跳很精彩，简直是极为精彩，因为赛姆刚刚把剑刺入了侯爵的大腿。

    “停！”侯爵的嗓音足以逼迫对手短暂服从，“我有话要说。”

    “怎么了？”杜克洛埃上校一边问，一边盯着他，“有人犯规吗？”

    “这里确实有人犯规，”脸色有点苍白的布尔医生说，“我们的头儿至少击中了侯爵四次，他却一点没有受伤。”

    侯爵带着一种表露惊人耐心的奇怪神色举起了手。

    “请让我说话，”他说道，“这很重要。赛姆先生，”他继续朝他的对手说，“如果我记得不错的话，我们今天决斗是因为你之前表达过要扯我鼻子的愿望（我当时认为是不合理的）。劳你的驾，你现在能尽快地扯一下我的鼻子吗？我要赶火车。”

    “我抗议，这是违规的。”布尔医生愤怒地说。

    “这肯定有点违背惯例，”杜克洛埃上校说完，不安地看着他的头儿。“我想，记录在案的只有一个先例（贝尔加德上尉和赞普特男爵），当时根据其中一方的请求，在决斗中途交换了武器。但是我们不能称一个人的鼻子为武器。”

    “你扯不扯我的鼻子？”侯爵恼火道，“来吧，来吧，赛姆先生！你本来就想这么干的，现在干吧！你绝对想不到这对我有多重要。别那么自私！既然我叫你，你就马上扯我的鼻子吧！”然后他带着迷人的微笑，微微向前倾过身。而那列开往巴黎的火车，喘着气、啸叫着驶入了附近山背后的小站。

    赛姆产生了一种他在这些冒险历程中不止一次产生过的感觉——被掀到天堂的可怕巨浪正在倾覆下来。对世界只有一知半解的他向前走了两步，抓住了这个贵族的鹰钩鼻。他用力扯了一下，鼻子被他扯下来了。

    他傻瓜似的站了好几秒，手指还夹着那个纸板糊就的鼻子，他看着这个鼻子，而太阳、云朵以及森林覆盖的群山正在俯瞰这个愚蠢的场面。

    侯爵以响亮而快乐的嗓音打破了沉默。

    “要是任何人想用我左边的眉毛，”他说道，“他可以拿走。杜克洛埃上校，请接受我的左边眉毛！这种东西可能有朝一日会有用。”接着，他严肃地扯下了他黝黑的亚述人式的左边眉毛，把棕色的半个额头也带了下来，然后礼貌地把它交给了上校，愤怒的上校站着涨红着脸一言未发。

    “要是我早知道，”上校气急败坏地说，“我在帮一个往身上塞东西的胆小鬼决斗——”

    “哦，我明白，我明白！”侯爵说道，同时不顾一切地在草地上忽左忽右地手舞足蹈。“你错了，不过事情现在还无法解释。我告诉你们火车已经进了站！”

    “是的，”布尔医生凶狠地说，“不过火车也会驶出车站。它离开时不会搭上你。我们对你魔鬼似的把戏看透了。”

    故弄玄虚的侯爵绝望地抬起了双手。他像一个站在太阳底下的奇怪的稻草人，半边脸被扯掉了，剩下的半边脸厚着脸皮在龇牙咧嘴地瞪着眼。

    “你要把我逼疯吗？”他叫道，“火车——”

    “你不可以乘火车离开。”赛姆坚定地说道，一边握住了他的剑。

    这个疯狂的家伙朝赛姆转过身去，似乎为了在说话之前奋力一搏而积聚力量。

    “你这肥胖的，该死的，目光短浅的，粗鲁的，吓人的，愚笨的，倒霉的，衰弱的，可恶的大傻瓜！”他一口气也不喘地连续骂道，“你这愚蠢的，粉红脸的，长着淡黄色杂毛的大头菜！你这——”

    “你不可以乘火车离开。”赛姆重复道。

    “真是活见鬼，”对方咆哮道，“我就非要坐火车离开？”

    “我们了解一切，”教授严厉地说道，“你要去巴黎扔炸弹！”

    “胡言乱语！”对方叫道，一边扯自己的头发，头发很轻易就被扯下来了。

    “你们都得了脑软化症，以至于看不清我是谁吗？你们刚才真的以为我想去赶那班火车？对我来说，二十班开往巴黎的火车通过也无所谓。让这些火车见鬼去吧！”

    “那么刚才你关心什么？”教授问道。

    “刚才我关心什么？我才不关心能不能赶上火车；我关心的是这班火车会不会赶上我，现在，老天作证！它赶上我了。”

    “我遗憾地告诉你，”赛姆克制地说道，“你的话没有向我传递任何意义。可能如果你扯去你的额头和下巴，你的意思会变得更清楚些。清醒的神志才会有很多途径实现自己的功能。你说这班火车赶上你是什么意思？这或许是我的文学想象力在起作用，但无论如何我觉得你的话应当有一定的意思。”

    “它的意思是一切，”侯爵说，“以及一切的终结。星期天现在把我们牢牢地握在手心里了。”

    “我们！”教授目瞪口呆地重复道，“你说的‘我们’指谁？”

    “当然指警察喽！”侯爵说完扯掉了他的头皮和半张脸。

    露出的脑袋是英国警察中常见的长着金发，梳得整整齐齐的平头，可他的脸却苍白得吓人。

    “我是拉特克利夫巡官，”他的语速几乎快得有点刺耳，“我的名字警方都知道，而且我知道你们也是警察。如果有人怀疑我的身份，我有张卡片可以证明。”他从口袋里掏出一张蓝色的卡片。

    教授打了一个厌倦的手势。

    “哦，不必给我们看，”他不耐烦地说道，“我们得到的蓝色卡片足以装备一场犬兔越野追逐游戏。”

    小个子的布尔医生，就像许多看似活泼而粗野的人一样，突然做出了显示精到眼光的行动。他肯定在这里挽救了整个形势。在这个惊人的变形场面的中途，他带着一个助手的所有庄重和责任跟侯爵的两个助手讲话。

    “先生们，”他说道，“我们都欠你们一个严肃的道歉；但是我向你们保证，你们并没有你们想象的那样成为一个低俗笑话的受害者，也没有沦为一个高贵先生的不名誉行为的牺牲品。你们没有浪费你们的时间；是你们的帮助拯救了世界。我们不是小丑，而是与一个巨大的阴谋作战的孤注一掷的人。一个秘密的无政府主义者团体正在像追捕野兔一样追捕我们；他们不是一群因为饥饿或者德国哲学就会四处扔炸弹的不幸的疯子，而是一个富有、强势、狂热、信仰厌世主义的教会，他们坚持的神圣目标就是像消灭害虫一样消灭人类。他们追捕我们的严酷程度，你们可以从这些事实猜测出来，首先，我们被迫伪装自己（这一点我要道歉），其次，我们被迫上演了这一出闹剧（在这里你们受苦了）。”

    侯爵较年轻的一个助手，那个长着黑色上唇胡子的矮个男士彬彬有礼地鞠了个躬说道：“当然，我接受道歉。可如果我拒绝跟着你们进一步冒险，也请你原谅我，让我先说一句早上好！目睹一位熟识的着名同乡在光天化日之下把自己扯得七零八落是很不正常的，而且我这一天也受够了。杜克洛埃上校，我绝不会影响你的行动，不过如果你和我一样，对我们目前社会的不正常有同感的话，现在我就要返回我的小镇。”

    杜克洛埃上校毫无表情地动了一下，然后用力拉了一下他的白色胡子突然说道：“不，我肯定不回去。如果这些先生们因为一大帮卑劣的坏蛋而真的陷入了这种难以收拾的局面，我将帮他们渡过难关。我已经为法国战斗过，现在我必须为文明而战。”

    布尔医生脱下帽子挥舞着，仿佛在为一个公众集会鼓劲。

    “别太大声，”拉特克利夫巡官说，“星期天可能会听到。”

    “星期天！”布尔叫道，放下了帽子。

    “是的，”拉特克利夫回嘴道，“他可能和他们在一起。”

    “和谁在一起？”赛姆问。

    “和下火车的人在一起。”他说。

    “你说的似乎太离谱了，”赛姆说。“嗨，事实上——但是，我的天哪，”他突然叫道，就像一个人看到了远处的爆炸，“老天作证！如果真是这样，我们属于无政府主义理事会的这些人就都在反对无政府主义！除了星期天和他的私人秘书以外，每个爹妈养的男人都是侦探。这意味着什么？”

    “意味！”这位新警察带着难以置信的激动说道，“这意味着我们都死定了！难道你不了解星期天？难道你不知道他的玩笑总是又直白又离奇，以至于没有人会放在心上？你能想到任何比这更像星期天作风的事情吗？他就是要把他所有强大的敌人安排进最高理事会，然后费尽心思让这个最高理事会成为摆设。我告诉你，他已经收买了每一家垄断企业，占领了每一条电缆，控制了每一条铁道线——特别是那条铁道线！”他用一根颤抖的手指指向路边的小站。“整个行动都被他控制了；半个世界准备为他而起义。可是也许只有五个人会反抗他……而这个老魔鬼把他们都放进了最高理事会，让他们在互相监视中浪费时间。我们都是白痴，而他设计了我们全部的愚蠢行为！星期天知道教授会满伦敦地追赛姆，赛姆会和我在法国打一架。他积聚了巨大的资本，控制了重要的电报线，而我们五个白痴就像一群玩捉迷藏游戏的狼狈孩童互相追来追去。”

    “然后呢？”赛姆稳健地问道。

    “然后，”对方突然平静地答道，“他发现我们今天在一块极具村野之美和极度偏僻的草地上玩捉迷藏游戏。他可能已经控制了世界；他接着要做的就是控制这块草地和草地上的所有傻瓜。而且既然你真的想知道我为何要反对这班火车的到来，我就告诉你。我反对的理由是星期天或他的秘书此刻已经下了火车。”

    赛姆不由自主地叫了一声，他们都把目光投向远处的车站。确实，有一大帮人似乎正朝他们走来。但是太远了，看不清他们的模样。

    “已故的德·圣尤斯塔奇侯爵有一个习惯，”那位新警察边说边拿出一只皮匣子，“总是要带一副看戏用的望远镜。星期天和他的秘书，其中必有一人随着人群追踪我们。他们把我们堵在了一个美好而安静的地方，在这里我们不会想到违背誓言去报警。布尔医生，我猜，你用这副望远镜比用你自己摆样子的眼镜要看得更清楚。”

    他把望远镜交给了医生，医生马上摘下自己的眼镜，把望远镜放到眼前。

    “你的话倒霉透了，”教授有点发抖地说道，“他们肯定有很多人，不过他们很可能是普通游客。”

    “普通游客，”使用望远镜的布尔问道，“会用黑色面罩半遮着脸吗？”

    赛姆几乎是半抢着把望远镜拿到手里，自己张望起来。在前进的人群中的，大多数人确实很普通；但在前面带头的两三个人都戴着半遮脸的黑色面罩，一直延伸到他们的嘴巴。这种伪装很完备，尤其在这远地方看更是如此，赛姆发现不可能从正在聊天的那几个带头者的剃得干干净净的嘴部和下巴上推断出任何东西。不过此刻他们边聊边笑，其中的一个人正朝旁边的人微笑着。