《代号星期四》08第六章 暴露（在线收听）

CHAPTER VI. THE EXPOSURE

 SUCH were the six men who had sworn to destroy the world. Again and again Syme strove to pull together his common sense in their presence. Sometimes he saw for an instant that these notions were subjective, that he was only looking at ordinary men, one of whom was old, another nervous, another short-sighted. The sense of an unnatural symbolism always settled back on him again. Each figure seemed to be, somehow, on the borderland of things, just as their theory was on the borderland of thought. He knew that each one of these men stood at the extreme end, so to speak, of some wild road of reasoning. He could only fancy, as in some old-world fable, that if a man went westward to the end of the world he would find something—say a tree—that was more or less than a tree, a tree possessed by a spirit; and that if he went east to the end of the world he would find something else that was not wholly itself—a tower, perhaps, of which the very shape was wicked. So these figures seemed to stand up, violent and unaccountable, against an ultimate horizon, visions from the verge. The ends of the earth were closing in.

Talk had been going on steadily as he took in the scene; and not the least of the contrasts of that bewildering breakfast-table was the contrast between the easy and unobtrusive tone of talk and its terrible purport. They were deep in the discussion of an actual and immediate plot. The waiter downstairs had spoken quite correctly when he said that they were talking about bombs and kings. Only three days afterwards the Czar was to meet the President of the French Republic in Paris, and over their bacon and eggs upon their sunny balcony these beaming gentlemen had decided how both should die. Even the instrument was chosen; the black-bearded Marquis, it appeared, was to carry the bomb.

Ordinarily speaking, the proximity of this positive and objective crime would have sobered Syme, and cured him of all his merely mystical tremors. He would have thought of nothing but the need of saving at least two human bodies from being ripped in pieces with iron and roaring gas. But the truth was that by this time he had begun to feel a third kind of fear, more piercing and practical than either his moral revulsion or his social responsibility. Very simply, he had no fear to spare for the French President or the Czar; he had begun to fear for himself. Most of the talkers took little heed of him, debating now with their faces closer together, and almost uniformly grave, save when for an instant the smile of the Secretary ran aslant across his face as the jagged lightning runs aslant across the sky. But there was one persistent thing which first troubled Syme and at last terrified him. The President was always looking at him, steadily, and with a great and baffling interest. The enormous man was quite quiet, but his blue eyes stood out of his head. And they were always fixed on Syme.

Syme felt moved to spring up and leap over the balcony. When the President’s eyes were on him he felt as if he were made of glass. He had hardly the shred of a doubt that in some silent and extraordinary way Sunday had found out that he was a spy. He looked over the edge of the balcony, and saw a policeman, standing abstractedly just beneath, staring at the bright railings and the sunlit trees.

Then there fell upon him the great temptation that was to torment him for many days. In the presence of these powerful and repulsive men, who were the princes of anarchy, he had almost forgotten the frail and fanciful figure of the poet Gregory, the mere aesthete of anarchism. He even thought of him now with an old kindness, as if they had played together when children. But he remembered that he was still tied to Gregory by a great promise. He had promised never to do the very thing that he now felt himself almost in the act of doing. He had promised not to jump over that balcony and speak to that policeman. He took his cold hand off the cold stone balustrade. His soul swayed in a vertigo of moral indecision. He had only to snap the thread of a rash vow made to a villainous society, and all his life could be as open and sunny as the square beneath him. He had, on the other hand, only to keep his antiquated honour, and be delivered inch by inch into the power of this great enemy of mankind, whose very intellect was a torture-chamber. Whenever he looked down into the square he saw the comfortable policeman, a pillar of common sense and common order. Whenever he looked back at the breakfast-table he saw the President still quietly studying him with big, unbearable eyes.

In all the torrent of his thought there were two thoughts that never crossed his mind. First, it never occurred to him to doubt that the President and his Council could crush him if he continued to stand alone. The place might be public, the project might seem impossible. But Sunday was not the man who would carry himself thus easily without having, somehow or somewhere, set open his iron trap. Either by anonymous poison or sudden street accident, by hypnotism or by fire from hell, Sunday could certainly strike him. If he defied the man he was probably dead, either struck stiff there in his chair or long afterwards as by an innocent ailment. If he called in the police promptly, arrested everyone, told all, and set against them the whole energy of England, he would probably escape; certainly not otherwise. They were a balconyful of gentlemen overlooking a bright and busy square; but he felt no more safe with them than if they had been a boatful of armed pirates overlooking an empty sea.

There was a second thought that never came to him. It never occurred to him to be spiritually won over to the enemy. Many moderns, inured to a weak worship of intellect and force, might have wavered in their allegiance under this oppression of a great personality. They might have called Sunday the super-man. If any such creature be conceivable, he looked, indeed, somewhat like it, with his earth-shaking abstraction, as of a stone statue walking. He might have been called something above man, with his large plans, which were too obvious to be detected, with his large face, which was too frank to be understood. But this was a kind of modern meanness to which Syme could not sink even in his extreme morbidity. Like any man, he was coward enough to fear great force; but he was not quite coward enough to admire it.

The men were eating as they talked, and even in this they were typical. Dr. Bull and the Marquis ate casually and conventionally of the best things on the table—cold pheasant or Strasbourg pie. But the Secretary was a vegetarian, and he spoke earnestly of the projected murder over half a raw tomato and three quarters of a glass of tepid water. The old Professor had such slops as suggested a sickening second childhood. And even in this President Sunday preserved his curious predominance of mere mass. For he ate like twenty men; he ate incredibly, with a frightful freshness of appetite, so that it was like watching a sausage factory. Yet continually, when he had swallowed a dozen crumpets or drunk a quart of coffee, he would be found with his great head on one side staring at Syme.

“I have often wondered,” said the Marquis, taking a great bite out of a slice of bread and jam, “whether it wouldn’t be better for me to do it with a knife. Most of the best things have been brought off with a knife. And it would be a new emotion to get a knife into a French President and wriggle it round.”

“You are wrong,” said the Secretary, drawing his black brows together. “The knife was merely the expression of the old personal quarrel with a personal tyrant. Dynamite is not only our best tool, but our best symbol. It is as perfect a symbol of us as is incense of the prayers of the Christians. It expands; it only destroys because it broadens; even so, thought only destroys because it broadens. A man’s brain is a bomb,” he cried out, loosening suddenly his strange passion and striking his own skull with violence. “My brain feels like a bomb, night and day. It must expand! It must expand! A man’s brain must expand, if it breaks up the universe.”

“I don’t want the universe broken up just yet,” drawled the Marquis. “I want to do a lot of beastly things before I die. I thought of one yesterday in bed.”

“No, if the only end of the thing is nothing,” said Dr. Bull with his sphinx-like smile, “it hardly seems worth doing.”

The old Professor was staring at the ceiling with dull eyes.

“Every man knows in his heart,” he said, “that nothing is worth doing.”

There was a singular silence, and then the Secretary said—

“We are wandering, however, from the point. The only question is how Wednesday is to strike the blow. I take it we should all agree with the original notion of a bomb. As to the actual arrangements, I should suggest that tomorrow morning he should go first of all to—”

The speech was broken off short under a vast shadow. President Sunday had risen to his feet, seeming to fill the sky above them.

“Before we discuss that,” he said in a small, quiet voice, “let us go into a private room. I have something very particular to say.”

Syme stood up before any of the others. The instant of choice had come at last, the pistol was at his head. On the pavement before he could hear the policeman idly stir and stamp, for the morning, though bright, was cold.

A barrel-organ in the street suddenly sprang with a jerk into a jovial tune. Syme stood up taut, as if it had been a bugle before the battle. He found himself filled with a supernatural courage that came from nowhere. That jingling music seemed full of the vivacity, the vulgarity, and the irrational valour of the poor, who in all those unclean streets were all clinging to the decencies and the charities of Christendom. His youthful prank of being a policeman had faded from his mind; he did not think of himself as the representative of the corps of gentlemen turned into fancy constables, or of the old eccentric who lived in the dark room. But he did feel himself as the ambassador of all these common and kindly people in the street, who every day marched into battle to the music of the barrel-organ. And this high pride in being human had lifted him unaccountably to an infinite height above the monstrous men around him. For an instant, at least, he looked down upon all their sprawling eccentricities from the starry pinnacle of the commonplace. He felt towards them all that unconscious and elementary superiority that a brave man feels over powerful beasts or a wise man over powerful errors. He knew that he had neither the intellectual nor the physical strength of President Sunday; but in that moment he minded it no more than the fact that he had not the muscles of a tiger or a horn on his nose like a rhinoceros. All was swallowed up in an ultimate certainty that the President was wrong and that the barrel-organ was right. There clanged in his mind that unanswerable and terrible truism in the song of Roland—

    “Pagens ont tort et Chretiens ont droit.”

which in the old nasal French has the clang and groan of great iron. This liberation of his spirit from the load of his weakness went with a quite clear decision to embrace death. If the people of the barrel-organ could keep their old-world obligations, so could he. This very pride in keeping his word was that he was keeping it to miscreants. It was his last triumph over these lunatics to go down into their dark room and die for something that they could not even understand. The barrel-organ seemed to give the marching tune with the energy and the mingled noises of a whole orchestra; and he could hear deep and rolling, under all the trumpets of the pride of life, the drums of the pride of death.

The conspirators were already filing through the open window and into the rooms behind. Syme went last, outwardly calm, but with all his brain and body throbbing with romantic rhythm. The President led them down an irregular side stair, such as might be used by servants, and into a dim, cold, empty room, with a table and benches, like an abandoned boardroom. When they were all in, he closed and locked the door.

The first to speak was Gogol, the irreconcilable, who seemed bursting with inarticulate grievance.

“Zso! Zso!” he cried, with an obscure excitement, his heavy Polish accent becoming almost impenetrable. “You zay you nod ‘ide. You zay you show himselves. It is all nuzzinks. Ven you vant talk importance you run yourselves in a dark box!”

The President seemed to take the foreigner’s incoherent satire with entire good humour.

“You can’t get hold of it yet, Gogol,” he said in a fatherly way. “When once they have heard us talking nonsense on that balcony they will not care where we go afterwards. If we had come here first, we should have had the whole staff at the keyhole. You don’t seem to know anything about mankind.”

“I die for zem,” cried the Pole in thick excitement, “and I slay zare oppressors. I care not for these games of gonzealment. I would zmite ze tyrant in ze open square.”

“I see, I see,” said the President, nodding kindly as he seated himself at the top of a long table. “You die for mankind first, and then you get up and smite their oppressors. So that’s all right. And now may I ask you to control your beautiful sentiments, and sit down with the other gentlemen at this table. For the first time this morning something intelligent is going to be said.”

Syme, with the perturbed promptitude he had shown since the original summons, sat down first. Gogol sat down last, grumbling in his brown beard about gombromise. No one except Syme seemed to have any notion of the blow that was about to fall. As for him, he had merely the feeling of a man mounting the scaffold with the intention, at any rate, of making a good speech.

“Comrades,” said the President, suddenly rising, “we have spun out this farce long enough. I have called you down here to tell you something so simple and shocking that even the waiters upstairs (long inured to our levities) might hear some new seriousness in my voice. Comrades, we were discussing plans and naming places. I propose, before saying anything else, that those plans and places should not be voted by this meeting, but should be left wholly in the control of some one reliable member. I suggest Comrade Saturday, Dr. Bull.”

They all stared at him; then they all started in their seats, for the next words, though not loud, had a living and sensational emphasis. Sunday struck the table.

“Not one word more about the plans and places must be said at this meeting. Not one tiny detail more about what we mean to do must be mentioned in this company.”

Sunday had spent his life in astonishing his followers; but it seemed as if he had never really astonished them until now. They all moved feverishly in their seats, except Syme. He sat stiff in his, with his hand in his pocket, and on the handle of his loaded revolver. When the attack on him came he would sell his life dear. He would find out at least if the President was mortal.

Sunday went on smoothly—

“You will probably understand that there is only one possible motive for forbidding free speech at this festival of freedom. Strangers overhearing us matters nothing. They assume that we are joking. But what would matter, even unto death, is this, that there should be one actually among us who is not of us, who knows our grave purpose, but does not share it, who—”

The Secretary screamed out suddenly like a woman.

“It can’t be!” he cried, leaping. “There can’t—”

The President flapped his large flat hand on the table like the fin of some huge fish.

“Yes,” he said slowly, “there is a spy in this room. There is a traitor at this table. I will waste no more words. His name—”

Syme half rose from his seat, his finger firm on the trigger.

“His name is Gogol,” said the President. “He is that hairy humbug over there who pretends to be a Pole.”

Gogol sprang to his feet, a pistol in each hand. With the same flash three men sprang at his throat. Even the Professor made an effort to rise. But Syme saw little of the scene, for he was blinded with a beneficent darkness; he had sunk down into his seat shuddering, in a palsy of passionate relief.

第六章 暴露

    那就是六个发誓要毁灭世界的人。在他们面前，赛姆一次又一次地尽力运用自己的知识。有时候，他一度认为这些想法很主观，即他看到的只是一些普通人，其中一个很老，另一个神经质，另一个近视。但反常的象征性感觉总回落到他身上。不知为何，每个人似乎都处于事物的临界点，就跟他们处于思想临界点的理论一样。赛姆知道，他们每个人都是名副其实的站在狂野理性之路的极端。他只能像是在某个寓言中平凡的想象，如果一个人一直朝西走，直到世界的尽头，他会发现某样东西——比如一棵树——那或多或少就是一棵树，一棵被精灵控制的树；如果他朝东走至世界的尽头，他会发现另一样并不完全属于自己的东西——可能是一座塔，塔的外形令人憎恶。所以这些人似乎暴烈而肆意地站起来抗逆终极时空和来自临界点的憧憬。地球的末日就要到了。

    赛姆接受了这一场景，谈话也在不断进行；早餐席上众人令人困惑的反差，根本比不上发言者从容审慎的语气和可怕的主旨。他们在深入谈论一项马上要实行的阴谋。楼下的侍者说他们正在讨论炸弹和国王，他说得相当正确。仅仅三天之后，俄国沙皇就要在巴黎和法兰西共和国的总统会面。而就在这个洒满阳光的阳台上，这些笑容满面地享用着熏肉煎鸡蛋的绅士们正在决定如何干掉他俩，就连作案的工具也已选定；不错，是由黑胡子的侯爵携带炸弹毁坏一切。

    按常理讲，如此接近这个真实而客观的罪行会使赛姆冷静下来，并且消除他神秘的颤抖。他会只考虑如何拯救两个人，使他们的肉体不被钢铁和咆哮的气浪撕成碎片。可事实上，现在的赛姆开始感觉到第三种恐惧，这种恐惧比他的心理憎恶或者社会责任感更锐利，更具存在感。很简单，他没有时间担心法国总统或者俄国沙皇的安全；他开始为自己担心，因为大多数谈话者几乎忽视了他。他们的脸相互靠近，几近一致严肃地争论着什么，除了有一刻当锯齿状的闪电斜刺过天空时，那位秘书歪着嘴笑了一把。可是始终有一样东西在一开始就困扰着赛姆，直到最后使他恐惧。那位主席时刻注视着他，带着极大的令人费解的兴趣。这位巨人相当安静，但他的蓝眼睛从脑袋上突显着，它们总盯着赛姆。

    赛姆有一种要跳起来跨过阳台的冲动。当主席盯着他看时，他觉得自己就像是玻璃制成般脆弱。他毫不怀疑，星期天已经通过某种无声而离奇的方式察觉到他是一个间谍。他把视线扫过阳台的边缘，看见一个警察心不在焉地在下面站着，眼睛盯着闪亮的栏杆和阳光下的树木。

    然后，赛姆身上产生了一种将要困扰他好多天的诱惑。在这些强势而可憎的无政府主义的头号人物面前，他几乎忘记了那位脆弱而古怪的诗人格里高利，那位渺小的、崇尚无政府主义的唯美主义者。他甚至带着一种熟悉的善意想到格里高利，仿佛他们是孩提时的玩伴。不过他依然记得，他仍然为一个承诺而受制于格里高利。他曾承诺绝不做现在他觉得几乎就在做的事情，承诺过不跳出阳台去通知那位警察。他把他的冷手从冰冷的石栏杆上抽开，灵魂因为心理的犹豫而摇摆。他只需把他对一个凶恶团体所作的轻率的誓言之线扯断，他整个人生就会像下面的广场一样开阔而充满阳光。另一方面，他只要保持过时的名誉，就会一点一点地陷入这个人类大敌的控制范围，他们的才智就像一个刑讯室。他每次朝广场望去，都会看到那位舒适的警察，他是常规和秩序的脊梁。他每次回头看早餐桌，都会看到主席仍然用令人讨厌的大眼睛安静地琢磨着他。

    在万千思绪中，赛姆从未出现两种预想。第一，赛姆绝不怀疑，如果他继续孤军奋战，主席和他的理事会就会把他摧毁，可能会在一个公开的地点用一种看似不可能的方案。星期天这个人不在某个地方以某种方式布下他的铁夹子就不会轻易罢休，不是用不知名的毒药，就是制造一起突发的街头事故；不是使用催眠术，就是使用地狱的大火，星期天一定能够打击他。如果他公然挑战星期天，那他就死定了，不是在椅子里被当头打成僵尸，就是很久以后死于一种未知的疾病。如果他马上叫来警察，逮捕所有人，公布一切，调动全英格兰的力量对付这帮无政府主义者，他也许可以逃脱；不然的话就无法逃脱。这些坐满阳台的绅士俯瞰着一个灿烂而繁忙的广场；如果他们是一船俯瞰空旷海面的武装海盗，赛姆并不会感到更安全。

    第二个，赛姆从未产生过在精神上输给敌人的念头。许多习惯于脆弱地崇拜才智和力量的现代人可能会在这样一个大人物的压迫下动摇他们的忠诚。他们可能会把星期天称为超人，如果真有这样的人，星期天确实会貌似其中之一，他就像一具活生生的石头雕像，带着惊天动地的空想。星期天也许可以被称为神，他的宏伟的计划坦坦荡荡，却无人可以察知；他的大脸真诚坦白，却无人可以理解。但这是一种现代的残忍，赛姆即使在极端的病态中也不会堕落到这种地步，跟任何人一样，他有惧怕强大势力的懦弱；但他不会懦弱到赞美它。

    这些人边谈边吃，甚至在这方面他们也是独特的。布尔医生和侯爵照惯例漫不经心地吃着桌上最好的东西——冷雉肉，或者斯特拉斯堡馅饼。但秘书是一个素食者，他半个生番茄就着一杯四分之三的温水在认真地谈论计划好的谋杀。老教授吃着流食，这让人想起了一个老年痴呆者。在这方面，星期天甚至也保留着他古怪的对于数量的控制地位。他有二十位男士的饭量；他吃得出奇的多，巨大的胃口令人生畏，所以看他吃饭就像看见一个香肠加工厂。然而每次，当他吞完一打煎饼，或者喝完一夸脱咖啡后，他就会侧过大脑袋盯着赛姆。

    “我常常纳闷，”侯爵把一片果酱面包咬了一大口之后说道，“如果我用刀子是不是会更好？大多数好东西都是用刀子完成的。把刀子捅进一位法国总统的身体，然后扭动一下，这会是一种崭新的激情。”

    “你说得不对。”秘书蹙起了他黑色的眉毛说，“刀子只是用来表达对一位暴君的旧式的抱怨。而炸药不仅仅是我们最好的工具，也是我们最好的标志。它作为我们的标志如同作为基督徒祈祷时的焚香一样完美。它会膨胀，因为扩张而具摧毁之力，就像思想因为扩张而具摧毁之力。一个人的大脑是一颗炸弹。”他猛地放松了他怪异的激情并猛烈地敲着自己的脑袋喊道：“我日夜感觉我的大脑就像个炸弹。它必须膨胀！它必须膨胀！要想炸毁宇宙的话，一个人的大脑必须膨胀。”

    “我还不想炸毁宇宙，”侯爵慢声慢气地说，“我想在死之前干许多残忍的事情。昨天躺在床上我想起了一件。”

    “不，如果事情仅有的结束是虚无的话，”布尔医生带着他斯芬克斯式的微笑说道，“它就几乎不值得做。”

    老教授那双愚钝的眼睛盯着天花板。“每个人都在心里明白，”他说，“一切都不值得做。”

    接着是一种奇怪的沉默，然后秘书就开了口——

    “可是我们离开正题了。现在唯一的问题是星期三如何发动攻击。我认为我们都应该同意最初的使用炸弹的想法，至于说到实际的安排，我建议明天早上他应该先去——”

    话语在一个巨大的阴影之下突然中断。星期天站起身来，似乎要填满他们上方的整片天空。

    “在我们讨论那个之前，”他小声且平静地说道，“让我们先去一个单间。我有特别的事情要说。”

    赛姆在其他人之前站起来。选择的时刻终于来了，他想起了那把手枪。在下面的人行道上，他能听到警察在懒洋洋地走动和跺脚，早晨阳光尽管灿烂，但还是很冷。

    街上传来愉快的手风琴曲。赛姆紧张地站着，仿佛那是战斗之前的军号声。他发现自己充满了不知从何而来的神奇的勇气。那动听的音乐声里充满了活力、粗野和穷人非理性的勇猛，他们在肮脏的街道上坚守礼度和基督徒的善举。他少年时成为警察的戏谑之语已经消失，他不认为自己是优秀警员的代表，也不认为自己是那个待在黑屋子里的老怪物的代表。他觉得自己是街道上所有这些善良的普通人的代表，他们每天伴着手风琴的曲子投入战斗。这种成为有人性的人的强烈的自豪感莫名地把他提升到超乎周围恶人之上的高度，至少有一刻他从星光闪耀的天穹俯视他们卑微的古怪行为。对于这些无政府主义者，他感受到一种无意识的优越感，这种优越感只有当一个勇士面对强大的野兽，或者一位智者面对巨大的错误时才会感受到。赛姆明白，无论是体力，还是智力，他都比不上星期天；但在那一刻，他毫不在意，就像他并不在意他没有老虎的肌肉或者犀牛的犀角。一切都被包含在一个终极的确然中，那就是，星期天是错误的，而手风琴是正确的。他心里铿锵作响的是《罗兰之歌》、无法反驳的老话——“异教徒是错误的，而基督徒是正确的。”

    这个句子用古法语的鼻音念，就有一种钢铁的铿锵和哀鸣之声。赛姆的精神摆脱了软弱的负担，他决心要拥抱死亡。如果喜欢手风琴的人们能够承担他们从前的职责，他也能。他为信守承诺而自豪，因为他是对恶棍们信守承诺。这是他对这些狂徒们的最后的胜利，他要走进他们的小黑屋，为他们无法理解的原因赴死。手风琴带着整支乐队的活力和混杂的声音奏出了进军的曲调，在自豪的生命的喇叭声中，他能听到光荣赴死的深沉的隆隆鼓声。

    密谋者们已经鱼贯穿过落地窗进入后面的房间。赛姆走在最后，表面上很镇静，但他的整个大脑和身体却带着浪漫的节奏跳动着。星期天带着他们走下一条不规则的边缘楼梯，这楼梯可能是供仆人们使用的，接着走进了一间阴暗、寒冷、空荡荡的屋子，里面有一张桌子，几把长椅，像是一个被遗弃的会议室。他们都进去后，星期天关上门并上了锁。

    首先发言的是愤愤不平的果戈理，他似乎充满了难言的牢骚。

    “不！不！”他带着莫名的兴奋叫道，他浓重的波兰口音变得难以理解，“你说你不躲藏。你说你要暴露自己。这些都是白说。你想谈重要事情时就躲进了一个小黑屋！”

    星期天温和地听着这个外国人无条理的讽刺。

    “你还不理解，果戈理，”他以一种父亲般的声调说，“当他们听我们在阳台上胡说八道时，他们不会关心我们随后去哪里。如果我们一开始就来这儿，所有的饭店员工就会在钥匙孔上监视我们。你似乎对人类一无所知。”

    “我为他们而死，”这个波兰人极为兴奋地喊道，“我杀死他们的压迫者。我不喜欢这些躲藏的游戏。我要在空旷的广场上猛击暴君。”

    “我明白，我明白。”星期天一边在长桌的最前端坐下，一边点着头和蔼地说，“你首先为人类而死，然后你爬起来猛击他们的压迫者。这很不错。现在我请你控制自己美妙的情绪，然后和其他绅士们一起坐下。今天，我们首度谈论一个明智的话题。”

    赛姆，带着他受召以来就表露的敏捷和不安，第一个坐下了。果戈理最后一个坐下，长着棕色胡子的嘴巴还在抱怨着他的妥协。除了赛姆，似乎没有人想到有人将受到打击。至于他自己，他仅有的感受是就像一个人登上了绞刑架，但无论如何都想作一次精彩的发言。

    “同志们，”星期天突然站起来说，“我们参与这个闹剧已经够长了。我把你们叫到这里是要告诉你们一件事，这件事简单和震惊的程度会使楼上的侍者（他们已经很习惯我们的轻浮了）也能够在我的嗓音中听到某种新的严肃性。同志们，我们先前在讨论计划并说出了一些地点。我建议，在谈论任何别的东西之前，这些计划和地点不应该在这次会议上付诸表决，而应该完全留给某位可靠的成员来掌握。我提议星期六同志，即布尔医生。”

    他们都盯着他；然后他们都在座位上惊跳了一下，因为星期天下面的言语，尽管声调不高，却句句切中要点。星期天敲了一下桌子。

    “这次会议上对于这些计划和地点不准再多说一个字。当着所有人的面，对我们计划好的行动不准再提任何一个微小的细节。”

    星期天毕生都想使他的追随者吃惊，不过好像直到此刻这些追随者才真正地吃惊了一回，他们都兴奋地在座位上摆动身子，除了赛姆。他一动不动地坐在位子上，手握着口袋里的上了膛的左轮手枪。如果有人攻击他，他就要拼死一搏。至少他可以搞清楚星期天是不是凡人。

    星期天继续稳稳地说道：“你们可能会理解，在这个自由的节日禁止自由发言只有一个可能。陌生人偷听我们，这无关紧要，他们以为我们在开玩笑。但是最重要的，甚至性命攸关的一点是，我们当中确实有这么一个人，他是个另类，他了解我们的严肃的目标，但却置之度外，他——”

    秘书像女人一样突然高声尖叫。

    “不可能！”他叫道，跳起来，“不可能——”

    星期天把他平摊就像大鱼鱼鳍一样的巨手在桌上拍了一下。

    “不错，”他慢吞吞地说道，“这个屋子里有一个间谍。这张桌旁有一个叛徒。我不想浪费更多口舌了。他的名字——”

    赛姆在座位上将起未起，他的手指紧紧地扣着扳机。

    “他的名字就是果戈理，”主席说道，“他就是在那儿假冒波兰人的多毛的骗子。”

    果戈理跳了起来，两只手里各拿着一把手枪。三个男士几乎和他一样快地站起来卡他的脖子。教授也想要站起来。不过赛姆没看清这个场面，因为他被一块不错的阴影挡住了；他又颤抖着靠在椅子上，犹如激情松弛之后瘫痪了一般。