《代号星期四》13第十一章 罪犯追逐警察（在线收听）

CHAPTER XI. THE CRIMINALS CHASE THE POLICE

 SYME put the field-glasses from his eyes with an almost ghastly relief.

“The President is not with them, anyhow,” he said, and wiped his forehead.

“But surely they are right away on the horizon,” said the bewildered Colonel, blinking and but half recovered from Bull’s hasty though polite explanation. “Could you possibly know your President among all those people?”

“Could I know a white elephant among all those people!” answered Syme somewhat irritably. “As you very truly say, they are on the horizon; but if he were walking with them... by God! I believe this ground would shake.”

After an instant’s pause the new man called Ratcliffe said with gloomy decision—

“Of course the President isn’t with them. I wish to Gemini he were. Much more likely the President is riding in triumph through Paris, or sitting on the ruins of St. Paul’s Cathedral.”

“This is absurd!” said Syme. “Something may have happened in our absence; but he cannot have carried the world with a rush like that. It is quite true,” he added, frowning dubiously at the distant fields that lay towards the little station, “it is certainly true that there seems to be a crowd coming this way; but they are not all the army that you make out.”

“Oh, they,” said the new detective contemptuously; “no they are not a very valuable force. But let me tell you frankly that they are precisely calculated to our value—we are not much, my boy, in Sunday’s universe. He has got hold of all the cables and telegraphs himself. But to kill the Supreme Council he regards as a trivial matter, like a post card; it may be left to his private secretary,” and he spat on the grass.

Then he turned to the others and said somewhat austerely—

“There is a great deal to be said for death; but if anyone has any preference for the other alternative, I strongly advise him to walk after me.”

With these words, he turned his broad back and strode with silent energy towards the wood. The others gave one glance over their shoulders, and saw that the dark cloud of men had detached itself from the station and was moving with a mysterious discipline across the plain. They saw already, even with the naked eye, black blots on the foremost faces, which marked the masks they wore. They turned and followed their leader, who had already struck the wood, and disappeared among the twinkling trees.

The sun on the grass was dry and hot. So in plunging into the wood they had a cool shock of shadow, as of divers who plunge into a dim pool. The inside of the wood was full of shattered sunlight and shaken shadows. They made a sort of shuddering veil, almost recalling the dizziness of a cinematograph. Even the solid figures walking with him Syme could hardly see for the patterns of sun and shade that danced upon them. Now a man’s head was lit as with a light of Rembrandt, leaving all else obliterated; now again he had strong and staring white hands with the face of a negro. The ex-Marquis had pulled the old straw hat over his eyes, and the black shade of the brim cut his face so squarely in two that it seemed to be wearing one of the black half-masks of their pursuers. The fancy tinted Syme’s overwhelming sense of wonder. Was he wearing a mask? Was anyone wearing a mask? Was anyone anything? This wood of witchery, in which men’s faces turned black and white by turns, in which their figures first swelled into sunlight and then faded into formless night, this mere chaos of chiaroscuro (after the clear daylight outside), seemed to Syme a perfect symbol of the world in which he had been moving for three days, this world where men took off their beards and their spectacles and their noses, and turned into other people. That tragic self-confidence which he had felt when he believed that the Marquis was a devil had strangely disappeared now that he knew that the Marquis was a friend. He felt almost inclined to ask after all these bewilderments what was a friend and what an enemy. Was there anything that was apart from what it seemed? The Marquis had taken off his nose and turned out to be a detective. Might he not just as well take off his head and turn out to be a hobgoblin? Was not everything, after all, like this bewildering woodland, this dance of dark and light? Everything only a glimpse, the glimpse always unforeseen, and always forgotten. For Gabriel Syme had found in the heart of that sun-splashed wood what many modern painters had found there. He had found the thing which the modern people call Impressionism, which is another name for that final scepticism which can find no floor to the universe.

As a man in an evil dream strains himself to scream and wake, Syme strove with a sudden effort to fling off this last and worst of his fancies. With two impatient strides he overtook the man in the Marquis’s straw hat, the man whom he had come to address as Ratcliffe. In a voice exaggeratively loud and cheerful, he broke the bottomless silence and made conversation.

“May I ask,” he said, “where on earth we are all going to?”

So genuine had been the doubts of his soul, that he was quite glad to hear his companion speak in an easy, human voice.

“We must get down through the town of Lancy to the sea,” he said. “I think that part of the country is least likely to be with them.”

“What can you mean by all this?” cried Syme. “They can’t be running the real world in that way. Surely not many working men are anarchists, and surely if they were, mere mobs could not beat modern armies and police.”

“Mere mobs!” repeated his new friend with a snort of scorn. “So you talk about mobs and the working classes as if they were the question. You’ve got that eternal idiotic idea that if anarchy came it would come from the poor. Why should it? The poor have been rebels, but they have never been anarchists; they have more interest than anyone else in there being some decent government. The poor man really has a stake in the country. The rich man hasn’t; he can go away to New Guinea in a yacht. The poor have sometimes objected to being governed badly; the rich have always objected to being governed at all. Aristocrats were always anarchists, as you can see from the barons’ wars.”

“As a lecture on English history for the little ones,” said Syme, “this is all very nice; but I have not yet grasped its application.”

“Its application is,” said his informant, “that most of old Sunday’s right-hand men are South African and American millionaires. That is why he has got hold of all the communications; and that is why the last four champions of the anti-anarchist police force are running through a wood like rabbits.”

“Millionaires I can understand,” said Syme thoughtfully, “they are nearly all mad. But getting hold of a few wicked old gentlemen with hobbies is one thing; getting hold of great Christian nations is another. I would bet the nose off my face (forgive the allusion) that Sunday would stand perfectly helpless before the task of converting any ordinary healthy person anywhere.”

“Well,” said the other, “it rather depends what sort of person you mean.”

“Well, for instance,” said Syme, “he could never convert that person,” and he pointed straight in front of him.

They had come to an open space of sunlight, which seemed to express to Syme the final return of his own good sense; and in the middle of this forest clearing was a figure that might well stand for that common sense in an almost awful actuality. Burnt by the sun and stained with perspiration, and grave with the bottomless gravity of small necessary toils, a heavy French peasant was cutting wood with a hatchet. His cart stood a few yards off, already half full of timber; and the horse that cropped the grass was, like his master, valorous but not desperate; like his master, he was even prosperous, but yet was almost sad. The man was a Norman, taller than the average of the French and very angular; and his swarthy figure stood dark against a square of sunlight, almost like some allegoric figure of labour frescoed on a ground of gold.

“Mr. Syme is saying,” called out Ratcliffe to the French Colonel, “that this man, at least, will never be an anarchist.”

“Mr. Syme is right enough there,” answered Colonel Ducroix, laughing, “if only for the reason that he has plenty of property to defend. But I forgot that in your country you are not used to peasants being wealthy.”

“He looks poor,” said Dr. Bull doubtfully.

“Quite so,” said the Colonel; “that is why he is rich.”

“I have an idea,” called out Dr. Bull suddenly; “how much would he take to give us a lift in his cart? Those dogs are all on foot, and we could soon leave them behind.”

“Oh, give him anything!” said Syme eagerly. “I have piles of money on me.”

“That will never do,” said the Colonel; “he will never have any respect for you unless you drive a bargain.”

“Oh, if he haggles!” began Bull impatiently.

“He haggles because he is a free man,” said the other. “You do not understand; he would not see the meaning of generosity. He is not being tipped.”

And even while they seemed to hear the heavy feet of their strange pursuers behind them, they had to stand and stamp while the French Colonel talked to the French wood-cutter with all the leisurely badinage and bickering of market-day. At the end of the four minutes, however, they saw that the Colonel was right, for the wood-cutter entered into their plans, not with the vague servility of a tout too-well paid, but with the seriousness of a solicitor who had been paid the proper fee. He told them that the best thing they could do was to make their way down to the little inn on the hills above Lancy, where the innkeeper, an old soldier who had become devout in his latter years, would be certain to sympathise with them, and even to take risks in their support. The whole company, therefore, piled themselves on top of the stacks of wood, and went rocking in the rude cart down the other and steeper side of the woodland. Heavy and ramshackle as was the vehicle, it was driven quickly enough, and they soon had the exhilarating impression of distancing altogether those, whoever they were, who were hunting them. For, after all, the riddle as to where the anarchists had got all these followers was still unsolved. One man’s presence had sufficed for them; they had fled at the first sight of the deformed smile of the Secretary. Syme every now and then looked back over his shoulder at the army on their track.

As the wood grew first thinner and then smaller with distance, he could see the sunlit slopes beyond it and above it; and across these was still moving the square black mob like one monstrous beetle. In the very strong sunlight and with his own very strong eyes, which were almost telescopic, Syme could see this mass of men quite plainly. He could see them as separate human figures; but he was increasingly surprised by the way in which they moved as one man. They seemed to be dressed in dark clothes and plain hats, like any common crowd out of the streets; but they did not spread and sprawl and trail by various lines to the attack, as would be natural in an ordinary mob. They moved with a sort of dreadful and wicked woodenness, like a staring army of automatons.

Syme pointed this out to Ratcliffe.

“Yes,” replied the policeman, “that’s discipline. That’s Sunday. He is perhaps five hundred miles off, but the fear of him is on all of them, like the finger of God. Yes, they are walking regularly; and you bet your boots that they are talking regularly, yes, and thinking regularly. But the one important thing for us is that they are disappearing regularly.”

Syme nodded. It was true that the black patch of the pursuing men was growing smaller and smaller as the peasant belaboured his horse.

The level of the sunlit landscape, though flat as a whole, fell away on the farther side of the wood in billows of heavy slope towards the sea, in a way not unlike the lower slopes of the Sussex downs. The only difference was that in Sussex the road would have been broken and angular like a little brook, but here the white French road fell sheer in front of them like a waterfall. Down this direct descent the cart clattered at a considerable angle, and in a few minutes, the road growing yet steeper, they saw below them the little harbour of Lancy and a great blue arc of the sea. The travelling cloud of their enemies had wholly disappeared from the horizon.

The horse and cart took a sharp turn round a clump of elms, and the horse’s nose nearly struck the face of an old gentleman who was sitting on the benches outside the little cafe of “Le Soleil d’Or.” The peasant grunted an apology, and got down from his seat. The others also descended one by one, and spoke to the old gentleman with fragmentary phrases of courtesy, for it was quite evident from his expansive manner that he was the owner of the little tavern.

He was a white-haired, apple-faced old boy, with sleepy eyes and a grey moustache; stout, sedentary, and very innocent, of a type that may often be found in France, but is still commoner in Catholic Germany. Everything about him, his pipe, his pot of beer, his flowers, and his beehive, suggested an ancestral peace; only when his visitors looked up as they entered the inn-parlour, they saw the sword upon the wall.

The Colonel, who greeted the innkeeper as an old friend, passed rapidly into the inn-parlour, and sat down ordering some ritual refreshment. The military decision of his action interested Syme, who sat next to him, and he took the opportunity when the old innkeeper had gone out of satisfying his curiosity.

“May I ask you, Colonel,” he said in a low voice, “why we have come here?”

Colonel Ducroix smiled behind his bristly white moustache.

“For two reasons, sir,” he said; “and I will give first, not the most important, but the most utilitarian. We came here because this is the only place within twenty miles in which we can get horses.”

“Horses!” repeated Syme, looking up quickly.

“Yes,” replied the other; “if you people are really to distance your enemies it is horses or nothing for you, unless of course you have bicycles and motor-cars in your pocket.”

“And where do you advise us to make for?” asked Syme doubtfully.

“Beyond question,” replied the Colonel, “you had better make all haste to the police station beyond the town. My friend, whom I seconded under somewhat deceptive circumstances, seems to me to exaggerate very much the possibilities of a general rising; but even he would hardly maintain, I suppose, that you were not safe with the gendarmes.”

Syme nodded gravely; then he said abruptly—

“And your other reason for coming here?”

“My other reason for coming here,” said Ducroix soberly, “is that it is just as well to see a good man or two when one is possibly near to death.”

Syme looked up at the wall, and saw a crudely-painted and pathetic religious picture. Then he said—

“You are right,” and then almost immediately afterwards, “Has anyone seen about the horses?”

“Yes,” answered Ducroix, “you may be quite certain that I gave orders the moment I came in. Those enemies of yours gave no impression of hurry, but they were really moving wonderfully fast, like a well-trained army. I had no idea that the anarchists had so much discipline. You have not a moment to waste.”

Almost as he spoke, the old innkeeper with the blue eyes and white hair came ambling into the room, and announced that six horses were saddled outside.

By Ducroix’s advice the five others equipped themselves with some portable form of food and wine, and keeping their duelling swords as the only weapons available, they clattered away down the steep, white road. The two servants, who had carried the Marquis’s luggage when he was a marquis, were left behind to drink at the cafe by common consent, and not at all against their own inclination.

By this time the afternoon sun was slanting westward, and by its rays Syme could see the sturdy figure of the old innkeeper growing smaller and smaller, but still standing and looking after them quite silently, the sunshine in his silver hair. Syme had a fixed, superstitious fancy, left in his mind by the chance phrase of the Colonel, that this was indeed, perhaps, the last honest stranger whom he should ever see upon the earth.

He was still looking at this dwindling figure, which stood as a mere grey blot touched with a white flame against the great green wall of the steep down behind him. And as he stared over the top of the down behind the innkeeper, there appeared an army of black-clad and marching men. They seemed to hang above the good man and his house like a black cloud of locusts. The horses had been saddled none too soon.

第十一章 罪犯追逐警察

    赛姆把望远镜从眼前拿开，不安地松了口气。

    “至少星期天不在那里。”他说着，擦了擦额头。

    “但无疑他们是在地平线上，”困惑的上校眨了眨眼，他还没有完全从布尔仓促而礼貌的解释中恢复过来，“你能否从所有这些人中认出你们的主席？”

    “我能否从所有这些人中认出一头白象！”有点恼火的赛姆答道，“你说得对，他们是在地平线上；可如果他和他们一起走过来……老天作证！我相信这里的地面就会颤抖。”

    片刻沉默，这位名叫拉特克利夫的新人忧郁而决然地说道：“星期天肯定没跟他们在一起。我希望他去了双子星座。星期天更有可能正骑着马以胜利者的姿态穿过巴黎，或者坐在圣保罗大教堂的废墟上。”

    “这太荒唐了！”赛姆说道。“可能是有事情在我们不在场时发生了；但是他不可能这么匆忙地出手把世界摆平。确实，”他接着说道，并怀疑地朝通向小站的远处旷野皱了皱眉，“确实有人群朝这里走来；但是你所看见的并不全是这群人。”

    “哦，他们，”新出现的侦探轻蔑地说道，“不，他们不是一支非常有价值的队伍。不过让我坦率地告诉你，他们这支队伍是在对我们的价值进行了精确的算计之后才派出来的——我的伙计，在星期天的世界里，我们的人数不算多。他自己控制了所有的电缆和电报。杀死最高理事会的成员对他来讲就像寄一张明信片，小菜一碟；这件事可能已经交给了他的私人秘书。”他朝草地吐了口唾沫，然后他转向其他人略微严肃地说——

    “关于死亡可以讲很多东西；但是如果有人不想死的话，我强烈建议他跟我走。”

    说完，他转过宽阔的后背，沉默而起劲地大步走向树林。其他人转过头扫了一眼，看见黑压压的人群已经离开了小站，正迈着神秘而整齐的步伐穿过原野。他们用肉眼就能看见最前面几张面孔上的黑色斑点，这正是他们戴的面罩。他们转身跟随他们的领头人，而他们的领头人已经到了树林，并且消失在熠熠生辉的树木间。

    洒在草地上的阳光又干又热。所以，在匆匆走进树林时，清凉的就跟跳水者跳进了阴暗的水池一样使他们有点吃惊。树林里面充满了斑驳的阳光和摇曳的阴影。他们构成了一种令人恐惧的面罩，几乎使人回想起炫彩的电影。赛姆几乎看不清和他走在一起的具体的人形，因为光与影的图案总在他们身上跳跃。一会儿，一个人的脑袋仿佛被伦勃朗的光线照亮了，使得其他一切都了无痕迹；下一刻，他有了一双强壮而显眼的白手和一副黑人般的脸庞。那位前侯爵把他的老式草帽盖在他的眼皮上，草帽边缘的黑影把他的脸方方正正地分割成了两半，看起来就像他戴着跟那些追踪者一样的黑色半遮脸面罩。想象力影响着赛姆，并压倒一切的惊奇感。他是戴着面罩吗？有人戴着面罩吗？有任何人戴着任何什么东西吗？在这个神奇的树林里，人们的脸庞明暗交替，他们的身形先膨胀成明亮的阳光，再消退成奇形怪状的黑夜，这种混乱的明暗对照（在外面清亮的日光之后出现），对赛姆来说完美地象征着一个他在其中活动了三天的世界，在这个世界里人们扯下他们的胡子、眼镜和鼻子变成了其他人。他明白侯爵是朋友，所以当他认为侯爵是个恶魔时所感到的那种可悲的自信奇怪地消失了。在经过了所有这些混乱之后，他不禁想问，什么是朋友，什么是敌人。有没有任何与它的表象不同的事物？侯爵扯下了他的鼻子，表明了侦探的身份。难道他不可以扯下他的脑袋成为一个妖怪？这一切不就像这个令人困惑的林地，这种光与影的舞蹈吗？一切只是不经意的一瞥，这一瞥总是无法预见，总是被遗忘。盖布利尔·赛姆在这个阳光斑驳的树林深处找到了许多现代画家竭力寻找的东西，现代人称为印象主义的东西，它是那不为世界设立底线的终极怀疑论的另一个名称。

    就像一个在噩梦中拼命尖叫后醒来的人一样，赛姆突然努力把他最后、最糟糕的臆想抛弃。他不耐烦地迈了两步赶上了戴侯爵草帽的那个人，他把他称为拉特克利夫。他以一种响亮快活得有些夸张的嗓音打破了深不可测的寂静聊起天来。

    “我想问，”他说，“我们到底去哪里？”

    他内心的疑虑是如此真诚，所以他高兴地听到他的同伴以一种从容而富有人情味的声音开了口。

    “我们必须往下穿过兰西镇去海边，”他说，“我想法国的这个地区最不可能有他们的人。”

    “你这么说是什么意思？”赛姆叫道。“他们不可能那么轻易就控制了现实世界。成为无政府主义者的劳工肯定不多，而且毫无疑问，即使他们是无政府主义者，单纯的乌合之众也打不过现代化的军队和警察。”

    “单纯的乌合之众！”他的新朋友轻蔑地哼了一声重复道，“看来你谈论乌合之众和劳工阶层的语气就像他们是问题所在。你所持有的那个永恒而愚蠢的观点就是如果无政府主义出现，它很可能就是产生于穷人当中。为何你会这么想？穷人会造反，但他们绝不是无政府主义者；他们比任何人都希望有一个体面的政府。国家确实跟穷人的利害有关。而富人不是这样，他可以乘着游艇前往新几内亚。穷人有时候会反对糟糕的统治；而富人就是反对被统治。贵族往往就是无政府主义者，这一点你可以从男爵们的战争中看到。”

    “作为一场针对小人物的英国历史的演讲，”赛姆说道，“这着实精彩。不过我还无法理解它的适用性。”

    “它的适用性就在于，”对方说道，“老星期天的大多数得力助手是南非和美国的百万富翁。这就是为什么他控制了所有的通讯设施；这就是为什么反无政府主义警队中的最后四个勇士正在像兔子一样窜过树林。”

    “百万富翁我能够理解，”赛姆沉思着说道，“他们几乎都是疯狂的。可控制几个有着不良嗜好的缺德的老先生是一回事；要控制伟大的基督教国家就是另外一回事了。我以我的鼻子打赌（请原谅这个暗示），当星期天面对在任何地方改变任何一个健康的普通人的信仰的任务时，他肯定会显得无能为力。”

    “嗨，”对方说道，“这完全取决于你指的是哪一种人。”

    “比如，”赛姆道，“他绝对改变不了那个人的信仰。”他笔直地朝前指了指。

    他们来到一块阳光照耀的空地上，这块空地对赛姆似乎意味着他的清醒知觉的恢复。在这块林中空地的中央有一个人，他几乎是以一种可怕的现实性象征着常人的判断力。一个受着日晒淌着汗水因为必要而繁重的无尽辛劳显得肃穆的粗壮的法国农夫，正在用一把短柄小斧砍木头，他的运货车停在几码开外，已经装满了半车木头；正在吃草的那匹马就跟它的主人一样，勇敢而不绝望；就像它的主人，健壮，但也近乎哀伤。这个农夫是一个诺曼底人，个子比普通法国人要高，但很笨拙。他的黝黑的身影映衬着方方正正的一片阳光，几乎就像壁画上一个隐喻式的劳作者身处于金色的底子上。

    “赛姆先生在讲，”拉特克利夫对那位法国上校喊道，“至少这个人绝不会成为无政府主义者。”

    “赛姆先生讲得很对，”杜克洛埃上校笑着答道，“即使唯一的理由是他有很多财产要保护。不过我不记得，在你们的国家，你们并没有对富裕的农民习以为常。”

    “他看起来很穷。”布尔医生怀疑地说道。

    “确实如此，”上校道，“那就是他很富的原因。”

    “我有一个主意，”布尔医生突然说道，“他会要多少钱才让我们搭他的车？那些追踪者都在步行，我们很快就可以把他们甩掉。”

    “哦，给他多少钱都行！”赛姆急切地说，“我身上有一大堆钱。”

    “那不行，”上校道，“除非你和他讨价还价，否则他不会尊重你。”

    “哦，要是他会讨价还价就好了！”布尔不耐烦地说。

    “他会讨价还价因为他是一个自由人，”对方说道，“你不懂的，他不会明白慷慨的意义。不用给他小费。”

    他们似乎听到了他们身后的奇怪追踪者的沉重脚步声，不过，当那位法国上校用赶集日的所有随意的玩笑和争吵与那个樵夫搭话的时候，他们只能站着干跺脚。不过四分钟后，他们发现上校是对的，因为那个樵夫已经同意了他们的计划，他没有漫天要价，而是慎重出价并获得了适当的报酬。他告诉他们，最好的选择是向下到达兰西山坡上的小客栈，那位客栈主人，一个在晚年变得非常虔诚的老军人，肯定会同情他们，甚至会冒险帮助他们。所以，这几个人都坐在柴堆的上面，随着粗陋的运货车摇晃着驶下了林地陡峭的另一边。尽管这辆车又笨重又摇摇欲坠，它还是开得很快，不久，他们就高兴地发现他们已经远离了那些追踪者（不管他们是谁）。但是，那些无政府主义者在哪里招到的这些追随者，仍然是个未解之谜。一个人的存在对他们来说就足够了；起初，他们逃跑是因为第一次目睹了秘书畸形的笑容。赛姆时不时地回过头去张望追踪他们的一大群人。

    随着距离的拉开，树林逐渐变得越来越稀疏，他可以看见树林边和树林上方阳光照耀的坡地。穿过这些坡地的是一群黑色正方形仍在移动的暴民，看起来就像一个可怕的甲虫。在强烈的阳光下，凭借自己极好的眼力，赛姆能够清楚地看到这群人。他能把他们一个个人分辨清楚。但是他越来越惊讶于他们整齐划一的行动方式。他们好像穿着黑色的衣服，戴着黑色的平常帽子，就跟任何上街的普通人群一样。但他们并没有像普通乌合之众一样，展开、散布、排列成多路纵队以进行攻击。他们可怕、恶毒而呆板地前进着，就像一支显眼的机器人军队。

    赛姆把这个指给拉特克利夫看。“是的，”这位警官回答道，“这就是纪律。这就是星期天的做派。他也许在五百英里开外，但对他的恐惧笼罩着他们，就像害怕上帝的手指。是的，他们在整齐划一地行走，而且你可以肯定他们在整齐划一地说话；是的，而且在整齐划一地思考。但对我们来说，最重要的一点是他们正在整齐划一地消失。”

    赛姆点点头。确实随着农夫鞭打他的马儿赶路，那黑压压的追踪人群也变得越来越小。

    阳光照耀下的风景线，尽管整体上是平坦的，在树林的远端却消散成通往大海的巨浪般起伏的厚实坡地，有点像苏塞克斯丘陵地带的低矮山丘。唯一的区别是，苏塞克斯道路像小溪一样蜿蜒而崎岖，但是在这里，法国的白色马路像瀑布一样在他们面前垂直下落。驶下这条笔直的坡道，运货车在一个拐角时发出了当啷声，然后过了几分钟马路变得更陡了，他们可以看到下面的兰西的小海港和一汪蓝色的弧形大海。黑压压的敌人已经完全从地平线上消失了。

    运货马车急转弯绕过了一丛榆树，马鼻子几乎碰到了一位坐在“金色太阳”小酒馆外面长凳上的老先生的脸。农夫咕哝着说了声抱歉就从座位上下来。其他人也一个个从车上下来，三三两两地对老先生说着客套话，从健谈的样子就可以看出，他是这家小客栈的主人。

    他是一个白头发、脸庞如苹果般丰满的老男人，长着一双疲乏的眼睛和灰色的上唇胡子，矮胖，惯于久坐，而且非常单纯，是常见的那种法国人，但在信仰天主教的德国则更为常见。他周围的一切，他的烟斗、啤酒罐，他的花儿，以及他的蜂箱都使人联想到一种悠久的和平。只有当他的客人走进店堂抬起头看时，他们才会看到墙上挂的一把剑。

    上校如问候老朋友一般问候了客栈老板，然后迅速地径直走进店堂，坐下来点了一些常规性的茶点。他军人般果断的行动使坐在他身边的赛姆颇感兴趣，所以当那位老店主不再能满足他的好奇心时，他抓住了机会。

    “请问上校，”他低声道，“我们为什么要来这儿？”

    白胡子拉碴的杜克洛埃上校笑了一下。

    “有两个理由，先生，”他说道，“我首先讲第一个，不是最重要的但却最实用的理由。我们来这儿是因为这是方圆二十英里范围内我们唯一能弄到马匹的地方。”

    “马匹！”赛姆重复道，马上抬起头来。

    “是的，”对方道，“如果你们真的要甩开你们的敌人，你们只能骑马，除非你们的口袋里装着自行车和汽车。”

    “那么你建议我们前往哪里？”赛姆怀疑地问。

    “毫无疑问，”上校答道，“你们最好赶快前往小镇旁边的警察局。那位我在略嫌欺诈的情况下帮助过的我的朋友，似乎过度夸大了一个大叛乱的可能性。不过我认为，甚至他也几乎不能断言，你们在宪兵手里也不安全。”

    赛姆严肃地点点头，然后突然说道：“那么你来这儿的另外一个理由是什么？”

    “我另外一个来这儿的理由，”杜克洛埃冷静地说道，“就是在临死之前不妨见一见一两个好人。”

    赛姆抬起头望着墙，看见了一幅粗陋而凄惨的宗教图画。他说：“你是对的，有没有任何人安排马匹？”

    “是的，”杜克洛埃回答，“当然我一进店就吩咐了。你们的那些敌人看起来不是很快，但实际上他们的行动快得出奇，就是一支训练有素的军队。我没想到无政府主义者那么有纪律。你们一刻也不能浪费了。”

    正当他说话时，那位有着蓝眼睛、白头发的老店主缓缓地走进店堂，告诉他们外面有六匹马已经配好了马鞍。

    按照杜克洛埃的建议，其余五个人配备好了一些便于携带的食物，并随身带着他们决斗用的剑，便骑着马跑下了陡峭的白色马路。那两个为前侯爵背行李的仆人被允许留下来喝酒，当然他们自己也愿意。

    此时，下午的太阳斜挂西天，凭借它的光线，赛姆能看到老店主健壮的身影变得越来越小，但依然站在原地望着他们，阳光浸润了他的银发。上校不经意的话语使赛姆心中有一种挥之不去的迷信想法，那就是这个老店主可能就是他将在大地上看到的最后一个正直的陌生人。

    他仍然注视着这个越来越小的身影，老店主站在那里就像一个冒着白色火焰的灰色斑点，他的身后是陡峭的巨大的绿色坡地。当他的目光扫过丘陵的顶部，他看见了一支穿着黑衣不断行进的队伍。他们像一群黑压压的蝗虫，向这个好人和他的房子压过来。那五个人的行动还算迅速。