MONTANELLI'S anger did not make him neglectful of his promise. He protested so emphatically against the manner in which the Gadfly had been chained that the unfortunate Governor, who by now was at his wit's end, knocked off all the fetters1 in the recklessness of despair. "How am I to know," he grumbled2 to the adjutant, "what His Eminence3 will object to next? If he calls a simple pair of handcuffs 'cruelty,' he'll be exclaiming against the window-bars presently, or wanting me to feed Rivarez on oysters4 and truffles. In my young days malefactors were malefactors and were treated accordingly, and nobody thought a traitor5 any better than a thief. But it's the fashion to be seditious nowadays; and His Eminence seems inclined to encourage all the scoundrels in the country."
"I don't see what business he has got to interfere6 at all," the adjutant remarked. "He is not a Legate and has no authority in civil and military affairs. By law------"
"What is the use of talking about law? You can't expect anyone to respect laws after the Holy Father has opened the prisons and turned the whole crew of Liberal scamps loose on us! It's a positive infatuation! Of course Monsignor Montanelli will give himself airs; he was quiet enough under His Holiness the late Pope, but he's cock of the walk now. He has jumped into favour all at once and can do as he pleases. How am I to oppose him? He may have secret authorization7 from the Vatican, for all I know. Everything's topsy-turvy now; you can't tell from day to day what may happen next. In the good old times one knew what to be at, but nowadays------"
The Governor shook his head ruefully. A world in which Cardinals8 troubled themselves over trifles of prison discipline and talked about the "rights" of political offenders9 was a world that was growing too complex for him.
The Gadfly, for his part, had returned to the fortress10 in a state of nervous excitement bordering on hysteria. The meeting with Montanelli had strained his endurance almost to breaking-point; and his final brutality11 about the variety show had been uttered in sheer desperation, merely to cut short an interview which, in another five minutes, would have ended in tears.
Called up for interrogation in the afternoon of the same day, he did nothing but go into convulsions of laughter at every question put to him; and when the Governor, worried out of all patience, lost his temper and began to swear, he only laughed more immoderately than ever. The unlucky Governor fumed13 and stormed and threatened his refractory14 prisoner with impossible punishments; but finally came, as James Burton had come long ago, to the conclusion that it was mere12 waste of breath and temper to argue with a person in so unreasonable15 a state of mind.
The Gadfly was once more taken back to his cell; and there lay down upon the pallet, in the mood of black and hopeless depression which always succeeded to his boisterous16 fits. He lay till evening without moving, without even thinking; he had passed, after the vehement17 emotion of the morning, into a strange, half-apathetic state, in which his own misery18 was hardly more to him than a dull and mechanical weight, pressing on some wooden thing that had forgotten to be a soul. In truth, it was of little consequence how all ended; the one thing that mattered to any sentient19 being was to be spared unbearable20 pain, and whether the relief came from altered conditions or from the deadening of the power to feel, was a question of no moment. Perhaps he would succeed in escaping; perhaps they would kill him; in any case he should never see the Padre again, and it was all vanity and vexation of spirit.
One of the warders brought in supper, and the Gadfly looked up with heavy-eyed indifference21.
"What time is it?"
"Six o'clock. Your supper, sir."
He looked with disgust at the stale, foul-smelling, half-cold mess, and turned his head away. He was feeling bodily ill as well as depressed22; and the sight of the food sickened him.
"You will be ill if you don't eat," said the soldier hurriedly. "Take a bit of bread, anyway; it'll do you good."
The man spoke23 with a curious earnestness of tone, lifting a piece of sodden24 bread from the plate and putting it down again. All the conspirator25 awoke in the Gadfly; he had guessed at once that there was something hidden in the bread.
"You can leave it; I'll eat a bit by and by," he said carelessly. The door was open, and he knew that the sergeant26 on the stairs could hear every word spoken between them.
When the door was locked on him again, and he had satisfied himself that no one was watching at the spy-hole, he took up the piece of bread and carefully crumbled27 it away. In the middle was the thing he had expected, a bundle of small files. It was wrapped in a bit of paper, on which a few words were written. He smoothed the paper out carefully and carried it to what little light there was. The writing was crowded into so narrow a space, and on such thin paper, that it was very difficult to read.
"The door is unlocked, and there is no moon. Get the filing done as fast as possible, and come by the passage between two and three. We are quite ready and may not have another chance."
He crushed the paper feverishly28 in his hand. All the preparations were ready, then, and he had only to file the window bars; how lucky it was that the chains were off! He need not stop about filing them. How many bars were there? Two, four; and each must be filed in two places: eight. Oh, he could manage that in the course of the night if he made haste---- How had Gemma and Martini contrived29 to get everything ready so quickly--disguises, passports, hiding-places? They must have worked like cart-horses to do it---- And it was her plan that had been adopted after all. He laughed a little to himself at his own foolishness; as if it mattered whether the plan was hers or not, once it was a good one! And yet he could not help being glad that it was she who had struck on the idea of his utilizing30 the subterranean31 passage, instead of letting himself down by a rope-ladder, as the smugglers had at first suggested. Hers was the more complex and difficult plan, but did not involve, as the other did, a risk to the life of the sentinel on duty outside the east wall. Therefore, when the two schemes had been laid before him, he had unhesitatingly chosen Gemma's.
The arrangement was that the friendly guard who went by the nickname of "The Cricket" should seize the first opportunity of unlocking, without the knowledge of his fellows, the iron gate leading from the courtyard into the subterranean passage underneath33 the ramparts, and should then replace the key on its nail in the guard-room. The Gadfly, on receiving information of this, was to file through the bars of his window, tear his shirt into strips and plait them into a rope, by means of which he could let himself down on to the broad east wall of the courtyard. Along this wall he was to creep on hands and knees while the sentinel was looking in the opposite direction, lying flat upon the masonry34 whenever the man turned towards him. At the southeast corner was a half-ruined turret35. It was upheld, to some extent, by a thick growth of ivy36; but great masses of crumbling37 stone had fallen inward and lay in the courtyard, heaped against the wall. From this turret he was to climb down by the ivy and the heaps of stone into the courtyard; and, softly opening the unlocked gate, to make his way along the passage to a subterranean tunnel communicating with it. Centuries ago this tunnel had formed a secret corridor between the fortress and a tower on the neighbouring hill; now it was quite disused and blocked in many places by the falling in of the rocks. No one but the smugglers knew of a certain carefully-hidden hole in the mountain-side which they had bored through to the tunnel; no one suspected that stores of forbidden merchandise were often kept, for weeks together, under the very ramparts of the fortress itself, while the customs-officers were vainly searching the houses of the sullen38, wrathful-eyed mountaineers. At this hole the Gadfly was to creep out on to the hillside, and make his way in the dark to a lonely spot where Martini and a smuggler32 would be waiting for him. The one great difficulty was that opportunities to unlock the gate after the evening patrol did not occur every night, and the descent from the window could not be made in very clear weather without too great a risk of being observed by the sentinel. Now that there was really a fair chance of success, it must not be missed.
He sat down and began to eat some of the bread. It at least did not disgust him like the rest of the prison food, and he must eat something to keep up his strength.
He had better lie down a bit, too, and try to get a little sleep; it would not be safe to begin filing before ten o'clock, and he would have a hard night's work.
And so, after all, the Padre had been thinking of letting him escape! That was like the Padre. But he, for his part, would never consent to it. Anything rather than that! If he escaped, it should be his own doing and that of his comrades; he would have no favours from priests.
How hot it was! Surely it must be going to thunder; the air was so close and oppressive. He moved restlessly on the pallet and put the bandaged right hand behind his head for a pillow; then drew it away again. How it burned and throbbed39! And all the old wounds were beginning to ache, with a dull, faint persistence40. What was the matter with them? Oh, absurd! It was only the thundery weather. He would go to sleep and get a little rest before beginning his filing.
Eight bars, and all so thick and strong! How many more were there left to file? Surely not many. He must have been filing for hours,-- interminable hours--yes, of course, that was what made his arm ache---- And how it ached; right through to the very bone! But it could hardly be the filing that made his side ache so; and the throbbing41, burning pain in the lame42 leg--was that from filing?
He started up. No, he had not been asleep; he had been dreaming with open eyes--dreaming of filing, and it was all still to do. There stood the window-bars, untouched, strong and firm as ever. And there was ten striking from the clock-tower in the distance. He must get to work.
He looked through the spy-hole, and, seeing that no one was watching, took one of the files from his breast.
. . . . .
No, there was nothing the matter with him-- nothing! It was all imagination. The pain in his side was indigestion, or a chill, or some such thing; not much wonder, after three weeks of this insufferable prison food and air. As for the aching and throbbing all over, it was partly nervous trouble and partly want of exercise. Yes, that was it, no doubt; want of exercise. How absurd not to have thought of that before!
He would sit down a little bit, though, and let it pass before he got to work. It would be sure to go over in a minute or two.
To sit still was worse than all. When he sat still he was at its mercy, and his face grew gray with fear. No, he must get up and set to work, and shake it off. It should depend upon his will to feel or not to feel; and he would not feel, he would force it back.
He stood up again and spoke to himself, aloud and distinctly:
"I am not ill; I have no time to be ill. I have those bars to file, and I am not going to be ill."
Then he began to file.
A quarter-past ten--half-past ten--a quarter to eleven---- He filed and filed, and every grating scrape of the iron was as though someone were filing on his body and brain. "I wonder which will be filed through first," he said to himself with a little laugh; "I or the bars?" And he set his teeth and went on filing.
Half-past eleven. He was still filing, though the hand was stiff and swollen43 and would hardly grasp the tool. No, he dared not stop to rest; if he once put the horrible thing down he should never have the courage to begin again.
The sentinel moved outside the door, and the butt44 end of his carbine scratched against the lintel. The Gadfly stopped and looked round, the file still in his lifted hand. Was he discovered?
A little round pellet had been shot through the spy-hole and was lying on the floor. He laid down the file and stooped to pick up the round thing. It was a bit of rolled paper.
. . . . .
It was a long way to go down and down, with the black waves rushing about him--how they roared----!
Ah, yes! He was only stooping down to pick up the paper. He was a bit giddy; many people are when they stoop. There was nothing the matter with him--nothing.
He picked it up, carried it to the light, and unfolded it steadily45.
"Come to-night, whatever happens; the Cricket will be transferred to-morrow to another service. This is our only chance."
He destroyed the paper as he had done the former one, picked up his file again, and went back to work, dogged and mute and desperate.
One o'clock. He had been working for three hours now, and six of the eight bars were filed. Two more, and then, to climb------
He began to recall the former occasions when these terrible attacks had come on. The last had been the one at New Year; and he shuddered46 as he remembered those five nights. But that time it had not come on so suddenly; he had never known it so sudden.
He dropped the file and flung out both hands blindly, praying, in his utter desperation, for the first time since he had been an atheist47; praying to anything--to nothing--to everything.
"Not to-night! Oh, let me be ill to-morrow! I will bear anything to-morrow--only not to-night!"
He stood still for a moment, with both hands up to his temples; then he took up the file once more, and once more went back to his work.
Half-past one. He had begun on the last bar. His shirt-sleeve was bitten to rags; there was blood on his lips and a red mist before his eyes, and the sweat poured from his forehead as he filed, and filed, and filed----
. . . . .
After sunrise Montanelli fell asleep. He was utterly48 worn out with the restless misery of the night and slept for a little while quietly; then he began to dream.
At first he dreamed vaguely49, confusedly; broken fragments of images and fancies followed each other, fleeting50 and incoherent, but all filled with the same dim sense of struggle and pain, the same shadow of indefinable dread51. Presently he began to dream of sleeplessness52; the old, frightful53, familiar dream that had been a terror to him for years. And even as he dreamed he recognized that he had been through it all before.
He was wandering about in a great empty place, trying to find some quiet spot where he could lie down and sleep. Everywhere there were people, walking up and down; talking, laughing, shouting; praying, ringing bells, and clashing metal instruments together. Sometimes he would get away to a little distance from the noise, and would lie down, now on the grass, now on a wooden bench, now on some slab54 of stone. He would shut his eyes and cover them with both hands to keep out the light; and would say to himself: "Now I will get to sleep." Then the crowds would come sweeping55 up to him, shouting, yelling, calling him by name, begging him: "Wake up! Wake up, quick; we want you!"
Again: he was in a great palace, full of gorgeous rooms, with beds and couches and low soft lounges. It was night, and he said to himself: "Here, at last, I shall find a quiet place to sleep." But when he chose a dark room and lay down, someone came in with a lamp, flashing the merciless light into his eyes, and said: "Get up; you are wanted."
He rose and wandered on, staggering and stumbling like a creature wounded to death; and heard the clocks strike one, and knew that half the night was gone already--the precious night that was so short. Two, three, four, five--by six o'clock the whole town would wake up and there would be no more silence.
He went into another room and would have lain down on a bed, but someone started up from the pillows, crying out: "This bed is mine!" and he shrank away with despair in his heart.
Hour after hour struck, and still he wandered on and on, from room to room, from house to house, from corridor to corridor. The horrible gray dawn was creeping near and nearer; the clocks were striking five; the night was gone and he had found no rest. Oh, misery! Another day --another day!
He was in a long, subterranean corridor, a low, vaulted56 passage that seemed to have no end. It was lighted with glaring lamps and chandeliers; and through its grated roof came the sounds of dancing and laughter and merry music. Up there, in the world of the live people overhead, there was some festival, no doubt. Oh, for a place to hide and sleep; some little place, were it even a grave! And as he spoke he stumbled over an open grave. An open grave, smelling of death and rottenness---- Ah, what matter, so he could but sleep!
"This grave is mine!" It was Gladys; and she raised her head and stared at him over the rotting shroud57. Then he knelt down and stretched out his arms to her.
"Gladys! Gladys! Have a little pity on me; let me creep into this narrow space and sleep. I do not ask you for your love; I will not touch you, will not speak to you; only let me lie down beside you and sleep! Oh, love, it is so long since I have slept! I cannot bear another day. The light glares in upon my soul; the noise is beating my brain to dust. Gladys, let me come in here and sleep!"
And he would have drawn58 her shroud across his eyes. But she shrank away, screaming:
"It is sacrilege; you are a priest!"
On and on he wandered, and came out upon the sea-shore, on the barren rocks where the fierce light struck down, and the water moaned its low, perpetual wail59 of unrest. "Ah!" he said; "the sea will be more merciful; it, too, is wearied unto death and cannot sleep."
Then Arthur rose up from the deep, and cried aloud:
"This sea is mine!"
. . . . .
"Your Eminence! Your Eminence!"
Montanelli awoke with a start. His servant was knocking at the door. He rose mechanically and opened it, and the man saw how wild and scared he looked.
"Your Eminence--are you ill?"
He drew both hands across his forehead.
"No; I was asleep, and you startled me."
"I am very sorry; I thought I had heard you moving early this morning, and I supposed------"
"Is it late now?"
"It is nine o'clock, and the Governor has called. He says he has very important business, and knowing Your Eminence to be an early riser------"
"Is he downstairs? I will come presently."
He dressed and went downstairs.
"I am afraid this is an unceremonious way to call upon Your Eminence," the Governor began.
"I hope there is nothing the matter?"
"There is very much the matter. Rivarez has all but succeeded in escaping."
"Well, so long as he has not quite succeeded there is no harm done. How was it?"
"He was found in the courtyard, right against the little iron gate. When the patrol came in to inspect the courtyard at three o'clock this morning one of the men stumbled over something on the ground; and when they brought the light up they found Rivarez lying across the path unconscious. They raised an alarm at once and called me up; and when I went to examine his cell I found all the window-bars filed through and a rope made of torn body-linen hanging from one of them. He had let himself down and climbed along the wall. The iron gate, which leads into the subterranean tunnels, was found to be unlocked. That looks as if the guards had been suborned."
"But how did he come to be lying across the path? Did he fall from the rampart and hurt himself?"
"That is what I thought at first. Your Eminence; but the prison surgeon can't find any trace of a fall. The soldier who was on duty yesterday says that Rivarez looked very ill last night when he brought in the supper, and did not eat anything. But that must be nonsense; a sick man couldn't file those bars through and climb along that roof. It's not in reason."
"Does he give any account of himself?"
"He is unconscious, Your Eminence."
"Still?"
"He just half comes to himself from time to time and moans, and then goes off again."
"That is very strange. What does the doctor think?"
"He doesn't know what to think. There is no trace of heart-disease that he can find to account for the thing; but whatever is the matter with him, it is something that must have come on suddenly, just when he had nearly managed to escape. For my part, I believe he was struck down by the direct intervention60 of a merciful Providence61."
Montanelli frowned slightly.
"What are you going to do with him?" he asked.
"That is a question I shall settle in a very few days. In the meantime I have had a good lesson. That is what comes of taking off the irons--with all due respect to Your Eminence."
"I hope," Montanelli interrupted, "that you will at least not replace the fetters while he is ill. A man in the condition you describe can hardly make any more attempts to escape."
"I shall take good care he doesn't," the Governor muttered to himself as he went out. "His Eminence can go hang with his sentimental62 scruples63 for all I care. Rivarez is chained pretty tight now, and is going to stop so, ill or not."
. . . . .
"But how can it have happened? To faint away at the last moment, when everything was ready; when he was at the very gate! It's like some hideous64 joke."
"I tell you," Martini answered, "the only thing I can think of is that one of these attacks must have come on, and that he must have struggled against it as long as his strength lasted and have fainted from sheer exhaustion65 when he got down into the courtyard."
Marcone knocked the ashes savagely66 from his pipe.
"Well. anyhow, that's the end of it; we can't do anything for him now, poor fellow."
"Poor fellow!" Martini echoed, under his breath. He was beginning to realise that to him, too, the world would look empty and dismal67 without the Gadfly.
"What does she think?" the smuggler asked, glancing towards the other end of the room, where Gemma sat alone, her hands lying idly in her lap, her eyes looking straight before her into blank nothingness.
"I have not asked her; she has not spoken since I brought her the news. We had best not disturb her just yet."
She did not appear to be conscious of their presence, but they both spoke with lowered voices, as though they were looking at a corpse68. After a dreary69 little pause, Marcone rose and put away his pipe.
"I will come back this evening," he said; but Martini stopped him with a gesture.
"Don't go yet; I want to speak to you." He dropped his voice still lower and continued in almost a whisper:
"Do you believe there is really no hope?"
"I don't see what hope there can be now. We can't attempt it again. Even if he were well enough to manage his part of the thing, we couldn't do our share. The sentinels are all being changed, on suspicion. The Cricket won't get another chance, you may be sure."
"Don't you think," Martini asked suddenly; "that, when he recovers, something might be done by calling off the sentinels?"
"Calling off the sentinels? What do you mean?"
"Well, it has occurred to me that if I were to get in the Governor's way when the procession passes close by the fortress on Corpus Domini day and fire in his face, all the sentinels would come rushing to get hold of me, and some of you fellows could perhaps help Rivarez out in the confusion. It really hardly amounts to a plan; it only came into my head."
"I doubt whether it could be managed," Marcone answered with a very grave face. "Certainly it would want a lot of thinking out for anything to come of it. But"--he stopped and looked at Martini--"if it should be possible-- would you do it?"
Martini was a reserved man at ordinary times; but this was not an ordinary time. He looked straight into the smuggler's face.
"Would I do it?" he repeated. "Look at her!"
There was no need for further explanations; in saying that he had said all. Marcone turned and looked across the room.
She had not moved since their conversation began. There was no doubt, no fear, even no grief in her face; there was nothing in it but the shadow of death. The smuggler's eyes filled with tears as he looked at her.
"Make haste, Michele!" he said, throwing open the verandah door and looking out. "Aren't you nearly done, you two? There are a hundred and fifty things to do!"
Michele, followed by Gino, came in from the verandah.
"I am ready now," he said. "I only want to ask the signora----"
He was moving towards her when Martini caught him by the arm.
"Don't disturb her; she's better alone."
"Let her be!" Marcone added. "We shan't do any good by meddling70. God knows, it's hard enough on all of us; but it's worse for her, poor soul!"
蒙泰尼里并没有因为愤怒而忽视自己的承诺。他强烈地抗议给牛虻带上镣铐，那位不幸的统领现在毫无办法，绝望之余只得打开所有的镣铐。他牢骚满腹，对他的副官说：“我怎么知道下一步主教阁下将会反对什么？如果他把普通的一副手铐也称作‘残忍’，那么他很快就会惊呼不该在窗户上安装栏杆，或者要我用牡蛎和块菌款待里瓦雷兹。在我年轻的时候，罪犯就是罪犯，他们就被当成罪犯来看待，没有人会认为乱党要比小偷好，但是现在造反成了一种时髦，主教阁下好像有意鼓励这个国家的所有坏蛋。”
“我看不出他凭什么要来干涉，”副官说道，“他又不是教省的特使，无权插手民事和军事方面的事务。根据法律——”
“谈论法律有什么用？圣父打开了监狱的大门，把自由派的所有坏蛋全都放了出来。在这之后，你不能指望谁来尊重法律！这完全是胡闹！蒙泰尼里大人当然要摆摆架子。前任教皇在位时，他还算安稳。现在他可是妄自尊大。他立即就得到赏识，可以为所欲为。我怎么能反对他呢？他也许得到了梵蒂冈的秘密授权，谁知道呢。现在一切都是黑白颠倒。你闹不清下一步将会发生什么。过去多好，人们知道应该做些什么，但是现在——”
统领沮丧地摇了摇头。这个世界变得太复杂了，使他无法理解。红衣主教竟然操心监狱规章，并且谈论政治犯的“权利”。
至于牛虻，他在回到城堡时神经处于亢奋状态，近似歇斯底里，同蒙泰尼里的会面几乎使他再也忍受不了。绝望之中，最后他才恶狠狠地说到了杂耍表演，只是为了中止那次面谈。再过五分钟，他就会流出眼泪。
当天下午他被叫去受审。对于向他提出的每一个问题，他只是发出阵阵抽搐似的狂笑。统领忍不住发了脾气，开始破口大骂，牛虻却只是笑得愈加没有节制。不幸的统领怒气冲冲，大发雷霆，威胁要对这位倔强的犯人动用无以复加的酷刑。但是最终他得出了杰姆斯·伯顿老早就得出的结论，跟一个失去理智的人争辩只是白费口舌，徒伤肝火。
牛虻再次被带回到他的牢房。他在地铺上躺了下来，陷入一种低落而又绝望的情绪之中，疯疯癫癫一阵之后他总是这样。他一直躺到黄昏，身体一动也不动，甚至什么也不想。
经历过上午的冲动以后，他处于一种奇怪的冷漠状态，他自己的痛苦对他来说不过是沉闷的机械负担，压在某个忘了自己还有灵魂的木头物件上。事实上，结局如何没有多大关系。
对于一个具有知觉的生物来说，唯一重要的是免除难以忍受的痛苦。至于是从改变外部条件着手，还是从扼杀感觉着手，那是一个无关紧要的问题。也许他能逃出去，也许他们会把他杀死。不管怎样，他都不能再次见到Padre了，所以这使他的精神感到空虚和烦恼。
一名看守送来晚饭，牛虻抬起头来，漠然地望着他。
“什么时间了？”
“六点。您的晚饭，先生。”
他厌恶地看了一眼臭不可闻、半热不冷的馊饭，随即转过身去。他不仅感到情绪低落，而且也感到自己病了。见到食物，他心中作呕。
“如果你不吃是会生病的，”那位士兵匆忙说道，“还是吃点面包吧，对你会有好处的。”
那人说话时语调带着一种好奇的诚恳，他从盘子中拿起一块未曾烘干的面包，然后又把它放了下来。牛虻恢复了革命党人的机警，他立即就猜出面包里藏了什么东西。
“你把它放在这儿，回头我会吃上一点。”他漫不经心地说。牢门开着，他知道站在楼梯的军曹能够听清他们所说的每一句话。
牢门又被锁上，他确信没人从窥测孔监视。他拿起了那块面包，小心地把它揉碎。中间就是他所期望的东西，一把截短的锉子包在一小张纸里，上面写着字。他小心地摊开那张纸，凑近略有光亮的地方。字密密麻麻地写在一起，纸又薄，所以字迹很难辨认。
铁门打开，天上没有月亮。尽快锉好，两点至三点通过走道。我们已经作好一切准备，也许再没有机会了。
他兴奋地把那张纸揉碎了。这么说来，所有的准备工作都已做好，他只需锉断窗户的栏杆。镣铐已经卸下，真是幸运！他不用锉断镣铐。有几根栏杆？两根，四根。第一根得锉两处，这就等于八根。噢，如果他动作快点，他在夜里还是来得及的——琼玛和马尔蒂尼这么快就把一切都准备好了——包括伪装、护照和藏身之处？他们一定忙得不可分身——他们还是采用了她的计划。他暗自嘲笑自己愚不可及。究竟是不是她的计划又有什么关系，只要是个好计划就行！可是他还是忍不住觉得高兴，因为是她想出了让他利用地道的主意，而不是让他攀着绳梯下去，私贩子们原先就是这么建议的。她的计划虽然更加复杂和困难，但是不像另外一个计划那样，可能危及在东墙外面站岗的哨兵生命。因此，当两个计划摆在他的面前时，他毫不犹豫地选择了琼玛的计划。
具体的安排是这样的：那位绰号叫做“蟋蟀”的看守朋友抓住第一个机会，在他的同伴毫不知晓的情况下，打开院子通往垒墙下面的地道铁门，然后把钥匙挂在警戒室的钉子上。接到这个消息以后，牛虻就锉断窗户的栏杆，撕开衬衣编成一根绳子，然后顺着绳子落到院子东边的那堵宽墙上。在哨兵瞭望另外一个方向时，他沿着墙头往前爬；在那人朝这边张望时，他就趴着不动。东南角是坍塌了一半的塔楼。在某种程度上，塔楼是被茂密的常青藤支撑在那里。但是大块的石头坠落到里面，堆在院子的墙边。他将顺着常青藤和院子的石堆从塔楼爬下去，走进院子，然后轻轻打开没有上锁的铁门，途经过道进入与其相连的地道。数个世纪以前，这条地道是一道秘密走廊，连接城堡与附近山上的一个堡垒。地道现在已经废弃不用了，而且多处已被落进的石头阻塞。只有私贩子知道山坡有一个藏得严实的洞穴，他们掘开了这个洞穴，使它与地道相连。没人怀疑违禁的货物常常藏在城堡的垒墙下面，能在这里藏上数个星期，可是海关官员却到那些怒目围睁的山民家里搜查，结果总是劳而无功。牛虻将从这个洞爬到山上，然后乘黑走到一个偏僻的地点。马尔蒂尼和一个私贩子将在那里等他。最大的困难将是晚间巡逻之后，并不是每天都有机会打开铁门。而且在天气晴朗的夜晚不能爬下窗户，那样就有被哨兵发现的危险。现在有了这么好的一个成功机会，那就不能使它失之交臂。
他坐了下来，开始吃上一点面包。至少面包不像监狱其他的食物，让他感到厌恶，他必须吃点东西来维持体力。
他最好还是躺一会儿，尽量睡上一会儿。十点之前就开锉可不安全，他得苦干一夜。
这么说来，Padre还是想让他逃走！这倒像Padre。但是就他而言，他永远也不同意这样做。这种事就是不行！如果他逃走了，那也是靠他自己，靠他的同志们。他不会接受教士们的恩惠。
真热！当然是要打雷了，空气闷得让人喘不过气来。他在地铺上翻来覆去，把缠了绷带的右手放在头后充作枕头，然后又把它抽了出来。它疼得发抖！所有的旧伤全都开始隐隐作痛。它们是怎么啦？噢，真是荒唐！只是雷雨天气在作怪。
他会睡上一觉，在开锉之前休息一会儿。
八根栏杆，全都是那么粗，那么坚硬！还有几根要锉？当然没有几根了。他一定是锉了几个小时——连续干了几个小时——对，那当然，所以他的胳膊才会这么疼——疼得这么厉害，彻骨的疼痛！但是不大可能使他的侧身也这么疼。那条瘸腿悸动的灼痛——这是锉削引起的吗？
他惊醒了过来。不，他没有睡着。他一直是在睁着眼睛做梦——梦见锉削，可是这一切还没动手呢。窗户的栏杆碰都没碰，还是那么坚硬和牢固。远处的钟楼敲响了十下，他必须动手干了。
他透过窥测孔望去，没有发现有人在监视他。于是他从胸前取出一把锉子。
不，他没什么关系——没什么！全是想象。侧身的疼痛是消化不良，或者就是受了凉，要不就是别的什么。牢里的伙食和空气让人无法忍受，待上三个星期，这也不见为奇。至于全身的疼痛和颤抖，部分原因是紧张，部分原因是缺乏锻炼。对了，就是这么回事，毫无疑问是缺乏锻炼。真是荒唐，以前怎么没有想到这个！
他可以坐下歇一会儿，等到疼过这一阵再干。歇上一两分钟，疼痛肯定就会过去的。
坐着不动更糟。当他坐着不动时，他疼痛难忍，由于害怕，他的脸色发灰。不，他必须站起来工作，驱除疼痛。感觉疼痛与否取决于他的意志，他不会感觉疼痛，他会迫使疼痛收缩回去。
他又站了起来，自言自语，声音响亮而又清晰。
“我没病，我没有时间生病。我要把这些栏杆锉断，我不会生病。”
他随后开始锉起来。
十点一刻——十点半——十点三刻——他锉了又锉，锉动铁条的声音是那么刺耳，就像是有人在锉他的躯体和大脑。
“真不知道哪个先被锉断，”他暗自小声笑了一下，“是我还是栏杆？”
十一点半。他仍在锉着，尽管那只僵硬而又红肿的手很难握住工具。不，他不敢停下来休息。如果一旦放下那件可怕的工具，他就再也没有勇气重新开始。
哨兵在门外走动，短筒马枪的枪托碰到了门楣。牛虻停下来往四下看了一眼，锉子仍在举起的那只手里。他被发现了吗？
一个小团从窥测孔里弹了进来，落在地上。他放下锉子，弯腰拾起那个圆团。这是一小片纸攥成的纸团。
直往下沉，沉入无底的深渊，黑色的波涛向他席卷过来——怒吼的波涛——
噢，对了！他只是弯腰拾起了那个纸团。他有点头晕，许多人弯腰的时候都会头晕的。这没什么关系——没什么。
他把它捡起来拿到亮处，然后平静地把它展开。
不管发生什么，今晚都要过来。蟋蟀明天就被调到另外一个地方。这是我们仅有的机会。
他撕毁了纸条，他就是这样处理前一张纸条的。他又抓起了锉子，回去继续工作，顽强、沉默而又绝望。
一点。他现在干了三个小时，已经锉断了六根栏杆。再锉两根，那么他就要爬——
他开始回忆他这身可怕的病症以前发作的情形，最后一次是在新年的时候。当他想起连续生病的五夜时，他不禁颤抖起来。但是那一次病魔来得不是这么突然，他从不知道会这么突然。
他丢下锉子，茫然伸出双手。由于陷入了彻底绝望，他做起了祷告。自从他成为一位无神论者，他还是第一次祈祷。
他对微乎其微祈祷——对子虚乌有祈祷——对一切的一切祈祷。
“别在今晚发作！噢，让我明天生病吧！明天我甘愿忍受一切——只要不在今晚发作就行！”
他平静地站了一会儿，双手捂住太阳穴。然后他再次抓起了锉子，重又回去工作。
一点半。他已经开始锉削最后一根栏杆。他的衬衣袖子已被咬成了碎片，他的嘴唇流出了血，眼前是一片血雾，汗水从他的前额滚落。他还在一个劲儿锉啊，锉啊，锉啊——
太阳升起的时候，蒙泰尼里睡着了。夜晚失眠的痛楚使他精疲力竭。在他安静地睡上一会儿时，他又开始做起了梦。
起先他的梦境模糊而又混杂，破碎的形象和幻想纷至沓来，飘飘忽忽，毫不连贯，但是同样充满了搏斗和痛苦的模糊感觉，同样充满了难以言喻的恐怖阴影。他很快就做起了失眠的噩梦，做起了可怕和熟悉的旧梦，这个噩梦多年以来一直使他心惊肉跳。甚至在他做梦的时候，他也能确认这一切他都经历过。
他在一个广袤的旷野游荡，试图寻找某个安全的地方，可以躺下来睡觉。到处都是人来人往，说话、欢笑、叫喊、祈祷、打铃，以及撞击铁器的声音。有时他会稍微离开喧闹的地方躺下来，一会儿躺在草地上，一会儿躺在木凳上，一会儿躺在一块石板上。他会闭上眼睛，并用双手捂住它们，挡着亮光。他会自言自语地说：“现在我就睡觉了。”随后人群就会蜂拥而来，叫着、嚷着和喊着他的名字，恳求他：“醒来吧！快点醒来吧，我们需要您！”
随后他进入一个偌大的宫殿，里面全是富丽堂皇的房间，摆放着床榻和低矮柔软的躺椅。天已经黑了，他自言自语地说：“在这里我终于找到了一处安静的睡觉地方。”但是当他选择了一个黑暗的房间躺下时，有人端着一盏灯走了进来，毫不留情地照着他的眼睛，并说：“起来，有人找你。”
他起身继续游荡，摇摇晃晃，踉踉跄跄，就像一个受伤将死的人。他听到时钟敲了一下，知道已经过了半夜——上半夜是这么短暂。两点、三点、四点、五点——到了六点，全城都会醒来，那时就不会这么寂静了。
他走进另一个房间，准备躺在一张床上，可是有人在床上一跃而起，叫道：“这床是我的！”
他缩回身体走开，心中充满了绝望。
时钟敲响了一下又一下，可是他还在继续游荡，从一个房间走到另一个房间，从一所房子走到另一所房子，从一条走廊走到另一条走廊。可怕的灰蒙蒙的黎明愈来愈近；时钟正敲响了五下。夜晚已经过去了，可是他却没有找到休息的地方。噢，苦啊！又一天——又一天啊！
他走进一条长长的地下走廊，这条低矮的穹形通道好像没有尽头。里面点着耀眼的油灯和蜡烛，透过格栅的洞顶传来了跳舞的声音、喧笑和欢快的音乐。是在上面，是在头顶上方的那个活人的世界里。无疑那里正在欢度节日。噢，找个藏身和睡觉的地方吧。一小块地方，坟墓也行啊！在他说话的时候，他跌进了一个敞开的坟墓。一个敞开的坟墓，散发着死亡和腐烂——哎，这没有关系，只要他能睡觉就行！
“这个坟墓是我的！”这是格拉迪丝。她抬起了头，从正在腐烂的裹尸布上瞪着他。随后他跪下身来，向她伸出了双臂。
“格拉迪丝！格拉迪丝！可怜可怜我吧，让我爬进这个狭窄的空间睡觉。我并不要求你爱我。我不会碰你，不会跟你讲话，只让我躺在你的身边睡觉就行！噢，亲爱的，我好久没有睡过觉了！我一天也熬不下去了。亮光照进了我的灵魂，噪声正把我的大脑敲成粉末。格拉迪丝，让我进去睡觉吧！”
他想扯过她的裹尸布盖在他的眼睛上。但是她直往后缩，尖声叫道：“这是亵渎神灵，你是一位教士！”
他继续游荡，来到了海边，站在光秃秃的岩石上。炽烈的光亮照射下来，大海持续发出低沉、焦躁的哀号。
“啊！”他说，“还是大海比较慈悲，它也乏得要命，无法睡觉。”
亚瑟随即从大海里探出了身体，大声叫道：“大海是我的！”
“主教阁下！主教阁下！”
蒙泰尼里惊醒了过来。他的仆人正在敲门。他机械地爬了起来，打开了房门。那人看见他一脸惧色。
“主教阁下——您病了吗？”
他抹了抹他的前额。
“没有，我正在睡觉，你吓了我一跳。”
“非常抱歉，我以为我听见您一大早就起床了，我想——”
“现在不早了吧？”
“九点钟了，统领前来造访。他说有要事相谈，他知道您起得早——”
“他在楼下吗？我马上就去。”
他穿起了衣服，随即走下楼去。
“恐怕这样拜访主教阁下有些造次。”统领开口说道。
“希望没有什么要紧的事情？”
“事情非常要紧。里瓦雷兹差点就越狱逃走了。”
“呃，只要他没有逃走，那就没有造成危害。怎么回事？”
“他被发现在院子里，就靠在那个铁门上。今天凌晨三点，巡逻队在巡视院子时，有个士兵给地上的什么东西绊了一交。
他们拿来灯后，发现里瓦雷兹倒在小路上不省人事。他们立即发出了警报，并且把我叫去。我去查看了他的牢房，发现窗户的栏杆全给锉断了，一条用撕碎的衬衣编成的绳子挂在一根栏杆上。他把自己放了下去，然后沿着墙头爬走。我们发现通往地道的铁门已被打开。看上去那些看守已被买通了。”
“但是他怎么会倒在小路上呢？他是从垒墙上摔了下去，并且受了伤吗？”
“我先也是这么想的，主教阁下。但是监狱的医生找不出摔伤的痕迹。昨天值班的士兵说，他昨晚把饭送去时，里瓦雷兹看上去病得很厉害，什么也没吃。但这肯定是胡说八道，一个病人决不可能锉断那些栏杆，然后沿着墙头爬走。一点道理也没有。”
“这事他自己是怎么解释的？”
“他不省人事，主教阁下。”
“仍旧不省人事？”
“他只是时不时醒过来，呻吟几声又昏过去。”
“这就非常奇怪了。医生怎么看呢？”
“他不知道怎么说。没有心脏病发作的迹象，他解释不了昏迷的原因。但是不管他是怎么回事，一定来得突然，就在他快要逃走的时候。恕我直言，我相信是老天有眼，直接出手将他击倒。”
蒙泰尼里微微皱起了眉头。
“你怎么处置他呢？”他问。
“这个问题我会在近几天解决。在此之间，我要好好吸取这个教训。这是取下镣铐的后果——恕我直言，主教阁下。”
“我希望，”蒙泰尼里打断了他的话，“至少在他生病期间不要戴上镣铐。一个人处于你所描述的状况，根本就不能再作逃跑的尝试。”
“我会留意不让他逃跑的。”统领走出去时暗自嘀咕，“主教阁下尽可以去悲天悯人，这不关我的事。里瓦雷兹现在已被铐得结结实实的，而且以后一直这样，不管他生病还是不生病。”
“但是怎么可能发生了这种事情？最后关头昏了过去，当时一切准备就绪，当时他就在铁门前面！简直是天大的笑话。”
“我敢肯定，”马尔蒂尼回答，“我所能想到的唯一原因是旧病发作，他肯定苦撑了很长的时间，用尽了力气。当他走进院子时，他累昏过去了。”
马尔科尼使劲敲去烟斗里的烟灰。
“呃，反正是完了。我们现在对他无能为力，可怜的家伙。”
“可怜的家伙！”马尔蒂尼小声附和。他开始意识到，没有了牛虻，这个世界将会变得空洞乏味。
“她怎么想？”那个私贩子问道，同时往屋子那头扫了一眼。琼玛独自坐在那里，双手悠然地搭在膝上，她的眼睛茫然地望着前方。
“我还没问她，自从我把消息告诉她以后，她就没有说过话。我们最好还是不要打扰她。”
她看上去全然不知他们的存在，但是他俩说话还是小声小气，仿佛他们是在看着一具死尸。停顿片刻以后，马尔科尼站了起来，放下了他的烟斗。
“我今天傍晚过来。”他说，但是马尔蒂尼举手止住了他。
“别走，我有话要跟你说。”他把声音放得更低，几乎像是耳语。“你相信真的没有希望了吗？”
“我看不出现在还有希望。我们不能再作尝试了。即使他身体好了，能够完成他那一方面的事情，我们也无法完成我们这一方面的事情。哨兵因为涉嫌全被换掉了。蟋蟀肯定再也没有机会了。”
“你不认为在他身体恢复以后，”马尔蒂尼突然问道，“我们可以做点什么，从而把哨兵引开吗？”
“把哨兵引开？你是什么意思？”
“呃，我想到了一个主意。迎圣体节那天，在游行队伍接近城堡的时候，如果我挡住统领的去路，当面向他开枪，那么所有的哨兵都会冲来抓我，你们的一些人也许可以乘着混乱救出里瓦雷兹。这不算什么计划，只不过是我的一个想法。”
“我怀疑这事能否做得到，”马尔科尼严肃地回答，“要想做成这事，当然需要仔细考虑清楚。但是，”——他停下来望着马尔蒂尼——“如果行得通——你愿干吗？”
马尔蒂尼平时是个保守的人，但是这可不是平时。他直视那个私贩子的脸。
“我愿干吗？”他重复说道。“看看她！”
没有必要再作解释，说了这句话也就说了所有的话。马尔科尼转身望着屋子的那一头。
自从他们开始谈话以后，她就一动也没动。她的脸上没有怀疑，没有恐惧，甚至没有悲哀。脸上什么也没有，只有死亡的阴影。看着她，私贩子的眼睛噙满了泪水。
“快点，米歇尔！”说罢打开游廊的门，朝外望去。
米歇尔从游廊走进来，后面跟着季诺。
“我现在准备好了。”他说，“我只想问夫人——”
他正要朝她走去，这时马尔蒂尼抓住了他的胳膊。
“别去打扰她，最好还是别去管她。”
“随她去吧！”马尔科尼补充说道。“劝她没什么用的。上帝知道我们都很难受，但是她更受不了，可怜的人啊！”
收听单词发音 |
1
fetters
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| n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 )；束缚v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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oysters
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| 牡蛎( oyster的名词复数 ) | |
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traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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authorization
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| n.授权，委任状 | |
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cardinals
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| 红衣主教( cardinal的名词复数 )； 红衣凤头鸟（见于北美，雄鸟为鲜红色）； 基数 | |
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offenders
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| n.冒犯者( offender的名词复数 )；犯规者；罪犯；妨害…的人（或事物） | |
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fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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fumed
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| 愤怒( fume的过去式和过去分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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refractory
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| adj.倔强的，难驾驭的 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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sentient
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| adj.有知觉的，知悉的；adv.有感觉能力地 | |
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unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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conspirator
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| n.阴谋者，谋叛者 | |
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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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utilizing
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| v.利用，使用( utilize的现在分词 ) | |
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subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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smuggler
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| n.走私者 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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masonry
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| n.砖土建筑；砖石 | |
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turret
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| n.塔楼，角塔 | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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atheist
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| n.无神论者 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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fleeting
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| adj.短暂的，飞逝的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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52
sleeplessness
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| n.失眠，警觉 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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vaulted
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| adj.拱状的 | |
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57
shroud
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| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
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58
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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64
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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66
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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67
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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70
meddling
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| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的现在分词 ) | |
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