It would be unfair to tell the story of Father Brown without acknowledging that he had been involved in a major scandal.There are still people, even in his own group, who would say that his reputation has been stained in some way.It took place in some picturesque and disreputable Mexican hotel, and it will be revealed below; it seemed to some as if, for the first time, the priest let his romantic disposition and sympathy for human frailties lead him. , did something thoughtless and unseemly.The story itself is simple; perhaps its simplicity is what makes it so surprising. The burning of Troy was due to Helen; the dishonor was due to the beauty of Hypatia Hader.Americans are very good at creating institutions from the people, that is, the people themselves, which Europeans don't always appreciate.Like other good things, there are downsides to this; one of which, as Mr. Wells and others have argued, is that one may not have to be officially famous to be publicly famous.A woman of stunning beauty or intelligence can be an uncrowned queen even if she isn't a movie star or Gibson Maiden herself.Among women fortunate or unlucky to have such a reputation is Hypatia Porter, who has moved beyond the nascent stage of being praised in the society section of the local newspaper to being interviewed by actual journalists. past celebrities.With a charming smile, she expresses her views on issues of war, peace, patriotism, Prohibition, evolution and the Bible; Where did it come from.Natural beauty and being a rich girl is not uncommon in her country; but there is just something about her that attracts the attention of the press.None of her admirers had even met her, hadn't even thought of seeing her; none of them had any chance of getting any share of his father's estate.It was just some kind of popular romance, a modern substitute for myth; it laid the foundations for her later, more exaggerated, wilder romances; and many others were discredited.

The fact that she was married to a successful and respected businessman named Porter was either romanticized or resignedly admitted to reality by what American satire dubbed the "sad female reporter."He even called her Mrs. Potter, because there was such a consensus in the world that her husband would only be Mrs. Potter's husband. Then came the big scandal, which shocked her friends and foes alike and couldn't accept it.Her name had been doubled (as the odd term suggested) with that of a man of letters living in Mexico, who, though American, had a Hispanic disposition.Unfortunately, his vices resembled her virtues, as if from the same mold.He was none other than the famous or notorious poet Rudel Romanis, whose works were widely circulated because they were rejected by libraries or prosecuted by the police.In any case, her pure and quiet star and his broom star appeared in front of people's eyes.He was the kind of man who could be compared to a comet, both hairy and passionate; the former is glimpsed in his portraits, the latter in his poetry.He was also extremely destructive; that comet's tail, a string of divorces that some said indicated his success as a lover, others his failure as a husband.The relationship was hard enough for Hypatia; there were all kinds of downsides to having a perfectly private life in public; it was like showing your bedroom in a shop window.Reporters also referred to dubious claims about "the highest level of self-actualization through love."The pagans applauded.Sentimental female journalists expressed romantic regret; some even boldly quoted Maud Miller saying that nothing, spoken or written, saddens more than "it could have been" words.Mr. Aga P. Rock, on the other hand, has a profound aversion to the sentimental female reporter for holy and just reasons, and says that in this matter he fully agrees with Brett Hart's revision of the line:

"It's sadder than what we see every day; it happened and it shouldn't have happened." Because Mr. Roque is convinced, and for good reason, that many things should not have happened.A sharp-tongued critic of national depravity for the Minneapolis Meteor, he was outspoken and honest.He may be too righteously outraged, but the intention is good, to show his attitude against the confusion of modern journalism and anecdotal rumors.The first thing he protested was the unholy romantic aura bestowed on shooters and gangsters.He was perhaps too extreme, inclined to think that all gangsters were Latinos and all Latinos were gangsters.But even if his views are unavoidably narrow, it is a breath of fresh air, for there is a weeping, phony hero-worship among the masses, and whenever a reporter reports that a hitman's smile is irresistible, or that His tuxedo is still decent, and the public regards him as a fashion pioneer.At any rate, Mr. Roque's prejudice was not diminished at the moment, for he was practically on Latin territory when the affair began; Hill, go to the white hotel with palm trees on both sides, where the Potters are said to stay, and where the mysterious Hypatia is also worshiped by others.Aga Roque is a typical Puritan, even in appearance; one could even say that he is a virile Puritan of the seventeenth century, not the softer and more sophisticated Puritan of the twentieth century.If you had told him that his old black hat, his habitual sullen frowning face, and blunt, handsome features cast a shadow over this sunny southern land of palms and grapes, he would still Feeling quite satisfied.He looked around with suspicious bright eyes.Then he looked up and saw two figures on the ridge, bathed in the clear subtropical sunset; in their posture, even a less suspicious person would have been suspicious.

One of the figures is very eye-catching.Its posture coincided with the angle at which the road above the valley turned, as if a sculpture had been erected in that position either instinctively or intentionally.He wore a broad black cloak like Byron's, and his dark and handsome face was exactly like Byron's.This one had the same curly hair and curled nostrils; he seemed to be mocking and berating the world like Byron.In his hand he held a long cane or crutch with the handle of one of those trekking poles, which he held oddly as if it were a spear.The other figure with an umbrella forms a somewhat comical contrast, making the whole effect even more grotesque.It was actually a brand-new, neatly folded umbrella, very different from Father Brown's: the man was dressed in neat and light resort clothes, much like a clerk; A short bearded man; yet he raised and even waved that hideous umbrella in a violent attack.The tall man hastily fought back, but in self-defence, and then the scene became farce; for the umbrella unfolded of its own accord, and its owner seemed to be covered under, while the other thrust his spear into the area. A big, weird looking shield.However, instead of stabbing or arguing, he drew his spear and strode away impatiently along the road; while the other stood up, carefully put away his umbrella, and walked in the opposite direction, Walk towards the hotel.Rock had heard no argument, perhaps had had before this brief, rather absurd physical altercation; but as he walked down the path walked by the little bearded man, I thought a lot about it.A caped man with a romantic manner and an opera face, and a stocky, determined man, was not that the story he was after; he knew he could call the names of the two strange men Names: Romanis and Potter.

When he reached the colonnade, his suspicions were fully confirmed; he heard the loud voice of the bearded man, whether it was making a noise or giving orders.He was obviously addressing the manager or staff of the hotel, and Rock heard enough of it to understand that he was warning them of a wild and dangerous figure nearby. "If he has been in the hotel," replied the little man, to some whispers, "I can only say that you better not let him in. Your police should take care of that kind of person, However, in short, I will not allow him to harass that lady any more." Rock listened sullenly in silence, more and more convinced of his conjecture; then he walked through the hall to an alcove, where he saw the lodging registration form, turned to the last page, and found "The Guy" did come to the hotel.That romantic public figure, the name of "Rudel Romanes," is there, written in a very large, very dazzling foreign font; and a little further down, Hypatia Potter and Ellis T. Te's name, next to each other, in proper American font.

Aga Rock looked around sullenly, and found that everything around him, even the small decorations of the hotel, was his most annoying thing.Complaining that oranges grow on orange trees, even in small pots, is perhaps a little vexatious; complaining that shabby curtains or faded wallpaper have oranges printed on it is even more vexatious.But for him, embedding a silver moon in those red and yellow oranges shaped like a full moon is simply a weird way of expressing the absurdity that cannot be added.Those things made him see the sad decline in the world, and also reminded him of the warm and feminine temperament of the south.He sees a black canvas looming a sombre Watteau shepherd holding a guitar, and a blue tile with an austere depiction of Cupid riding a dolphin, and he's pissed off.His instinct would have told him that perhaps he could see these things in shop windows on Fifth Avenue in New York; but wherever they were, they seemed like the mocking and demagogic call of the heretics of the Mediterranean.Suddenly, everything around him seemed to change, just like a static mirror would suddenly flash when a figure passed by; he realized that at this moment a very challenging figure filled the interior space.He turned around almost bluntly and with some reluctance, and he knew without saying anything that the person in front of him was the famous Hypatia. Over the years, he had read and heard a lot about her. what.

Hypatia Potter, whose maiden name is Hader, is definitely one of those people who deserves to be described as "radiant."That is to say, she fully released the charisma of her personality depicted in the newspapers.If she was more restrained, she would be equally beautiful, and even more attractive in the eyes of some people; but she has always been taught that being restrained is selfish.She may say that she has lost herself by showing herself; in fact, her self has been affirmed by showing her self; but she shows her charm with sincerity.So her extraordinary, bright blue eyes really sparkle, shooting Cupid's arrows, as the old metaphor of the image says, to mesmerize; abstractly speaking, she not only Only coquettish, but also to capture people's hearts.Her fair hair, though combed like a saint's halo, seemed almost radiant like electricity.When she realized that the stranger in front of her was Mr. Agar Rock who worked for the "Minneapolis Meteor", her eyes immediately turned into long-distance searchlights, as if they were about to sweep across the horizon of the United States.

But here the lady was wrong; she was wrong sometimes.Because this Agar Rock is not Agar Rock of the Minneapolis Meteor.At that moment he was only Agar Rock; a strong and sincere moral impulse surged in him, surpassing the brute courage of a reporter.He was full of a kind of chivalry and national sentiment, mixed with a certain kind of moral consciousness also based on national sentiment, which made him have the courage to make a big scene and determined to humiliate her.He remembered the original Hypatia, the beautiful Neoplatonist, and how, as a child, he had been struck by Kingsley's romance, in which the young monk scolded her for misbehavior and god-worship.He looked coldly at her and said:

"Excuse me. Madam, I would like to speak with you in private." "Oh," she said while scanning the reception hall with her bright eyes, "do you think this place is private enough?" Rock also glanced around. It seemed that apart from the orange trees, the only thing that showed signs of life was the thing that looked like a big black mushroom. He recognized that it was the hat worn by a local priest or appeared out of nowhere. Not that he was smoking a local black cigar indifferently, which could be classified as a vegetable.He gazed for a moment at the heavy, rigid face, noticing the vulgar peasant features from which priests usually come from in Latin countries, especially in Latin America; and laughing, he said in a low voice:

"I don't think the Mexican priest understands our language," he said. "These slobs rarely learn any language but their own. Oh, I can't guarantee he's Mexican; he could be anything; Mulatto or Mulatto, I suppose. But I'm sure he's not Americans. Our churches don't produce a bad breed like that." "Actually," replied the poor breed, removing the black cigar from his lips, "I'm English and my name is Brown. But if you want privacy, please allow me to go away." "If you're British," Rock obviously softened his tone, "you should instinctively object to these nonsense like some normal Nordic people. However, I just want to say that I can prove that there is a very dangerous There's a guy hanging around; a tall man in a cloak who looks just like those mad poets in those pictures."

"Oh, that doesn't mean much," said the priest mildly. "Many people wear cloaks here, because it's very cold as soon as the sun goes down." Rock threw an angry and suspicious look, as if he suspected that he was talking about him around Wang Gu, in order to defend everything that the mushroom hat and empty talk represented to him. "It's not just the cape," he bellowed, "although it has something to do with the way he wears it. The guy's whole look is exaggerated, including his hideously unnatural good looks. With all due respect, ma'am, I strongly I suggest you have nothing to do with him, if he comes to make trouble. Your husband has already told the hotel people to keep him out of the door—” Hypatia jumped up, covering her face in an unusual pose, her fingers running through her hair.She seemed to be trembling, perhaps from sobbing, but when she regained her composure, it was laughing. "Oh, you're so funny," she said, and suddenly, uncharacteristically, she stooped out the door and disappeared. "It's kind of hysterical for a woman to laugh like that," Rock said uncomfortably; These latinos. Oh, some people keep talking about the Anglo-Saxons, I'm not one of those; but there's a thing about history. You've always been proud to say that American civilization came from England." "And, in order not to get carried away," said Father Brown, "we must admit that English civilization is derived from the Latins." Roque again felt that the other party was prevaricating, and at the same time he was standing on the opposite side of him, pretending to be obedient in some hidden way; he impatiently expressed his incomprehension. "Well, there once was a Latin, or Italian, named Julius Caesar," said Father Brown, "and he was stabbed to death by a gang; you know these Latins love knives. Besides, There was also Augustine, who brought Christianity to our little island; and I honestly don't think we would have much civilization without these two men." "Anyway, that's ancient history," said the somewhat exasperated reporter. "I'm very interested in modern history. What I see is that these scoundrels brought paganism to our country and brought the original Christian Religion has been destroyed. All common sense has also been destroyed. All established habits, all entrenched social order, all the ways our peasant ancestors lived in the world have been destroyed by scandalous scandals of movie stars. It's a hot pot, and these celebrities get divorced almost once a month, making every silly girl think that marriage is just a means of divorce." "You're quite right," said Father Brown. "Of course, I agree with your point of view. But you can't generalize. Maybe these southerners are more likely to make that kind of mistake. But you have to remember that northerners also have other flaws. Maybe this kind of Circumstances make these people too focused on pure romance." Upon hearing that word, Agar Rock's anger welled up. "I hate romance," he said, patting the small table in front of him. "I've been fighting the newspaper I work for for 40 years over this rubbish. Every tale of a villain running off with a barmaid is called a romantic elopement; now our own Hypatia Hader, a respectable family Daughter of , perhaps embroiled in some rotten romantic divorce, and proclaiming it all over the world as if it were a royal wedding. This mad poet Romanis is stalking her; predictably, the spotlight will be everywhere Follow him as if he were some corrupt little Latina, the so-called lover in the movies. I saw him out there; Porter, a straightforward agent from Pittsburgh who thinks he has the right to defend his family and will fight for it. I heard him yelling at the reception for them to turn that scoundrel away out the door; well done. People seem to be sneaky and furtive here; but I think he's taught them to fear God." "Actually," said Father Brown, "I agree with what you say about the hotel managers and staff; but you can't judge all Mexicans on that. And I think the gentleman you mentioned not only yelled, And throwing dollars around, enough to buy off the entire hotel staff. I saw them lock the door, chattering excitedly. By the way, your simple and straightforward friend seems to be rich." "I'm sure his business is booming," Rock said. "He's a very honest kind of businessman. What do you mean by that?" "I thought that might give you another line of thought," said Father Brown; and rose to leave with the utmost humility. Over dinner that night, Rock took a good look at the Potters; he had some new impressions, none of which was strong enough to lessen his strong feeling that some inappropriate behavior was likely to cause a stir in the Potter family.And Porter himself feels like a need to get to know; Roark, who at first thought he was dull and reserved, is delighted to discover that his own tragic hero or victim has something deeper to offer.In truth, Potter's face was both deep and otherworldly, though it was written all over it with anxiety and, at times, very irascible.Rock felt that he was recovering from a serious illness, his hair was gray and thin, and very long, which seemed to have been neglected recently, and the unusual beard gave the same feeling to the onlookers.Of course, once or twice he spoke to his wife in a very harsh and mean tone, complaining about the medicine he was taking or about digestive trifles; but his real concern was undoubtedly the danger from without.His wife responded to him with all the grace of the docile Griselda, only with a certain haughtiness; yet her eyes flicked to the doors and windows now and then, as if fearing a break-in, only halfway. half-hearted.Because he had witnessed her sudden abnormal behavior, Roque had every reason to worry, and her concerns were nothing more than half-hearted. In the middle of the night, the extraordinary event finally happened.Rock thought he was the last to go to bed, but unexpectedly, he found that Father Brown was still curled up under the orange tree in the hall, reading a book calmly.He said good night to him, and he simply replied that the reporter had just stepped on the bottom step when he heard the hinges of the door rattle, and something outside knocked the door with a clang; Louder voices at the door shouted to come in.Somehow, the reporter was able to determine that it was a pointed cane resembling an iron-tipped trekking pole that was used to smash the door.He looked back to the dimly lit ground floor to see that the attendants were looking around to see if the door was locked instead of opening it.Then he ambled upstairs to his room and sat down to write his report furiously. He described how the hotel was under siege; the sinister atmosphere; the shabby luxury of the place; the priest's evasion;Then, just as he was about to write, he suddenly heard another voice, so he sat up straight suddenly.It was a long whistle, which annoyed him even more, for it was as much the signal of a conspirator as it was the call of a lovebird.Then there was a dead silence, and he sat there; then he stood up suddenly; for he heard another noise.It was a slight whoosh, followed by a sharp tap or click; he was almost sure someone was throwing something at the window.He went straight down the stairs to the ground floor hall which was now dark and deserted; or nearly deserted.Because the little priest was still sitting under the orange tree, reading by a low lamp. "You seem to be sleeping late," he snapped. "Liberal by nature," said Father Brown, looking up with a bright smile, "read The Economics of Usury in this frantic night." "This place is locked," Rock said. "Seriously locked up," replied the other. "That bearded friend of yours seems to have taken every precaution. By the way, your bearded friend was a little panicked; I think he was very hot-tempered at the dinner party." "That's only natural," roared the other, "if he thinks the savages of this savage place are about to ruin his family life." "Isn't it better for a man to make a family life work from the inside," said Father Brown, "while he guards against destruction from without." "Oh, I knew you'd give these sophistical reasons," said the other; "maybe he's impatient with his wife; but he has good reasons. Well, you seem to be hiding something. I'm sure you're still Know more inside information. What the hell is going on in this place? Why are you sitting here all night watching?" "Oh," said Father Brown patiently, "I just thought someone might need to use my bedroom." "Who would need it?" "Actually, Mrs. Potter needs another room," explained Father Brown meticulously. "I gave her my room because the window can be opened in that room. If you are willing, go and see." "I have another matter to deal with first," Rock said through gritted teeth. "You can do monkey tricks in this monkey house all you want, I'm still in touch with civilization." He strode to the phone booth, called his newspaper; and spilled the whole story about how the wicked priest helped the wicked poet.Then ran upstairs to the priest's room, where the priest had just lit a short candle, showing that the window was wide open. He happened to see a man on the lawn below laughing as he untied some crude rope ladder from the ledge and rolled it up.It was a tall, dark gentleman, and beside him stood a blond woman who was also laughing.This time, Mr. Rock could not find any relief in dismissing her laughter as hysterical.It was decidedly heartfelt laughter; it still wafted down the rambling garden paths as she and her troubadour disappeared into the dark jungle. Agar Rock turned to his companion with a look of terrible final verdict on his face; it was like Armageddon. "Well, the whole of America will hear about it," he said. "In short, you helped her elope with the curly-haired lover." "Yes," said Father Brown, "I helped her elope with the curly-haired lover." "You claim to be a messenger of Jesus Christ," cried Rock, "and you flatter yourself that you have sinned." "I've been involved in several crimes," the priest said mildly. "Happily, there's no crime involved just this time. It's just a fireside idyll; it ends in a happy family life." "It ended up being a ladder rather than a rope," Rock said. "Isn't she a married woman?" "Oh, yes," said Father Brown. "Oh, shouldn't she be with her husband?" Rock chased after him. "She's just with her husband," said Father Brown. The other party became angry and said, "You're lying, that poor little man is still fast asleep on the bed." "You seem to know his private affairs very well," said Father Brown, not without mercy. "You could almost write a 'Biography of the Bearded Man.' The only thing you don't seem to know is his name." "Nonsense," said Rock. "His name is in the passenger book." "I know," replied the priest, nodding gravely, "that there is Rudel Romanis's name written in very large letters. Hypatia Potter came here to meet him, to run away with him, and to and wrote his own name below his; and her husband came after him, and wrote his own name next to hers, expressing his displeasure. That Romanis (a contemptuous, popular misanthrope and rich) bribed a bunch of savages at this hotel to lock the door and keep out the legal husband. And I, you're right, helped him in." When a man is told something that is wrong; like a dog wagging its tail; a fish catches a fisherman; the earth goes round the moon;He stubbornly believed that it was obvious that it was all a lie.But after being silent for a while, Rock finally couldn't help asking: "You don't mean to say that the little man is the romantic Rudel we often read about, and the curly-haired man is Mr. Porter from Pittsburgh?" "Exactly," said Father Brown. "I knew it the first time I saw them. But I later confirmed it." Rockmo thought for a while, and finally said: "I think you may be wrong. But in the face of a lot of facts, how could you think so?" Father Brown looked a little embarrassed, sinking deep in a chair, staring blankly straight ahead until a smile began to break out on his round, rather dull face. "Oh," he said, "you see—the truth is, I'm not romantic." "I don't know who you are," Rock said roughly. "And you're romantic," Father Brown pointed out. "For example, if you see someone very poetic, you think he is a poet. Do you know what most poets look like? How much did three good-looking poets happen to appear in the early 19th century? Chaos: Byron, Goethe, and Shelley! Believe me, usually, whoever writes 'Beauty draws her burning lips to my lips' or something like that is not necessarily beautiful herself. Besides, you Don't realize how old a man usually is when he is famous at home or abroad? Watts' portrait of Swinburne has blond hair; but most admirers in America or Australia have heard that he has the hyacinth-like Swinburne was bald before his curls. D'Annunzio was bald as well. In fact, Romanes had brains, if you look closely; he looked very learned; he was indeed .Unfortunately, like many learned people, he is a fool. He allows himself to be selfish, complaining about indigestion. So that ambitious American lady, who thought that elopement with a poet is like following Miao It was as wonderful as Sijiu's tour of Olympus, only to find that a day or two with him was enough. So when her husband came afterward and made a scene here, she was glad to be back with him again." "But what about her husband?" Rock asked. "I still don't quite understand her husband." "Well, you've read too many contemporary sex novels," said Father Brown; he half closed his eyes in response to the disapproving stare. "I've heard a lot of stories that start out with a stunning beauty married to some old man in the stock market. Why? At that point, as in most things, the facts of modern society as revealed by modern fiction are exactly On the contrary. I'm not saying that kind of thing will never happen; but it rarely happens now, unless she chooses. Girls can marry whoever they want now; especially spoiled like Hypatia. Who would they marry? A beautiful rich girl like that would have an army of admirers; who would she choose? Nearly one hundred percent of the time, she would pick the most handsome guy she met at a prom or a tennis party man, marrying himself off early. Oh, and there are handsome ones among the common merchants. A young god appears (named Potter), and she doesn't care whether he's a broker or a thief. But, consider In reality, you'd admit that he's more likely to be a broker; and, moreover, he's quite possibly called Potter. You see, you're hopelessly romantic, and you think all the time that a handsome young man is not Possibly Potter. To be honest, names don't always work so well." "Oh," the other party said after a short pause, "Then what do you think happened afterwards?" Father Brown rose abruptly from his sunken chair; the candlelight cast his diminutive figure on the walls and ceiling in a strange way that seemed to upset the balance of the room. "Ah," he murmured, "that's the evil of it. That's the real evil. Worse than the old Indian devils in the jungle. You think I'm only indulging these Latinos Justification—oh, oddly enough,"—he blinked warily at the other through his glasses—"the strangest thing is that, in a sense, you're right. "You talk about bringing down romance. I say I'm going to lose no time in defending real romance—and redouble my efforts, because real romance is so rare and so precious except in the days of passionate youth. I'm going to say—remove 'Academic friendship'; removal of 'platonic union'; removal of 'the highest law of self-realization of love', etc. I'm going to take a chance on that. Except that love is not true, but only pride, vanity, hype, and temptation. we will stand up when necessary to defend true love, even carnal love. Priests know that young people have passions, as doctors know that they have measles. But hope Patia Potter was not young, at least forty, and she had at best as much affection for the little poet as she had for the publisher or her publicist. That was the point— He's her publicist. It's your newspaper that ruined her; she wants to live in the spotlight; wants to see herself on the front page, even if it's a scandal, as long as it's shocking enough. She Wanted to be George Sand, to make her name perpetually compared with Alfred de Musset. When her true youthful romance was over, it was the sin of middle age that took possession of her; the sin of seeking knowledge. She did not Any intellect; but no intellect is needed to be a learned man." "I'd say she's pretty smart in a way," Rock said thoughtfully. “是，在某种意义上，”布朗神父说。“仅仅在一种意义上。在商业意义上。从任何意义上讲那都跟这里懒散的拉丁人没有半点关系。你咒骂影星，跟我说你厌恶浪漫故事。你认为那第五次结婚的影星是被浪漫故事误导了吗？这些人可是相当务实，比你还务实呢。你说你欣赏质朴、可靠的商人。难道你认为鲁德尔·罗马尼斯就不是商人吗？难道你看不出他很明白，差不多跟她一样明白，把跟著名的美人私通的大事大肆宣传，好处多多吗？他还深知自己对此事的掌控并不牢靠；所以他大惊小怪，贿赂服务员把门紧锁。但是我真正想说的是，如果人们不像美化罪人那样把过错和姿态也加以美化的话，丑闻就会少很多。这些可怜的墨西哥人有时可能的确活得像野兽，或者说会像凡人一样犯错；但是他们却不那么爱美化。你至少得认可他们那一点。” 他再次坐下来，跟站起的时候一样突然，抱歉地大笑起来。“哦，罗克先生，”他说，“那就是我全部的坦白；关于我如何帮助一次浪漫私奔的可怕故事的全部。怎么处理，悉听尊便吧。” “那样的话，”罗克说着也站了起来，“我要回屋，把我的报道做几处修改。但是，首先，我得给我的报社打电话，告诉他们，我跟他们说的都是谎言。” 从罗克打电话告诉报社神父帮助诗人和女士私奔，到他再次打电话说神父实际上阻止了此事的发生，中间相隔不到半个小时。但就在那短短的时间内，布朗神父的丑闻已经被创造出来、被添油加醋，随风飘向了四面八方。真相总是比诽谤晚到半个小时；没人能确定真相能否或者何时能够盖过诽谤。在故事见诸报端之前，嚼舌的媒体人和急不可耐的对手就已将第一个版本传遍了整个城市。罗克本人随即便加以更正和澄清，在第二个报道中讲述了故事的真实结局；但那绝不意味着第一个版本就被扼杀了。不计其数的人们似乎都读了报纸的第一个报道，但是没读第二个。一而再再而三，在世界的每个角落，总会像死灰复燃一般出现布朗神父丑闻的旧版本，或者神父毁了波特家庭之类的故事。神父的支持者们千方百计地加以提防，不厌其烦地紧随其后加以反驳，补充事实的真相，并写抗议信。这些信有时会刊登在报纸上，有时不会。但究竟有多少人只听说了那个丑闻，而没听说过后来的更正就无从查证了。可能会有许多不明真相的人，至今仍认为墨西哥丑闻就跟火药阴谋那样，是普通的记录在案的历史事件。接着有人会把真相告知这些纯朴的人们，却没想到老版本在一小撮受过教育的人们中间再次传开了，而他们理应是地球上最不该被此蒙骗的人才对。就这样，两个版本的布朗神父在这个世界上久久地相互追逐；第一个是背离正义的无耻罪犯；第二个是曾经被诽谤打垮、如今重拾荣誉光环的殉道者。然而两者都不很像真实的布朗神父，他压根没被打垮；而是依然拿着他那把结实的伞蹒跚地走在人生路上，就像大多人那样；他把这个世界当做他的同伴，而绝非他的审判者。