Chapter 12 Chapter Eleven Criminals Chasing the Police

Syme took the binoculars away from his eyes with an uneasy sigh of relief. "Not there on Sunday at least," he said, wiping his brow. "But there's no doubt they're on the horizon," blinked the bewildered colonel, who hadn't quite recovered from Bull's hasty but polite explanation, "can you recognize your chairman from all these people?" "Could I spot a white elephant out of all these people!" replied Syme, somewhat exasperated, "you're right, they're on the horizon; but if he comes along with them . . . for God's word! I believe the ground here will tremble."

After a moment's silence, the newcomer, Ratcliffe, said gloomily and decidedly: "Sunday was definitely not with them. I hope he's gone to Gemini. More likely Sunday is riding victorious." Pass through Paris, or sit on the ruins of St Paul's Cathedral." "That's ridiculous!" said Syme. "Something might have happened in our absence; but he couldn't have shot and put the world in order in such haste. Indeed," he went on, frowning suspiciously toward the distant field leading to the station, "it is true There's a crowd coming this way; but that's not all you see."

"Oh, they," said the new detective contemptuously, "no, they're not a very valuable team. But let me tell you frankly, they're a team that's doing an accurate calculation of our worth. Sent later- my man, we are not many in Sunday World. He controls all the cables and telegraphs himself. Killing a member of the Supreme Council is like sending a Postcards, a piece of cake; the matter may have been passed to his private secretary." He spat on the grass, and then he turned to the others and said with a little seriousness— "A lot can be said about death; but if anyone doesn't want to die, I strongly advise him to come with me."

After speaking, he turned his broad back and strode towards the woods silently but vigorously.The others turned their heads and glanced, and saw that the black crowd had left the small station and was walking across the field with mysterious and orderly steps.They could see with the naked eye the dark blotches on the first few faces, which were the masks they were wearing.They turned and followed their leader, who had reached the woods and disappeared among the shining trees. The sun was hot and dry on the grass.So, in rushing into the woods, the coolness surprised them a little, like divers into a murky pool.The woods are filled with dappled sunlight and flickering shadows.They make up a sort of frightening visor, almost reminiscent of dazzled movies.Syme could hardly make out the concrete figures that walked with him, for patterns of light and shadow danced about them all the time.One moment a man's head is illuminated as if by a Rembrandt's light, so that all else disappears; the next moment he has strong, prominent white hands and a Negro-like face.The former Marquis put his old-fashioned straw hat over his eyelids, and the black shadow on the brim of the straw hat cut his face squarely in half, making it look like he was wearing the same black half hat as the trackers. Face mask.Imagination worked on Syme, and an overwhelming sense of wonder.Is he wearing a mask?Is anyone wearing a mask?Is anyone wearing anything?In this magical wood, the faces of the people alternated between light and dark, their figures swelled first into bright sunlight and then receded into grotesque night, and this chaotic chiaroscuro (after the clear daylight outside) was very important to Syme. He perfectly symbolized a world in which he lived for three days, a world where people ripped off their beards, glasses, and noses to become other people.He understood that the Marquis was a friend, and so the pathetic confidence he had felt when he thought the Marquis was a monster was strangely gone.After all this confusion, he couldn't help asking, what is a friend and what is an enemy.Is there anything different from what it appears to be?The Marquis tore off his nose, identifying himself as a detective.Can't he tear off his head and become a monster?Isn't it all like this bewildering woodland, this dance of light and shadow?It's all just a glimpse, always unforeseen, always forgotten.Gabriel Syme found in the depths of this sun-dappled wood what so many modern painters are looking for, what moderns call Impressionism, another name for that ultimate skepticism that sets no boundaries for the world.

Like a man who wakes up after screaming desperately in a nightmare, Syme made a sudden effort to throw away his last, worst conceit.He took two impatient steps to catch up with the man in the Marquis hat, whom he called Ratcliffe.He broke the unfathomable silence with a loud and exaggeratedly cheerful voice to chat. "I want to ask," he said, "where the hell are we going?" His doubts were so genuine that he was glad to hear his companion speak in a calm, human voice. "We must go down through the town of Lancy to the sea," he said. "I think this part of France is the least likely to have any of them."

"What do you mean by that?" cried Syme. "They can't take control of the real world that easily. There are certainly not many laborers who are anarchists, and there is no doubt that even if they are anarchists, mere rabble can't beat the modern army and police." "The simple mob!" repeated his new friend with a snort of contempt. "It seems that you talk about the mob and the working class as if they were the problem. That eternal and stupid point of view you hold is that if nothing When statism comes, it probably comes from the poor. Why do you think that? The poor will rebel, but they are not anarchists; they want a decent government more than anyone else. Relevant. The rich man is not like that, he can sail to New Guinea on a yacht. The poor man is sometimes against being badly governed; the rich man is against being ruled. seen in the war."

"As a lecture on the history of Britain for the little people," Syme said, "it's brilliant. But I haven't been able to understand how applicable it is." "Its applicability," said the other, "is that most of Old Sunday's right-hand men are South African and American millionaires. That's why he controls all communications; that's why the anti-anarchist police The last four warriors are scurrying through the woods like rabbits." "I can understand millionaires," said Syme thoughtfully. "They're almost crazy. It's one thing to control a few wicked old gentlemen with bad habits; quite another to control a great Christian country." It's over. I'll bet my nose (pardon the insinuation) that when faced with the task of converting the faith of any healthy common man anywhere on Sunday, he'll look powerless."

"Hi," said the other, "it all depends on what kind of person you mean." "For example," said Syme, "he can never change that man's beliefs." He pointed straight ahead. They came to a sunlit clearing which seemed to Syme a return to lucidity.In the middle of this clearing there was a man who almost symbolized human judgment with a terrifying reality.A stout French farmer, sun-drenched, sweating, and dignified by the endless toil of necessity, was chopping wood with a hatchet, while his delivery van, half full, was parked a few yards away. wood; the horse grazing is like its master, brave and not desperate; like his master, strong, but also almost sad.The farmer was a Norman, taller than the average Frenchman, but clumsy.His dark figure is set against a square of sunlight, almost like a metaphorical laborer on a mural on a golden background.

"Mr Syme says," cried Ratcliffe to the French colonel, "at least this man will never be an anarchist." "Mr Syme is quite right," replied Colonel Ducloet, laughing, "even if the only reason was that he had a lot of property to protect. I don't remember, however, that in your country you didn't treat the rich peasant Get used to it." "He looks poor," said Dr. Bull suspiciously. "Indeed," said the Colonel, "that's why he's rich." "I have an idea," said Dr. Bull suddenly. "How much will he charge us for a lift? The pursuers are all on foot, and we'll get rid of them in no time."

"Oh, give him any money!" said Syme eagerly. "I've got a lot of money with me." "That won't work," said the Colonel. "Unless you bargain with him, he won't respect you." "Oh, if only he could haggle!" said Bull impatiently. "He will haggle because he is a free man," the other said. "You don't understand, he doesn't understand the meaning of generosity. Don't tip him." They seemed to hear the heavy tread of the strange pursuer behind them, but they stood and stamped while the French colonel accosted the woodcutter with all the casual jests and quarrels of market-day.After four minutes, however, they found that the colonel was right, for the woodcutter had agreed to their plan, and instead of asking extravagantly, he had made a deliberate bid and received a proper payment.The best option, he told them, was to go down to the little inn on the slopes of Lancey, where the innkeeper, an old soldier who had become very religious in his later years, would surely sympathize with them, and even venture to help them.So the men sat on top of the woodpile as the rough wagon wobbled down the steep side of the woodland.Although the car is heavy and rickety, it goes fast, and before long they are delighted to find that they have lost track of their pursuers (whoever they may be).But where the anarchists recruited these followers remains a mystery.One person's presence was enough for them; at first, they fled because they saw the secretary's misshapen smile for the first time.Syme looked back now and then at the large crowd that was pursuing them.

The woods gradually thinned out as the distance went on, and he could see the edge of the woods and the sunlit slopes above them.Across these slopes was a still-moving mob of black squares that looked like a monstrous beetle.Under the strong sunlight, with his excellent eyesight, Syme could see the group of people clearly.He could tell them apart individually.But he was more and more amazed at the uniform way they acted.They seemed to be dressed in black, with their usual black hats, like any ordinary person out on the street.But they did not spread out, spread out, and form multiple columns to attack like ordinary mobs.They marched fearfully, malevolently, and mechanically, like a conspicuous robot army. Syme pointed this out to Ratcliffe. "Yes," replied the officer, "that's discipline. That's Sunday. He may be five hundred miles away, but the fear of him hangs over them like the finger of God. Yes, They are walking in unison, and you can be sure they are talking in unison; yes, and thinking in unison. But the most important thing for us is that they are disappearing in unison." Syme nodded.Indeed, the black pursuer grew smaller and smaller as the farmer whipped his horse on. The sunlit landscape, though flat on the whole, dissipates at the far end of the woods into a thick undulating slope towards the sea, somewhat like the low hills of the Sussex Downs.The only difference was that the Sussex roads were winding and rough like a brook, but here the white roads of France cascaded down before them.Down the straight ramp, the van clattered around a corner, and after a few minutes the road steepened and they could see the little harbor of Lancey below and a blue arc shaped sea.The dark mass of enemies has completely disappeared from the horizon. The wagon made a sharp turn around a clump of elms, and the horse's nose almost touched the face of an old gentleman sitting on a bench outside the "Golden Sun" tavern.The farmer grunted an apology and got down from his seat.The others also got out of the car one by one, talking politely to the old gentleman in twos and threes. From his talkative appearance, it could be seen that he was the owner of this small inn. He was a white-haired, plump, apple-faced old man, with tired eyes and a gray upper lip mustache, squat, sedentary, and very simple, the usual Frenchman, but in faith Catholic Germany is more common.Everything about him, his pipe, his beer-can, his flowers, and his beehive, suggested a long-lasting peace.Only when his customers walked into the shop and looked up did they see a sword hanging on the wall. The colonel greeted the innkeeper as if he were an old friend, then walked quickly into the shop, and sat down to order some regular refreshments.His military determination interested Syme, who sat beside him, and when the old shopkeeper could no longer satisfy his curiosity, he took his chance. "Excuse me, Colonel," he whispered, "why do we come here?" Colonel Ducloet, with his unshaven white beard, smiled. "There are two reasons, sir," said he, "and I'll start with the first, not the most important but the most practical. We're here because it's the only horse we can get within twenty miles. The place." "Horse!" repeated Syme, looking up at once. "Yes," said the other, "if you really want to throw off your enemies, you can only ride horses, unless you have bicycles and cars in your pockets." "Where do you suggest we go, then?" asked Syme suspiciously. "Undoubtedly," replied the colonel, "you'd better hurry to the police station next to the town. That friend of mine whom I helped in slightly fraudulent circumstances, seems to have greatly exaggerated the possibility of a great mutiny .But I think even he can hardly assert that you are not safe in the hands of the gendarmes." Syme nodded gravely, and then said suddenly: "And what's your other reason for coming here?" "My other reason for coming here," said Duclouet calmly, "is to see a good man or two before I die." Syme looked up at the wall, and saw a crude and miserable religious picture.He said, "You're right, did anyone arrange for the horses?" "Yes," replied Duclouet, "of course I gave orders as soon as I entered the shop. Your enemies don't look very fast, but in fact they move surprisingly fast, and they are a well-trained army. I didn't expect the anarchists to be so disciplined. You can't waste a moment." As he spoke, the old shopkeeper with blue eyes and white hair came slowly into the shop and told them that there were six horses outside already saddled. Following Ducloet's advice, the five remaining men rode down the steep white road, armed with some portable food and their dueling swords.The two servants who had carried the luggage for the former Marquis were allowed to stay and drink, and of course they wanted to. At this time, the afternoon sun was slanting in the western sky, and by its light, Syme could see the old shopkeeper's sturdy figure getting smaller and smaller, but he still stood looking at them, and the sunlight soaked his silver hair.The Colonel's offhand remark had left Syme with a lingering superstitious idea that the old innkeeper might be the last honest stranger he would see on the face of the earth. Still he watched the shrinking figure, where the old shopkeeper stood like a gray blob blazing with white, the steep green slope behind him.As his gaze swept across the top of the hill, he saw a marching procession dressed in black.They pressed upon the good man and his house like a black swarm of locusts.The actions of those five people were fairly quick.

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