达芬奇密码 作者: 美 丹·布朗(英文版)-第3章

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There　was　a　momentary　pause；　as　if　for　prayer。　〃Then　I　assume　you　have　the　information？〃
〃All　four　concurred。　Independently。〃
〃And　you　believed　them？〃
〃Their　agreement　was　too　great　for　coincidence。〃
An　excited　breath。　〃Excellent。　I　had　feared　the　brotherhood's　reputation　for　secrecy　might　prevail。〃
〃The　prospect　of　death　is　strong　motivation。〃
〃So；　my　pupil；　tell　me　what　I　must　know。〃
Silas　knew　the　information　he　had　gleaned　from　his　victims　would　e　as　a　shock。　〃Teacher；　all　four　confirmed　the　existence　of　the　clef　de　vo？te。。。　the　legendary　keystone。〃
He　heard　a　quick　intake　of　breath　over　the　phone　and　could　feel　the　Teacher's　excitement。　〃The　keystone。　Exactly　as　we　suspected。〃
According　to　lore；　the　brotherhood　had　created　a　map　of　stone—a　clef　de　vo？te。。。　or　keystone—an　engraved　tablet　that　revealed　the　final　resting　place　of　the　brotherhood's　greatest　secret。。。　information　so　powerful　that　its　protection　was　the　reason　for　the　brotherhood's　very　existence。
〃When　we　possess　the　keystone；〃　the　Teacher　said；　〃we　will　be　only　one　step　away。〃
〃We　are　closer　than　you　think。　The　keystone　is　here　in　Paris。〃
〃Paris？　Incredible。　It　is　almost　too　easy。〃
Silas　relayed　the　earlier　events　of　the　evening。。。　how　all　four　of　his　victims；　moments　before　death；　had　desperately　tried　to　buy　back　their　godless　lives　by　telling　their　secret。　Each　had　told　Silas　the　exact　same　thing—that　the　keystone　was　ingeniously　hidden　at　a　precise　location　inside　one　of　Paris's　ancient　churches—the　Eglise　de　Saint…Sulpice。
〃Inside　a　house　of　the　Lord；〃　the　Teacher　exclaimed。　〃How　they　mock　us！〃
〃As　they　have　for　centuries。〃
The　Teacher　fell　silent；　as　if　letting　the　triumph　of　this　moment　settle　over　him。　Finally；　he　spoke。　〃You　have　done　a　great　service　to　God。　We　have　waited　centuries　for　this。　You　must　retrieve　the　stone　for　me。　Immediately。　Tonight。　You　understand　the　stakes。〃
Silas　knew　the　stakes　were　incalculable；　and　yet　what　the　Teacher　was　now　manding　seemed　impossible。　〃But　the　church；　it　is　a　fortress。　Especially　at　night。　How　will　I　enter？〃
With　the　confident　tone　of　a　man　of　enormous　influence；　the　Teacher　explained　what　was　to　be　done。
　
When　Silas　hung　up　the　phone；　his　skin　tingled　with　anticipation。
One　hour；　he　told　himself；　grateful　that　the　Teacher　had　given　him　time　to　carry　out　the　necessary　penance　before　entering　a　house　of　God。　I　must　purge　my　soul　of　today's　sins。　The　sins　mitted　today　had　been　holy　in　purpose。　Acts　of　war　against　the　enemies　of　God　had　been　mitted　for　centuries。　Forgiveness　was　assured。
Even　so；　Silas　knew；　absolution　required　sacrifice。
Pulling　his　shades；　he　stripped　naked　and　knelt　in　the　center　of　his　room。　Looking　down；　he　examined　the　spiked　cilice　belt　clamped　around　his　thigh。　All　true　followers　of　The　Way　wore　this　device—a　leather　strap；　studded　with　sharp　metal　barbs　that　cut　into　the　flesh　as　a　perpetual　reminder　of　Christ's　suffering。　The　pain　caused　by　the　device　also　helped　counteract　the　desires　of　the　flesh。
Although　Silas　already　had　worn　his　cilice　today　longer　than　the　requisite　two　hours；　he　knew　today　was　no　ordinary　day。　Grasping　the　buckle；　he　cinched　it　one　notch　tighter；　wincing　as　the　barbs　dug　deeper　into　his　flesh。　Exhaling　slowly；　he　savored　the　cleansing　ritual　of　his　pain。
Pain　is　good；　Silas　whispered；　repeating　the　sacred　mantra　of　Father　Josemaría　Escrivá—the　Teacher　of　all　Teachers。　Although　Escrivá　had　died　in　1975；　his　wisdom　lived　on；　his　words　still　whispered　by　thousands　of　faithful　servants　around　the　globe　as　they　knelt　on　the　floor　and　performed　the　sacred　practice　known　as　〃corporal　mortification。〃
Silas　turned　his　attention　now　to　a　heavy　knotted　rope　coiled　neatly　on　the　floor　beside　him。　The　Discipline。　The　knots　were　caked　with　dried　blood。　Eager　for　the　purifying　effects　of　his　own　agony；　Silas　said　a　quick　prayer。　Then；　gripping　one　end　of　the　rope；　he　closed　his　eyes　and　swung　it　hard　over　his　shoulder；　feeling　the　knots　slap　against　his　back。　He　whipped　it　over　his　shoulder　again；　slashing　at　his　flesh。　Again　and　again；　he　lashed。
Castigo　corpus　meum。
Finally；　he　felt　the　blood　begin　to　flow。
…　
CHAPTER　3
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The　crisp　April　air　whipped　through　the　open　window　of　the　Citro？n　ZX　as　it　skimmed　south　past　the　Opera　House　and　crossed　Place　Vend？me。　In　the　passenger　seat；　Robert　Langdon　felt　the　city　tear　past　him　as　he　tried　to　clear　his　thoughts。　His　quick　shower　and　shave　had　left　him　looking　reasonably　presentable　but　had　done　little　to　ease　his　anxiety。　The　frightening　image　of　the　curator's　body　remained　locked　in　his　mind。
Jacques　Saunière　is　dead。
Langdon　could　not　help　but　feel　a　deep　sense　of　loss　at　the　curator's　death。　Despite　Saunière's　reputation　for　being　reclusive；　his　recognition　for　dedication　to　the　arts　made　him　an　easy　man　to　revere。　His　books　on　the　secret　codes　hidden　in　the　paintings　of　Poussin　and　Teniers　were　some　of　Langdon's　favorite　classroom　texts。　Tonight's　meeting　had　been　one　Langdon　was　very　much　looking　forward　to；　and　he　was　disappointed　when　the　curator　had　not　shown。
Again　the　image　of　the　curator's　body　flashed　in　his　mind。　Jacques　Saunière　did　that　to　himself？　Langdon　turned　and　looked　out　the　window；　forcing　the　picture　from　his　mind。
Outside；　the　city　was　just　now　winding　down—street　vendors　wheeling　carts　of　candied　amandes；　waiters　carrying　bags　of　garbage　to　the　curb；　a　pair　of　late　night　lovers　cuddling　to　stay　warm　in　a　breeze　scented　with　jasmine　blossom。　The　Citro？n　navigated　the　chaos　with　authority；　its　dissonant　two…tone　siren　parting　the　traffic　like　a　knife。
〃Le　capitaine　was　pleased　to　discover　you　were　still　in　Paris　tonight；〃　the　agent　said；　speaking　for　the　first　time　since　they'd　left　the　hotel。　〃A　fortunate　coincidence。〃
Langdon　was　feeling　anything　but　fortunate；　and　coincidence　was　a　concept　he　did　not　entirely　trust。　As　someone　who　had　spent　his　life　exploring　the　hidden　interconnectivity　of　disparate　emblems　and　ideologies；　Langdon　viewed　the　world　as　a　web　of　profoundly　intertwined　histories　and　events。　The　connections　may　be　invisible；　he　often　preached　to　his　symbology　classes　at　Harvard；　but　they　are　always　there；　buried　just　beneath　the　surface。
〃I　assume；〃　Langdon　said；　〃that　the　American　University　of　Paris　told　you　where　I　was　staying？〃
The　driver　shook　his　head。　〃Interpol。〃
Interpol；　Langdon　thought。　Of　course。　He　had　forgotten　that　the　seemingly　innocuous　request　of　all　European　hotels　to　see　a　passport　at　check…in　was　more　than　a　quaint　formality—it　was　the　law。　On　any　given　night；　all　across　Europe；　Interpol　officials　could　pinpoint　exactly　who　was　sleeping　where。　Finding　Langdon　at　the　Ritz　had　probably　taken　all　of　five　seconds。
As　the　Citro？n　accelerated　southward　across　the　city；　the　illuminated　profile　of　the　Eiffel　Tower　appeared；　shooting　skyward　in　the　distance　to　the　right。　Seeing　it；　Langdon　thought　of　Vittoria；　recalling　their　playful　promise　a　year　ago　that　every　six　months　they　would　meet　again　at　a　different　romantic　spot　on　the　globe。　The　Eiffel　Tower；　Langdon　suspected；　would　have　made　their　list。　Sadly；　he　last　kissed　Vittoria　in　a　noisy　airport　in　Rome　more　than　a　year　ago。
〃Did　you　mount　her？〃　the　agent　asked；　looking　over。
Langdon　glanced　up；　certain　he　had　misunderstood。　〃I　beg　your　pardon？〃
〃She　is　lovely；　no？〃　The　agent　motioned　through　the　windshield　toward　the　Eiffel　Tower。　〃Have　you　mounted　her？〃
Langdon　rolled　his　eyes。　〃No；　I　haven't　climbed　the　tower。〃
〃She　is　the　symbol　of　France。　I　think　she　is　perfect。〃
Langdon　nodded　absently。　Symbologists　often　remarked　that　France—a　country　renowned　for　machismo；　womanizing；　and　diminutive　insecure　leaders　like　Napoleon　and　Pepin　the　Short—could　not　have　chosen　a　more　apt　national　emblem　than　a　thousand…foot　phallus。
When　they　reached　the　intersection　at　Rue　de　Rivoli；　the　traffic　light　was　red；　but　the　Citro？n　didn't　slow。　The　agent　gunned　the　sedan　across　the　junction　and　sped　onto　a　wooded　section　of　Rue　Castiglione；　which　served　as　the　northern　entrance　to　the　famed　Tuileries　Gardens—Paris's　own　version　of　Central　Park。　Most　tourists　mistranslated　Jardins　des　Tuileries　as　relating　to　the　thousands　of　tulips　that　bloomed　here；　but　Tuileries　was　actually　a　literal　reference　to　something　far　less　romantic。　This　park　had　once　been　an　enormous；　polluted　excavation　pit　from　which　Parisian　contractors　mined　clay　to　manufacture　the　city's　famous　red　roofing　tiles—or　tuiles。
As　they　entered　the　deserted　park；　the　agent　reached　under　the　dash　and　turned　off　the　blaring　siren。　Langdon　exhaled；　savoring　the　sudden　quiet。　Outside　the　car；　the　pale　wash　of　halogen　headlights　skimmed　over　the　crushed　gravel　parkway；　the　rugged　whir　of　the　tires　intoning　a　hypnotic　rhythm。　Langdon　had　always　considered　the　Tuileries　to　be　sacred　ground。　These　were　the　gardens　in　which　Claude　Monet　had　experimented　with　form　and　color；　and　literally　inspired　the　birth　of　the　Impressionist　movement。　Tonight；　however；　this　place　held　a　strange　aura　of　foreboding。
The　Citro？n　swerved　left　now；　angling　west　down　the　park's　central　boulevard。　Curling　around　a　circular　pond；　the　driver　cut　across　a　desolate　avenue　out　into　a　wide　quadrangle　beyond。　Langdon　could　now　see　the　end　of　the　Tuileries　Gardens