p&c.brimstone-第104部分

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　Taking　a　tack　away　from　the　fire；　he　made　for　the　small　doorway　that　led　into　his　private　workshop。　He　crossed　the　dark　room；　threading　his　way　through　a　maze　of　lab　tables　and　freestanding　equipment；　until　he　reached　the　wooden　paneling　of　the　rear　wall。　He　knelt；　ran　one　fat　hand　along　the　polished　wainscoting；　found　a　tiny　detent。　He　pressed　it。　One　of　the　wooden　panels　above　his　head　popped　ajar　with　a　faint　snick。　Rising；　the　count　pulled　the　panel　wide；　exposing　a　large　safe　retrofitted　into　the　stonework　of　the　wall。　He　punched　a　code　into　the　safe's　keypad；　and　its　door　sprung　open。　Carefully；　reverently；　the　count　reached　inside　and　pulled　out　the　small；　coffin…shaped　wooden　case　that　held　the　Stormcloud　Stradivarius。　
　He　carried　the　case　into　the　diningsalotto　and　placed　it　on　the　table　against　the　wall；　well　away　from　the　heat　of　the　fire；　leaving　it　closed；　so　it　would　slowly　accustom　itself　to　the　change　in　temperature。　Then　he　returned　to　his　seat。　pared　to　the　chill　of　the　lab；　it　was　deliciously　warm　before　the　fire。　He　took　another　sip　of　port；　thinking　about　what　he　would　play。　A　Bach　chaconne？　A　flashy　Paganini？　No：　something　simple；　something　clean；　refreshing　。　。　。　Vivaldi。　〃La　Primavera；〃　fromLe　Quattro　Stagioni。　
　After　a　few　minutes；　he　rose　again；　walked　over　to　the　violin；　undid　the　brass　fastening；　and　lifted　the　lid。　He　did　not　play　it；　not　yet：　it　would　need　at　least　another　ten　minutes　to　adjust　to　the　ambient　temperature　and　humidity。　He　merely　gazed　dotingly　on　its　wondrous　and　mysterious　finish；　its　sensual　lines。　Staring　at　the　violin；　Fosco　felt　a　joy；　a　sense　of　pletion；　flood　through　him。　
　He　returned　to　his　fortable　chair；　loosened　his　cravat；　undid　his　waistcoat。　The　Stormcloud　was　back　where　it　belonged：　in　the　family　seat。He　had　snatched　it　from　the　jaws　of　oblivion。　It　had　been　worth　the　expense；　the　extravagant　planning；　the　danger；　the　lives。　It　was　worth　any　cost；　any　struggle。　As　Fosco　stared　at　it；　glowing　crimson　in　the　warm　reflected　firelight；　it　seemed　to　him　that　the　instrument　was　not　of　this　world。　Rather；　it　was　the　voice…the　song…of　the　better　world　to　e。　
　It　was　now　very　warm　in　the　room。　He　rose；　took　up　a　poker；　pushed　the　logs　back　a　little；　turned　his　chair　from　the　fire。　〃La　Primavera。〃　The　sweet；　lively　melody　coursed　through　his　mind　as　if　he　was　already　playing　it。　Five　more　minutes。　He　removed　his　cravat　and　unbuttoned　the　top　button　of　his　shirt。　
　A　log　cracked　loudly　in　the　fireplace；　startling　him；　he　sat　bolt　upright；　the　port　sloshing　out　of　his　glass　and　spilling　onto　his　open　waistcoat。　
　He　sat　back　slowly；　wondering　at　the　sense　of　unease。　Nerves：　the　affair　had　taken　more　of　a　toll　on　him　than　he'd　thought。　His　stomach　gave　a　small　lurch；　and　he　set　down　the　glass　of　port。　Perhaps　he　should　have　taken　something　stronger　as　adigestivo　：　a　drop　of　Calvados；　a　grappa；　or；　even　better；　one　of　the　excellent　herbal　digestives　produced　by　the　monks　at　Monte　Senario。　
　A　most　unpleasant　sensation　of　poor　digestion　now　infused　his　stomach。　He　rose；　lumbered　over　to　the　sideboard…how　uncharacteristically　heavy　he　felt　on　his　feet！…and　took　out　a　small　bottle　of　Amaro　Bor…ghini；　filled　a　small　glass　with　the　reddish…brown　liquid；　and　returned　to　the　chair。　His　stomach　was　protesting　vociferously；　and　he　took　a　swallow；　then　a　second；　of　the　bitter　liqueur。　And　as　he　did；　he　heard　another　sound；　like　a　footfall；　at　the　door。　
　He　half　rose；　but　felt　weak　and　sank　back。　Naturally；　there　was　nobody　there。　There　couldn't　be。　The　servants　had　all　been　given　a　few　days　off。　It　was　his　imagination　playing　tricks　with　him。　It　was　the　strain　of　the　last　few　days。　He　was　getting　on　in　years　for　business　such　as　this。　
　His　innards　were　almost　boiling　with　indigestion　and　he　drained　the　glass；　shifting　in　his　chair；　trying　to　get　fortable。　The　heat　in　the　room　had　grown　oppressive；　but；　blast　it；　there　was　no　one　to　douse　the　fire。　He　fetched　a　deep；　shuddering　sigh。　He　would　calm　himself；　then　take　out　the　Stormcloud　and　restore　his　previous　mood　with　a　leaping　rendition　of　〃La　Primavera。〃　
　Only　calmness　did　not　e。　He　felt　a　strange　oppression　creep　stealthily　over　him…a　pressure　that　seemed　to　build　slowly；　layer　on　layer；　from　within。　This　was　not　indigestion；　he　was　getting　ill。　He　mopped　his　brow　with　a　handkerchief；　aware　that　his　heart　was　beating　unfortably　fast。　He　had　caught　a　chill　in　the　crypts；　no　doubt；　hefting　those　heavy　bricks；　brought　out　by　his　unwise　second　visit　to　those　clammy；　nitred　depths。　He　would　take　a　holiday；　leave　tomorrow；　in　fact。　The　isle　of　Capraia；　he　told　himself；　would　be　a　perfect　spot　。　。　。　
　He　extended　a　trembling　hand　toward　the　glass　ofamaro　；　but　the　liqueur　suddenly　tasted　wrong；　like　hot　pitch　and　vinegar　in　his　mouth…hot；　even；　in　his　hand。　Burning　hot。　He　rose　with　a　cry；　the　glass　falling　away　and　dashing　to　pieces　against　the　floor。　Fosco　whirled；　stumbled；　righted　himself。　
　Porca　miseria；what　was　happening？　
　He　gasped；　felt　his　eyes　smart；　felt　his　mouth　go　dry；　his　heart　accelerate。　For　a　moment；　he　wondered　if　he　was　having　a　fit　of　some　kind；　or　perhaps　a　heart　attack。　He'd　heard　heart　attacks　often　began　with　a　feeling　just　like　this：　a　feeling　that　something；something；　was　terribly　wrong。　But　there　was　no　localized　pain　to　his　chest　or　arm。　Instead；　the　terrible　oppression　within　grew；　and　still　grew；　until　it　enveloped　him。　His　very　guts　seemed　to　writhe。　He　looked　around　frantically；　but　there　was　nothing…not　the　bottle　of　port；　not　the　violin；　not　the　furniture　or　the　rich　tapestries…nothing　to　give　any　aid　or　explanation。　
　His　insides　felt　as　if　they　were　crawling；　boiling。　He　felt　his　mouth　twitching；　his　eyes　blinking　uncontrollably；　grimacing；　his　fingers　jerking。　The　heat　was　like　being　suffocated　with　a　burning　blanket。　His　skin　felt　as　if　it　was　covered　with　a　blanket　of　bees。　Now　fear　and　heat　rose　within　him　as　one：　an　unendurable；　irresistible　heat　that　had　nothing　to　do　with　the　fire　on　the　hearth…　
　Suddenly　he　knew。　Heknew。　
　〃D'Agosta…！〃　he　choked；　but　his　throat　closed　up　and　no　more　words　came　out。　
　He　whirled　toward　the　closed　door　of　thesalotto　；　staggered　forward；　fell　over　the　side　table　with　a　crash；　rose　to　his　knees。　His　muscles　were　jerking　spasmodically；　but　with　an　enormous　effort　of　will；　he　began　to　crawl　forward。　
　〃Bastardo…！〃It　came　out　like　a　choked　cry。　As　he　did　so；　his　limbs　began　to　take　on　a　life　of　their　own；　twitching　and　jerking　with　a　horrible　violence；　but　he　had　only　a　few　more　feet　to　go；　he　gave　one　superhuman　lurch；　seized　the　door　handle。　It　was　burning　hot；　and　he　felt　his　skin　popping　and　sizzling；　yet　he　clung　tenaciously；　heaved；　turned…locked。　
　With　a　suppressed　shriek　he　sank；　collapsing　at　the　door；　writhing。　The　heat　grew；　and　grew；　like　lava　spreading　itself　through　his　veins。　A　terrible　piercing　whine；　like　the　buzz　of　a　monstrous　gnat；　filled　his　head。　What　was　that　he　smelled　burning？　All　of　a　sudden　the　count　went　rigid。　His　jaws　clamped　together　involuntarily；　grinding　with　such　force　his　teeth　chipped　and　split。　Now；　unbidden；　his　many　sins　and　excesses　paraded　before　him　in　a　terrible　blur。　As　the　heat　continued　to　grow…intolerable　yet　still　increasing；　an　inferno　of　agony　he　could　never　have　imagined　possible…Fosco　felt　his　vision　grow　dim　and　strange。　His　eyes　jerked　around　the　room；　ing　to　rest　on　the　fire；　while　reality　itself　began　to　distort；　fall　away；　and　he　began　to　see　thingsbeyond　。　。　。　
　。　。　。　Oh；　dear　Jesus；　what　is　that　dark　shape　rising　in　the　fire　。　。　。　？　
　And　now；　summoning　every　last　ounce　of　willpower　he　possessed…despite　the　teeth　grinding　into　meal　and　the　blood　that　filled　his　mouth　and　the　swelling　tongue　that　refused　to　move…Fosco　began　to　slur；　in　something　between　a　gargle　and　a　groan；　the　words　of　the　Lord's　Prayer。　
　Pater　noster　。　。　。　
　He　felt　his　skin　blister；　his　oiled　hair　curl　and　smoke。　He　clawed　his　hands　across　the　stone　floor　in　agony；　tearing　away　the　nails　in　his　efforts　to　get　out　the　words：　
　。　。　。　Qui　es　in　coelis　。　。　。　
　Over　the　shrieking　buzz　in　his　ears；　Fosco　could　hear…as　if　rising　from　the　deepest　depths　of　the　earth…the　rich　and　terrible　laughter；　not　of　Sergeant　D'Agosta；　not　of　any　earthly　being　。　。　。　
　。　。　。　Sanctificetur　。　。　。　
　He　tried；　with　the　last　of　a　supreme　effort　of　will；　to　continue　the　prayer；　but　the　subcutaneous　fat　was　boiling　beneath　the　skin　of　his　lips：　
　。　。　。　Sanctiferrrrrrrr　。　。　。　
　And　then　came　the　point　where　no　sound；　not　even　a　scream；　was　possible　to　utter。　
　　　
　87　
　
　Bryce　Harriman　ducked　into　the　stale；　smoke…fouled　office　ofhis　editor；　Rupert　Ritts。　He　had　been　waiting　for　this　moment　a　long；　long　time；　and　he　was　determined　to　enjoy　it；　drag　it　out　as　long　as　possible。　It　would　be　a　story　he'd　tell　his　kids　and　grandkids；　put　in　his　memoirs。　One　of　the　moments　he'd　savor　the　rest　of　his　life。　
　〃Harriman！〃　Ritts　came　around　from　behind　his　desk…his　idea　of　a　show　of　respect…and　seated　himself　on　one　corner。　〃Take　a　seat。〃　
　Harriman　sat。　Why　not？　Let　Ritts　talk　a　bit　first。　
　〃That　was　quite　a　piece　you　wrote　on　Hayward　and　that　man；　Buck。　I'm　almost　sorry　that　cracker　preacher　got　his　ass　sent　b