达芬奇密码 作者: 美 丹·布朗(英文版)-第4部分

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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。
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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；　marked　by　a　giant　stone　archway。
Arc　du　Carrousel。
Despite　the　orgiastic　rituals　once　held　at　the　Arc　du　Carrousel；　art　aficionados　revered　this　place　for　another　reason　entirely。　From　the　esplanade　at　the　end　of　the　Tuileries；　four　of　the　finest　art　museums　in　the　world　could　be　seen。。。　one　at　each　point　of　the　pass。
Out　the　right…hand　window；　south　across　the　Seine　and　Quai　Voltaire；　Langdon　could　see　the　dramatically　lit　facade　of　the　old　train　station—now　the　esteemed　Musée　d'Orsay。　Glancing　left；　he　could　make　out　the　top　of　the　ultramodern　Pompidou　Center；　which　housed　the　Museum　of　Modern　Art。　Behind　him　to　the　west；　Langdon　knew　the　ancient　obelisk　of　Ramses　rose　above　the　trees；　marking　the　Musée　du　Jeu　de　Paume。
But　it　was　straight　ahead；　to　the　east；　through　the　archway；　that　Langdon　could　now　see　the　monolithic　Renaissance　palace　that　had　bee　the　most　famous　art　museum　in　the　world。
Musée　du　Louvre。
Langdon　felt　a　familiar　tinge　of　wonder