噺 (8) 壹 Chinese 網ωωω.χ8.1zщ.còм 哽噺繓赽捌 (一) Novel 説蛧

Tang Zhangwei and Bai Cunxiao were lying there lazily, they knew that if they couldn't serve these soldiers who had returned from the Tubo Plateau.

These Tang Dynasty armies may get out of control. Tang Zhangwei was very angry, he felt that these soldiers who had worked hard for themselves in the past, they should not turn their faces against themselves for a little money, but these officers and soldiers, they had long lost their minds.

Tang Zhaozong, who fled in embarrassment between the mountains, also returned to Yingzhou City under the escort of that martial blood, he looked at those who shouted and shouted to kill, and wanted to turn his face with Tang Zhangwei, he smiled.

These soldiers relieved Tang Zhangwei, he said: "These soldiers are not drunk, but clearly see Tang Zhangwei's incompetence and stupidity. This unpleasant temptation has not yet come to him. His daughter's reluctance to him, at least he thought, was childlike. So he never really feared that Lore would fall victim to the murderer, who, as it was known, did not harm children and adult women, but specifically attacked young girls. It was true that he had increased the number of men guarding his house, had the windows of the floors re-fenced, and ordered the maid to sleep in a room with Lore. But he was reluctant to send her away, as people of his class did to their daughters, and even to their entire family. He found this act contemptible and degrading to be a member of Parliament and a second senator, and he believed that he should be an example to his citizens with his calmness, courage and perseverance. In addition, he is a manly man, and his decisions cannot be dictated by others, influenced by a group of panicked people, let alone by an anonymous criminal. So he was one of the few people in the city who was not intimidated by fear and kept a clear head in that time of fear. But it's strange that it's completely different now. While the people were rejoicing outside—as if they had hanged the murderer—the murderer's activities were over, and the unfortunate days were completely forgotten, fear returned to Antoine Riches' heart like a terrible poison. He has long refused to admit that this is fear. It prompted him to postpone his long-overdue trip, to be reluctant to leave his home, and to end his visits and meetings as soon as possible so that he could return home early. He excuses himself with excuses for being unwell and overworked, and sometimes admits that he has some worries, as every father with an adult daughter does, a completely normal worry...... Hasn't the reputation of her beauty spread to the outside world? Isn't there someone who walks into church with her on Sunday cranes their necks to watch? Aren't there already gentlemen in Parliament who are proposing marriage in their own name or in the name of their sons......?

Later, one day in March, Richis sat in the drawing-room and watched Lore go out into the garden. She wore a blue dress, and her red hair hung down to the dress, like a raging fire in the sun. He had never seen her so beautiful. She disappeared behind a bush. Then he waited maybe only two heartbeats for her to reappear—and it frightened him, for he thought in the second heartbeat that he had lost her forever.

That night he had a terrible dream, and when he awoke he could no longer remember what he had dreamed of, but it must have something to do with Lore, and he rushed into her room, convinced that she was dead, that she had been killed, insulted, and had her hair cut off, and that she was lying in bed—but he found her safe and sound.

He retreated to his room, sweating and trembling with excitement, no, it wasn't excitement, it was fear, and now he finally admitted that he was afraid. When he admitted, his mood calmed down and his mind cleared. If to be honest, then he did not believe in the bishop's curse from the beginning; He did not believe that the murderer was now in Grenoble, nor that he had left the city. No, he's still living here, he's still among the Grasses, he's going to do bad things whenever he wants! In August and September, Riches saw several young girls who had been killed. The sight creeped him and, as he had to admit, fascinated him, for they were all beautiful women, each with their own unique charm. He never imagined that there were so many unknown beauties in Grasse. The murderer opened his eyes. The murderer's aesthetic is excellent and self-contained. Not only is each homicide equally clean, but there is also an intent in the selection of the victim that is almost economically reasonable. It is true that Riches did not know what the murderers wanted from their victims, because he could not take away their best things, their beauty and youthful charm...... Or can it be taken away? But in any case, he felt that, despite the absurdity of the matter, the murderer was not a destructive fellow, but a careful collector. If one no longer conceives of all the victims, as individuals as individuals, but as part of a higher principle, and conceives of their respective identities in an idealistic way as a unified whole that melts together, then the picture of such a mosaic of colored stones is undoubtedly a picture of beauty, and the exhortation that arises from this picture is no longer human, but of divinity. (As we have seen, Riches was an open-minded man who was not afraid of blasphemous conclusions.) If he conceives not in terms of smell, but in terms of light, then he is very close to the truth! ）

Suppose—Richis continues to think—that the murderer is such a collector of beauty, that he is painting a perfect picture, though it is only a fantasy of his sick head; Moreover, assuming that he was a man of the highest aesthetic and aesthetic method, as he actually shows, it is inconceivable that he would renounce the most precious part of the painting, which exists in the world, i.e. the beauty of Lore. His murder work to date is worthless without her. She was the last masonry of his building.

Riches was sitting on his bed in his nightgown when he came to this terrible conclusion, strange at how quiet he had become, that his body no longer trembled, that the vague fear that had tormented him for weeks was gone, and that it gave way to a concrete and dangerous consciousness: the murderer's goal was clearly Lore, and from the very beginning it was: all other murders were only appendages to this last and most important murder.

(End of chapter)

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