"A TALE OF TWO CITIES\n\nA STORY OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION\n\nBy Charles Dickens\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n     Book the First--Recalled to Life\n\n     Chapter I      The Period\n     Chapter II     The Mail\n     Chapter III    The Night Shadows\n     Chapter IV     The Preparation\n     Chapter V      The Wine-shop\n     Chapter VI     The Shoemaker\n\n\n     Book the Second--the Golden Thread\n\n     Chapter I      Five Years Later\n     Chapter II     A Sight\n     Chapter III    A Disappointment\n     Chapter IV     Congratulatory\n     Chapter V      The Jackal\n     Chapter VI     Hundreds of People\n     Chapter VII    Monseigneur in Town\n     Chapter VIII   Monseigneur in the Country\n     Chapter IX     The Gorgon's Head\n     Chapter X      Two Promises\n     Chapter XI     A Companion Picture\n     Chapter XII    The Fellow of Delicacy\n     Chapter XIII   The Fellow of no Delicacy\n     Chapter XIV    The Honest Tradesman\n     Chapter XV     Knitting\n     Chapter XVI    Still Knitting\n     Chapter XVII   One Night\n     Chapter XVIII  Nine Days\n     Chapter XIX    An Opinion\n     Chapter XX     A Plea\n     Chapter XXI    Echoing Footsteps\n     Chapter XXII   The Sea Still Rises\n     Chapter XXIII  Fire Rises\n     Chapter XXIV   Drawn to the Loadstone Rock\n\n\n     Book the Third--the Track of a Storm\n\n     Chapter I      In Secret\n     Chapter II     The Grindstone\n     Chapter III    The Shadow\n     Chapter IV     Calm in Storm\n     Chapter V      The Wood-sawyer\n     Chapter VI     Triumph\n     Chapter VII    A Knock at the Door\n     Chapter VIII   A Hand at Cards\n     Chapter IX     The Game Made\n     Chapter X      The Substance of the Shadow\n     Chapter XI     Dusk\n     Chapter XII    Darkness\n     Chapter XIII   Fifty-two\n     Chapter XIV    The Knitting Done\n     Chapter XV     The Footsteps Die Out For Ever\n\n\n\n\n\nBook the First--Recalled to Life\n\n\n\n\nI. The Period\n\n\nIt was the best of times,\nit was the worst of times,\nit was the age of wisdom,\nit was the age of foolishness,\nit was the epoch of belief,\nit was the epoch of incredulity,\nit was the season of Light,\nit was the season of Darkness,\nit was the spring of hope,\nit was the winter of despair,\nwe had everything before us,\nwe had nothing before us,\nwe were all going direct to Heaven,\nwe were all going direct the other way--\nin short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of\nits noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for\nevil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.\n\nThere were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a plain face, on the\nthrone of England; there were a king with a large jaw and a queen with\na fair face, on the throne of France. In both countries it was clearer\nthan crystal to the lords of the State preserves of loaves and fishes,\nthat things in general were settled for ever.\n\nIt was the year of Our Lord one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five.\nSpiritual revelations were conceded to England at that favoured period,\nas at this. Mrs. Southcott had recently attained her five-and-twentieth\nblessed birthday, of whom a prophetic private in the Life Guards had\nheralded the sublime appearance by announcing that arrangements were\nmade for the swallowing up of London and Westminster. Even the Cock-lane\nghost had been laid only a round dozen of years, after rapping out its\nmessages, as the spirits of this very year last past (supernaturally\ndeficient in originality) rapped out theirs. Mere messages in the\nearthly order of events had lately come to the English Crown and People,\nfrom a congress of British subjects in America: which, strange\nto relate, have proved more important to the human race than any\ncommunications yet received through any of the chickens of the Cock-lane\nbrood.\n\nFrance, less favoured on the whole as to matters spiritual than her\nsister of the shield and trident, rolled with exceeding smoothness down\nhill, making paper money and spending it. Under the guidance of her\nChristian pastors, she entertained herself, besides, with such humane\nachievements as sentencing a youth to have his hands cut off, his tongue\ntorn out with pincers, and his body burned alive, because he had not\nkneeled down in the rain to do honour to a dirty procession of monks\nwhich passed within his view, at a distance of some fifty or sixty\nyards. It is likely enough that, rooted in the woods of France and\nNorway, there were growing trees, when that sufferer was put to death,\nalready marked by the Woodman, Fate, to come down and be sawn into\nboards, to make a certain movable framework with a sack and a knife in\nit, terrible in history. It is likely enough that in the rough outhouses\nof some tillers of the heavy lands adjacent to Paris, there were\nsheltered from the weather that very day, rude carts, bespattered with\nrustic mire, snuffed about by pigs, and roosted in by poultry, which\nthe Farmer, Death, had already set apart to be his tumbrils of\nthe Revolution. But that Woodman and that Farmer, though they work\nunceasingly, work silently, and no one heard them as they went about\nwith muffled tread: the rather, forasmuch as to entertain any suspicion\nthat they were awake, was to be atheistical and traitorous.\n\nIn England, there was scarcely an amount of order and protection to\njustify much national boasting. Daring burglaries by armed men, and\nhighway robberies, took place in the capital itself every night;\nfamilies were publicly cautioned not to go out of town without removing\ntheir furniture to upholsterers' warehouses for security; the highwayman\nin the dark was a City tradesman in the light, and, being recognised and\nchallenged by his fellow-tradesman whom he stopped in his character of\n\"the Captain,\" gallantly shot him through the head and rode away; the\nmail was waylaid by seven robbers, and the guard shot three dead, and\nthen got shot dead himself by the other four, \"in consequence of the\nfailure of his ammunition:\" after which the mail was robbed in peace;\nthat magnificent potentate, the Lord Mayor of London, was made to stand\nand deliver on Turnham Green, by one highwayman, who despoiled the\nillustrious creature in sight of all his retinue; prisoners in London\ngaols fought battles with their turnkeys, and the majesty of the law\nfired blunderbusses in among them, loaded with rounds of shot and ball;\nthieves snipped off diamond crosses from the necks of noble lords at\nCourt drawing-rooms; musketeers went into St. Giles's, to search\nfor contraband goods, and the mob fired on the musketeers, and the\nmusketeers fired on the mob, and nobody thought any of these occurrences\nmuch out of the common way. In the midst of them, the hangman, ever busy\nand ever worse than useless, was in constant requisition; now, stringing\nup long rows of miscellaneous criminals; now, hanging a housebreaker on\nSaturday who had been taken on Tuesday; now, burning people in the\nhand at Newgate by the dozen, and now burning pamphlets at the door of\nWestminster Hall; to-day, taking the life of an atrocious murderer,\nand to-morrow of a wretched pilferer who had robbed a farmer's boy of\nsixpence.\n\nAll these things, and a thousand like them, came to pass in and close\nupon the dear old year one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five.\nEnvironed by them, while the Woodman and the Farmer worked unheeded,\nthose two of the large jaws, and those other two of the plain and the\nfair faces, trod with stir enough, and carried their divine rights\nwith a high hand. Thus did the year one thousand seven hundred\nand seventy-five conduct their Greatnesses, and myriads of small\ncreatures--the creatures of this chronicle among the rest--along the\nroads that lay before them.\n\n\n\n\nII. The Mail\n\n\nIt was the Dover road that lay, on a Friday night late in November,\nbefore the first of the persons with whom this history has business.\nThe Dover road lay, as to him, beyond the Dover mail, as it lumbered up\nShooter's Hill. He walked up hill in the mire by the side of the mail,\nas the rest of the passengers did; not because they had the least relish\nfor walking exercise, under the circumstances, but because the hill,\nand the harness, and the mud, and the mail, were all so heavy, that the\nhorses had three times already come to a stop, besides once drawing the\ncoach across the road, with the mutinous intent of taking it back\nto Blackheath. Reins and whip and coachman and guard, however, in\ncombination, had read that article of war which forbade a purpose\notherwise strongly in favour of the argument, that some brute animals\nare endued with Reason; and the team had capitulated and returned to\ntheir duty.\n\nWith drooping heads and tremulous tails, they mashed their way through\nthe thick mud, floundering and stumbling between whiles, as if they were\nfalling to pieces at the larger joints. As often as the driver rested\nthem and brought them to a stand, with a wary \"Wo-ho! so-ho-then!\" the\nnear leader violently shook his head and everything upon it--like an\nunusually emphatic horse, denying that the coach could be got up the\nhill. Whenever the leader made this rattle, the passenger started, as a\nnervous passenger might, and was disturbed in mind.\n\nThere was a steaming mist in all the hollows, and it had roamed in its\nforlornness up the hill, like an evil spirit, seeking rest and finding\nnone. A clammy and intensely cold mist, it made its slow way through the\nair in ripples that visibly followed and overspread one another, as the\nwaves of an unwholesome sea might do. It was dense enough to shut out\neverything from the light of the coach-lamps but these its own workings,\nand a few yards of road; and the reek of the labouring horses steamed\ninto it, as if they had made it all.\n\nTwo other passengers, besides the one, were plodding up the hill by the\nside of the mail. All three were wrapped to the cheekbones and over the\nears, and wore jack-boots. Not one of the three could have said, from\nanything he saw, what either of the other two was like; and each was\nhidden under almost as many wrappers from the eyes of the mind, as from\nthe eyes of the body, of his two companions. In those days, travellers\nwere very shy of being confidential on a short notice, for anybody on\nthe road might be a robber or in league with robbers. As to the latter,\nwhen every posting-house and ale-house could produce somebody in\n\"the Captain's\" pay, ranging from the landlord to the lowest stable\nnon-descript, it was the likeliest thing upon the cards. So the guard\nof the Dover mail thought to himself, that Friday night in November, one\nthousand seven hundred and seventy-five, lumbering up Shooter's Hill, as\nhe stood on his own particular perch behind the mail, beating his feet,\nand keeping an eye and a hand on the arm-chest before him, where a\nloaded blunderbuss lay at the top of six or eight loaded horse-pistols,\ndeposited on a substratum of cutlass.\n\nThe Dover mail was in its usual genial position that the guard suspected\nthe passengers, the passengers suspected one another and the guard, they\nall suspected everybody else, and the coachman was sure of nothing but\nthe horses; as to which cattle he could with a clear conscience have\ntaken his oath on the two Testaments that they were not fit for the\njourney.\n\n\"Wo-ho!\" said the coachman. \"So, then! One more pull and you're at the\ntop and be damned to you, for I have had trouble enough to get you to\nit!--Joe!\"\n\n\"Halloa!\" the guard replied.\n\n\"What o'clock do you make it, Joe?\"\n\n\"Ten minutes, good, past eleven.\"\n\n\"My blood!\" ejaculated the vexed coachman, \"and not atop of Shooter's\nyet! Tst! Yah! Get on with you!\"\n\nThe emphatic horse, cut short by the whip in a most decided negative,\nmade a decided scramble for it, and the three other horses followed\nsuit. Once more, the Dover mail struggled on, with the jack-boots of its\npassengers squashing along by its side. They had stopped when the coach\nstopped, and they kept close company with it. If any one of the three\nhad had the hardihood to propose to another to walk on a little ahead\ninto the mist and darkness, he would have put himself in a fair way of\ngetting shot instantly as a highwayman.\n\nThe last burst carried the mail to the summit of the hill. The horses\nstopped to breathe again, and the guard got down to skid the wheel for\nthe descent, and open the coach-door to let the passengers in.\n\n\"Tst! Joe!\" cried the coachman in a warning voice, looking down from his\nbox.\n\n\"What do you say, Tom?\"\n\nThey both listened.\n\n\"I say a horse at a canter coming up, Joe.\"\n\n\"_I_ say a horse at a gallop, Tom,\" returned the guard, leaving his hold\nof the door, and mounting nimbly to his place. \"Gentlemen! In the king's\nname, all of you!\"\n\nWith this hurried adjuration, he cocked his blunderbuss, and stood on\nthe offensive.\n\nThe passenger booked by this history, was on the coach-step, getting in;\nthe two other passengers were close behind him, and about to follow. He\nremained on the step, half in the coach and half out of; they remained\nin the road below him. They all looked from the coachman to the guard,\nand from the guard to the coachman, and listened. The coachman looked\nback and the guard looked back, and even the emphatic leader pricked up\nhis ears and looked back, without contradicting.\n\nThe stillness consequent on the cessation of the rumbling and labouring\nof the coach, added to the stillness of the night, made it very quiet\nindeed. The panting of the horses communicated a tremulous motion to\nthe coach, as if it were in a state of agitation. The hearts of the\npassengers beat loud enough perhaps to be heard; but at any rate, the\nquiet pause was audibly expressive of people out of breath, and holding\nthe breath, and having the pulses quickened by expectation.\n\nThe sound of a horse at a gallop came fast and furiously up the hill.\n\n\"So-ho!\" the guard sang out, as loud as he could roar. \"Yo there! Stand!\nI shall fire!\"\n\nThe pace was suddenly checked, and, with much splashing and floundering,\na man's voice called from the mist, \"Is that the Dover mail?\"\n\n\"Never you mind what it is!\" the guard retorted. \"What are you?\"\n\n\"_Is_ that the Dover mail?\"\n\n\"Why do you want to know?\"\n\n\"I want a passenger, if it is.\"\n\n\"What passenger?\"\n\n\"Mr. Jarvis Lorry.\"\n\nOur booked passenger showed in a moment that it was his name. The guard,\nthe coachman, and the two other passengers eyed him distrustfully.\n\n\"Keep where you are,\" the guard called to the voice in the mist,\n\"because, if I should make a mistake, it could never be set right in\nyour lifetime. Gentleman of the name of Lorry answer straight.\"\n\n\"What is the matter?\" asked the passenger, then, with mildly quavering\nspeech. \"Who wants me? Is it Jerry?\"\n\n(\"I don't like Jerry's voice, if it is Jerry,\" growled the guard to\nhimself. \"He's hoarser than suits me, is Jerry.\")\n\n\"Yes, Mr. Lorry.\"\n\n\"What is the matter?\"\n\n\"A despatch sent after you from over yonder. T. and Co.\"\n\n\"I know this messenger, guard,\" said Mr. Lorry, getting down into the\nroad--assisted from behind more swiftly than politely by the other two\npassengers, who immediately scrambled into the coach, shut the door, and\npulled up the window. \"He may come close; there's nothing wrong.\"\n\n\"I hope there ain't, but I can't make so 'Nation sure of that,\" said the\nguard, in gruff soliloquy. \"Hallo you!\"\n\n\"Well! And hallo you!\" said Jerry, more hoarsely than before.\n\n\"Come on at a footpace! d'ye mind me? And if you've got holsters to that\nsaddle o' yourn, don't let me see your hand go nigh 'em. For I'm a devil\nat a quick mistake, and when I make one it takes the form of Lead. So\nnow let's look at you.\"\n\nThe figures of a horse and rider came slowly through the eddying mist,\nand came to the side of the mail, where the passenger stood. The rider\nstooped, and, casting up his eyes at the guard, handed the passenger\na small folded paper. The rider's horse was blown, and both horse and\nrider were covered with mud, from the hoofs of the horse to the hat of\nthe man.\n\n\"Guard!\" said the passenger, in a tone of quiet business confidence.\n\nThe watchful guard, with his right hand at the stock of his raised\nblunderbuss, his left at the barrel, and his eye on the horseman,\nanswered curtly, \"Sir.\"\n\n\"There is nothing to apprehend. I belong to Tellson's Bank. You must\nknow Tellson's Bank in London. I am going to Paris on business. A crown\nto drink. I may read this?\"\n\n\"If so be as you're quick, sir.\"\n\nHe opened it in the light of the coach-lamp on that side, and\nread--first to himself and then aloud: \"'Wait at Dover for Mam'selle.'\nIt's not long, you see, guard. Jerry, say that my answer was, RECALLED\nTO LIFE.\"\n\nJerry started in his saddle. \"That's a Blazing strange answer, too,\"\nsaid he, at his hoarsest.\n\n\"Take that message back, and they will know that I received this, as\nwell as if I wrote. Make the best of your way. Good night.\"\n\nWith those words the passenger opened the coach-door and got in; not at\nall assisted by his fellow-passengers, who had expeditiously secreted\ntheir watches and purses in their boots, and were now making a general\npretence of being asleep. With no more definite purpose than to escape\nthe hazard of originating any other kind of action.\n\nThe coach lumbered on again, with heavier wreaths of mist closing round\nit as it began the descent. The guard soon replaced his blunderbuss\nin his arm-chest, and, having looked to the rest of its contents, and\nhaving looked to the supplementary pistols that he wore in his belt,\nlooked to a smaller chest beneath his seat, in which there were a\nfew smith's tools, a couple of torches, and a tinder-box. For he was\nfurnished with that completeness that if the coach-lamps had been blown\nand stormed out, which did occasionally happen, he had only to shut\nhimself up inside, keep the flint and steel sparks well off the straw,\nand get a light with tolerable safety and ease (if he were lucky) in\nfive minutes.\n\n\"Tom!\" softly over the coach roof.\n\n\"Hallo, Joe.\"\n\n\"Did you hear the message?\"\n\n\"I did, Joe.\"\n\n\"What did you make of it, Tom?\"\n\n\"Nothing at all, Joe.\"\n\n\"That's a coincidence, too,\" the guard mused, \"for I made the same of it\nmyself.\"\n\nJerry, left alone in the mist and darkness, dismounted meanwhile, not\nonly to ease his spent horse, but to wipe the mud from his face, and\nshake the wet out of his hat-brim, which might be capable of\nholding about half a gallon. After standing with the bridle over his\nheavily-splashed arm, until the wheels of the mail were no longer within\nhearing and the night was quite still again, he turned to walk down the\nhill.\n\n\"After that there gallop from Temple Bar, old lady, I won't trust your\nfore-legs till I get you on the level,\" said this hoarse messenger,\nglancing at his mare. \"'Recalled to life.' That's a Blazing strange\nmessage. Much of that wouldn't do for you, Jerry! I say, Jerry! You'd\nbe in a Blazing bad way, if recalling to life was to come into fashion,\nJerry!\"\n\n\n\n\nIII. The Night Shadows\n\n\nA wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is\nconstituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other. A\nsolemn consideration, when I enter a great city by night, that every\none of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every\nroom in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating\nheart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of\nits imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it! Something of the\nawfulness, even of Death itself, is referable to this. No more can I\nturn the leaves of this dear book that I loved, and vainly hope in time\nto read it all. No more can I look into the depths of this unfathomable\nwater, wherein, as momentary lights glanced into it, I have had glimpses\nof buried treasure and other things submerged. It was appointed that the\nbook should shut with a spring, for ever and for ever, when I had read\nbut a page. It was appointed that the water should be locked in an\neternal frost, when the light was playing on its surface, and I stood\nin ignorance on the shore. My friend is dead, my neighbour is dead,\nmy love, the darling of my soul, is dead; it is the inexorable\nconsolidation and perpetuation of the secret that was always in that\nindividuality, and which I shall carry in mine to my life's end. In\nany of the burial-places of this city through which I pass, is there\na sleeper more inscrutable than its busy inhabitants are, in their\ninnermost personality, to me, or than I am to them?\n\nAs to this, his natural and not to be alienated inheritance, the\nmessenger on horseback had exactly the same possessions as the King, the\nfirst Minister of State, or the richest merchant in London. So with the\nthree passengers shut up in the narrow compass of one lumbering old mail\ncoach; they were mysteries to one another, as complete as if each had\nbeen in his own coach and six, or his own coach and sixty, with the\nbreadth of a county between him and the next.\n\nThe messenger rode back at an easy trot, stopping pretty often at\nale-houses by the way to drink, but evincing a tendency to keep his\nown counsel, and to keep his hat cocked over his eyes. He had eyes that\nassorted very well with that decoration, being of a surface black, with\nno depth in the colour or form, and much too near together--as if they\nwere afraid of being found out in something, singly, if they kept too\nfar apart. They had a sinister expression, under an old cocked-hat like\na three-cornered spittoon, and over a great muffler for the chin and\nthroat, which descended nearly to the wearer's knees. When he stopped\nfor drink, he moved this muffler with his left hand, only while he\npoured his liquor in with his right; as soon as that was done, he\nmuffled again.\n\n\"No, Jerry, no!\" said the messenger, harping on one theme as he rode.\n\"It wouldn't do for you, Jerry. Jerry, you honest tradesman, it wouldn't\nsuit _your_ line of business! Recalled--! Bust me if I don't think he'd\nbeen a drinking!\"\n\nHis message perplexed his mind to that degree that he was fain, several\ntimes, to take off his hat to scratch his head. Except on the crown,\nwhich was raggedly bald, he had stiff, black hair, standing jaggedly all\nover it, and growing down hill almost to his broad, blunt nose. It was\nso like Smith's work, so much more like the top of a strongly spiked\nwall than a head of hair, that the best of players at leap-frog might\nhave declined him, as the most dangerous man in the world to go over.\n\nWhile he trotted back with the message he was to deliver to the night\nwatchman in his box at the door of Tellson's Bank, by Temple Bar, who\nwas to deliver it to greater authorities within, the shadows of the\nnight took such shapes to him as arose out of the message, and took such\nshapes to the mare as arose out of _her_ private topics of uneasiness.\nThey seemed to be numerous, for she shied at every shadow on the road.\n\nWhat time, the mail-coach lumbered, jolted, rattled, and bumped upon\nits tedious way, with its three fellow-inscrutables inside. To whom,\nlikewise, the shadows of the night revealed themselves, in the forms\ntheir dozing eyes and wandering thoughts suggested.\n\nTellson's Bank had a run upon it in the mail. As the bank\npassenger--with an arm drawn through the leathern strap, which did what\nlay in it to keep him from pounding against the next passenger,\nand driving him into his corner, whenever the coach got a special\njolt--nodded in his place, with half-shut eyes, the little\ncoach-windows, and the coach-lamp dimly gleaming through them, and the\nbulky bundle of opposite passenger, became the bank, and did a great\nstroke of business. The rattle of the harness was the chink of money,\nand more drafts were honoured in five minutes than even Tellson's, with\nall its foreign and home connection, ever paid in thrice the time. Then\nthe strong-rooms underground, at Tellson's, with such of their valuable\nstores and secrets as were known to the passenger (and it was not a\nlittle that he knew about them), opened before him, and he went in among\nthem with the great keys and the feebly-burning candle, and found them\nsafe, and strong, and sound, and still, just as he had last seen them.\n\nBut, though the bank was almost always with him, and though the coach\n(in a confused way, like the presence of pain under an opiate) was\nalways with him, there was another current of impression that never\nceased to run, all through the night. He was on his way to dig some one\nout of a grave.\n\nNow, which of the multitude of faces that showed themselves before him\nwas the true face of the buried person, the shadows of the night did\nnot indicate; but they were all the faces of a man of five-and-forty by\nyears, and they differed principally in the passions they expressed,\nand in the ghastliness of their worn and wasted state. Pride, contempt,\ndefiance, stubbornness, submission, lamentation, succeeded one another;\nso did varieties of sunken cheek, cadaverous colour, emaciated hands\nand figures. But the face was in the main one face, and every head was\nprematurely white. A hundred times the dozing passenger inquired of this\nspectre:\n\n\"Buried how long?\"\n\nThe answer was always the same: \"Almost eighteen years.\"\n\n\"You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?\"\n\n\"Long ago.\"\n\n\"You know that you are recalled to life?\"\n\n\"They tell me so.\"\n\n\"I hope you care to live?\"\n\n\"I can't say.\"\n\n\"Shall I show her to you? Will you come and see her?\"\n\nThe answers to this question were various and contradictory. Sometimes\nthe broken reply was, \"Wait! It would kill me if I saw her too soon.\"\nSometimes, it was given in a tender rain of tears, and then it was,\n\"Take me to her.\" Sometimes it was staring and bewildered, and then it\nwas, \"I don't know her. I don't understand.\"\n\nAfter such imaginary discourse, the passenger in his fancy would dig,\nand dig, dig--now with a spade, now with a great key, now with his\nhands--to dig this wretched creature out. Got out at last, with earth\nhanging about his face and hair, he would suddenly fan away to dust. The\npassenger would then start to himself, and lower the window, to get the\nreality of mist and rain on his cheek.\n\nYet even when his eyes were opened on the mist and rain, on the moving\npatch of light from the lamps, and the hedge at the roadside retreating\nby jerks, the night shadows outside the coach would fall into the train\nof the night shadows within. The real Banking-house by Temple Bar, the\nreal business of the past day, the real strong rooms, the real express\nsent after him, and the real message returned, would all be there. Out\nof the midst of them, the ghostly face would rise, and he would accost\nit again.\n\n\"Buried how long?\"\n\n\"Almost eighteen years.\"\n\n\"I hope you care to live?\"\n\n\"I can't say.\"\n\nDig--dig--dig--until an impatient movement from one of the two\npassengers would admonish him to pull up the window, draw his arm\nsecurely through the leathern strap, and speculate upon the two\nslumbering forms, until his mind lost its hold of them, and they again\nslid away into the bank and the grave.\n\n\"Buried how long?\"\n\n\"Almost eighteen years.\"\n\n\"You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?\"\n\n\"Long ago.\"\n\nThe words were still in his hearing as just spoken--distinctly in\nhis hearing as ever spoken words had been in his life--when the weary\npassenger started to the consciousness of daylight, and found that the\nshadows of the night were gone.\n\nHe lowered the window, and looked out at the rising sun. There was a\nridge of ploughed land, with a plough upon it where it had been left\nlast night when the horses were unyoked; beyond, a quiet coppice-wood,\nin which many leaves of burning red and golden yellow still remained\nupon the trees. Though the earth was cold and wet, the sky was clear,\nand the sun rose bright, placid, and beautiful.\n\n\"Eighteen years!\" said the passenger, looking at the sun. \"Gracious\nCreator of day! To be buried alive for eighteen years!\"\n\n\n\n\nIV. The Preparation\n\n\nWhen the mail got successfully to Dover, in the course of the forenoon,\nthe head drawer at the Royal George Hotel opened the coach-door as his\ncustom was. He did it with some flourish of ceremony, for a mail journey\nfrom London in winter was an achievement to congratulate an adventurous\ntraveller upon.\n\nBy that time, there was only one adventurous traveller left be\ncongratulated: for the two others had been set down at their respective\nroadside destinations. The mildewy inside of the coach, with its damp\nand dirty straw, its disagreeable smell, and its obscurity, was rather\nlike a larger dog-kennel. Mr. Lorry, the passenger, shaking himself out\nof it in chains of straw, a tangle of shaggy wrapper, flapping hat, and\nmuddy legs, was rather like a larger sort of dog.\n\n\"There will be a packet to Calais, tomorrow, drawer?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, if the weather holds and the wind sets tolerable fair. The\ntide will serve pretty nicely at about two in the afternoon, sir. Bed,\nsir?\"\n\n\"I shall not go to bed till night; but I want a bedroom, and a barber.\"\n\n\"And then breakfast, sir? Yes, sir. That way, sir, if you please.\nShow Concord! Gentleman's valise and hot water to Concord. Pull off\ngentleman's boots in Concord. (You will find a fine sea-coal fire, sir.)\nFetch barber to Concord. Stir about there, now, for Concord!\"\n\nThe Concord bed-chamber being always assigned to a passenger by the\nmail, and passengers by the mail being always heavily wrapped up from\nhead to foot, the room had the odd interest for the establishment of the\nRoyal George, that although but one kind of man was seen to go into it,\nall kinds and varieties of men came out of it. Consequently, another\ndrawer, and two porters, and several maids and the landlady, were all\nloitering by accident at various points of the road between the Concord\nand the coffee-room, when a gentleman of sixty, formally dressed in a\nbrown suit of clothes, pretty well worn, but very well kept, with large\nsquare cuffs and large flaps to the pockets, passed along on his way to\nhis breakfast.\n\nThe coffee-room had no other occupant, that forenoon, than the gentleman\nin brown. His breakfast-table was drawn before the fire, and as he sat,\nwith its light shining on him, waiting for the meal, he sat so still,\nthat he might have been sitting for his portrait.\n\nVery orderly and methodical he looked, with a hand on each knee, and a\nloud watch ticking a sonorous sermon under his flapped waist-coat,\nas though it pitted its gravity and longevity against the levity and\nevanescence of the brisk fire. He had a good leg, and was a little vain\nof it, for his brown stockings fitted sleek and close, and were of a\nfine texture; his shoes and buckles, too, though plain, were trim. He\nwore an odd little sleek crisp flaxen wig, setting very close to his\nhead: which wig, it is to be presumed, was made of hair, but which\nlooked far more as though it were spun from filaments of silk or glass.\nHis linen, though not of a fineness in accordance with his stockings,\nwas as white as the tops of the waves that broke upon the neighbouring\nbeach, or the specks of sail that glinted in the sunlight far at sea. A\nface habitually suppressed and quieted, was still lighted up under the\nquaint wig by a pair of moist bright eyes that it must have cost\ntheir owner, in years gone by, some pains to drill to the composed and\nreserved expression of Tellson's Bank. He had a healthy colour in his\ncheeks, and his face, though lined, bore few traces of anxiety.\nBut, perhaps the confidential bachelor clerks in Tellson's Bank were\nprincipally occupied with the cares of other people; and perhaps\nsecond-hand cares, like second-hand clothes, come easily off and on.\n\nCompleting his resemblance to a man who was sitting for his portrait,\nMr. Lorry dropped off to sleep. The arrival of his breakfast roused him,\nand he said to the drawer, as he moved his chair to it:\n\n\"I wish accommodation prepared for a young lady who may come here at any\ntime to-day. She may ask for Mr. Jarvis Lorry, or she may only ask for a\ngentleman from Tellson's Bank. Please to let me know.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir. Tellson's Bank in London, sir?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir. We have oftentimes the honour to entertain your gentlemen in\ntheir travelling backwards and forwards betwixt London and Paris, sir. A\nvast deal of travelling, sir, in Tellson and Company's House.\"\n\n\"Yes. We are quite a French House, as well as an English one.\"\n\n\"Yes, sir. Not much in the habit of such travelling yourself, I think,\nsir?\"\n\n\"Not of late years. It is fifteen years since we--since I--came last\nfrom France.\"\n\n\"Indeed, sir? That was before my time here, sir. Before our people's\ntime here, sir. The George was in other hands at that time, sir.\"\n\n\"I believe so.\"\n\n\"But I would hold a pretty wager, sir, that a House like Tellson and\nCompany was flourishing, a matter of fifty, not to speak of fifteen\nyears ago?\"\n\n\"You might treble that, and say a hundred and fifty, yet not be far from\nthe truth.\"\n\n\"Indeed, sir!\"\n\nRounding his mouth and both his eyes, as he stepped backward from the\ntable, the waiter shifted his napkin from his right arm to his left,\ndropped into a comfortable attitude, and stood surveying the guest while\nhe ate and drank, as from an observatory or watchtower. According to the\nimmemorial usage of waiters in all ages.\n\nWhen Mr. Lorry had finished his breakfast, he went out for a stroll on\nthe beach. The little narrow, crooked town of Dover hid itself away\nfrom the beach, and ran its head into the chalk cliffs, like a marine\nostrich. The beach was a desert of heaps of sea and stones tumbling\nwildly about, and the sea did what it liked, and what it liked was\ndestruction. It thundered at the town, and thundered at the cliffs, and\nbrought the coast down, madly. The air among the houses was of so strong\na piscatory flavour that one might have supposed sick fish went up to be\ndipped in it, as sick people went down to be dipped in the sea. A little\nfishing was done in the port, and a quantity of strolling about by\nnight, and looking seaward: particularly at those times when the tide\nmade, and was near flood. Small tradesmen, who did no business whatever,\nsometimes unaccountably realised large fortunes, and it was remarkable\nthat nobody in the neighbourhood could endure a lamplighter.\n\nAs the day declined into the afternoon, and the air, which had been\nat intervals clear enough to allow the French coast to be seen, became\nagain charged with mist and vapour, Mr. Lorry's thoughts seemed to cloud\ntoo. When it was dark, and he sat before the coffee-room fire, awaiting\nhis dinner as he had awaited his breakfast, his mind was busily digging,\ndigging, digging, in the live red coals.\n\nA bottle of good claret after dinner does a digger in the red coals no\nharm, otherwise than as it has a tendency to throw him out of work.\nMr. Lorry had been idle a long time, and had just poured out his last\nglassful of wine with as complete an appearance of satisfaction as is\never to be found in an elderly gentleman of a fresh complexion who has\ngot to the end of a bottle, when a rattling of wheels came up the narrow\nstreet, and rumbled into the inn-yard.\n\nHe set down his glass untouched. \"This is Mam'selle!\" said he.\n\nIn a very few minutes the waiter came in to announce that Miss Manette\nhad arrived from London, and would be happy to see the gentleman from\nTellson's.\n\n\"So soon?\"\n\nMiss Manette had taken some refreshment on the road, and required none\nthen, and was extremely anxious to see the gentleman from Tellson's\nimmediately, if it suited his pleasure and convenience.\n\nThe gentleman from Tellson's had nothing left for it but to empty his\nglass with an air of stolid desperation, settle his odd little flaxen\nwig at the ears, and follow the waiter to Miss Manette's apartment.\nIt was a large, dark room, furnished in a funereal manner with black\nhorsehair, and loaded with heavy dark tables. These had been oiled and\noiled, until the two tall candles on the table in the middle of the room\nwere gloomily reflected on every leaf; as if _they_ were buried, in deep\ngraves of black mahogany, and no light to speak of could be expected\nfrom them until they were dug out.\n\nThe obscurity was so difficult to penetrate that Mr. Lorry, picking his\nway over the well-worn Turkey carpet, supposed Miss Manette to be, for\nthe moment, in some adjacent room, until, having got past the two tall\ncandles, he saw standing to receive him by the table between them and\nthe fire, a young lady of not more than seventeen, in a riding-cloak,\nand still holding her straw travelling-hat by its ribbon in her hand. As\nhis eyes rested on a short, slight, pretty figure, a quantity of golden\nhair, a pair of blue eyes that met his own with an inquiring look, and\na forehead with a singular capacity (remembering how young and smooth\nit was), of rifting and knitting itself into an expression that was\nnot quite one of perplexity, or wonder, or alarm, or merely of a bright\nfixed attention, though it included all the four expressions--as his\neyes rested on these things, a sudden vivid likeness passed before him,\nof a child whom he had held in his arms on the passage across that very\nChannel, one cold time, when the hail drifted heavily and the sea ran\nhigh. The likeness passed away, like a breath along the surface of\nthe gaunt pier-glass behind her, on the frame of which, a hospital\nprocession of negro cupids, several headless and all cripples, were\noffering black baskets of Dead Sea fruit to black divinities of the\nfeminine gender--and he made his formal bow to Miss Manette.\n\n\"Pray take a seat, sir.\" In a very clear and pleasant young voice; a\nlittle foreign in its accent, but a very little indeed.\n\n\"I kiss your hand, miss,\" said Mr. Lorry, with the manners of an earlier\ndate, as he made his formal bow again, and took his seat.\n\n\"I received a letter from the Bank, sir, yesterday, informing me that\nsome intelligence--or discovery--\"\n\n\"The word is not material, miss; either word will do.\"\n\n\"--respecting the small property of my poor father, whom I never saw--so\nlong dead--\"\n\nMr. Lorry moved in his chair, and cast a troubled look towards the\nhospital procession of negro cupids. As if _they_ had any help for\nanybody in their absurd baskets!\n\n\"--rendered it necessary that I should go to Paris, there to communicate\nwith a gentleman of the Bank, so good as to be despatched to Paris for\nthe purpose.\"\n\n\"Myself.\"\n\n\"As I was prepared to hear, sir.\"\n\nShe curtseyed to him (young ladies made curtseys in those days), with a\npretty desire to convey to him that she felt how much older and wiser he\nwas than she. He made her another bow.\n\n\"I replied to the Bank, sir, that as it was considered necessary, by\nthose who know, and who are so kind as to advise me, that I should go to\nFrance, and that as I am an orphan and have no friend who could go with\nme, I should esteem it highly if I might be permitted to place myself,\nduring the journey, under that worthy gentleman's protection. The\ngentleman had left London, but I think a messenger was sent after him to\nbeg the favour of his waiting for me here.\"\n\n\"I was happy,\" said Mr. Lorry, \"to be entrusted with the charge. I shall\nbe more happy to execute it.\"\n\n\"Sir, I thank you indeed. I thank you very gratefully. It was told me\nby the Bank that the gentleman would explain to me the details of the\nbusiness, and that I must prepare myself to find them of a surprising\nnature. I have done my best to prepare myself, and I naturally have a\nstrong and eager interest to know what they are.\"\n\n\"Naturally,\" said Mr. Lorry. \"Yes--I--\"\n\nAfter a pause, he added, again settling the crisp flaxen wig at the\nears, \"It is very difficult to begin.\"\n\nHe did not begin, but, in his indecision, met her glance. The young\nforehead lifted itself into that singular expression--but it was pretty\nand characteristic, besides being singular--and she raised her hand,\nas if with an involuntary action she caught at, or stayed some passing\nshadow.\n\n\"Are you quite a stranger to me, sir?\"\n\n\"Am I not?\" Mr. Lorry opened his hands, and extended them outwards with\nan argumentative smile.\n\nBetween the eyebrows and just over the little feminine nose, the line of\nwhich was as delicate and fine as it was possible to be, the expression\ndeepened itself as she took her seat thoughtfully in the chair by which\nshe had hitherto remained standing. He watched her as she mused, and the\nmoment she raised her eyes again, went on:\n\n\"In your adopted country, I presume, I cannot do better than address you\nas a young English lady, Miss Manette?\"\n\n\"If you please, sir.\"\n\n\"Miss Manette, I am a man of business. I have a business charge to\nacquit myself of. In your reception of it, don't heed me any more than\nif I was a speaking machine--truly, I am not much else. I will, with\nyour leave, relate to you, miss, the story of one of our customers.\"\n\n\"Story!\"\n\nHe seemed wilfully to mistake the word she had repeated, when he added,\nin a hurry, \"Yes, customers; in the banking business we usually call\nour connection our customers. He was a French gentleman; a scientific\ngentleman; a man of great acquirements--a Doctor.\"\n\n\"Not of Beauvais?\"\n\n\"Why, yes, of Beauvais. Like Monsieur Manette, your father, the\ngentleman was of Beauvais. Like Monsieur Manette, your father, the\ngentleman was of repute in Paris. I had the honour of knowing him there.\nOur relations were business relations, but confidential. I was at that\ntime in our French House, and had been--oh! twenty years.\"\n\n\"At that time--I may ask, at what time, sir?\"\n\n\"I speak, miss, of twenty years ago. He married--an English lady--and\nI was one of the trustees. His affairs, like the affairs of many other\nFrench gentlemen and French families, were entirely in Tellson's hands.\nIn a similar way I am, or I have been, trustee of one kind or other for\nscores of our customers. These are mere business relations, miss;\nthere is no friendship in them, no particular interest, nothing like\nsentiment. I have passed from one to another, in the course of my\nbusiness life, just as I pass from one of our customers to another in\nthe course of my business day; in short, I have no feelings; I am a mere\nmachine. To go on--\"\n\n\"But this is my father's story, sir; and I begin to think\"--the\ncuriously roughened forehead was very intent upon him--\"that when I was\nleft an orphan through my mother's surviving my father only two years,\nit was you who brought me to England. I am almost sure it was you.\"\n\nMr. Lorry took the hesitating little hand that confidingly advanced\nto take his, and he put it with some ceremony to his lips. He then\nconducted the young lady straightway to her chair again, and, holding\nthe chair-back with his left hand, and using his right by turns to rub\nhis chin, pull his wig at the ears, or point what he said, stood looking\ndown into her face while she sat looking up into his.\n\n\"Miss Manette, it _was_ I. And you will see how truly I spoke of myself\njust now, in saying I had no feelings, and that all the relations I hold\nwith my fellow-creatures are mere business relations, when you reflect\nthat I have never seen you since. No; you have been the ward of\nTellson's House since, and I have been busy with the other business of\nTellson's House since. Feelings! I have no time for them, no chance\nof them. I pass my whole life, miss, in turning an immense pecuniary\nMangle.\"\n\nAfter this odd description of his daily routine of employment, Mr. Lorry\nflattened his flaxen wig upon his head with both hands (which was most\nunnecessary, for nothing could be flatter than its shining surface was\nbefore), and resumed his former attitude.\n\n\"So far, miss (as you have remarked), this is the story of your\nregretted father. Now comes the difference. If your father had not died\nwhen he did--Don't be frightened! How you start!\"\n\nShe did, indeed, start. And she caught his wrist with both her hands.\n\n\"Pray,\" said Mr. Lorry, in a soothing tone, bringing his left hand from\nthe back of the chair to lay it on the supplicatory fingers that clasped\nhim in so violent a tremble: \"pray control your agitation--a matter of\nbusiness. As I was saying--\"\n\nHer look so discomposed him that he stopped, wandered, and began anew:\n\n\"As I was saying; if Monsieur Manette had not died; if he had suddenly\nand silently disappeared; if he had been spirited away; if it had not\nbeen difficult to guess to what dreadful place, though no art could\ntrace him; if he had an enemy in some compatriot who could exercise a\nprivilege that I in my own time have known the boldest people afraid\nto speak of in a whisper, across the water there; for instance, the\nprivilege of filling up blank forms for the consignment of any one\nto the oblivion of a prison for any length of time; if his wife had\nimplored the king, the queen, the court, the clergy, for any tidings of\nhim, and all quite in vain;--then the history of your father would have\nbeen the history of this unfortunate gentleman, the Doctor of Beauvais.\"\n\n\"I entreat you to tell me more, sir.\"\n\n\"I will. I am going to. You can bear it?\"\n\n\"I can bear anything but the uncertainty you leave me in at this\nmoment.\"\n\n\"You speak collectedly, and you--_are_ collected. That's good!\" (Though\nhis manner was less satisfied than his words.) \"A matter of business.\nRegard it as a matter of business--business that must be done. Now\nif this doctor's wife, though a lady of great courage and spirit,\nhad suffered so intensely from this cause before her little child was\nborn--\"\n\n\"The little child was a daughter, sir.\"\n\n\"A daughter. A-a-matter of business--don't be distressed. Miss, if the\npoor lady had suffered so intensely before her little child was born,\nthat she came to the determination of sparing the poor child the\ninheritance of any part of the agony she had known the pains of, by\nrearing her in the belief that her father was dead--No, don't kneel! In\nHeaven's name why should you kneel to me!\"\n\n\"For the truth. O dear, good, compassionate sir, for the truth!\"\n\n\"A--a matter of business. You confuse me, and how can I transact\nbusiness if I am confused? Let us be clear-headed. If you could kindly\nmention now, for instance, what nine times ninepence are, or how many\nshillings in twenty guineas, it would be so encouraging. I should be so\nmuch more at my ease about your state of mind.\"\n\nWithout directly answering to this appeal, she sat so still when he had\nvery gently raised her, and the hands that had not ceased to clasp\nhis wrists were so much more steady than they had been, that she\ncommunicated some reassurance to Mr. Jarvis Lorry.\n\n\"That's right, that's right. Courage! Business! You have business before\nyou; useful business. Miss Manette, your mother took this course with\nyou. And when she died--I believe broken-hearted--having never slackened\nher unavailing search for your father, she left you, at two years old,\nto grow to be blooming, beautiful, and happy, without the dark cloud\nupon you of living in uncertainty whether your father soon wore his\nheart out in prison, or wasted there through many lingering years.\"\n\nAs he said the words he looked down, with an admiring pity, on the\nflowing golden hair; as if he pictured to himself that it might have\nbeen already tinged with grey.\n\n\"You know that your parents had no great possession, and that what\nthey had was secured to your mother and to you. There has been no new\ndiscovery, of money, or of any other property; but--\"\n\nHe felt his wrist held closer, and he stopped. The expression in the\nforehead, which had so particularly attracted his notice, and which was\nnow immovable, had deepened into one of pain and horror.\n\n\"But he has been--been found. He is alive. Greatly changed, it is too\nprobable; almost a wreck, it is possible; though we will hope the best.\nStill, alive. Your father has been taken to the house of an old servant\nin Paris, and we are going there: I, to identify him if I can: you, to\nrestore him to life, love, duty, rest, comfort.\"\n\nA shiver ran through her frame, and from it through his. She said, in a\nlow, distinct, awe-stricken voice, as if she were saying it in a dream,\n\n\"I am going to see his Ghost! It will be his Ghost--not him!\"\n\nMr. Lorry quietly chafed the hands that held his arm. \"There, there,\nthere! See now, see now! The best and the worst are known to you, now.\nYou are well on your way to the poor wronged gentleman, and, with a fair\nsea voyage, and a fair land journey, you will be soon at his dear side.\"\n\nShe repeated in the same tone, sunk to a whisper, \"I have been free, I\nhave been happy, yet his Ghost has never haunted me!\"\n\n\"Only one thing more,\" said Mr. Lorry, laying stress upon it as a\nwholesome means of enforcing her attention: \"he has been found under\nanother name; his own, long forgotten or long concealed. It would be\nworse than useless now to inquire which; worse than useless to seek to\nknow whether he has been for years overlooked, or always designedly\nheld prisoner. It would be worse than useless now to make any inquiries,\nbecause it would be dangerous. Better not to mention the subject,\nanywhere or in any way, and to remove him--for a while at all\nevents--out of France. Even I, safe as an Englishman, and even\nTellson's, important as they are to French credit, avoid all naming of\nthe matter. I carry about me, not a scrap of writing openly referring\nto it. This is a secret service altogether. My credentials, entries,\nand memoranda, are all comprehended in the one line, 'Recalled to Life;'\nwhich may mean anything. But what is the matter! She doesn't notice a\nword! Miss Manette!\"\n\nPerfectly still and silent, and not even fallen back in her chair, she\nsat under his hand, utterly insensible; with her eyes open and fixed\nupon him, and with that last expression looking as if it were carved or\nbranded into her forehead. So close was her hold upon his arm, that he\nfeared to detach himself lest he should hurt her; therefore he called\nout loudly for assistance without moving.\n\nA wild-looking woman, whom even in his agitation, Mr. Lorry observed to\nbe all of a red colour, and to have red hair, and to be dressed in some\nextraordinary tight-fitting fashion, and to have on her head a most\nwonderful bonnet like a Grenadier wooden measure, and good measure too,\nor a great Stilton cheese, came running into the room in advance of the\ninn servants, and soon settled the question of his detachment from the\npoor young lady, by laying a brawny hand upon his chest, and sending him\nflying back against the nearest wall.\n\n(\"I really think this must be a man!\" was Mr. Lorry's breathless\nreflection, simultaneously with his coming against the wall.)\n\n\"Why, look at you all!\" bawled this figure, addressing the inn servants.\n\"Why don't you go and fetch things, instead of standing there staring\nat me? I am not so much to look at, am I? Why don't you go and fetch\nthings? I'll let you know, if you don't bring smelling-salts, cold\nwater, and vinegar, quick, I will.\"\n\nThere was an immediate dispersal for these restoratives, and she\nsoftly laid the patient on a sofa, and tended her with great skill and\ngentleness: calling her \"my precious!\" and \"my bird!\" and spreading her\ngolden hair aside over her shoulders with great pride and care.\n\n\"And you in brown!\" she said, indignantly turning to Mr. Lorry;\n\"couldn't you tell her what you had to tell her, without frightening her\nto death? Look at her, with her pretty pale face and her cold hands. Do\nyou call _that_ being a Banker?\"\n\nMr. Lorry was so exceedingly disconcerted by a question so hard to\nanswer, that he could only look on, at a distance, with much feebler\nsympathy and humility, while the strong woman, having banished the inn\nservants under the mysterious penalty of \"letting them know\" something\nnot mentioned if they stayed there, staring, recovered her charge by a\nregular series of gradations, and coaxed her to lay her drooping head\nupon her shoulder.\n\n\"I hope she will do well now,\" said Mr. Lorry.\n\n\"No thanks to you in brown, if she does. My darling pretty!\"\n\n\"I hope,\" said Mr. Lorry, after another pause of feeble sympathy and\nhumility, \"that you accompany Miss Manette to France?\"\n\n\"A likely thing, too!\" replied the strong woman. \"If it was ever\nintended that I should go across salt water, do you suppose Providence\nwould have cast my lot in an island?\"\n\nThis being another question hard to answer, Mr. Jarvis Lorry withdrew to\nconsider it.\n\n\n\n\nV. The Wine-shop\n\n\nA large cask of wine had been dropped and broken, in the street. The\naccident had happened in getting it out of a cart; the cask had tumbled\nout with a run, the hoops had burst, and it lay on the stones just\noutside the door of the wine-shop, shattered like a walnut-shell.\n\nAll the people within reach had suspended their business, or their\nidleness, to run to the spot and drink the wine. The rough, irregular\nstones of the street, pointing every way, and designed, one might have\nthought, expressly to lame all living creatures that approached them,\nhad dammed it into little pools; these were surrounded, each by its own\njostling group or crowd, according to its size. Some men kneeled down,\nmade scoops of their two hands joined, and sipped, or tried to help\nwomen, who bent over their shoulders, to sip, before the wine had all\nrun out between their fingers. Others, men and women, dipped in\nthe puddles with little mugs of mutilated earthenware, or even with\nhandkerchiefs from women's heads, which were squeezed dry into infants'\nmouths; others made small mud-embankments, to stem the wine as it ran;\nothers, directed by lookers-on up at high windows, darted here and\nthere, to cut off little streams of wine that started away in new\ndirections; others devoted themselves to the sodden and lee-dyed\npieces of the cask, licking, and even champing the moister wine-rotted\nfragments with eager relish. There was no drainage to carry off the\nwine, and not only did it all get taken up, but so much mud got taken up\nalong with it, that there might have been a scavenger in the street,\nif anybody acquainted with it could have believed in such a miraculous\npresence.\n\nA shrill sound of laughter and of amused voices--voices of men, women,\nand children--resounded in the street while this wine game lasted. There\nwas little roughness in the sport, and much playfulness. There was a\nspecial companionship in it, an observable inclination on the part\nof every one to join some other one, which led, especially among the\nluckier or lighter-hearted, to frolicsome embraces, drinking of healths,\nshaking of hands, and even joining of hands and dancing, a dozen\ntogether. When the wine was gone, and the places where it had been\nmost abundant were raked into a gridiron-pattern by fingers, these\ndemonstrations ceased, as suddenly as they had broken out. The man who\nhad left his saw sticking in the firewood he was cutting, set it in\nmotion again; the women who had left on a door-step the little pot of\nhot ashes, at which she had been trying to soften the pain in her own\nstarved fingers and toes, or in those of her child, returned to it; men\nwith bare arms, matted locks, and cadaverous faces, who had emerged into\nthe winter light from cellars, moved away, to descend again; and a gloom\ngathered on the scene that appeared more natural to it than sunshine.\n\nThe wine was red wine, and had stained the ground of the narrow street\nin the suburb of Saint Antoine, in Paris, where it was spilled. It had\nstained many hands, too, and many faces, and many naked feet, and many\nwooden shoes. The hands of the man who sawed the wood, left red marks\non the billets; and the forehead of the woman who nursed her baby, was\nstained with the stain of the old rag she wound about her head again.\nThose who had been greedy with the staves of the cask, had acquired a\ntigerish smear about the mouth; and one tall joker so besmirched, his\nhead more out of a long squalid bag of a nightcap than in it, scrawled\nupon a wall with his finger dipped in muddy wine-lees--BLOOD.\n\nThe time was to come, when that wine too would be spilled on the\nstreet-stones, and when the stain of it would be red upon many there.\n\nAnd now that the cloud settled on Saint Antoine, which a momentary\ngleam had driven from his sacred countenance, the darkness of it was\nheavy--cold, dirt, sickness, ignorance, and want, were the lords in\nwaiting on the saintly presence--nobles of great power all of them;\nbut, most especially the last. Samples of a people that had undergone a\nterrible grinding and regrinding in the mill, and certainly not in the\nfabulous mill which ground old people young, shivered at every corner,\npassed in and out at every doorway, looked from every window, fluttered\nin every vestige of a garment that the wind shook. The mill which\nhad worked them down, was the mill that grinds young people old; the\nchildren had ancient faces and grave voices; and upon them, and upon the\ngrown faces, and ploughed into every furrow of age and coming up afresh,\nwas the sigh, Hunger. It was prevalent everywhere. Hunger was pushed out\nof the tall houses, in the wretched clothing that hung upon poles and\nlines; Hunger was patched into them with straw and rag and wood and\npaper; Hunger was repeated in every fragment of the small modicum of\nfirewood that the man sawed off; Hunger stared down from the smokeless\nchimneys, and started up from the filthy street that had no offal,\namong its refuse, of anything to eat. Hunger was the inscription on the\nbaker's shelves, written in every small loaf of his scanty stock of\nbad bread; at the sausage-shop, in every dead-dog preparation that\nwas offered for sale. Hunger rattled its dry bones among the roasting\nchestnuts in the turned cylinder; Hunger was shred into atomics in every\nfarthing porringer of husky chips of potato, fried with some reluctant\ndrops of oil.\n\nIts abiding place was in all things fitted to it. A narrow winding\nstreet, full of offence and stench, with other narrow winding streets\ndiverging, all peopled by rags and nightcaps, and all smelling of rags\nand nightcaps, and all visible things with a brooding look upon them\nthat looked ill. In the hunted air of the people there was yet some\nwild-beast thought of the possibility of turning at bay. Depressed and\nslinking though they were, eyes of fire were not wanting among them; nor\ncompressed lips, white with what they suppressed; nor foreheads knitted\ninto the likeness of the gallows-rope they mused about enduring, or\ninflicting. The trade signs (and they were almost as many as the shops)\nwere, all, grim illustrations of Want. The butcher and the porkman\npainted up, only the leanest scrags of meat; the baker, the coarsest of\nmeagre loaves. The people rudely pictured as drinking in the wine-shops,\ncroaked over their scanty measures of thin wine and beer, and were\ngloweringly confidential together. Nothing was represented in a\nflourishing condition, save tools and weapons; but, the cutler's knives\nand axes were sharp and bright, the smith's hammers were heavy, and the\ngunmaker's stock was murderous. The crippling stones of the pavement,\nwith their many little reservoirs of mud and water, had no footways, but\nbroke off abruptly at the doors. The kennel, to make amends, ran down\nthe middle of the street--when it ran at all: which was only after heavy\nrains, and then it ran, by many eccentric fits, into the houses. Across\nthe streets, at wide intervals, one clumsy lamp was slung by a rope and\npulley; at night, when the lamplighter had let these down, and lighted,\nand hoisted them again, a feeble grove of dim wicks swung in a sickly\nmanner overhead, as if they were at sea. Indeed they were at sea, and\nthe ship and crew were in peril of tempest.\n\nFor, the time was to come, when the gaunt scarecrows of that region\nshould have watched the lamplighter, in their idleness and hunger, so\nlong, as to conceive the idea of improving on his method, and hauling\nup men by those ropes and pulleys, to flare upon the darkness of their\ncondition. But, the time was not come yet; and every wind that blew over\nFrance shook the rags of the scarecrows in vain, for the birds, fine of\nsong and feather, took no warning.\n\nThe wine-shop was a corner shop, better than most others in its\nappearance and degree, and the master of the wine-shop had stood outside\nit, in a yellow waistcoat and green breeches, looking on at the struggle\nfor the lost wine. \"It's not my affair,\" said he, with a final shrug\nof the shoulders. \"The people from the market did it. Let them bring\nanother.\"\n\nThere, his eyes happening to catch the tall joker writing up his joke,\nhe called to him across the way:\n\n\"Say, then, my Gaspard, what do you do there?\"\n\nThe fellow pointed to his joke with immense significance, as is often\nthe way with his tribe. It missed its mark, and completely failed, as is\noften the way with his tribe too.\n\n\"What now? Are you a subject for the mad hospital?\" said the wine-shop\nkeeper, crossing the road, and obliterating the jest with a handful of\nmud, picked up for the purpose, and smeared over it. \"Why do you write\nin the public streets? Is there--tell me thou--is there no other place\nto write such words in?\"\n\nIn his expostulation he dropped his cleaner hand (perhaps accidentally,\nperhaps not) upon the joker's heart. The joker rapped it with his\nown, took a nimble spring upward, and came down in a fantastic dancing\nattitude, with one of his stained shoes jerked off his foot into his\nhand, and held out. A joker of an extremely, not to say wolfishly\npractical character, he looked, under those circumstances.\n\n\"Put it on, put it on,\" said the other. \"Call wine, wine; and finish\nthere.\" With that advice, he wiped his soiled hand upon the joker's\ndress, such as it was--quite deliberately, as having dirtied the hand on\nhis account; and then recrossed the road and entered the wine-shop.\n\nThis wine-shop keeper was a bull-necked, martial-looking man of thirty,\nand he should have been of a hot temperament, for, although it was a\nbitter day, he wore no coat, but carried one slung over his shoulder.\nHis shirt-sleeves were rolled up, too, and his brown arms were bare to\nthe elbows. Neither did he wear anything more on his head than his own\ncrisply-curling short dark hair. He was a dark man altogether, with good\neyes and a good bold breadth between them. Good-humoured looking on\nthe whole, but implacable-looking, too; evidently a man of a strong\nresolution and a set purpose; a man not desirable to be met, rushing\ndown a narrow pass with a gulf on either side, for nothing would turn\nthe man.\n\nMadame Defarge, his wife, sat in the shop behind the counter as he\ncame in. Madame Defarge was a stout woman of about his own age, with\na watchful eye that seldom seemed to look at anything, a large hand\nheavily ringed, a steady face, strong features, and great composure of\nmanner. There was a character about Madame Defarge, from which one might\nhave predicated that she did not often make mistakes against herself\nin any of the reckonings over which she presided. Madame Defarge being\nsensitive to cold, was wrapped in fur, and had a quantity of bright\nshawl twined about her head, though not to the concealment of her large\nearrings. Her knitting was before her, but she had laid it down to pick\nher teeth with a toothpick. Thus engaged, with her right elbow supported\nby her left hand, Madame Defarge said nothing when her lord came in, but\ncoughed just one grain of cough. This, in combination with the lifting\nof her darkly defined eyebrows over her toothpick by the breadth of a\nline, suggested to her husband that he would do well to look round the\nshop among the customers, for any new customer who had dropped in while\nhe stepped over the way.\n\nThe wine-shop keeper accordingly rolled his eyes about, until they\nrested upon an elderly gentleman and a young lady, who were seated in\na corner. Other company were there: two playing cards, two playing\ndominoes, three standing by the counter lengthening out a short supply\nof wine. As he passed behind the counter, he took notice that the\nelderly gentleman said in a look to the young lady, \"This is our man.\"\n\n\"What the devil do _you_ do in that galley there?\" said Monsieur Defarge\nto himself; \"I don't know you.\"\n\nBut, he feigned not to notice the two strangers, and fell into discourse\nwith the triumvirate of customers who were drinking at the counter.\n\n\"How goes it, Jacques?\" said one of these three to Monsieur Defarge. \"Is\nall the spilt wine swallowed?\"\n\n\"Every drop, Jacques,\" answered Monsieur Defarge.\n\nWhen this interchange of Christian name was effected, Madame Defarge,\npicking her teeth with her toothpick, coughed another grain of cough,\nand raised her eyebrows by the breadth of another line.\n\n\"It is not often,\" said the second of the three, addressing Monsieur\nDefarge, \"that many of these miserable beasts know the taste of wine, or\nof anything but black bread and death. Is it not so, Jacques?\"\n\n\"It is so, Jacques,\" Monsieur Defarge returned.\n\nAt this second interchange of the Christian name, Madame Defarge, still\nusing her toothpick with profound composure, coughed another grain of\ncough, and raised her eyebrows by the breadth of another line.\n\nThe last of the three now said his say, as he put down his empty\ndrinking vessel and smacked his lips.\n\n\"Ah! So much the worse! A bitter taste it is that such poor cattle\nalways have in their mouths, and hard lives they live, Jacques. Am I\nright, Jacques?\"\n\n\"You are right, Jacques,\" was the response of Monsieur Defarge.\n\nThis third interchange of the Christian name was completed at the moment\nwhen Madame Defarge put her toothpick by, kept her eyebrows up, and\nslightly rustled in her seat.\n\n\"Hold then! True!\" muttered her husband. \"Gentlemen--my wife!\"\n\nThe three customers pulled off their hats to Madame Defarge, with three\nflourishes. She acknowledged their homage by bending her head, and\ngiving them a quick look. Then she glanced in a casual manner round the\nwine-shop, took up her knitting with great apparent calmness and repose\nof spirit, and became absorbed in it.\n\n\"Gentlemen,\" said her husband, who had kept his bright eye observantly\nupon her, \"good day. The chamber, furnished bachelor-fashion, that you\nwished to see, and were inquiring for when I stepped out, is on the\nfifth floor. The doorway of the staircase gives on the little courtyard\nclose to the left here,\" pointing with his hand, \"near to the window of\nmy establishment. But, now that I remember, one of you has already been\nthere, and can show the way. Gentlemen, adieu!\"\n\nThey paid for their wine, and left the place. The eyes of Monsieur\nDefarge were studying his wife at her knitting when the elderly\ngentleman advanced from his corner, and begged the favour of a word.\n\n\"Willingly, sir,\" said Monsieur Defarge, and quietly stepped with him to\nthe door.\n\nTheir conference was very short, but very decided. Almost at the first\nword, Monsieur Defarge started and became deeply attentive. It had\nnot lasted a minute, when he nodded and went out. The gentleman then\nbeckoned to the young lady, and they, too, went out. Madame Defarge\nknitted with nimble fingers and steady eyebrows, and saw nothing.\n\nMr. Jarvis Lorry and Miss Manette, emerging from the wine-shop thus,\njoined Monsieur Defarge in the doorway to which he had directed his own\ncompany just before. It opened from a stinking little black courtyard,\nand was the general public entrance to a great pile of houses, inhabited\nby a great number of people. In the gloomy tile-paved entry to the\ngloomy tile-paved staircase, Monsieur Defarge bent down on one knee\nto the child of his old master, and put her hand to his lips. It was\na gentle action, but not at all gently done; a very remarkable\ntransformation had come over him in a few seconds. He had no good-humour\nin his face, nor any openness of aspect left, but had become a secret,\nangry, dangerous man.\n\n\"It is very high; it is a little difficult. Better to begin slowly.\"\nThus, Monsieur Defarge, in a stern voice, to Mr. Lorry, as they began\nascending the stairs.\n\n\"Is he alone?\" the latter whispered.\n\n\"Alone! God help him, who should be with him!\" said the other, in the\nsame low voice.\n\n\"Is he always alone, then?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Of his own desire?\"\n\n\"Of his own necessity. As he was, when I first saw him after they\nfound me and demanded to know if I would take him, and, at my peril be\ndiscreet--as he was then, so he is now.\"\n\n\"He is greatly changed?\"\n\n\"Changed!\"\n\nThe keeper of the wine-shop stopped to strike the wall with his hand,\nand mutter a tremendous curse. No direct answer could have been half so\nforcible. Mr. Lorry's spirits grew heavier and heavier, as he and his\ntwo companions ascended higher and higher.\n\nSuch a staircase, with its accessories, in the older and more crowded\nparts of Paris, would be bad enough now; but, at that time, it was vile\nindeed to unaccustomed and unhardened senses. Every little habitation\nwithin the great foul nest of one high building--that is to say,\nthe room or rooms within every door that opened on the general\nstaircase--left its own heap of refuse on its own landing, besides\nflinging other refuse from its own windows. The uncontrollable and\nhopeless mass of decomposition so engendered, would have polluted\nthe air, even if poverty and deprivation had not loaded it with their\nintangible impurities; the two bad sources combined made it almost\ninsupportable. Through such an atmosphere, by a steep dark shaft of dirt\nand poison, the way lay. Yielding to his own disturbance of mind, and to\nhis young companion's agitation, which became greater every instant, Mr.\nJarvis Lorry twice stopped to rest. Each of these stoppages was made\nat a doleful grating, by which any languishing good airs that were left\nuncorrupted, seemed to escape, and all spoilt and sickly vapours seemed\nto crawl in. Through the rusted bars, tastes, rather than glimpses, were\ncaught of the jumbled neighbourhood; and nothing within range, nearer\nor lower than the summits of the two great towers of Notre-Dame, had any\npromise on it of healthy life or wholesome aspirations.\n\nAt last, the top of the staircase was gained, and they stopped for the\nthird time. There was yet an upper staircase, of a steeper inclination\nand of contracted dimensions, to be ascended, before the garret story\nwas reached. The keeper of the wine-shop, always going a little in\nadvance, and always going on the side which Mr. Lorry took, as though he\ndreaded to be asked any question by the young lady, turned himself about\nhere, and, carefully feeling in the pockets of the coat he carried over\nhis shoulder, took out a key.\n\n\"The door is locked then, my friend?\" said Mr. Lorry, surprised.\n\n\"Ay. Yes,\" was the grim reply of Monsieur Defarge.\n\n\"You think it necessary to keep the unfortunate gentleman so retired?\"\n\n\"I think it necessary to turn the key.\" Monsieur Defarge whispered it\ncloser in his ear, and frowned heavily.\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Why! Because he has lived so long, locked up, that he would be\nfrightened--rave--tear himself to pieces--die--come to I know not what\nharm--if his door was left open.\"\n\n\"Is it possible!\" exclaimed Mr. Lorry.\n\n\"Is it possible!\" repeated Defarge, bitterly. \"Yes. And a beautiful\nworld we live in, when it _is_ possible, and when many other such things\nare possible, and not only possible, but done--done, see you!--under\nthat sky there, every day. Long live the Devil. Let us go on.\"\n\nThis dialogue had been held in so very low a whisper, that not a word\nof it had reached the young lady's ears. But, by this time she trembled\nunder such strong emotion, and her face expressed such deep anxiety,\nand, above all, such dread and terror, that Mr. Lorry felt it incumbent\non him to speak a word or two of reassurance.\n\n\"Courage, dear miss! Courage! Business! The worst will be over in a\nmoment; it is but passing the room-door, and the worst is over. Then,\nall the good you bring to him, all the relief, all the happiness you\nbring to him, begin. Let our good friend here, assist you on that side.\nThat's well, friend Defarge. Come, now. Business, business!\"\n\nThey went up slowly and softly. The staircase was short, and they were\nsoon at the top. There, as it had an abrupt turn in it, they came all at\nonce in sight of three men, whose heads were bent down close together at\nthe side of a door, and who were intently looking into the room to which\nthe door belonged, through some chinks or holes in the wall. On hearing\nfootsteps close at hand, these three turned, and rose, and showed\nthemselves to be the three of one name who had been drinking in the\nwine-shop.\n\n\"I forgot them in the surprise of your visit,\" explained Monsieur\nDefarge. \"Leave us, good boys; we have business here.\"\n\nThe three glided by, and went silently down.\n\nThere appearing to be no other door on that floor, and the keeper of\nthe wine-shop going straight to this one when they were left alone, Mr.\nLorry asked him in a whisper, with a little anger:\n\n\"Do you make a show of Monsieur Manette?\"\n\n\"I show him, in the way you have seen, to a chosen few.\"\n\n\"Is that well?\"\n\n\"_I_ think it is well.\"\n\n\"Who are the few? How do you choose them?\"\n\n\"I choose them as real men, of my name--Jacques is my name--to whom the\nsight is likely to do good. Enough; you are English; that is another\nthing. Stay there, if you please, a little moment.\"\n\nWith an admonitory gesture to keep them back, he stooped, and looked in\nthrough the crevice in the wall. Soon raising his head again, he struck\ntwice or thrice upon the door--evidently with no other object than to\nmake a noise there. With the same intention, he drew the key across it,\nthree or four times, before he put it clumsily into the lock, and turned\nit as heavily as he could.\n\nThe door slowly opened inward under his hand, and he looked into the\nroom and said something. A faint voice answered something. Little more\nthan a single syllable could have been spoken on either side.\n\nHe looked back over his shoulder, and beckoned them to enter. Mr. Lorry\ngot his arm securely round the daughter's waist, and held her; for he\nfelt that she was sinking.\n\n\"A-a-a-business, business!\" he urged, with a moisture that was not of\nbusiness shining on his cheek. \"Come in, come in!\"\n\n\"I am afraid of it,\" she answered, shuddering.\n\n\"Of it? What?\"\n\n\"I mean of him. Of my father.\"\n\nRendered in a manner desperate, by her state and by the beckoning of\ntheir conductor, he drew over his neck the arm that shook upon his\nshoulder, lifted her a little, and hurried her into the room. He sat her\ndown just within the door, and held her, clinging to him.\n\nDefarge drew out the key, closed the door, locked it on the inside,\ntook out the key again, and held it in his hand. All this he did,\nmethodically, and with as loud and harsh an accompaniment of noise as he\ncould make. Finally, he walked across the room with a measured tread to\nwhere the window was. He stopped there, and faced round.\n\nThe garret, built to be a depository for firewood and the like, was dim\nand dark: for, the window of dormer shape, was in truth a door in the\nroof, with a little crane over it for the hoisting up of stores from\nthe street: unglazed, and closing up the middle in two pieces, like any\nother door of French construction. To exclude the cold, one half of this\ndoor was fast closed, and the other was opened but a very little way.\nSuch a scanty portion of light was admitted through these means, that it\nwas difficult, on first coming in, to see anything; and long habit\nalone could have slowly formed in any one, the ability to do any work\nrequiring nicety in such obscurity. Yet, work of that kind was being\ndone in the garret; for, with his back towards the door, and his face\ntowards the window where the keeper of the wine-shop stood looking at\nhim, a white-haired man sat on a low bench, stooping forward and very\nbusy, making shoes.\n\n\n\n\nVI. The Shoemaker\n\n\n\"Good day!\" said Monsieur Defarge, looking down at the white head that\nbent low over the shoemaking.\n\nIt was raised for a moment, and a very faint voice responded to the\nsalutation, as if it were at a distance:\n\n\"Good day!\"\n\n\"You are still hard at work, I see?\"\n\nAfter a long silence, the head was lifted for another moment, and the\nvoice replied, \"Yes--I am working.\" This time, a pair of haggard eyes\nhad looked at the questioner, before the face had dropped again.\n\nThe faintness of the voice was pitiable and dreadful. It was not the\nfaintness of physical weakness, though confinement and hard fare no\ndoubt had their part in it. Its deplorable peculiarity was, that it was\nthe faintness of solitude and disuse. It was like the last feeble echo\nof a sound made long and long ago. So entirely had it lost the life and\nresonance of the human voice, that it affected the senses like a once\nbeautiful colour faded away into a poor weak stain. So sunken and\nsuppressed it was, that it was like a voice underground. So expressive\nit was, of a hopeless and lost creature, that a famished traveller,\nwearied out by lonely wandering in a wilderness, would have remembered\nhome and friends in such a tone before lying down to die.\n\nSome minutes of silent work had passed: and the haggard eyes had looked\nup again: not with any interest or curiosity, but with a dull mechanical\nperception, beforehand, that the spot where the only visitor they were\naware of had stood, was not yet empty.\n\n\"I want,\" said Defarge, who had not removed his gaze from the shoemaker,\n\"to let in a little more light here. You can bear a little more?\"\n\nThe shoemaker stopped his work; looked with a vacant air of listening,\nat the floor on one side of him; then similarly, at the floor on the\nother side of him; then, upward at the speaker.\n\n\"What did you say?\"\n\n\"You can bear a little more light?\"\n\n\"I must bear it, if you let it in.\" (Laying the palest shadow of a\nstress upon the second word.)\n\nThe opened half-door was opened a little further, and secured at that\nangle for the time. A broad ray of light fell into the garret, and\nshowed the workman with an unfinished shoe upon his lap, pausing in his\nlabour. His few common tools and various scraps of leather were at his\nfeet and on his bench. He had a white beard, raggedly cut, but not very\nlong, a hollow face, and exceedingly bright eyes. The hollowness and\nthinness of his face would have caused them to look large, under his yet\ndark eyebrows and his confused white hair, though they had been really\notherwise; but, they were naturally large, and looked unnaturally so.\nHis yellow rags of shirt lay open at the throat, and showed his body\nto be withered and worn. He, and his old canvas frock, and his loose\nstockings, and all his poor tatters of clothes, had, in a long seclusion\nfrom direct light and air, faded down to such a dull uniformity of\nparchment-yellow, that it would have been hard to say which was which.\n\nHe had put up a hand between his eyes and the light, and the very bones\nof it seemed transparent. So he sat, with a steadfastly vacant gaze,\npausing in his work. He never looked at the figure before him, without\nfirst looking down on this side of himself, then on that, as if he had\nlost the habit of associating place with sound; he never spoke, without\nfirst wandering in this manner, and forgetting to speak.\n\n\"Are you going to finish that pair of shoes to-day?\" asked Defarge,\nmotioning to Mr. Lorry to come forward.\n\n\"What did you say?\"\n\n\"Do you mean to finish that pair of shoes to-day?\"\n\n\"I can't say that I mean to. I suppose so. I don't know.\"\n\nBut, the question reminded him of his work, and he bent over it again.\n\nMr. Lorry came silently forward, leaving the daughter by the door. When\nhe had stood, for a minute or two, by the side of Defarge, the shoemaker\nlooked up. He showed no surprise at seeing another figure, but the\nunsteady fingers of one of his hands strayed to his lips as he looked at\nit (his lips and his nails were of the same pale lead-colour), and then\nthe hand dropped to his work, and he once more bent over the shoe. The\nlook and the action had occupied but an instant.\n\n\"You have a visitor, you see,\" said Monsieur Defarge.\n\n\"What did you say?\"\n\n\"Here is a visitor.\"\n\nThe shoemaker looked up as before, but without removing a hand from his\nwork.\n\n\"Come!\" said Defarge. \"Here is monsieur, who knows a well-made shoe when\nhe sees one. Show him that shoe you are working at. Take it, monsieur.\"\n\nMr. Lorry took it in his hand.\n\n\"Tell monsieur what kind of shoe it is, and the maker's name.\"\n\nThere was a longer pause than usual, before the shoemaker replied:\n\n\"I forget what it was you asked me. What did you say?\"\n\n\"I said, couldn't you describe the kind of shoe, for monsieur's\ninformation?\"\n\n\"It is a lady's shoe. It is a young lady's walking-shoe. It is in the\npresent mode. I never saw the mode. I have had a pattern in my hand.\" He\nglanced at the shoe with some little passing touch of pride.\n\n\"And the maker's name?\" said Defarge.\n\nNow that he had no work to hold, he laid the knuckles of the right hand\nin the hollow of the left, and then the knuckles of the left hand in the\nhollow of the right, and then passed a hand across his bearded chin, and\nso on in regular changes, without a moment's intermission. The task of\nrecalling him from the vagrancy into which he always sank when he\nhad spoken, was like recalling some very weak person from a swoon, or\nendeavouring, in the hope of some disclosure, to stay the spirit of a\nfast-dying man.\n\n\"Did you ask me for my name?\"\n\n\"Assuredly I did.\"\n\n\"One Hundred and Five, North Tower.\"\n\n\"Is that all?\"\n\n\"One Hundred and Five, North Tower.\"\n\nWith a weary sound that was not a sigh, nor a groan, he bent to work\nagain, until the silence was again broken.\n\n\"You are not a shoemaker by trade?\" said Mr. Lorry, looking steadfastly\nat him.\n\nHis haggard eyes turned to Defarge as if he would have transferred the\nquestion to him: but as no help came from that quarter, they turned back\non the questioner when they had sought the ground.\n\n\"I am not a shoemaker by trade? No, I was not a shoemaker by trade. I-I\nlearnt it here. I taught myself. I asked leave to--\"\n\nHe lapsed away, even for minutes, ringing those measured changes on his\nhands the whole time. His eyes came slowly back, at last, to the face\nfrom which they had wandered; when they rested on it, he started, and\nresumed, in the manner of a sleeper that moment awake, reverting to a\nsubject of last night.\n\n\"I asked leave to teach myself, and I got it with much difficulty after\na long while, and I have made shoes ever since.\"\n\nAs he held out his hand for the shoe that had been taken from him, Mr.\nLorry said, still looking steadfastly in his face:\n\n\"Monsieur Manette, do you remember nothing of me?\"\n\nThe shoe dropped to the ground, and he sat looking fixedly at the\nquestioner.\n\n\"Monsieur Manette\"; Mr. Lorry laid his hand upon Defarge's arm; \"do you\nremember nothing of this man? Look at him. Look at me. Is there no old\nbanker, no old business, no old servant, no old time, rising in your\nmind, Monsieur Manette?\"\n\nAs the captive of many years sat looking fixedly, by turns, at Mr.\nLorry and at Defarge, some long obliterated marks of an actively intent\nintelligence in the middle of the forehead, gradually forced themselves\nthrough the black mist that had fallen on him. They were overclouded\nagain, they were fainter, they were gone; but they had been there. And\nso exactly was the expression repeated on the fair young face of her who\nhad crept along the wall to a point where she could see him, and where\nshe now stood looking at him, with hands which at first had been only\nraised in frightened compassion, if not even to keep him off and\nshut out the sight of him, but which were now extending towards him,\ntrembling with eagerness to lay the spectral face upon her warm young\nbreast, and love it back to life and hope--so exactly was the expression\nrepeated (though in stronger characters) on her fair young face, that it\nlooked as though it had passed like a moving light, from him to her.\n\nDarkness had fallen on him in its place. He looked at the two, less and\nless attentively, and his eyes in gloomy abstraction sought the ground\nand looked about him in the old way. Finally, with a deep long sigh, he\ntook the shoe up, and resumed his work.\n\n\"Have you recognised him, monsieur?\" asked Defarge in a whisper.\n\n\"Yes; for a moment. At first I thought it quite hopeless, but I have\nunquestionably seen, for a single moment, the face that I once knew so\nwell. Hush! Let us draw further back. Hush!\"\n\nShe had moved from the wall of the garret, very near to the bench on\nwhich he sat. There was something awful in his unconsciousness of the\nfigure that could have put out its hand and touched him as he stooped\nover his labour.\n\nNot a word was spoken, not a sound was made. She stood, like a spirit,\nbeside him, and he bent over his work.\n\nIt happened, at length, that he had occasion to change the instrument\nin his hand, for his shoemaker's knife. It lay on that side of him\nwhich was not the side on which she stood. He had taken it up, and was\nstooping to work again, when his eyes caught the skirt of her dress. He\nraised them, and saw her face. The two spectators started forward,\nbut she stayed them with a motion of her hand. She had no fear of his\nstriking at her with the knife, though they had.\n\nHe stared at her with a fearful look, and after a while his lips began\nto form some words, though no sound proceeded from them. By degrees, in\nthe pauses of his quick and laboured breathing, he was heard to say:\n\n\"What is this?\"\n\nWith the tears streaming down her face, she put her two hands to her\nlips, and kissed them to him; then clasped them on her breast, as if she\nlaid his ruined head there.\n\n\"You are not the gaoler's daughter?\"\n\nShe sighed \"No.\"\n\n\"Who are you?\"\n\nNot yet trusting the tones of her voice, she sat down on the bench\nbeside him. He recoiled, but she laid her hand upon his arm. A strange\nthrill struck him when she did so, and visibly passed over his frame; he\nlaid the knife down softly, as he sat staring at her.\n\nHer golden hair, which she wore in long curls, had been hurriedly pushed\naside, and fell down over her neck. Advancing his hand by little and\nlittle, he took it up and looked at it. In the midst of the action\nhe went astray, and, with another deep sigh, fell to work at his\nshoemaking.\n\nBut not for long. Releasing his arm, she laid her hand upon his\nshoulder. After looking doubtfully at it, two or three times, as if to\nbe sure that it was really there, he laid down his work, put his hand\nto his neck, and took off a blackened string with a scrap of folded rag\nattached to it. He opened this, carefully, on his knee, and it contained\na very little quantity of hair: not more than one or two long golden\nhairs, which he had, in some old day, wound off upon his finger.\n\nHe took her hair into his hand again, and looked closely at it. \"It is\nthe same. How can it be! When was it! How was it!\"\n\nAs the concentrated expression returned to his forehead, he seemed to\nbecome conscious that it was in hers too. He turned her full to the\nlight, and looked at her.\n\n\"She had laid her head upon my shoulder, that night when I was summoned\nout--she had a fear of my going, though I had none--and when I was\nbrought to the North Tower they found these upon my sleeve. 'You will\nleave me them? They can never help me to escape in the body, though they\nmay in the spirit.' Those were the words I said. I remember them very\nwell.\"\n\nHe formed this speech with his lips many times before he could utter it.\nBut when he did find spoken words for it, they came to him coherently,\nthough slowly.\n\n\"How was this?--_Was it you_?\"\n\nOnce more, the two spectators started, as he turned upon her with a\nfrightful suddenness. But she sat perfectly still in his grasp, and only\nsaid, in a low voice, \"I entreat you, good gentlemen, do not come near\nus, do not speak, do not move!\"\n\n\"Hark!\" he exclaimed. \"Whose voice was that?\"\n\nHis hands released her as he uttered this cry, and went up to his white\nhair, which they tore in a frenzy. It died out, as everything but his\nshoemaking did die out of him, and he refolded his little packet and\ntried to secure it in his breast; but he still looked at her, and\ngloomily shook his head.\n\n\"No, no, no; you are too young, too blooming. It can't be. See what the\nprisoner is. These are not the hands she knew, this is not the face\nshe knew, this is not a voice she ever heard. No, no. She was--and He\nwas--before the slow years of the North Tower--ages ago. What is your\nname, my gentle angel?\"\n\nHailing his softened tone and manner, his daughter fell upon her knees\nbefore him, with her appealing hands upon his breast.\n\n\"O, sir, at another time you shall know my name, and who my mother was,\nand who my father, and how I never knew their hard, hard history. But I\ncannot tell you at this time, and I cannot tell you here. All that I may\ntell you, here and now, is, that I pray to you to touch me and to bless\nme. Kiss me, kiss me! O my dear, my dear!\"\n\nHis cold white head mingled with her radiant hair, which warmed and\nlighted it as though it were the light of Freedom shining on him.\n\n\"If you hear in my voice--I don't know that it is so, but I hope it\nis--if you hear in my voice any resemblance to a voice that once was\nsweet music in your ears, weep for it, weep for it! If you touch, in\ntouching my hair, anything that recalls a beloved head that lay on your\nbreast when you were young and free, weep for it, weep for it! If, when\nI hint to you of a Home that is before us, where I will be true to you\nwith all my duty and with all my faithful service, I bring back the\nremembrance of a Home long desolate, while your poor heart pined away,\nweep for it, weep for it!\"\n\nShe held him closer round the neck, and rocked him on her breast like a\nchild.\n\n\"If, when I tell you, dearest dear, that your agony is over, and that I\nhave come here to take you from it, and that we go to England to be at\npeace and at rest, I cause you to think of your useful life laid waste,\nand of our native France so wicked to you, weep for it, weep for it! And\nif, when I shall tell you of my name, and of my father who is living,\nand of my mother who is dead, you learn that I have to kneel to my\nhonoured father, and implore his pardon for having never for his sake\nstriven all day and lain awake and wept all night, because the love of\nmy poor mother hid his torture from me, weep for it, weep for it! Weep\nfor her, then, and for me! Good gentlemen, thank God! I feel his sacred\ntears upon my face, and his sobs strike against my heart. O, see! Thank\nGod for us, thank God!\"\n\nHe had sunk in her arms, and his face dropped on her breast: a sight so\ntouching, yet so terrible in the tremendous wrong and suffering which\nhad gone before it, that the two beholders covered their faces.\n\nWhen the quiet of the garret had been long undisturbed, and his heaving\nbreast and shaken form had long yielded to the calm that must follow all\nstorms--emblem to humanity, of the rest and silence into which the storm\ncalled Life must hush at last--they came forward to raise the father and\ndaughter from the ground. He had gradually dropped to the floor, and lay\nthere in a lethargy, worn out. She had nestled down with him, that his\nhead might lie upon her arm; and her hair drooping over him curtained\nhim from the light.\n\n\"If, without disturbing him,\" she said, raising her hand to Mr. Lorry as\nhe stooped over them, after repeated blowings of his nose, \"all could be\narranged for our leaving Paris at once, so that, from the very door, he\ncould be taken away--\"\n\n\"But, consider. Is he fit for the journey?\" asked Mr. Lorry.\n\n\"More fit for that, I think, than to remain in this city, so dreadful to\nhim.\"\n\n\"It is true,\" said Defarge, who was kneeling to look on and hear. \"More\nthan that; Monsieur Manette is, for all reasons, best out of France.\nSay, shall I hire a carriage and post-horses?\"\n\n\"That's business,\" said Mr. Lorry, resuming on the shortest notice his\nmethodical manners; \"and if business is to be done, I had better do it.\"\n\n\"Then be so kind,\" urged Miss Manette, \"as to leave us here. You see how\ncomposed he has become, and you cannot be afraid to leave him with me\nnow. Why should you be? If you will lock the door to secure us from\ninterruption, I do not doubt that you will find him, when you come back,\nas quiet as you leave him. In any case, I will take care of him until\nyou return, and then we will remove him straight.\"\n\nBoth Mr. Lorry and Defarge were rather disinclined to this course, and\nin favour of one of them remaining. But, as there were not only carriage\nand horses to be seen to, but travelling papers; and as time pressed,\nfor the day was drawing to an end, it came at last to their hastily\ndividing the business that was necessary to be done, and hurrying away\nto do it.\n\nThen, as the darkness closed in, the daughter laid her head down on the\nhard ground close at the father's side, and watched him. The darkness\ndeepened and deepened, and they both lay quiet, until a light gleamed\nthrough the chinks in the wall.\n\nMr. Lorry and Monsieur Defarge had made all ready for the journey, and\nhad brought with them, besides travelling cloaks and wrappers, bread and\nmeat, wine, and hot coffee. Monsieur Defarge put this provender, and the\nlamp he carried, on the shoemaker's bench (there was nothing else in the\ngarret but a pallet bed), and he and Mr. Lorry roused the captive, and\nassisted him to his feet.\n\nNo human intelligence could have read the mysteries of his mind, in\nthe scared blank wonder of his face. Whether he knew what had happened,\nwhether he recollected what they had said to him, whether he knew that\nhe was free, were questions which no sagacity could have solved. They\ntried speaking to him; but, he was so confused, and so very slow to\nanswer, that they took fright at his bewilderment, and agreed for\nthe time to tamper with him no more. He had a wild, lost manner of\noccasionally clasping his head in his hands, that had not been seen\nin him before; yet, he had some pleasure in the mere sound of his\ndaughter's voice, and invariably turned to it when she spoke.\n\nIn the submissive way of one long accustomed to obey under coercion, he\nate and drank what they gave him to eat and drink, and put on the cloak\nand other wrappings, that they gave him to wear. He readily responded to\nhis daughter's drawing her arm through his, and took--and kept--her hand\nin both his own.\n\nThey began to descend; Monsieur Defarge going first with the lamp, Mr.\nLorry closing the little procession. They had not traversed many steps\nof the long main staircase when he stopped, and stared at the roof and\nround at the walls.\n\n\"You remember the place, my father? You remember coming up here?\"\n\n\"What did you say?\"\n\nBut, before she could repeat the question, he murmured an answer as if\nshe had repeated it.\n\n\"Remember? No, I don't remember. It was so very long ago.\"\n\nThat he had no recollection whatever of his having been brought from his\nprison to that house, was apparent to them. They heard him mutter,\n\"One Hundred and Five, North Tower;\" and when he looked about him, it\nevidently was for the strong fortress-walls which had long encompassed\nhim. On their reaching the courtyard he instinctively altered his\ntread, as being in expectation of a drawbridge; and when there was\nno drawbridge, and he saw the carriage waiting in the open street, he\ndropped his daughter's hand and clasped his head again.\n\nNo crowd was about the door; no people were discernible at any of the\nmany windows; not even a chance passerby was in the street. An unnatural\nsilence and desertion reigned there. Only one soul was to be seen, and\nthat was Madame Defarge--who leaned against the door-post, knitting, and\nsaw nothing.\n\nThe prisoner had got into a coach, and his daughter had followed\nhim, when Mr. Lorry's feet were arrested on the step by his asking,\nmiserably, for his shoemaking tools and the unfinished shoes. Madame\nDefarge immediately called to her husband that she would get them, and\nwent, knitting, out of the lamplight, through the courtyard. She quickly\nbrought them down and handed them in;--and immediately afterwards leaned\nagainst the door-post, knitting, and saw nothing.\n\nDefarge got upon the box, and gave the word \"To the Barrier!\" The\npostilion cracked his whip, and they clattered away under the feeble\nover-swinging lamps.\n\nUnder the over-swinging lamps--swinging ever brighter in the better\nstreets, and ever dimmer in the worse--and by lighted shops, gay crowds,\nilluminated coffee-houses, and theatre-doors, to one of the city\ngates. Soldiers with lanterns, at the guard-house there. \"Your papers,\ntravellers!\" \"See here then, Monsieur the Officer,\" said Defarge,\ngetting down, and taking him gravely apart, \"these are the papers of\nmonsieur inside, with the white head. They were consigned to me, with\nhim, at the--\" He dropped his voice, there was a flutter among the\nmilitary lanterns, and one of them being handed into the coach by an arm\nin uniform, the eyes connected with the arm looked, not an every day\nor an every night look, at monsieur with the white head. \"It is well.\nForward!\" from the uniform. \"Adieu!\" from Defarge. And so, under a short\ngrove of feebler and feebler over-swinging lamps, out under the great\ngrove of stars.\n\nBeneath that arch of unmoved and eternal lights; some, so remote from\nthis little earth that the learned tell us it is doubtful whether their\nrays have even yet discovered it, as a point in space where anything\nis suffered or done: the shadows of the night were broad and black.\nAll through the cold and restless interval, until dawn, they once more\nwhispered in the ears of Mr. Jarvis Lorry--sitting opposite the buried\nman who had been dug out, and wondering what subtle powers were for ever\nlost to him, and what were capable of restoration--the old inquiry:\n\n\"I hope you care to be recalled to life?\"\n\nAnd the old answer:\n\n\"I can't say.\"\n\n\nThe end of the first book.\n\n\n\n\n\nBook the Second--the Golden Thread\n\n\n\n\nI. Five Years Later\n\n\nTellson's Bank by Temple Bar was an old-fashioned place, even in the\nyear one thousand seven hundred and eighty. It was very small, very\ndark, very ugly, very incommodious. It was an old-fashioned place,\nmoreover, in the moral attribute that the partners in the House were\nproud of its smallness, proud of its darkness, proud of its ugliness,\nproud of its incommodiousness. They were even boastful of its eminence\nin those particulars, and were fired by an express conviction that, if\nit were less objectionable, it would be less respectable. This was\nno passive belief, but an active weapon which they flashed at more\nconvenient places of business. Tellson's (they said) wanted\nno elbow-room, Tellson's wanted no light, Tellson's wanted no\nembellishment. Noakes and Co.'s might, or Snooks Brothers' might; but\nTellson's, thank Heaven--!\n\nAny one of these partners would have disinherited his son on the\nquestion of rebuilding Tellson's. In this respect the House was much\non a par with the Country; which did very often disinherit its sons for\nsuggesting improvements in laws and customs that had long been highly\nobjectionable, but were only the more respectable.\n\nThus it had come to pass, that Tellson's was the triumphant perfection\nof inconvenience. After bursting open a door of idiotic obstinacy with\na weak rattle in its throat, you fell into Tellson's down two steps,\nand came to your senses in a miserable little shop, with two little\ncounters, where the oldest of men made your cheque shake as if the\nwind rustled it, while they examined the signature by the dingiest of\nwindows, which were always under a shower-bath of mud from Fleet-street,\nand which were made the dingier by their own iron bars proper, and the\nheavy shadow of Temple Bar. If your business necessitated your seeing\n\"the House,\" you were put into a species of Condemned Hold at the back,\nwhere you meditated on a misspent life, until the House came with its\nhands in its pockets, and you could hardly blink at it in the dismal\ntwilight. Your money came out of, or went into, wormy old wooden\ndrawers, particles of which flew up your nose and down your throat when\nthey were opened and shut. Your bank-notes had a musty odour, as if they\nwere fast decomposing into rags again. Your plate was stowed away among\nthe neighbouring cesspools, and evil communications corrupted its good\npolish in a day or two. Your deeds got into extemporised strong-rooms\nmade of kitchens and sculleries, and fretted all the fat out of their\nparchments into the banking-house air. Your lighter boxes of family\npapers went up-stairs into a Barmecide room, that always had a great\ndining-table in it and never had a dinner, and where, even in the year\none thousand seven hundred and eighty, the first letters written to you\nby your old love, or by your little children, were but newly released\nfrom the horror of being ogled through the windows, by the heads\nexposed on Temple Bar with an insensate brutality and ferocity worthy of\nAbyssinia or Ashantee.\n\nBut indeed, at that time, putting to death was a recipe much in vogue\nwith all trades and professions, and not least of all with Tellson's.\nDeath is Nature's remedy for all things, and why not Legislation's?\nAccordingly, the forger was put to Death; the utterer of a bad note\nwas put to Death; the unlawful opener of a letter was put to Death; the\npurloiner of forty shillings and sixpence was put to Death; the holder\nof a horse at Tellson's door, who made off with it, was put to\nDeath; the coiner of a bad shilling was put to Death; the sounders of\nthree-fourths of the notes in the whole gamut of Crime, were put to\nDeath. Not that it did the least good in the way of prevention--it\nmight almost have been worth remarking that the fact was exactly the\nreverse--but, it cleared off (as to this world) the trouble of each\nparticular case, and left nothing else connected with it to be looked\nafter. Thus, Tellson's, in its day, like greater places of business,\nits contemporaries, had taken so many lives, that, if the heads laid\nlow before it had been ranged on Temple Bar instead of being privately\ndisposed of, they would probably have excluded what little light the\nground floor had, in a rather significant manner.\n\nCramped in all kinds of dim cupboards and hutches at Tellson's, the\noldest of men carried on the business gravely. When they took a young\nman into Tellson's London house, they hid him somewhere till he was\nold. They kept him in a dark place, like a cheese, until he had the full\nTellson flavour and blue-mould upon him. Then only was he permitted to\nbe seen, spectacularly poring over large books, and casting his breeches\nand gaiters into the general weight of the establishment.\n\nOutside Tellson's--never by any means in it, unless called in--was an\nodd-job-man, an occasional porter and messenger, who served as the live\nsign of the house. He was never absent during business hours, unless\nupon an errand, and then he was represented by his son: a grisly urchin\nof twelve, who was his express image. People understood that Tellson's,\nin a stately way, tolerated the odd-job-man. The house had always\ntolerated some person in that capacity, and time and tide had drifted\nthis person to the post. His surname was Cruncher, and on the youthful\noccasion of his renouncing by proxy the works of darkness, in the\neasterly parish church of Hounsditch, he had received the added\nappellation of Jerry.\n\nThe scene was Mr. Cruncher's private lodging in Hanging-sword-alley,\nWhitefriars: the time, half-past seven of the clock on a windy March\nmorning, Anno Domini seventeen hundred and eighty. (Mr. Cruncher himself\nalways spoke of the year of our Lord as Anna Dominoes: apparently under\nthe impression that the Christian era dated from the invention of a\npopular game, by a lady who had bestowed her name upon it.)\n\nMr. Cruncher's apartments were not in a savoury neighbourhood, and were\nbut two in number, even if a closet with a single pane of glass in it\nmight be counted as one. But they were very decently kept. Early as\nit was, on the windy March morning, the room in which he lay abed was\nalready scrubbed throughout; and between the cups and saucers arranged\nfor breakfast, and the lumbering deal table, a very clean white cloth\nwas spread.\n\nMr. Cruncher reposed under a patchwork counterpane, like a Harlequin\nat home. At first, he slept heavily, but, by degrees, began to roll\nand surge in bed, until he rose above the surface, with his spiky hair\nlooking as if it must tear the sheets to ribbons. At which juncture, he\nexclaimed, in a voice of dire exasperation:\n\n\"Bust me, if she ain't at it agin!\"\n\nA woman of orderly and industrious appearance rose from her knees in a\ncorner, with sufficient haste and trepidation to show that she was the\nperson referred to.\n\n\"What!\" said Mr. Cruncher, looking out of bed for a boot. \"You're at it\nagin, are you?\"\n\nAfter hailing the morn with this second salutation, he threw a boot at\nthe woman as a third. It was a very muddy boot, and may introduce the\nodd circumstance connected with Mr. Cruncher's domestic economy, that,\nwhereas he often came home after banking hours with clean boots, he\noften got up next morning to find the same boots covered with clay.\n\n\"What,\" said Mr. Cruncher, varying his apostrophe after missing his\nmark--\"what are you up to, Aggerawayter?\"\n\n\"I was only saying my prayers.\"\n\n\"Saying your prayers! You're a nice woman! What do you mean by flopping\nyourself down and praying agin me?\"\n\n\"I was not praying against you; I was praying for you.\"\n\n\"You weren't. And if you were, I won't be took the liberty with. Here!\nyour mother's a nice woman, young Jerry, going a praying agin your\nfather's prosperity. You've got a dutiful mother, you have, my son.\nYou've got a religious mother, you have, my boy: going and flopping\nherself down, and praying that the bread-and-butter may be snatched out\nof the mouth of her only child.\"\n\nMaster Cruncher (who was in his shirt) took this very ill, and, turning\nto his mother, strongly deprecated any praying away of his personal\nboard.\n\n\"And what do you suppose, you conceited female,\" said Mr. Cruncher, with\nunconscious inconsistency, \"that the worth of _your_ prayers may be?\nName the price that you put _your_ prayers at!\"\n\n\"They only come from the heart, Jerry. They are worth no more than\nthat.\"\n\n\"Worth no more than that,\" repeated Mr. Cruncher. \"They ain't worth\nmuch, then. Whether or no, I won't be prayed agin, I tell you. I can't\nafford it. I'm not a going to be made unlucky by _your_ sneaking. If\nyou must go flopping yourself down, flop in favour of your husband and\nchild, and not in opposition to 'em. If I had had any but a unnat'ral\nwife, and this poor boy had had any but a unnat'ral mother, I might\nhave made some money last week instead of being counter-prayed and\ncountermined and religiously circumwented into the worst of luck.\nB-u-u-ust me!\" said Mr. Cruncher, who all this time had been putting\non his clothes, \"if I ain't, what with piety and one blowed thing and\nanother, been choused this last week into as bad luck as ever a poor\ndevil of a honest tradesman met with! Young Jerry, dress yourself, my\nboy, and while I clean my boots keep a eye upon your mother now and\nthen, and if you see any signs of more flopping, give me a call. For, I\ntell you,\" here he addressed his wife once more, \"I won't be gone agin,\nin this manner. I am as rickety as a hackney-coach, I'm as sleepy as\nlaudanum, my lines is strained to that degree that I shouldn't know, if\nit wasn't for the pain in 'em, which was me and which somebody else, yet\nI'm none the better for it in pocket; and it's my suspicion that you've\nbeen at it from morning to night to prevent me from being the better for\nit in pocket, and I won't put up with it, Aggerawayter, and what do you\nsay now!\"\n\nGrowling, in addition, such phrases as \"Ah! yes! You're religious, too.\nYou wouldn't put yourself in opposition to the interests of your husband\nand child, would you? Not you!\" and throwing off other sarcastic sparks\nfrom the whirling grindstone of his indignation, Mr. Cruncher betook\nhimself to his boot-cleaning and his general preparation for business.\nIn the meantime, his son, whose head was garnished with tenderer spikes,\nand whose young eyes stood close by one another, as his father's did,\nkept the required watch upon his mother. He greatly disturbed that poor\nwoman at intervals, by darting out of his sleeping closet, where he made\nhis toilet, with a suppressed cry of \"You are going to flop, mother.\n--Halloa, father!\" and, after raising this fictitious alarm, darting in\nagain with an undutiful grin.\n\nMr. Cruncher's temper was not at all improved when he came to his\nbreakfast. He resented Mrs. Cruncher's saying grace with particular\nanimosity.\n\n\"Now, Aggerawayter! What are you up to? At it again?\"\n\nHis wife explained that she had merely \"asked a blessing.\"\n\n\"Don't do it!\" said Mr. Crunches looking about, as if he rather expected\nto see the loaf disappear under the efficacy of his wife's petitions. \"I\nain't a going to be blest out of house and home. I won't have my wittles\nblest off my table. Keep still!\"\n\nExceedingly red-eyed and grim, as if he had been up all night at a party\nwhich had taken anything but a convivial turn, Jerry Cruncher worried\nhis breakfast rather than ate it, growling over it like any four-footed\ninmate of a menagerie. Towards nine o'clock he smoothed his ruffled\naspect, and, presenting as respectable and business-like an exterior as\nhe could overlay his natural self with, issued forth to the occupation\nof the day.\n\nIt could scarcely be called a trade, in spite of his favourite\ndescription of himself as \"a honest tradesman.\" His stock consisted of\na wooden stool, made out of a broken-backed chair cut down, which stool,\nyoung Jerry, walking at his father's side, carried every morning to\nbeneath the banking-house window that was nearest Temple Bar: where,\nwith the addition of the first handful of straw that could be gleaned\nfrom any passing vehicle to keep the cold and wet from the odd-job-man's\nfeet, it formed the encampment for the day. On this post of his, Mr.\nCruncher was as well known to Fleet-street and the Temple, as the Bar\nitself,--and was almost as in-looking.\n\nEncamped at a quarter before nine, in good time to touch his\nthree-cornered hat to the oldest of men as they passed in to Tellson's,\nJerry took up his station on this windy March morning, with young Jerry\nstanding by him, when not engaged in making forays through the Bar, to\ninflict bodily and mental injuries of an acute description on passing\nboys who were small enough for his amiable purpose. Father and son,\nextremely like each other, looking silently on at the morning traffic\nin Fleet-street, with their two heads as near to one another as the two\neyes of each were, bore a considerable resemblance to a pair of monkeys.\nThe resemblance was not lessened by the accidental circumstance, that\nthe mature Jerry bit and spat out straw, while the twinkling eyes of the\nyouthful Jerry were as restlessly watchful of him as of everything else\nin Fleet-street.\n\nThe head of one of the regular indoor messengers attached to Tellson's\nestablishment was put through the door, and the word was given:\n\n\"Porter wanted!\"\n\n\"Hooray, father! Here's an early job to begin with!\"\n\nHaving thus given his parent God speed, young Jerry seated himself on\nthe stool, entered on his reversionary interest in the straw his father\nhad been chewing, and cogitated.\n\n\"Al-ways rusty! His fingers is al-ways rusty!\" muttered young Jerry.\n\"Where does my father get all that iron rust from? He don't get no iron\nrust here!\"\n\n\n\n\nII. A Sight\n\n\n\"You know the Old Bailey well, no doubt?\" said one of the oldest of\nclerks to Jerry the messenger.\n\n\"Ye-es, sir,\" returned Jerry, in something of a dogged manner. \"I _do_\nknow the Bailey.\"\n\n\"Just so. And you know Mr. Lorry.\"\n\n\"I know Mr. Lorry, sir, much better than I know the Bailey. Much\nbetter,\" said Jerry, not unlike a reluctant witness at the establishment\nin question, \"than I, as a honest tradesman, wish to know the Bailey.\"\n\n\"Very well. Find the door where the witnesses go in, and show the\ndoor-keeper this note for Mr. Lorry. He will then let you in.\"\n\n\"Into the court, sir?\"\n\n\"Into the court.\"\n\nMr. Cruncher's eyes seemed to get a little closer to one another, and to\ninterchange the inquiry, \"What do you think of this?\"\n\n\"Am I to wait in the court, sir?\" he asked, as the result of that\nconference.\n\n\"I am going to tell you. The door-keeper will pass the note to Mr.\nLorry, and do you make any gesture that will attract Mr. Lorry's\nattention, and show him where you stand. Then what you have to do, is,\nto remain there until he wants you.\"\n\n\"Is that all, sir?\"\n\n\"That's all. He wishes to have a messenger at hand. This is to tell him\nyou are there.\"\n\nAs the ancient clerk deliberately folded and superscribed the note,\nMr. Cruncher, after surveying him in silence until he came to the\nblotting-paper stage, remarked:\n\n\"I suppose they'll be trying Forgeries this morning?\"\n\n\"Treason!\"\n\n\"That's quartering,\" said Jerry. \"Barbarous!\"\n\n\"It is the law,\" remarked the ancient clerk, turning his surprised\nspectacles upon him. \"It is the law.\"\n\n\"It's hard in the law to spile a man, I think. It's hard enough to kill\nhim, but it's wery hard to spile him, sir.\"\n\n\"Not at all,\" retained the ancient clerk. \"Speak well of the law. Take\ncare of your chest and voice, my good friend, and leave the law to take\ncare of itself. I give you that advice.\"\n\n\"It's the damp, sir, what settles on my chest and voice,\" said Jerry. \"I\nleave you to judge what a damp way of earning a living mine is.\"\n\n\"Well, well,\" said the old clerk; \"we all have our various ways of\ngaining a livelihood. Some of us have damp ways, and some of us have dry\nways. Here is the letter. Go along.\"\n\nJerry took the letter, and, remarking to himself with less internal\ndeference than he made an outward show of, \"You are a lean old one,\ntoo,\" made his bow, informed his son, in passing, of his destination,\nand went his way.\n\nThey hanged at Tyburn, in those days, so the street outside Newgate had\nnot obtained one infamous notoriety that has since attached to it.\nBut, the gaol was a vile place, in which most kinds of debauchery and\nvillainy were practised, and where dire diseases were bred, that came\ninto court with the prisoners, and sometimes rushed straight from the\ndock at my Lord Chief Justice himself, and pulled him off the bench. It\nhad more than once happened, that the Judge in the black cap pronounced\nhis own doom as certainly as the prisoner's, and even died before him.\nFor the rest, the Old Bailey was famous as a kind of deadly inn-yard,\nfrom which pale travellers set out continually, in carts and coaches, on\na violent passage into the other world: traversing some two miles and a\nhalf of public street and road, and shaming few good citizens, if any.\nSo powerful is use, and so desirable to be good use in the beginning. It\nwas famous, too, for the pillory, a wise old institution, that inflicted\na punishment of which no one could foresee the extent; also, for\nthe whipping-post, another dear old institution, very humanising and\nsoftening to behold in action; also, for extensive transactions in\nblood-money, another fragment of ancestral wisdom, systematically\nleading to the most frightful mercenary crimes that could be committed\nunder Heaven. Altogether, the Old Bailey, at that date, was a choice\nillustration of the precept, that \"Whatever is is right;\" an aphorism\nthat would be as final as it is lazy, did it not include the troublesome\nconsequence, that nothing that ever was, was wrong.\n\nMaking his way through the tainted crowd, dispersed up and down this\nhideous scene of action, with the skill of a man accustomed to make his\nway quietly, the messenger found out the door he sought, and handed in\nhis letter through a trap in it. For, people then paid to see the play\nat the Old Bailey, just as they paid to see the play in Bedlam--only the\nformer entertainment was much the dearer. Therefore, all the Old Bailey\ndoors were well guarded--except, indeed, the social doors by which the\ncriminals got there, and those were always left wide open.\n\nAfter some delay and demur, the door grudgingly turned on its hinges a\nvery little way, and allowed Mr. Jerry Cruncher to squeeze himself into\ncourt.\n\n\"What's on?\" he asked, in a whisper, of the man he found himself next\nto.\n\n\"Nothing yet.\"\n\n\"What's coming on?\"\n\n\"The Treason case.\"\n\n\"The quartering one, eh?\"\n\n\"Ah!\" returned the man, with a relish; \"he'll be drawn on a hurdle to\nbe half hanged, and then he'll be taken down and sliced before his own\nface, and then his inside will be taken out and burnt while he looks on,\nand then his head will be chopped off, and he'll be cut into quarters.\nThat's the sentence.\"\n\n\"If he's found Guilty, you mean to say?\" Jerry added, by way of proviso.\n\n\"Oh! they'll find him guilty,\" said the other. \"Don't you be afraid of\nthat.\"\n\nMr. Cruncher's attention was here diverted to the door-keeper, whom he\nsaw making his way to Mr. Lorry, with the note in his hand. Mr. Lorry\nsat at a table, among the gentlemen in wigs: not far from a wigged\ngentleman, the prisoner's counsel, who had a great bundle of papers\nbefore him: and nearly opposite another wigged gentleman with his hands\nin his pockets, whose whole attention, when Mr. Cruncher looked at him\nthen or afterwards, seemed to be concentrated on the ceiling of the\ncourt. After some gruff coughing and rubbing of his chin and signing\nwith his hand, Jerry attracted the notice of Mr. Lorry, who had stood up\nto look for him, and who quietly nodded and sat down again.\n\n\"What's _he_ got to do with the case?\" asked the man he had spoken with.\n\n\"Blest if I know,\" said Jerry.\n\n\"What have _you_ got to do with it, then, if a person may inquire?\"\n\n\"Blest if I know that either,\" said Jerry.\n\nThe entrance of the Judge, and a consequent great stir and settling\ndown in the court, stopped the dialogue. Presently, the dock became the\ncentral point of interest. Two gaolers, who had been standing there,\nwent out, and the prisoner was brought in, and put to the bar.\n\nEverybody present, except the one wigged gentleman who looked at the\nceiling, stared at him. All the human breath in the place, rolled\nat him, like a sea, or a wind, or a fire. Eager faces strained round\npillars and corners, to get a sight of him; spectators in back rows\nstood up, not to miss a hair of him; people on the floor of the court,\nlaid their hands on the shoulders of the people before them, to help\nthemselves, at anybody's cost, to a view of him--stood a-tiptoe, got\nupon ledges, stood upon next to nothing, to see every inch of him.\nConspicuous among these latter, like an animated bit of the spiked wall\nof Newgate, Jerry stood: aiming at the prisoner the beery breath of a\nwhet he had taken as he came along, and discharging it to mingle with\nthe waves of other beer, and gin, and tea, and coffee, and what not,\nthat flowed at him, and already broke upon the great windows behind him\nin an impure mist and rain.\n\nThe object of all this staring and blaring, was a young man of about\nfive-and-twenty, well-grown and well-looking, with a sunburnt cheek and\na dark eye. His condition was that of a young gentleman. He was plainly\ndressed in black, or very dark grey, and his hair, which was long and\ndark, was gathered in a ribbon at the back of his neck; more to be out\nof his way than for ornament. As an emotion of the mind will express\nitself through any covering of the body, so the paleness which his\nsituation engendered came through the brown upon his cheek, showing the\nsoul to be stronger than the sun. He was otherwise quite self-possessed,\nbowed to the Judge, and stood quiet.\n\nThe sort of interest with which this man was stared and breathed at,\nwas not a sort that elevated humanity. Had he stood in peril of a less\nhorrible sentence--had there been a chance of any one of its savage\ndetails being spared--by just so much would he have lost in his\nfascination. The form that was to be doomed to be so shamefully mangled,\nwas the sight; the immortal creature that was to be so butchered\nand torn asunder, yielded the sensation. Whatever gloss the various\nspectators put upon the interest, according to their several arts and\npowers of self-deceit, the interest was, at the root of it, Ogreish.\n\nSilence in the court! Charles Darnay had yesterday pleaded Not Guilty to\nan indictment denouncing him (with infinite jingle and jangle) for that\nhe was a false traitor to our serene, illustrious, excellent, and so\nforth, prince, our Lord the King, by reason of his having, on divers\noccasions, and by divers means and ways, assisted Lewis, the French\nKing, in his wars against our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and\nso forth; that was to say, by coming and going, between the dominions of\nour said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, and those of the\nsaid French Lewis, and wickedly, falsely, traitorously, and otherwise\nevil-adverbiously, revealing to the said French Lewis what forces our\nsaid serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, had in preparation\nto send to Canada and North America. This much, Jerry, with his head\nbecoming more and more spiky as the law terms bristled it, made out with\nhuge satisfaction, and so arrived circuitously at the understanding that\nthe aforesaid, and over and over again aforesaid, Charles Darnay, stood\nthere before him upon his trial; that the jury were swearing in; and\nthat Mr. Attorney-General was making ready to speak.\n\nThe accused, who was (and who knew he was) being mentally hanged,\nbeheaded, and quartered, by everybody there, neither flinched from\nthe situation, nor assumed any theatrical air in it. He was quiet and\nattentive; watched the opening proceedings with a grave interest;\nand stood with his hands resting on the slab of wood before him, so\ncomposedly, that they had not displaced a leaf of the herbs with which\nit was strewn. The court was all bestrewn with herbs and sprinkled with\nvinegar, as a precaution against gaol air and gaol fever.\n\nOver the prisoner's head there was a mirror, to throw the light down\nupon him. Crowds of the wicked and the wretched had been reflected in\nit, and had passed from its surface and this earth's together. Haunted\nin a most ghastly manner that abominable place would have been, if the\nglass could ever have rendered back its reflections, as the ocean is one\nday to give up its dead. Some passing thought of the infamy and disgrace\nfor which it had been reserved, may have struck the prisoner's mind. Be\nthat as it may, a change in his position making him conscious of a bar\nof light across his face, he looked up; and when he saw the glass his\nface flushed, and his right hand pushed the herbs away.\n\nIt happened, that the action turned his face to that side of the court\nwhich was on his left. About on a level with his eyes, there sat,\nin that corner of the Judge's bench, two persons upon whom his look\nimmediately rested; so immediately, and so much to the changing of his\naspect, that all the eyes that were turned upon him, turned to them.\n\nThe spectators saw in the two figures, a young lady of little more than\ntwenty, and a gentleman who was evidently her father; a man of a very\nremarkable appearance in respect of the absolute whiteness of his hair,\nand a certain indescribable intensity of face: not of an active kind,\nbut pondering and self-communing. When this expression was upon him, he\nlooked as if he were old; but when it was stirred and broken up--as\nit was now, in a moment, on his speaking to his daughter--he became a\nhandsome man, not past the prime of life.\n\nHis daughter had one of her hands drawn through his arm, as she sat by\nhim, and the other pressed upon it. She had drawn close to him, in her\ndread of the scene, and in her pity for the prisoner. Her forehead had\nbeen strikingly expressive of an engrossing terror and compassion\nthat saw nothing but the peril of the accused. This had been so very\nnoticeable, so very powerfully and naturally shown, that starers who\nhad had no pity for him were touched by her; and the whisper went about,\n\"Who are they?\"\n\nJerry, the messenger, who had made his own observations, in his own\nmanner, and who had been sucking the rust off his fingers in his\nabsorption, stretched his neck to hear who they were. The crowd about\nhim had pressed and passed the inquiry on to the nearest attendant, and\nfrom him it had been more slowly pressed and passed back; at last it got\nto Jerry:\n\n\"Witnesses.\"\n\n\"For which side?\"\n\n\"Against.\"\n\n\"Against what side?\"\n\n\"The prisoner's.\"\n\nThe Judge, whose eyes had gone in the general direction, recalled them,\nleaned back in his seat, and looked steadily at the man whose life was\nin his hand, as Mr. Attorney-General rose to spin the rope, grind the\naxe, and hammer the nails into the scaffold.\n\n\n\n\nIII. A Disappointment\n\n\nMr. Attorney-General had to inform the jury, that the prisoner before\nthem, though young in years, was old in the treasonable practices which\nclaimed the forfeit of his life. That this correspondence with the\npublic enemy was not a correspondence of to-day, or of yesterday, or\neven of last year, or of the year before. That, it was certain the\nprisoner had, for longer than that, been in the habit of passing and\nrepassing between France and England, on secret business of which\nhe could give no honest account. That, if it were in the nature of\ntraitorous ways to thrive (which happily it never was), the real\nwickedness and guilt of his business might have remained undiscovered.\nThat Providence, however, had put it into the heart of a person who\nwas beyond fear and beyond reproach, to ferret out the nature of the\nprisoner's schemes, and, struck with horror, to disclose them to his\nMajesty's Chief Secretary of State and most honourable Privy Council.\nThat, this patriot would be produced before them. That, his position and\nattitude were, on the whole, sublime. That, he had been the prisoner's\nfriend, but, at once in an auspicious and an evil hour detecting his\ninfamy, had resolved to immolate the traitor he could no longer cherish\nin his bosom, on the sacred altar of his country. That, if statues\nwere decreed in Britain, as in ancient Greece and Rome, to public\nbenefactors, this shining citizen would assuredly have had one. That, as\nthey were not so decreed, he probably would not have one. That, Virtue,\nas had been observed by the poets (in many passages which he well\nknew the jury would have, word for word, at the tips of their tongues;\nwhereat the jury's countenances displayed a guilty consciousness that\nthey knew nothing about the passages), was in a manner contagious; more\nespecially the bright virtue known as patriotism, or love of country.\nThat, the lofty example of this immaculate and unimpeachable witness\nfor the Crown, to refer to whom however unworthily was an honour, had\ncommunicated itself to the prisoner's servant, and had engendered in him\na holy determination to examine his master's table-drawers and pockets,\nand secrete his papers. That, he (Mr. Attorney-General) was prepared to\nhear some disparagement attempted of this admirable servant; but that,\nin a general way, he preferred him to his (Mr. Attorney-General's)\nbrothers and sisters, and honoured him more than his (Mr.\nAttorney-General's) father and mother. That, he called with confidence\non the jury to come and do likewise. That, the evidence of these two\nwitnesses, coupled with the documents of their discovering that would be\nproduced, would show the prisoner to have been furnished with lists of\nhis Majesty's forces, and of their disposition and preparation, both by\nsea and land, and would leave no doubt that he had habitually conveyed\nsuch information to a hostile power. That, these lists could not be\nproved to be in the prisoner's handwriting; but that it was all the\nsame; that, indeed, it was rather the better for the prosecution, as\nshowing the prisoner to be artful in his precautions. That, the proof\nwould go back five years, and would show the prisoner already engaged\nin these pernicious missions, within a few weeks before the date of the\nvery first action fought between the British troops and the Americans.\nThat, for these reasons, the jury, being a loyal jury (as he knew they\nwere), and being a responsible jury (as _they_ knew they were), must\npositively find the prisoner Guilty, and make an end of him, whether\nthey liked it or not. That, they never could lay their heads upon their\npillows; that, they never could tolerate the idea of their wives laying\ntheir heads upon their pillows; that, they never could endure the notion\nof their children laying their heads upon their pillows; in short, that\nthere never more could be, for them or theirs, any laying of heads upon\npillows at all, unless the prisoner's head was taken off. That head\nMr. Attorney-General concluded by demanding of them, in the name of\neverything he could think of with a round turn in it, and on the faith\nof his solemn asseveration that he already considered the prisoner as\ngood as dead and gone.\n\nWhen the Attorney-General ceased, a buzz arose in the court as if\na cloud of great blue-flies were swarming about the prisoner, in\nanticipation of what he was soon to become. When toned down again, the\nunimpeachable patriot appeared in the witness-box.\n\nMr. Solicitor-General then, following his leader's lead, examined the\npatriot: John Barsad, gentleman, by name. The story of his pure soul was\nexactly what Mr. Attorney-General had described it to be--perhaps, if\nit had a fault, a little too exactly. Having released his noble bosom\nof its burden, he would have modestly withdrawn himself, but that the\nwigged gentleman with the papers before him, sitting not far from Mr.\nLorry, begged to ask him a few questions. The wigged gentleman sitting\nopposite, still looking at the ceiling of the court.\n\nHad he ever been a spy himself? No, he scorned the base insinuation.\nWhat did he live upon? His property. Where was his property? He didn't\nprecisely remember where it was. What was it? No business of anybody's.\nHad he inherited it? Yes, he had. From whom? Distant relation. Very\ndistant? Rather. Ever been in prison? Certainly not. Never in a debtors'\nprison? Didn't see what that had to do with it. Never in a debtors'\nprison?--Come, once again. Never? Yes. How many times? Two or three\ntimes. Not five or six? Perhaps. Of what profession? Gentleman. Ever\nbeen kicked? Might have been. Frequently? No. Ever kicked downstairs?\nDecidedly not; once received a kick on the top of a staircase, and fell\ndownstairs of his own accord. Kicked on that occasion for cheating at\ndice? Something to that effect was said by the intoxicated liar who\ncommitted the assault, but it was not true. Swear it was not true?\nPositively. Ever live by cheating at play? Never. Ever live by play? Not\nmore than other gentlemen do. Ever borrow money of the prisoner? Yes.\nEver pay him? No. Was not this intimacy with the prisoner, in reality a\nvery slight one, forced upon the prisoner in coaches, inns, and packets?\nNo. Sure he saw the prisoner with these lists? Certain. Knew no more\nabout the lists? No. Had not procured them himself, for instance? No.\nExpect to get anything by this evidence? No. Not in regular government\npay and employment, to lay traps? Oh dear no. Or to do anything? Oh dear\nno. Swear that? Over and over again. No motives but motives of sheer\npatriotism? None whatever.\n\nThe virtuous servant, Roger Cly, swore his way through the case at a\ngreat rate. He had taken service with the prisoner, in good faith and\nsimplicity, four years ago. He had asked the prisoner, aboard the Calais\npacket, if he wanted a handy fellow, and the prisoner had engaged him.\nHe had not asked the prisoner to take the handy fellow as an act of\ncharity--never thought of such a thing. He began to have suspicions of\nthe prisoner, and to keep an eye upon him, soon afterwards. In arranging\nhis clothes, while travelling, he had seen similar lists to these in the\nprisoner's pockets, over and over again. He had taken these lists from\nthe drawer of the prisoner's desk. He had not put them there first. He\nhad seen the prisoner show these identical lists to French gentlemen\nat Calais, and similar lists to French gentlemen, both at Calais and\nBoulogne. He loved his country, and couldn't bear it, and had given\ninformation. He had never been suspected of stealing a silver tea-pot;\nhe had been maligned respecting a mustard-pot, but it turned out to be\nonly a plated one. He had known the last witness seven or eight years;\nthat was merely a coincidence. He didn't call it a particularly curious\ncoincidence; most coincidences were curious. Neither did he call it a\ncurious coincidence that true patriotism was _his_ only motive too. He\nwas a true Briton, and hoped there were many like him.\n\nThe blue-flies buzzed again, and Mr. Attorney-General called Mr. Jarvis\nLorry.\n\n\"Mr. Jarvis Lorry, are you a clerk in Tellson's bank?\"\n\n\"I am.\"\n\n\"On a certain Friday night in November one thousand seven hundred and\nseventy-five, did business occasion you to travel between London and\nDover by the mail?\"\n\n\"It did.\"\n\n\"Were there any other passengers in the mail?\"\n\n\"Two.\"\n\n\"Did they alight on the road in the course of the night?\"\n\n\"They did.\"\n\n\"Mr. Lorry, look upon the prisoner. Was he one of those two passengers?\"\n\n\"I cannot undertake to say that he was.\"\n\n\"Does he resemble either of these two passengers?\"\n\n\"Both were so wrapped up, and the night was so dark, and we were all so\nreserved, that I cannot undertake to say even that.\"\n\n\"Mr. Lorry, look again upon the prisoner. Supposing him wrapped up as\nthose two passengers were, is there anything in his bulk and stature to\nrender it unlikely that he was one of them?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"You will not swear, Mr. Lorry, that he was not one of them?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"So at least you say he may have been one of them?\"\n\n\"Yes. Except that I remember them both to have been--like\nmyself--timorous of highwaymen, and the prisoner has not a timorous\nair.\"\n\n\"Did you ever see a counterfeit of timidity, Mr. Lorry?\"\n\n\"I certainly have seen that.\"\n\n\"Mr. Lorry, look once more upon the prisoner. Have you seen him, to your\ncertain knowledge, before?\"\n\n\"I have.\"\n\n\"When?\"\n\n\"I was returning from France a few days afterwards, and, at Calais, the\nprisoner came on board the packet-ship in which I returned, and made the\nvoyage with me.\"\n\n\"At what hour did he come on board?\"\n\n\"At a little after midnight.\"\n\n\"In the dead of the night. Was he the only passenger who came on board\nat that untimely hour?\"\n\n\"He happened to be the only one.\"\n\n\"Never mind about 'happening,' Mr. Lorry. He was the only passenger who\ncame on board in the dead of the night?\"\n\n\"He was.\"\n\n\"Were you travelling alone, Mr. Lorry, or with any companion?\"\n\n\"With two companions. A gentleman and lady. They are here.\"\n\n\"They are here. Had you any conversation with the prisoner?\"\n\n\"Hardly any. The weather was stormy, and the passage long and rough, and\nI lay on a sofa, almost from shore to shore.\"\n\n\"Miss Manette!\"\n\nThe young lady, to whom all eyes had been turned before, and were now\nturned again, stood up where she had sat. Her father rose with her, and\nkept her hand drawn through his arm.\n\n\"Miss Manette, look upon the prisoner.\"\n\nTo be confronted with such pity, and such earnest youth and beauty, was\nfar more trying to the accused than to be confronted with all the crowd.\nStanding, as it were, apart with her on the edge of his grave, not all\nthe staring curiosity that looked on, could, for the moment, nerve him\nto remain quite still. His hurried right hand parcelled out the herbs\nbefore him into imaginary beds of flowers in a garden; and his efforts\nto control and steady his breathing shook the lips from which the colour\nrushed to his heart. The buzz of the great flies was loud again.\n\n\"Miss Manette, have you seen the prisoner before?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"Where?\"\n\n\"On board of the packet-ship just now referred to, sir, and on the same\noccasion.\"\n\n\"You are the young lady just now referred to?\"\n\n\"O! most unhappily, I am!\"\n\nThe plaintive tone of her compassion merged into the less musical voice\nof the Judge, as he said something fiercely: \"Answer the questions put\nto you, and make no remark upon them.\"\n\n\"Miss Manette, had you any conversation with the prisoner on that\npassage across the Channel?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"Recall it.\"\n\nIn the midst of a profound stillness, she faintly began: \"When the\ngentleman came on board--\"\n\n\"Do you mean the prisoner?\" inquired the Judge, knitting his brows.\n\n\"Yes, my Lord.\"\n\n\"Then say the prisoner.\"\n\n\"When the prisoner came on board, he noticed that my father,\" turning\nher eyes lovingly to him as he stood beside her, \"was much fatigued\nand in a very weak state of health. My father was so reduced that I was\nafraid to take him out of the air, and I had made a bed for him on the\ndeck near the cabin steps, and I sat on the deck at his side to take\ncare of him. There were no other passengers that night, but we four.\nThe prisoner was so good as to beg permission to advise me how I could\nshelter my father from the wind and weather, better than I had done. I\nhad not known how to do it well, not understanding how the wind would\nset when we were out of the harbour. He did it for me. He expressed\ngreat gentleness and kindness for my father's state, and I am sure he\nfelt it. That was the manner of our beginning to speak together.\"\n\n\"Let me interrupt you for a moment. Had he come on board alone?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"How many were with him?\"\n\n\"Two French gentlemen.\"\n\n\"Had they conferred together?\"\n\n\"They had conferred together until the last moment, when it was\nnecessary for the French gentlemen to be landed in their boat.\"\n\n\"Had any papers been handed about among them, similar to these lists?\"\n\n\"Some papers had been handed about among them, but I don't know what\npapers.\"\n\n\"Like these in shape and size?\"\n\n\"Possibly, but indeed I don't know, although they stood whispering very\nnear to me: because they stood at the top of the cabin steps to have the\nlight of the lamp that was hanging there; it was a dull lamp, and they\nspoke very low, and I did not hear what they said, and saw only that\nthey looked at papers.\"\n\n\"Now, to the prisoner's conversation, Miss Manette.\"\n\n\"The prisoner was as open in his confidence with me--which arose out\nof my helpless situation--as he was kind, and good, and useful to my\nfather. I hope,\" bursting into tears, \"I may not repay him by doing him\nharm to-day.\"\n\nBuzzing from the blue-flies.\n\n\"Miss Manette, if the prisoner does not perfectly understand that\nyou give the evidence which it is your duty to give--which you must\ngive--and which you cannot escape from giving--with great unwillingness,\nhe is the only person present in that condition. Please to go on.\"\n\n\"He told me that he was travelling on business of a delicate and\ndifficult nature, which might get people into trouble, and that he was\ntherefore travelling under an assumed name. He said that this business\nhad, within a few days, taken him to France, and might, at intervals,\ntake him backwards and forwards between France and England for a long\ntime to come.\"\n\n\"Did he say anything about America, Miss Manette? Be particular.\"\n\n\"He tried to explain to me how that quarrel had arisen, and he said\nthat, so far as he could judge, it was a wrong and foolish one on\nEngland's part. He added, in a jesting way, that perhaps George\nWashington might gain almost as great a name in history as George the\nThird. But there was no harm in his way of saying this: it was said\nlaughingly, and to beguile the time.\"\n\nAny strongly marked expression of face on the part of a chief actor in\na scene of great interest to whom many eyes are directed, will be\nunconsciously imitated by the spectators. Her forehead was painfully\nanxious and intent as she gave this evidence, and, in the pauses when\nshe stopped for the Judge to write it down, watched its effect upon\nthe counsel for and against. Among the lookers-on there was the same\nexpression in all quarters of the court; insomuch, that a great majority\nof the foreheads there, might have been mirrors reflecting the witness,\nwhen the Judge looked up from his notes to glare at that tremendous\nheresy about George Washington.\n\nMr. Attorney-General now signified to my Lord, that he deemed it\nnecessary, as a matter of precaution and form, to call the young lady's\nfather, Doctor Manette. Who was called accordingly.\n\n\"Doctor Manette, look upon the prisoner. Have you ever seen him before?\"\n\n\"Once. When he called at my lodgings in London. Some three years, or\nthree years and a half ago.\"\n\n\"Can you identify him as your fellow-passenger on board the packet, or\nspeak to his conversation with your daughter?\"\n\n\"Sir, I can do neither.\"\n\n\"Is there any particular and special reason for your being unable to do\neither?\"\n\nHe answered, in a low voice, \"There is.\"\n\n\"Has it been your misfortune to undergo a long imprisonment, without\ntrial, or even accusation, in your native country, Doctor Manette?\"\n\nHe answered, in a tone that went to every heart, \"A long imprisonment.\"\n\n\"Were you newly released on the occasion in question?\"\n\n\"They tell me so.\"\n\n\"Have you no remembrance of the occasion?\"\n\n\"None. My mind is a blank, from some time--I cannot even say what\ntime--when I employed myself, in my captivity, in making shoes, to the\ntime when I found myself living in London with my dear daughter\nhere. She had become familiar to me, when a gracious God restored\nmy faculties; but, I am quite unable even to say how she had become\nfamiliar. I have no remembrance of the process.\"\n\nMr. Attorney-General sat down, and the father and daughter sat down\ntogether.\n\nA singular circumstance then arose in the case. The object in hand being\nto show that the prisoner went down, with some fellow-plotter untracked,\nin the Dover mail on that Friday night in November five years ago, and\ngot out of the mail in the night, as a blind, at a place where he did\nnot remain, but from which he travelled back some dozen miles or more,\nto a garrison and dockyard, and there collected information; a witness\nwas called to identify him as having been at the precise time required,\nin the coffee-room of an hotel in that garrison-and-dockyard town,\nwaiting for another person. The prisoner's counsel was cross-examining\nthis witness with no result, except that he had never seen the prisoner\non any other occasion, when the wigged gentleman who had all this time\nbeen looking at the ceiling of the court, wrote a word or two on a\nlittle piece of paper, screwed it up, and tossed it to him. Opening\nthis piece of paper in the next pause, the counsel looked with great\nattention and curiosity at the prisoner.\n\n\"You say again you are quite sure that it was the prisoner?\"\n\nThe witness was quite sure.\n\n\"Did you ever see anybody very like the prisoner?\"\n\nNot so like (the witness said) as that he could be mistaken.\n\n\"Look well upon that gentleman, my learned friend there,\" pointing\nto him who had tossed the paper over, \"and then look well upon the\nprisoner. How say you? Are they very like each other?\"\n\nAllowing for my learned friend's appearance being careless and slovenly\nif not debauched, they were sufficiently like each other to surprise,\nnot only the witness, but everybody present, when they were thus brought\ninto comparison. My Lord being prayed to bid my learned friend lay aside\nhis wig, and giving no very gracious consent, the likeness became\nmuch more remarkable. My Lord inquired of Mr. Stryver (the prisoner's\ncounsel), whether they were next to try Mr. Carton (name of my learned\nfriend) for treason? But, Mr. Stryver replied to my Lord, no; but he\nwould ask the witness to tell him whether what happened once, might\nhappen twice; whether he would have been so confident if he had seen\nthis illustration of his rashness sooner, whether he would be so\nconfident, having seen it; and more. The upshot of which, was, to smash\nthis witness like a crockery vessel, and shiver his part of the case to\nuseless lumber.\n\nMr. Cruncher had by this time taken quite a lunch of rust off his\nfingers in his following of the evidence. He had now to attend while Mr.\nStryver fitted the prisoner's case on the jury, like a compact suit\nof clothes; showing them how the patriot, Barsad, was a hired spy and\ntraitor, an unblushing trafficker in blood, and one of the greatest\nscoundrels upon earth since accursed Judas--which he certainly did look\nrather like. How the virtuous servant, Cly, was his friend and partner,\nand was worthy to be; how the watchful eyes of those forgers and false\nswearers had rested on the prisoner as a victim, because some family\naffairs in France, he being of French extraction, did require his making\nthose passages across the Channel--though what those affairs were, a\nconsideration for others who were near and dear to him, forbade him,\neven for his life, to disclose. How the evidence that had been warped\nand wrested from the young lady, whose anguish in giving it they\nhad witnessed, came to nothing, involving the mere little innocent\ngallantries and politenesses likely to pass between any young gentleman\nand young lady so thrown together;--with the exception of that\nreference to George Washington, which was altogether too extravagant and\nimpossible to be regarded in any other light than as a monstrous joke.\nHow it would be a weakness in the government to break down in this\nattempt to practise for popularity on the lowest national antipathies\nand fears, and therefore Mr. Attorney-General had made the most of it;\nhow, nevertheless, it rested upon nothing, save that vile and infamous\ncharacter of evidence too often disfiguring such cases, and of which the\nState Trials of this country were full. But, there my Lord interposed\n(with as grave a face as if it had not been true), saying that he could\nnot sit upon that Bench and suffer those allusions.\n\nMr. Stryver then called his few witnesses, and Mr. Cruncher had next to\nattend while Mr. Attorney-General turned the whole suit of clothes Mr.\nStryver had fitted on the jury, inside out; showing how Barsad and\nCly were even a hundred times better than he had thought them, and the\nprisoner a hundred times worse. Lastly, came my Lord himself, turning\nthe suit of clothes, now inside out, now outside in, but on the whole\ndecidedly trimming and shaping them into grave-clothes for the prisoner.\n\nAnd now, the jury turned to consider, and the great flies swarmed again.\n\nMr. Carton, who had so long sat looking at the ceiling of the court,\nchanged neither his place nor his attitude, even in this excitement.\nWhile his learned friend, Mr. Stryver, massing his papers before him,\nwhispered with those who sat near, and from time to time glanced\nanxiously at the jury; while all the spectators moved more or less, and\ngrouped themselves anew; while even my Lord himself arose from his seat,\nand slowly paced up and down his platform, not unattended by a suspicion\nin the minds of the audience that his state was feverish; this one man\nsat leaning back, with his torn gown half off him, his untidy wig put\non just as it had happened to light on his head after its removal, his\nhands in his pockets, and his eyes on the ceiling as they had been all\nday. Something especially reckless in his demeanour, not only gave him\na disreputable look, but so diminished the strong resemblance he\nundoubtedly bore to the prisoner (which his momentary earnestness,\nwhen they were compared together, had strengthened), that many of the\nlookers-on, taking note of him now, said to one another they would\nhardly have thought the two were so alike. Mr. Cruncher made the\nobservation to his next neighbour, and added, \"I'd hold half a guinea\nthat _he_ don't get no law-work to do. Don't look like the sort of one\nto get any, do he?\"\n\nYet, this Mr. Carton took in more of the details of the scene than he\nappeared to take in; for now, when Miss Manette's head dropped upon\nher father's breast, he was the first to see it, and to say audibly:\n\"Officer! look to that young lady. Help the gentleman to take her out.\nDon't you see she will fall!\"\n\nThere was much commiseration for her as she was removed, and much\nsympathy with her father. It had evidently been a great distress to\nhim, to have the days of his imprisonment recalled. He had shown\nstrong internal agitation when he was questioned, and that pondering or\nbrooding look which made him old, had been upon him, like a heavy cloud,\never since. As he passed out, the jury, who had turned back and paused a\nmoment, spoke, through their foreman.\n\nThey were not agreed, and wished to retire. My Lord (perhaps with George\nWashington on his mind) showed some surprise that they were not agreed,\nbut signified his pleasure that they should retire under watch and ward,\nand retired himself. The trial had lasted all day, and the lamps in\nthe court were now being lighted. It began to be rumoured that the\njury would be out a long while. The spectators dropped off to get\nrefreshment, and the prisoner withdrew to the back of the dock, and sat\ndown.\n\nMr. Lorry, who had gone out when the young lady and her father went out,\nnow reappeared, and beckoned to Jerry: who, in the slackened interest,\ncould easily get near him.\n\n\"Jerry, if you wish to take something to eat, you can. But, keep in the\nway. You will be sure to hear when the jury come in. Don't be a moment\nbehind them, for I want you to take the verdict back to the bank. You\nare the quickest messenger I know, and will get to Temple Bar long\nbefore I can.\"\n\nJerry had just enough forehead to knuckle, and he knuckled it in\nacknowledgment of this communication and a shilling. Mr. Carton came up\nat the moment, and touched Mr. Lorry on the arm.\n\n\"How is the young lady?\"\n\n\"She is greatly distressed; but her father is comforting her, and she\nfeels the better for being out of court.\"\n\n\"I'll tell the prisoner so. It won't do for a respectable bank gentleman\nlike you, to be seen speaking to him publicly, you know.\"\n\nMr. Lorry reddened as if he were conscious of having debated the point\nin his mind, and Mr. Carton made his way to the outside of the bar.\nThe way out of court lay in that direction, and Jerry followed him, all\neyes, ears, and spikes.\n\n\"Mr. Darnay!\"\n\nThe prisoner came forward directly.\n\n\"You will naturally be anxious to hear of the witness, Miss Manette. She\nwill do very well. You have seen the worst of her agitation.\"\n\n\"I am deeply sorry to have been the cause of it. Could you tell her so\nfor me, with my fervent acknowledgments?\"\n\n\"Yes, I could. I will, if you ask it.\"\n\nMr. Carton's manner was so careless as to be almost insolent. He stood,\nhalf turned from the prisoner, lounging with his elbow against the bar.\n\n\"I do ask it. Accept my cordial thanks.\"\n\n\"What,\" said Carton, still only half turned towards him, \"do you expect,\nMr. Darnay?\"\n\n\"The worst.\"\n\n\"It's the wisest thing to expect, and the likeliest. But I think their\nwithdrawing is in your favour.\"\n\nLoitering on the way out of court not being allowed, Jerry heard no\nmore: but left them--so like each other in feature, so unlike each other\nin manner--standing side by side, both reflected in the glass above\nthem.\n\nAn hour and a half limped heavily away in the thief-and-rascal crowded\npassages below, even though assisted off with mutton pies and ale.\nThe hoarse messenger, uncomfortably seated on a form after taking that\nrefection, had dropped into a doze, when a loud murmur and a rapid tide\nof people setting up the stairs that led to the court, carried him along\nwith them.\n\n\"Jerry! Jerry!\" Mr. Lorry was already calling at the door when he got\nthere.\n\n\"Here, sir! It's a fight to get back again. Here I am, sir!\"\n\nMr. Lorry handed him a paper through the throng. \"Quick! Have you got\nit?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\nHastily written on the paper was the word \"ACQUITTED.\"\n\n\"If you had sent the message, 'Recalled to Life,' again,\" muttered\nJerry, as he turned, \"I should have known what you meant, this time.\"\n\nHe had no opportunity of saying, or so much as thinking, anything else,\nuntil he was clear of the Old Bailey; for, the crowd came pouring out\nwith a vehemence that nearly took him off his legs, and a loud buzz\nswept into the street as if the baffled blue-flies were dispersing in\nsearch of other carrion.\n\n\n\n\nIV. Congratulatory\n\n\nFrom the dimly-lighted passages of the court, the last sediment of the\nhuman stew that had been boiling there all day, was straining off, when\nDoctor Manette, Lucie Manette, his daughter, Mr. Lorry, the solicitor\nfor the defence, and its counsel, Mr. Stryver, stood gathered round Mr.\nCharles Darnay--just released--congratulating him on his escape from\ndeath.\n\nIt would have been difficult by a far brighter light, to recognise\nin Doctor Manette, intellectual of face and upright of bearing, the\nshoemaker of the garret in Paris. Yet, no one could have looked at him\ntwice, without looking again: even though the opportunity of observation\nhad not extended to the mournful cadence of his low grave voice, and\nto the abstraction that overclouded him fitfully, without any apparent\nreason. While one external cause, and that a reference to his long\nlingering agony, would always--as on the trial--evoke this condition\nfrom the depths of his soul, it was also in its nature to arise of\nitself, and to draw a gloom over him, as incomprehensible to those\nunacquainted with his story as if they had seen the shadow of the actual\nBastille thrown upon him by a summer sun, when the substance was three\nhundred miles away.\n\nOnly his daughter had the power of charming this black brooding from\nhis mind. She was the golden thread that united him to a Past beyond his\nmisery, and to a Present beyond his misery: and the sound of her voice,\nthe light of her face, the touch of her hand, had a strong beneficial\ninfluence with him almost always. Not absolutely always, for she could\nrecall some occasions on which her power had failed; but they were few\nand slight, and she believed them over.\n\nMr. Darnay had kissed her hand fervently and gratefully, and had turned\nto Mr. Stryver, whom he warmly thanked. Mr. Stryver, a man of little\nmore than thirty, but looking twenty years older than he was, stout,\nloud, red, bluff, and free from any drawback of delicacy, had a pushing\nway of shouldering himself (morally and physically) into companies and\nconversations, that argued well for his shouldering his way up in life.\n\nHe still had his wig and gown on, and he said, squaring himself at his\nlate client to that degree that he squeezed the innocent Mr. Lorry clean\nout of the group: \"I am glad to have brought you off with honour, Mr.\nDarnay. It was an infamous prosecution, grossly infamous; but not the\nless likely to succeed on that account.\"\n\n\"You have laid me under an obligation to you for life--in two senses,\"\nsaid his late client, taking his hand.\n\n\"I have done my best for you, Mr. Darnay; and my best is as good as\nanother man's, I believe.\"\n\nIt clearly being incumbent on some one to say, \"Much better,\" Mr. Lorry\nsaid it; perhaps not quite disinterestedly, but with the interested\nobject of squeezing himself back again.\n\n\"You think so?\" said Mr. Stryver. \"Well! you have been present all day,\nand you ought to know. You are a man of business, too.\"\n\n\"And as such,\" quoth Mr. Lorry, whom the counsel learned in the law had\nnow shouldered back into the group, just as he had previously shouldered\nhim out of it--\"as such I will appeal to Doctor Manette, to break up\nthis conference and order us all to our homes. Miss Lucie looks ill, Mr.\nDarnay has had a terrible day, we are worn out.\"\n\n\"Speak for yourself, Mr. Lorry,\" said Stryver; \"I have a night's work to\ndo yet. Speak for yourself.\"\n\n\"I speak for myself,\" answered Mr. Lorry, \"and for Mr. Darnay, and for\nMiss Lucie, and--Miss Lucie, do you not think I may speak for us all?\"\nHe asked her the question pointedly, and with a glance at her father.\n\nHis face had become frozen, as it were, in a very curious look at\nDarnay: an intent look, deepening into a frown of dislike and distrust,\nnot even unmixed with fear. With this strange expression on him his\nthoughts had wandered away.\n\n\"My father,\" said Lucie, softly laying her hand on his.\n\nHe slowly shook the shadow off, and turned to her.\n\n\"Shall we go home, my father?\"\n\nWith a long breath, he answered \"Yes.\"\n\nThe friends of the acquitted prisoner had dispersed, under the\nimpression--which he himself had originated--that he would not be\nreleased that night. The lights were nearly all extinguished in the\npassages, the iron gates were being closed with a jar and a rattle,\nand the dismal place was deserted until to-morrow morning's interest of\ngallows, pillory, whipping-post, and branding-iron, should repeople it.\nWalking between her father and Mr. Darnay, Lucie Manette passed into\nthe open air. A hackney-coach was called, and the father and daughter\ndeparted in it.\n\nMr. Stryver had left them in the passages, to shoulder his way back\nto the robing-room. Another person, who had not joined the group, or\ninterchanged a word with any one of them, but who had been leaning\nagainst the wall where its shadow was darkest, had silently strolled\nout after the rest, and had looked on until the coach drove away. He now\nstepped up to where Mr. Lorry and Mr. Darnay stood upon the pavement.\n\n\"So, Mr. Lorry! Men of business may speak to Mr. Darnay now?\"\n\nNobody had made any acknowledgment of Mr. Carton's part in the day's\nproceedings; nobody had known of it. He was unrobed, and was none the\nbetter for it in appearance.\n\n\"If you knew what a conflict goes on in the business mind, when the\nbusiness mind is divided between good-natured impulse and business\nappearances, you would be amused, Mr. Darnay.\"\n\nMr. Lorry reddened, and said, warmly, \"You have mentioned that before,\nsir. We men of business, who serve a House, are not our own masters. We\nhave to think of the House more than ourselves.\"\n\n\"_I_ know, _I_ know,\" rejoined Mr. Carton, carelessly. \"Don't be\nnettled, Mr. Lorry. You are as good as another, I have no doubt: better,\nI dare say.\"\n\n\"And indeed, sir,\" pursued Mr. Lorry, not minding him, \"I really don't\nknow what you have to do with the matter. If you'll excuse me, as very\nmuch your elder, for saying so, I really don't know that it is your\nbusiness.\"\n\n\"Business! Bless you, _I_ have no business,\" said Mr. Carton.\n\n\"It is a pity you have not, sir.\"\n\n\"I think so, too.\"\n\n\"If you had,\" pursued Mr. Lorry, \"perhaps you would attend to it.\"\n\n\"Lord love you, no!--I shouldn't,\" said Mr. Carton.\n\n\"Well, sir!\" cried Mr. Lorry, thoroughly heated by his indifference,\n\"business is a very good thing, and a very respectable thing. And, sir,\nif business imposes its restraints and its silences and impediments, Mr.\nDarnay as a young gentleman of generosity knows how to make allowance\nfor that circumstance. Mr. Darnay, good night, God bless you, sir!\nI hope you have been this day preserved for a prosperous and happy\nlife.--Chair there!\"\n\nPerhaps a little angry with himself, as well as with the barrister, Mr.\nLorry bustled into the chair, and was carried off to Tellson's. Carton,\nwho smelt of port wine, and did not appear to be quite sober, laughed\nthen, and turned to Darnay:\n\n\"This is a strange chance that throws you and me together. This must\nbe a strange night to you, standing alone here with your counterpart on\nthese street stones?\"\n\n\"I hardly seem yet,\" returned Charles Darnay, \"to belong to this world\nagain.\"\n\n\"I don't wonder at it; it's not so long since you were pretty far\nadvanced on your way to another. You speak faintly.\"\n\n\"I begin to think I _am_ faint.\"\n\n\"Then why the devil don't you dine? I dined, myself, while those\nnumskulls were deliberating which world you should belong to--this, or\nsome other. Let me show you the nearest tavern to dine well at.\"\n\nDrawing his arm through his own, he took him down Ludgate-hill to\nFleet-street, and so, up a covered way, into a tavern. Here, they were\nshown into a little room, where Charles Darnay was soon recruiting\nhis strength with a good plain dinner and good wine: while Carton sat\nopposite to him at the same table, with his separate bottle of port\nbefore him, and his fully half-insolent manner upon him.\n\n\"Do you feel, yet, that you belong to this terrestrial scheme again, Mr.\nDarnay?\"\n\n\"I am frightfully confused regarding time and place; but I am so far\nmended as to feel that.\"\n\n\"It must be an immense satisfaction!\"\n\nHe said it bitterly, and filled up his glass again: which was a large\none.\n\n\"As to me, the greatest desire I have, is to forget that I belong to it.\nIt has no good in it for me--except wine like this--nor I for it. So we\nare not much alike in that particular. Indeed, I begin to think we are\nnot much alike in any particular, you and I.\"\n\nConfused by the emotion of the day, and feeling his being there with\nthis Double of coarse deportment, to be like a dream, Charles Darnay was\nat a loss how to answer; finally, answered not at all.\n\n\"Now your dinner is done,\" Carton presently said, \"why don't you call a\nhealth, Mr. Darnay; why don't you give your toast?\"\n\n\"What health? What toast?\"\n\n\"Why, it's on the tip of your tongue. It ought to be, it must be, I'll\nswear it's there.\"\n\n\"Miss Manette, then!\"\n\n\"Miss Manette, then!\"\n\nLooking his companion full in the face while he drank the toast, Carton\nflung his glass over his shoulder against the wall, where it shivered to\npieces; then, rang the bell, and ordered in another.\n\n\"That's a fair young lady to hand to a coach in the dark, Mr. Darnay!\"\nhe said, filling his new goblet.\n\nA slight frown and a laconic \"Yes,\" were the answer.\n\n\"That's a fair young lady to be pitied by and wept for by! How does it\nfeel? Is it worth being tried for one's life, to be the object of such\nsympathy and compassion, Mr. Darnay?\"\n\nAgain Darnay answered not a word.\n\n\"She was mightily pleased to have your message, when I gave it her. Not\nthat she showed she was pleased, but I suppose she was.\"\n\nThe allusion served as a timely reminder to Darnay that this\ndisagreeable companion had, of his own free will, assisted him in the\nstrait of the day. He turned the dialogue to that point, and thanked him\nfor it.\n\n\"I neither want any thanks, nor merit any,\" was the careless rejoinder.\n\"It was nothing to do, in the first place; and I don't know why I did\nit, in the second. Mr. Darnay, let me ask you a question.\"\n\n\"Willingly, and a small return for your good offices.\"\n\n\"Do you think I particularly like you?\"\n\n\"Really, Mr. Carton,\" returned the other, oddly disconcerted, \"I have\nnot asked myself the question.\"\n\n\"But ask yourself the question now.\"\n\n\"You have acted as if you do; but I don't think you do.\"\n\n\"_I_ don't think I do,\" said Carton. \"I begin to have a very good\nopinion of your understanding.\"\n\n\"Nevertheless,\" pursued Darnay, rising to ring the bell, \"there is\nnothing in that, I hope, to prevent my calling the reckoning, and our\nparting without ill-blood on either side.\"\n\nCarton rejoining, \"Nothing in life!\" Darnay rang. \"Do you call the whole\nreckoning?\" said Carton. On his answering in the affirmative, \"Then\nbring me another pint of this same wine, drawer, and come and wake me at\nten.\"\n\nThe bill being paid, Charles Darnay rose and wished him good night.\nWithout returning the wish, Carton rose too, with something of a threat\nof defiance in his manner, and said, \"A last word, Mr. Darnay: you think\nI am drunk?\"\n\n\"I think you have been drinking, Mr. Carton.\"\n\n\"Think? You know I have been drinking.\"\n\n\"Since I must say so, I know it.\"\n\n\"Then you shall likewise know why. I am a disappointed drudge, sir. I\ncare for no man on earth, and no man on earth cares for me.\"\n\n\"Much to be regretted. You might have used your talents better.\"\n\n\"May be so, Mr. Darnay; may be not. Don't let your sober face elate you,\nhowever; you don't know what it may come to. Good night!\"\n\nWhen he was left alone, this strange being took up a candle, went to a\nglass that hung against the wall, and surveyed himself minutely in it.\n\n\"Do you particularly like the man?\" he muttered, at his own image; \"why\nshould you particularly like a man who resembles you? There is nothing\nin you to like; you know that. Ah, confound you! What a change you have\nmade in yourself! A good reason for taking to a man, that he shows you\nwhat you have fallen away from, and what you might have been! Change\nplaces with him, and would you have been looked at by those blue eyes as\nhe was, and commiserated by that agitated face as he was? Come on, and\nhave it out in plain words! You hate the fellow.\"\n\nHe resorted to his pint of wine for consolation, drank it all in a few\nminutes, and fell asleep on his arms, with his hair straggling over the\ntable, and a long winding-sheet in the candle dripping down upon him.\n\n\n\n\nV. The Jackal\n\n\nThose were drinking days, and most men drank hard. So very great is\nthe improvement Time has brought about in such habits, that a moderate\nstatement of the quantity of wine and punch which one man would swallow\nin the course of a night, without any detriment to his reputation as a\nperfect gentleman, would seem, in these days, a ridiculous exaggeration.\nThe learned profession of the law was certainly not behind any other\nlearned profession in its Bacchanalian propensities; neither was Mr.\nStryver, already fast shouldering his way to a large and lucrative\npractice, behind his compeers in this particular, any more than in the\ndrier parts of the legal race.\n\nA favourite at the Old Bailey, and eke at the Sessions, Mr. Stryver had\nbegun cautiously to hew away the lower staves of the ladder on which\nhe mounted. Sessions and Old Bailey had now to summon their favourite,\nspecially, to their longing arms; and shouldering itself towards the\nvisage of the Lord Chief Justice in the Court of King's Bench, the\nflorid countenance of Mr. Stryver might be daily seen, bursting out of\nthe bed of wigs, like a great sunflower pushing its way at the sun from\namong a rank garden-full of flaring companions.\n\nIt had once been noted at the Bar, that while Mr. Stryver was a glib\nman, and an unscrupulous, and a ready, and a bold, he had not that\nfaculty of extracting the essence from a heap of statements, which is\namong the most striking and necessary of the advocate's accomplishments.\nBut, a remarkable improvement came upon him as to this. The more\nbusiness he got, the greater his power seemed to grow of getting at its\npith and marrow; and however late at night he sat carousing with Sydney\nCarton, he always had his points at his fingers' ends in the morning.\n\nSydney Carton, idlest and most unpromising of men, was Stryver's great\nally. What the two drank together, between Hilary Term and Michaelmas,\nmight have floated a king's ship. Stryver never had a case in hand,\nanywhere, but Carton was there, with his hands in his pockets, staring\nat the ceiling of the court; they went the same Circuit, and even there\nthey prolonged their usual orgies late into the night, and Carton was\nrumoured to be seen at broad day, going home stealthily and unsteadily\nto his lodgings, like a dissipated cat. At last, it began to get about,\namong such as were interested in the matter, that although Sydney Carton\nwould never be a lion, he was an amazingly good jackal, and that he\nrendered suit and service to Stryver in that humble capacity.\n\n\"Ten o'clock, sir,\" said the man at the tavern, whom he had charged to\nwake him--\"ten o'clock, sir.\"\n\n\"_What's_ the matter?\"\n\n\"Ten o'clock, sir.\"\n\n\"What do you mean? Ten o'clock at night?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir. Your honour told me to call you.\"\n\n\"Oh! I remember. Very well, very well.\"\n\nAfter a few dull efforts to get to sleep again, which the man\ndexterously combated by stirring the fire continuously for five minutes,\nhe got up, tossed his hat on, and walked out. He turned into the Temple,\nand, having revived himself by twice pacing the pavements of King's\nBench-walk and Paper-buildings, turned into the Stryver chambers.\n\nThe Stryver clerk, who never assisted at these conferences, had gone\nhome, and the Stryver principal opened the door. He had his slippers on,\nand a loose bed-gown, and his throat was bare for his greater ease. He\nhad that rather wild, strained, seared marking about the eyes, which\nmay be observed in all free livers of his class, from the portrait of\nJeffries downward, and which can be traced, under various disguises of\nArt, through the portraits of every Drinking Age.\n\n\"You are a little late, Memory,\" said Stryver.\n\n\"About the usual time; it may be a quarter of an hour later.\"\n\nThey went into a dingy room lined with books and littered with papers,\nwhere there was a blazing fire. A kettle steamed upon the hob, and in\nthe midst of the wreck of papers a table shone, with plenty of wine upon\nit, and brandy, and rum, and sugar, and lemons.\n\n\"You have had your bottle, I perceive, Sydney.\"\n\n\"Two to-night, I think. I have been dining with the day's client; or\nseeing him dine--it's all one!\"\n\n\"That was a rare point, Sydney, that you brought to bear upon the\nidentification. How did you come by it? When did it strike you?\"\n\n\"I thought he was rather a handsome fellow, and I thought I should have\nbeen much the same sort of fellow, if I had had any luck.\"\n\nMr. Stryver laughed till he shook his precocious paunch.\n\n\"You and your luck, Sydney! Get to work, get to work.\"\n\nSullenly enough, the jackal loosened his dress, went into an adjoining\nroom, and came back with a large jug of cold water, a basin, and a towel\nor two. Steeping the towels in the water, and partially wringing them\nout, he folded them on his head in a manner hideous to behold, sat down\nat the table, and said, \"Now I am ready!\"\n\n\"Not much boiling down to be done to-night, Memory,\" said Mr. Stryver,\ngaily, as he looked among his papers.\n\n\"How much?\"\n\n\"Only two sets of them.\"\n\n\"Give me the worst first.\"\n\n\"There they are, Sydney. Fire away!\"\n\nThe lion then composed himself on his back on a sofa on one side of the\ndrinking-table, while the jackal sat at his own paper-bestrewn table\nproper, on the other side of it, with the bottles and glasses ready to\nhis hand. Both resorted to the drinking-table without stint, but each in\na different way; the lion for the most part reclining with his hands in\nhis waistband, looking at the fire, or occasionally flirting with some\nlighter document; the jackal, with knitted brows and intent face,\nso deep in his task, that his eyes did not even follow the hand he\nstretched out for his glass--which often groped about, for a minute or\nmore, before it found the glass for his lips. Two or three times, the\nmatter in hand became so knotty, that the jackal found it imperative on\nhim to get up, and steep his towels anew. From these pilgrimages to the\njug and basin, he returned with such eccentricities of damp headgear as\nno words can describe; which were made the more ludicrous by his anxious\ngravity.\n\nAt length the jackal had got together a compact repast for the lion, and\nproceeded to offer it to him. The lion took it with care and caution,\nmade his selections from it, and his remarks upon it, and the jackal\nassisted both. When the repast was fully discussed, the lion put his\nhands in his waistband again, and lay down to meditate. The jackal then\ninvigorated himself with a bumper for his throttle, and a fresh application\nto his head, and applied himself to the collection of a second meal;\nthis was administered to the lion in the same manner, and was not\ndisposed of until the clocks struck three in the morning.\n\n\"And now we have done, Sydney, fill a bumper of punch,\" said Mr.\nStryver.\n\nThe jackal removed the towels from his head, which had been steaming\nagain, shook himself, yawned, shivered, and complied.\n\n\"You were very sound, Sydney, in the matter of those crown witnesses\nto-day. Every question told.\"\n\n\"I always am sound; am I not?\"\n\n\"I don't gainsay it. What has roughened your temper? Put some punch to\nit and smooth it again.\"\n\nWith a deprecatory grunt, the jackal again complied.\n\n\"The old Sydney Carton of old Shrewsbury School,\" said Stryver, nodding\nhis head over him as he reviewed him in the present and the past, \"the\nold seesaw Sydney. Up one minute and down the next; now in spirits and\nnow in despondency!\"\n\n\"Ah!\" returned the other, sighing: \"yes! The same Sydney, with the same\nluck. Even then, I did exercises for other boys, and seldom did my own.\"\n\n\"And why not?\"\n\n\"God knows. It was my way, I suppose.\"\n\nHe sat, with his hands in his pockets and his legs stretched out before\nhim, looking at the fire.\n\n\"Carton,\" said his friend, squaring himself at him with a bullying air,\nas if the fire-grate had been the furnace in which sustained endeavour\nwas forged, and the one delicate thing to be done for the old Sydney\nCarton of old Shrewsbury School was to shoulder him into it, \"your way\nis, and always was, a lame way. You summon no energy and purpose. Look\nat me.\"\n\n\"Oh, botheration!\" returned Sydney, with a lighter and more\ngood-humoured laugh, \"don't _you_ be moral!\"\n\n\"How have I done what I have done?\" said Stryver; \"how do I do what I\ndo?\"\n\n\"Partly through paying me to help you, I suppose. But it's not worth\nyour while to apostrophise me, or the air, about it; what you want to\ndo, you do. You were always in the front rank, and I was always behind.\"\n\n\"I had to get into the front rank; I was not born there, was I?\"\n\n\"I was not present at the ceremony; but my opinion is you were,\" said\nCarton. At this, he laughed again, and they both laughed.\n\n\"Before Shrewsbury, and at Shrewsbury, and ever since Shrewsbury,\"\npursued Carton, \"you have fallen into your rank, and I have fallen into\nmine. Even when we were fellow-students in the Student-Quarter of Paris,\npicking up French, and French law, and other French crumbs that we\ndidn't get much good of, you were always somewhere, and I was always\nnowhere.\"\n\n\"And whose fault was that?\"\n\n\"Upon my soul, I am not sure that it was not yours. You were always\ndriving and riving and shouldering and passing, to that restless degree\nthat I had no chance for my life but in rust and repose. It's a gloomy\nthing, however, to talk about one's own past, with the day breaking.\nTurn me in some other direction before I go.\"\n\n\"Well then! Pledge me to the pretty witness,\" said Stryver, holding up\nhis glass. \"Are you turned in a pleasant direction?\"\n\nApparently not, for he became gloomy again.\n\n\"Pretty witness,\" he muttered, looking down into his glass. \"I have had\nenough of witnesses to-day and to-night; who's your pretty witness?\"\n\n\"The picturesque doctor's daughter, Miss Manette.\"\n\n\"_She_ pretty?\"\n\n\"Is she not?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Why, man alive, she was the admiration of the whole Court!\"\n\n\"Rot the admiration of the whole Court! Who made the Old Bailey a judge\nof beauty? She was a golden-haired doll!\"\n\n\"Do you know, Sydney,\" said Mr. Stryver, looking at him with sharp eyes,\nand slowly drawing a hand across his florid face: \"do you know, I rather\nthought, at the time, that you sympathised with the golden-haired doll,\nand were quick to see what happened to the golden-haired doll?\"\n\n\"Quick to see what happened! If a girl, doll or no doll, swoons within a\nyard or two of a man's nose, he can see it without a perspective-glass.\nI pledge you, but I deny the beauty. And now I'll have no more drink;\nI'll get to bed.\"\n\nWhen his host followed him out on the staircase with a candle, to light\nhim down the stairs, the day was coldly looking in through its grimy\nwindows. When he got out of the house, the air was cold and sad, the\ndull sky overcast, the river dark and dim, the whole scene like a\nlifeless desert. And wreaths of dust were spinning round and round\nbefore the morning blast, as if the desert-sand had risen far away, and\nthe first spray of it in its advance had begun to overwhelm the city.\n\nWaste forces within him, and a desert all around, this man stood still\non his way across a silent terrace, and saw for a moment, lying in the\nwilderness before him, a mirage of honourable ambition, self-denial, and\nperseverance. In the fair city of this vision, there were airy galleries\nfrom which the loves and graces looked upon him, gardens in which the\nfruits of life hung ripening, waters of Hope that sparkled in his sight.\nA moment, and it was gone. Climbing to a high chamber in a well of\nhouses, he threw himself down in his clothes on a neglected bed, and its\npillow was wet with wasted tears.\n\nSadly, sadly, the sun rose; it rose upon no sadder sight than the man of\ngood abilities and good emotions, incapable of their directed exercise,\nincapable of his own help and his own happiness, sensible of the blight\non him, and resigning himself to let it eat him away.\n\n\n\n\nVI. Hundreds of People\n\n\nThe quiet lodgings of Doctor Manette were in a quiet street-corner not\nfar from Soho-square. On the afternoon of a certain fine Sunday when the\nwaves of four months had rolled over the trial for treason, and carried\nit, as to the public interest and memory, far out to sea, Mr. Jarvis\nLorry walked along the sunny streets from Clerkenwell where he lived,\non his way to dine with the Doctor. After several relapses into\nbusiness-absorption, Mr. Lorry had become the Doctor's friend, and the\nquiet street-corner was the sunny part of his life.\n\nOn this certain fine Sunday, Mr. Lorry walked towards Soho, early in\nthe afternoon, for three reasons of habit. Firstly, because, on fine\nSundays, he often walked out, before dinner, with the Doctor and Lucie;\nsecondly, because, on unfavourable Sundays, he was accustomed to be with\nthem as the family friend, talking, reading, looking out of window, and\ngenerally getting through the day; thirdly, because he happened to have\nhis own little shrewd doubts to solve, and knew how the ways of the\nDoctor's household pointed to that time as a likely time for solving\nthem.\n\nA quainter corner than the corner where the Doctor lived, was not to be\nfound in London. There was no way through it, and the front windows of\nthe Doctor's lodgings commanded a pleasant little vista of street that\nhad a congenial air of retirement on it. There were few buildings then,\nnorth of the Oxford-road, and forest-trees flourished, and wild flowers\ngrew, and the hawthorn blossomed, in the now vanished fields. As a\nconsequence, country airs circulated in Soho with vigorous freedom,\ninstead of languishing into the parish like stray paupers without a\nsettlement; and there was many a good south wall, not far off, on which\nthe peaches ripened in their season.\n\nThe summer light struck into the corner brilliantly in the earlier part\nof the day; but, when the streets grew hot, the corner was in shadow,\nthough not in shadow so remote but that you could see beyond it into a\nglare of brightness. It was a cool spot, staid but cheerful, a wonderful\nplace for echoes, and a very harbour from the raging streets.\n\nThere ought to have been a tranquil bark in such an anchorage, and\nthere was. The Doctor occupied two floors of a large stiff house, where\nseveral callings purported to be pursued by day, but whereof little was\naudible any day, and which was shunned by all of them at night. In\na building at the back, attainable by a courtyard where a plane-tree\nrustled its green leaves, church-organs claimed to be made, and silver\nto be chased, and likewise gold to be beaten by some mysterious giant\nwho had a golden arm starting out of the wall of the front hall--as if\nhe had beaten himself precious, and menaced a similar conversion of all\nvisitors. Very little of these trades, or of a lonely lodger rumoured\nto live up-stairs, or of a dim coach-trimming maker asserted to have\na counting-house below, was ever heard or seen. Occasionally, a stray\nworkman putting his coat on, traversed the hall, or a stranger peered\nabout there, or a distant clink was heard across the courtyard, or a\nthump from the golden giant. These, however, were only the exceptions\nrequired to prove the rule that the sparrows in the plane-tree behind\nthe house, and the echoes in the corner before it, had their own way\nfrom Sunday morning unto Saturday night.\n\nDoctor Manette received such patients here as his old reputation, and\nits revival in the floating whispers of his story, brought him.\nHis scientific knowledge, and his vigilance and skill in conducting\ningenious experiments, brought him otherwise into moderate request, and\nhe earned as much as he wanted.\n\nThese things were within Mr. Jarvis Lorry's knowledge, thoughts, and\nnotice, when he rang the door-bell of the tranquil house in the corner,\non the fine Sunday afternoon.\n\n\"Doctor Manette at home?\"\n\nExpected home.\n\n\"Miss Lucie at home?\"\n\nExpected home.\n\n\"Miss Pross at home?\"\n\nPossibly at home, but of a certainty impossible for handmaid to\nanticipate intentions of Miss Pross, as to admission or denial of the\nfact.\n\n\"As I am at home myself,\" said Mr. Lorry, \"I'll go upstairs.\"\n\nAlthough the Doctor's daughter had known nothing of the country of her\nbirth, she appeared to have innately derived from it that ability to\nmake much of little means, which is one of its most useful and most\nagreeable characteristics. Simple as the furniture was, it was set off\nby so many little adornments, of no value but for their taste and fancy,\nthat its effect was delightful. The disposition of everything in the\nrooms, from the largest object to the least; the arrangement of colours,\nthe elegant variety and contrast obtained by thrift in trifles, by\ndelicate hands, clear eyes, and good sense; were at once so pleasant in\nthemselves, and so expressive of their originator, that, as Mr. Lorry\nstood looking about him, the very chairs and tables seemed to ask him,\nwith something of that peculiar expression which he knew so well by this\ntime, whether he approved?\n\nThere were three rooms on a floor, and, the doors by which they\ncommunicated being put open that the air might pass freely through them\nall, Mr. Lorry, smilingly observant of that fanciful resemblance which\nhe detected all around him, walked from one to another. The first was\nthe best room, and in it were Lucie's birds, and flowers, and books,\nand desk, and work-table, and box of water-colours; the second was\nthe Doctor's consulting-room, used also as the dining-room; the third,\nchangingly speckled by the rustle of the plane-tree in the yard, was the\nDoctor's bedroom, and there, in a corner, stood the disused shoemaker's\nbench and tray of tools, much as it had stood on the fifth floor of the\ndismal house by the wine-shop, in the suburb of Saint Antoine in Paris.\n\n\"I wonder,\" said Mr. Lorry, pausing in his looking about, \"that he keeps\nthat reminder of his sufferings about him!\"\n\n\"And why wonder at that?\" was the abrupt inquiry that made him start.\n\nIt proceeded from Miss Pross, the wild red woman, strong of hand, whose\nacquaintance he had first made at the Royal George Hotel at Dover, and\nhad since improved.\n\n\"I should have thought--\" Mr. Lorry began.\n\n\"Pooh! You'd have thought!\" said Miss Pross; and Mr. Lorry left off.\n\n\"How do you do?\" inquired that lady then--sharply, and yet as if to\nexpress that she bore him no malice.\n\n\"I am pretty well, I thank you,\" answered Mr. Lorry, with meekness; \"how\nare you?\"\n\n\"Nothing to boast of,\" said Miss Pross.\n\n\"Indeed?\"\n\n\"Ah! indeed!\" said Miss Pross. \"I am very much put out about my\nLadybird.\"\n\n\"Indeed?\"\n\n\"For gracious sake say something else besides 'indeed,' or you'll\nfidget me to death,\" said Miss Pross: whose character (dissociated from\nstature) was shortness.\n\n\"Really, then?\" said Mr. Lorry, as an amendment.\n\n\"Really, is bad enough,\" returned Miss Pross, \"but better. Yes, I am\nvery much put out.\"\n\n\"May I ask the cause?\"\n\n\"I don't want dozens of people who are not at all worthy of Ladybird, to\ncome here looking after her,\" said Miss Pross.\n\n\"_Do_ dozens come for that purpose?\"\n\n\"Hundreds,\" said Miss Pross.\n\nIt was characteristic of this lady (as of some other people before her\ntime and since) that whenever her original proposition was questioned,\nshe exaggerated it.\n\n\"Dear me!\" said Mr. Lorry, as the safest remark he could think of.\n\n\"I have lived with the darling--or the darling has lived with me, and\npaid me for it; which she certainly should never have done, you may take\nyour affidavit, if I could have afforded to keep either myself or her\nfor nothing--since she was ten years old. And it's really very hard,\"\nsaid Miss Pross.\n\nNot seeing with precision what was very hard, Mr. Lorry shook his head;\nusing that important part of himself as a sort of fairy cloak that would\nfit anything.\n\n\"All sorts of people who are not in the least degree worthy of the pet,\nare always turning up,\" said Miss Pross. \"When you began it--\"\n\n\"_I_ began it, Miss Pross?\"\n\n\"Didn't you? Who brought her father to life?\"\n\n\"Oh! If _that_ was beginning it--\" said Mr. Lorry.\n\n\"It wasn't ending it, I suppose? I say, when you began it, it was hard\nenough; not that I have any fault to find with Doctor Manette, except\nthat he is not worthy of such a daughter, which is no imputation on\nhim, for it was not to be expected that anybody should be, under any\ncircumstances. But it really is doubly and trebly hard to have crowds\nand multitudes of people turning up after him (I could have forgiven\nhim), to take Ladybird's affections away from me.\"\n\nMr. Lorry knew Miss Pross to be very jealous, but he also knew her by\nthis time to be, beneath the service of her eccentricity, one of those\nunselfish creatures--found only among women--who will, for pure love and\nadmiration, bind themselves willing slaves, to youth when they have lost\nit, to beauty that they never had, to accomplishments that they were\nnever fortunate enough to gain, to bright hopes that never shone upon\ntheir own sombre lives. He knew enough of the world to know that there\nis nothing in it better than the faithful service of the heart; so\nrendered and so free from any mercenary taint, he had such an exalted\nrespect for it, that in the retributive arrangements made by his own\nmind--we all make such arrangements, more or less--he stationed Miss\nPross much nearer to the lower Angels than many ladies immeasurably\nbetter got up both by Nature and Art, who had balances at Tellson's.\n\n\"There never was, nor will be, but one man worthy of Ladybird,\" said\nMiss Pross; \"and that was my brother Solomon, if he hadn't made a\nmistake in life.\"\n\nHere again: Mr. Lorry's inquiries into Miss Pross's personal history had\nestablished the fact that her brother Solomon was a heartless scoundrel\nwho had stripped her of everything she possessed, as a stake to\nspeculate with, and had abandoned her in her poverty for evermore, with\nno touch of compunction. Miss Pross's fidelity of belief in Solomon\n(deducting a mere trifle for this slight mistake) was quite a serious\nmatter with Mr. Lorry, and had its weight in his good opinion of her.\n\n\"As we happen to be alone for the moment, and are both people of\nbusiness,\" he said, when they had got back to the drawing-room and had\nsat down there in friendly relations, \"let me ask you--does the Doctor,\nin talking with Lucie, never refer to the shoemaking time, yet?\"\n\n\"Never.\"\n\n\"And yet keeps that bench and those tools beside him?\"\n\n\"Ah!\" returned Miss Pross, shaking her head. \"But I don't say he don't\nrefer to it within himself.\"\n\n\"Do you believe that he thinks of it much?\"\n\n\"I do,\" said Miss Pross.\n\n\"Do you imagine--\" Mr. Lorry had begun, when Miss Pross took him up\nshort with:\n\n\"Never imagine anything. Have no imagination at all.\"\n\n\"I stand corrected; do you suppose--you go so far as to suppose,\nsometimes?\"\n\n\"Now and then,\" said Miss Pross.\n\n\"Do you suppose,\" Mr. Lorry went on, with a laughing twinkle in his\nbright eye, as it looked kindly at her, \"that Doctor Manette has any\ntheory of his own, preserved through all those years, relative to\nthe cause of his being so oppressed; perhaps, even to the name of his\noppressor?\"\n\n\"I don't suppose anything about it but what Ladybird tells me.\"\n\n\"And that is--?\"\n\n\"That she thinks he has.\"\n\n\"Now don't be angry at my asking all these questions; because I am a\nmere dull man of business, and you are a woman of business.\"\n\n\"Dull?\" Miss Pross inquired, with placidity.\n\nRather wishing his modest adjective away, Mr. Lorry replied, \"No, no,\nno. Surely not. To return to business:--Is it not remarkable that Doctor\nManette, unquestionably innocent of any crime as we are all well assured\nhe is, should never touch upon that question? I will not say with me,\nthough he had business relations with me many years ago, and we are now\nintimate; I will say with the fair daughter to whom he is so devotedly\nattached, and who is so devotedly attached to him? Believe me, Miss\nPross, I don't approach the topic with you, out of curiosity, but out of\nzealous interest.\"\n\n\"Well! To the best of my understanding, and bad's the best, you'll tell\nme,\" said Miss Pross, softened by the tone of the apology, \"he is afraid\nof the whole subject.\"\n\n\"Afraid?\"\n\n\"It's plain enough, I should think, why he may be. It's a dreadful\nremembrance. Besides that, his loss of himself grew out of it. Not\nknowing how he lost himself, or how he recovered himself, he may never\nfeel certain of not losing himself again. That alone wouldn't make the\nsubject pleasant, I should think.\"\n\nIt was a profounder remark than Mr. Lorry had looked for. \"True,\" said\nhe, \"and fearful to reflect upon. Yet, a doubt lurks in my mind, Miss\nPross, whether it is good for Doctor Manette to have that suppression\nalways shut up within him. Indeed, it is this doubt and the uneasiness\nit sometimes causes me that has led me to our present confidence.\"\n\n\"Can't be helped,\" said Miss Pross, shaking her head. \"Touch that\nstring, and he instantly changes for the worse. Better leave it alone.\nIn short, must leave it alone, like or no like. Sometimes, he gets up in\nthe dead of the night, and will be heard, by us overhead there, walking\nup and down, walking up and down, in his room. Ladybird has learnt to\nknow then that his mind is walking up and down, walking up and down, in\nhis old prison. She hurries to him, and they go on together, walking up\nand down, walking up and down, until he is composed. But he never says\na word of the true reason of his restlessness, to her, and she finds it\nbest not to hint at it to him. In silence they go walking up and down\ntogether, walking up and down together, till her love and company have\nbrought him to himself.\"\n\nNotwithstanding Miss Pross's denial of her own imagination, there was a\nperception of the pain of being monotonously haunted by one sad idea,\nin her repetition of the phrase, walking up and down, which testified to\nher possessing such a thing.\n\nThe corner has been mentioned as a wonderful corner for echoes; it\nhad begun to echo so resoundingly to the tread of coming feet, that it\nseemed as though the very mention of that weary pacing to and fro had\nset it going.\n\n\"Here they are!\" said Miss Pross, rising to break up the conference;\n\"and now we shall have hundreds of people pretty soon!\"\n\nIt was such a curious corner in its acoustical properties, such a\npeculiar Ear of a place, that as Mr. Lorry stood at the open window,\nlooking for the father and daughter whose steps he heard, he fancied\nthey would never approach. Not only would the echoes die away, as though\nthe steps had gone; but, echoes of other steps that never came would be\nheard in their stead, and would die away for good when they seemed close\nat hand. However, father and daughter did at last appear, and Miss Pross\nwas ready at the street door to receive them.\n\nMiss Pross was a pleasant sight, albeit wild, and red, and grim, taking\noff her darling's bonnet when she came up-stairs, and touching it up\nwith the ends of her handkerchief, and blowing the dust off it, and\nfolding her mantle ready for laying by, and smoothing her rich hair with\nas much pride as she could possibly have taken in her own hair if she\nhad been the vainest and handsomest of women. Her darling was a pleasant\nsight too, embracing her and thanking her, and protesting against\nher taking so much trouble for her--which last she only dared to do\nplayfully, or Miss Pross, sorely hurt, would have retired to her own\nchamber and cried. The Doctor was a pleasant sight too, looking on at\nthem, and telling Miss Pross how she spoilt Lucie, in accents and with\neyes that had as much spoiling in them as Miss Pross had, and would\nhave had more if it were possible. Mr. Lorry was a pleasant sight too,\nbeaming at all this in his little wig, and thanking his bachelor\nstars for having lighted him in his declining years to a Home. But, no\nHundreds of people came to see the sights, and Mr. Lorry looked in vain\nfor the fulfilment of Miss Pross's prediction.\n\nDinner-time, and still no Hundreds of people. In the arrangements of\nthe little household, Miss Pross took charge of the lower regions, and\nalways acquitted herself marvellously. Her dinners, of a very modest\nquality, were so well cooked and so well served, and so neat in their\ncontrivances, half English and half French, that nothing could be\nbetter. Miss Pross's friendship being of the thoroughly practical\nkind, she had ravaged Soho and the adjacent provinces, in search of\nimpoverished French, who, tempted by shillings and half-crowns, would\nimpart culinary mysteries to her. From these decayed sons and daughters\nof Gaul, she had acquired such wonderful arts, that the woman and girl\nwho formed the staff of domestics regarded her as quite a Sorceress,\nor Cinderella's Godmother: who would send out for a fowl, a rabbit,\na vegetable or two from the garden, and change them into anything she\npleased.\n\nOn Sundays, Miss Pross dined at the Doctor's table, but on other days\npersisted in taking her meals at unknown periods, either in the lower\nregions, or in her own room on the second floor--a blue chamber, to\nwhich no one but her Ladybird ever gained admittance. On this occasion,\nMiss Pross, responding to Ladybird's pleasant face and pleasant efforts\nto please her, unbent exceedingly; so the dinner was very pleasant, too.\n\nIt was an oppressive day, and, after dinner, Lucie proposed that the\nwine should be carried out under the plane-tree, and they should sit\nthere in the air. As everything turned upon her, and revolved about her,\nthey went out under the plane-tree, and she carried the wine down for\nthe special benefit of Mr. Lorry. She had installed herself, some\ntime before, as Mr. Lorry's cup-bearer; and while they sat under the\nplane-tree, talking, she kept his glass replenished. Mysterious backs\nand ends of houses peeped at them as they talked, and the plane-tree\nwhispered to them in its own way above their heads.\n\nStill, the Hundreds of people did not present themselves. Mr. Darnay\npresented himself while they were sitting under the plane-tree, but he\nwas only One.\n\nDoctor Manette received him kindly, and so did Lucie. But, Miss Pross\nsuddenly became afflicted with a twitching in the head and body, and\nretired into the house. She was not unfrequently the victim of this\ndisorder, and she called it, in familiar conversation, \"a fit of the\njerks.\"\n\nThe Doctor was in his best condition, and looked specially young. The\nresemblance between him and Lucie was very strong at such times, and as\nthey sat side by side, she leaning on his shoulder, and he resting\nhis arm on the back of her chair, it was very agreeable to trace the\nlikeness.\n\nHe had been talking all day, on many subjects, and with unusual\nvivacity. \"Pray, Doctor Manette,\" said Mr. Darnay, as they sat under the\nplane-tree--and he said it in the natural pursuit of the topic in hand,\nwhich happened to be the old buildings of London--\"have you seen much of\nthe Tower?\"\n\n\"Lucie and I have been there; but only casually. We have seen enough of\nit, to know that it teems with interest; little more.\"\n\n\"_I_ have been there, as you remember,\" said Darnay, with a smile,\nthough reddening a little angrily, \"in another character, and not in a\ncharacter that gives facilities for seeing much of it. They told me a\ncurious thing when I was there.\"\n\n\"What was that?\" Lucie asked.\n\n\"In making some alterations, the workmen came upon an old dungeon, which\nhad been, for many years, built up and forgotten. Every stone of\nits inner wall was covered by inscriptions which had been carved by\nprisoners--dates, names, complaints, and prayers. Upon a corner stone\nin an angle of the wall, one prisoner, who seemed to have gone to\nexecution, had cut as his last work, three letters. They were done with\nsome very poor instrument, and hurriedly, with an unsteady hand.\nAt first, they were read as D. I. C.; but, on being more carefully\nexamined, the last letter was found to be G. There was no record or\nlegend of any prisoner with those initials, and many fruitless guesses\nwere made what the name could have been. At length, it was suggested\nthat the letters were not initials, but the complete word, DIG. The\nfloor was examined very carefully under the inscription, and, in the\nearth beneath a stone, or tile, or some fragment of paving, were found\nthe ashes of a paper, mingled with the ashes of a small leathern case\nor bag. What the unknown prisoner had written will never be read, but he\nhad written something, and hidden it away to keep it from the gaoler.\"\n\n\"My father,\" exclaimed Lucie, \"you are ill!\"\n\nHe had suddenly started up, with his hand to his head. His manner and\nhis look quite terrified them all.\n\n\"No, my dear, not ill. There are large drops of rain falling, and they\nmade me start. We had better go in.\"\n\nHe recovered himself almost instantly. Rain was really falling in large\ndrops, and he showed the back of his hand with rain-drops on it. But, he\nsaid not a single word in reference to the discovery that had been told\nof, and, as they went into the house, the business eye of Mr. Lorry\neither detected, or fancied it detected, on his face, as it turned\ntowards Charles Darnay, the same singular look that had been upon it\nwhen it turned towards him in the passages of the Court House.\n\nHe recovered himself so quickly, however, that Mr. Lorry had doubts of\nhis business eye. The arm of the golden giant in the hall was not more\nsteady than he was, when he stopped under it to remark to them that he\nwas not yet proof against slight surprises (if he ever would be), and\nthat the rain had startled him.\n\nTea-time, and Miss Pross making tea, with another fit of the jerks upon\nher, and yet no Hundreds of people. Mr. Carton had lounged in, but he\nmade only Two.\n\nThe night was so very sultry, that although they sat with doors and\nwindows open, they were overpowered by heat. When the tea-table was\ndone with, they all moved to one of the windows, and looked out into the\nheavy twilight. Lucie sat by her father; Darnay sat beside her; Carton\nleaned against a window. The curtains were long and white, and some of\nthe thunder-gusts that whirled into the corner, caught them up to the\nceiling, and waved them like spectral wings.\n\n\"The rain-drops are still falling, large, heavy, and few,\" said Doctor\nManette. \"It comes slowly.\"\n\n\"It comes surely,\" said Carton.\n\nThey spoke low, as people watching and waiting mostly do; as people in a\ndark room, watching and waiting for Lightning, always do.\n\nThere was a great hurry in the streets of people speeding away to\nget shelter before the storm broke; the wonderful corner for echoes\nresounded with the echoes of footsteps coming and going, yet not a\nfootstep was there.\n\n\"A multitude of people, and yet a solitude!\" said Darnay, when they had\nlistened for a while.\n\n\"Is it not impressive, Mr. Darnay?\" asked Lucie. \"Sometimes, I have\nsat here of an evening, until I have fancied--but even the shade of\na foolish fancy makes me shudder to-night, when all is so black and\nsolemn--\"\n\n\"Let us shudder too. We may know what it is.\"\n\n\"It will seem nothing to you. Such whims are only impressive as we\noriginate them, I think; they are not to be communicated. I have\nsometimes sat alone here of an evening, listening, until I have made\nthe echoes out to be the echoes of all the footsteps that are coming\nby-and-bye into our lives.\"\n\n\"There is a great crowd coming one day into our lives, if that be so,\"\nSydney Carton struck in, in his moody way.\n\nThe footsteps were incessant, and the hurry of them became more and more\nrapid. The corner echoed and re-echoed with the tread of feet; some,\nas it seemed, under the windows; some, as it seemed, in the room; some\ncoming, some going, some breaking off, some stopping altogether; all in\nthe distant streets, and not one within sight.\n\n\"Are all these footsteps destined to come to all of us, Miss Manette, or\nare we to divide them among us?\"\n\n\"I don't know, Mr. Darnay; I told you it was a foolish fancy, but you\nasked for it. When I have yielded myself to it, I have been alone, and\nthen I have imagined them the footsteps of the people who are to come\ninto my life, and my father's.\"\n\n\"I take them into mine!\" said Carton. \"_I_ ask no questions and make no\nstipulations. There is a great crowd bearing down upon us, Miss Manette,\nand I see them--by the Lightning.\" He added the last words, after there\nhad been a vivid flash which had shown him lounging in the window.\n\n\"And I hear them!\" he added again, after a peal of thunder. \"Here they\ncome, fast, fierce, and furious!\"\n\nIt was the rush and roar of rain that he typified, and it stopped him,\nfor no voice could be heard in it. A memorable storm of thunder and\nlightning broke with that sweep of water, and there was not a moment's\ninterval in crash, and fire, and rain, until after the moon rose at\nmidnight.\n\nThe great bell of Saint Paul's was striking one in the cleared air, when\nMr. Lorry, escorted by Jerry, high-booted and bearing a lantern, set\nforth on his return-passage to Clerkenwell. There were solitary patches\nof road on the way between Soho and Clerkenwell, and Mr. Lorry, mindful\nof foot-pads, always retained Jerry for this service: though it was\nusually performed a good two hours earlier.\n\n\"What a night it has been! Almost a night, Jerry,\" said Mr. Lorry, \"to\nbring the dead out of their graves.\"\n\n\"I never see the night myself, master--nor yet I don't expect to--what\nwould do that,\" answered Jerry.\n\n\"Good night, Mr. Carton,\" said the man of business. \"Good night, Mr.\nDarnay. Shall we ever see such a night again, together!\"\n\nPerhaps. Perhaps, see the great crowd of people with its rush and roar,\nbearing down upon them, too.\n\n\n\n\nVII. Monseigneur in Town\n\n\nMonseigneur, one of the great lords in power at the Court, held his\nfortnightly reception in his grand hotel in Paris. Monseigneur was in\nhis inner room, his sanctuary of sanctuaries, the Holiest of Holiests to\nthe crowd of worshippers in the suite of rooms without. Monseigneur\nwas about to take his chocolate. Monseigneur could swallow a great many\nthings with ease, and was by some few sullen minds supposed to be rather\nrapidly swallowing France; but, his morning's chocolate could not so\nmuch as get into the throat of Monseigneur, without the aid of four\nstrong men besides the Cook.\n\nYes. It took four men, all four ablaze with gorgeous decoration, and the\nChief of them unable to exist with fewer than two gold watches in his\npocket, emulative of the noble and chaste fashion set by Monseigneur, to\nconduct the happy chocolate to Monseigneur's lips. One lacquey carried\nthe chocolate-pot into the sacred presence; a second, milled and frothed\nthe chocolate with the little instrument he bore for that function;\na third, presented the favoured napkin; a fourth (he of the two gold\nwatches), poured the chocolate out. It was impossible for Monseigneur to\ndispense with one of these attendants on the chocolate and hold his high\nplace under the admiring Heavens. Deep would have been the blot upon\nhis escutcheon if his chocolate had been ignobly waited on by only three\nmen; he must have died of two.\n\nMonseigneur had been out at a little supper last night, where the Comedy\nand the Grand Opera were charmingly represented. Monseigneur was out at\na little supper most nights, with fascinating company. So polite and so\nimpressible was Monseigneur, that the Comedy and the Grand Opera had far\nmore influence with him in the tiresome articles of state affairs and\nstate secrets, than the needs of all France. A happy circumstance\nfor France, as the like always is for all countries similarly\nfavoured!--always was for England (by way of example), in the regretted\ndays of the merry Stuart who sold it.\n\nMonseigneur had one truly noble idea of general public business, which\nwas, to let everything go on in its own way; of particular public\nbusiness, Monseigneur had the other truly noble idea that it must all go\nhis way--tend to his own power and pocket. Of his pleasures, general and\nparticular, Monseigneur had the other truly noble idea, that the world\nwas made for them. The text of his order (altered from the original\nby only a pronoun, which is not much) ran: \"The earth and the fulness\nthereof are mine, saith Monseigneur.\"\n\nYet, Monseigneur had slowly found that vulgar embarrassments crept into\nhis affairs, both private and public; and he had, as to both classes of\naffairs, allied himself perforce with a Farmer-General. As to finances\npublic, because Monseigneur could not make anything at all of them, and\nmust consequently let them out to somebody who could; as to finances\nprivate, because Farmer-Generals were rich, and Monseigneur, after\ngenerations of great luxury and expense, was growing poor. Hence\nMonseigneur had taken his sister from a convent, while there was yet\ntime to ward off the impending veil, the cheapest garment she could\nwear, and had bestowed her as a prize upon a very rich Farmer-General,\npoor in family. Which Farmer-General, carrying an appropriate cane with\na golden apple on the top of it, was now among the company in the outer\nrooms, much prostrated before by mankind--always excepting superior\nmankind of the blood of Monseigneur, who, his own wife included, looked\ndown upon him with the loftiest contempt.\n\nA sumptuous man was the Farmer-General. Thirty horses stood in his\nstables, twenty-four male domestics sat in his halls, six body-women\nwaited on his wife. As one who pretended to do nothing but plunder and\nforage where he could, the Farmer-General--howsoever his matrimonial\nrelations conduced to social morality--was at least the greatest reality\namong the personages who attended at the hotel of Monseigneur that day.\n\nFor, the rooms, though a beautiful scene to look at, and adorned with\nevery device of decoration that the taste and skill of the time could\nachieve, were, in truth, not a sound business; considered with any\nreference to the scarecrows in the rags and nightcaps elsewhere (and not\nso far off, either, but that the watching towers of Notre Dame, almost\nequidistant from the two extremes, could see them both), they would\nhave been an exceedingly uncomfortable business--if that could have\nbeen anybody's business, at the house of Monseigneur. Military officers\ndestitute of military knowledge; naval officers with no idea of a ship;\ncivil officers without a notion of affairs; brazen ecclesiastics, of the\nworst world worldly, with sensual eyes, loose tongues, and looser lives;\nall totally unfit for their several callings, all lying horribly in\npretending to belong to them, but all nearly or remotely of the order of\nMonseigneur, and therefore foisted on all public employments from which\nanything was to be got; these were to be told off by the score and the\nscore. People not immediately connected with Monseigneur or the State,\nyet equally unconnected with anything that was real, or with lives\npassed in travelling by any straight road to any true earthly end, were\nno less abundant. Doctors who made great fortunes out of dainty remedies\nfor imaginary disorders that never existed, smiled upon their courtly\npatients in the ante-chambers of Monseigneur. Projectors who had\ndiscovered every kind of remedy for the little evils with which the\nState was touched, except the remedy of setting to work in earnest to\nroot out a single sin, poured their distracting babble into any ears\nthey could lay hold of, at the reception of Monseigneur. Unbelieving\nPhilosophers who were remodelling the world with words, and making\ncard-towers of Babel to scale the skies with, talked with Unbelieving\nChemists who had an eye on the transmutation of metals, at this\nwonderful gathering accumulated by Monseigneur. Exquisite gentlemen of\nthe finest breeding, which was at that remarkable time--and has been\nsince--to be known by its fruits of indifference to every natural\nsubject of human interest, were in the most exemplary state of\nexhaustion, at the hotel of Monseigneur. Such homes had these various\nnotabilities left behind them in the fine world of Paris, that the spies\namong the assembled devotees of Monseigneur--forming a goodly half\nof the polite company--would have found it hard to discover among\nthe angels of that sphere one solitary wife, who, in her manners and\nappearance, owned to being a Mother. Indeed, except for the mere act of\nbringing a troublesome creature into this world--which does not go far\ntowards the realisation of the name of mother--there was no such thing\nknown to the fashion. Peasant women kept the unfashionable babies close,\nand brought them up, and charming grandmammas of sixty dressed and\nsupped as at twenty.\n\nThe leprosy of unreality disfigured every human creature in attendance\nupon Monseigneur. In the outermost room were half a dozen exceptional\npeople who had had, for a few years, some vague misgiving in them that\nthings in general were going rather wrong. As a promising way of setting\nthem right, half of the half-dozen had become members of a fantastic\nsect of Convulsionists, and were even then considering within themselves\nwhether they should foam, rage, roar, and turn cataleptic on the\nspot--thereby setting up a highly intelligible finger-post to the\nFuture, for Monseigneur's guidance. Besides these Dervishes, were other\nthree who had rushed into another sect, which mended matters with a\njargon about \"the Centre of Truth:\" holding that Man had got out of the\nCentre of Truth--which did not need much demonstration--but had not got\nout of the Circumference, and that he was to be kept from flying out of\nthe Circumference, and was even to be shoved back into the Centre,\nby fasting and seeing of spirits. Among these, accordingly, much\ndiscoursing with spirits went on--and it did a world of good which never\nbecame manifest.\n\nBut, the comfort was, that all the company at the grand hotel of\nMonseigneur were perfectly dressed. If the Day of Judgment had only been\nascertained to be a dress day, everybody there would have been eternally\ncorrect. Such frizzling and powdering and sticking up of hair, such\ndelicate complexions artificially preserved and mended, such gallant\nswords to look at, and such delicate honour to the sense of smell, would\nsurely keep anything going, for ever and ever. The exquisite gentlemen\nof the finest breeding wore little pendent trinkets that chinked as they\nlanguidly moved; these golden fetters rang like precious little bells;\nand what with that ringing, and with the rustle of silk and brocade and\nfine linen, there was a flutter in the air that fanned Saint Antoine and\nhis devouring hunger far away.\n\nDress was the one unfailing talisman and charm used for keeping all\nthings in their places. Everybody was dressed for a Fancy Ball that\nwas never to leave off. From the Palace of the Tuileries, through\nMonseigneur and the whole Court, through the Chambers, the Tribunals\nof Justice, and all society (except the scarecrows), the Fancy Ball\ndescended to the Common Executioner: who, in pursuance of the charm, was\nrequired to officiate \"frizzled, powdered, in a gold-laced coat, pumps,\nand white silk stockings.\" At the gallows and the wheel--the axe was a\nrarity--Monsieur Paris, as it was the episcopal mode among his brother\nProfessors of the provinces, Monsieur Orleans, and the rest, to call\nhim, presided in this dainty dress. And who among the company at\nMonseigneur's reception in that seventeen hundred and eightieth year\nof our Lord, could possibly doubt, that a system rooted in a frizzled\nhangman, powdered, gold-laced, pumped, and white-silk stockinged, would\nsee the very stars out!\n\nMonseigneur having eased his four men of their burdens and taken his\nchocolate, caused the doors of the Holiest of Holiests to be thrown\nopen, and issued forth. Then, what submission, what cringing and\nfawning, what servility, what abject humiliation! As to bowing down in\nbody and spirit, nothing in that way was left for Heaven--which may have\nbeen one among other reasons why the worshippers of Monseigneur never\ntroubled it.\n\nBestowing a word of promise here and a smile there, a whisper on one\nhappy slave and a wave of the hand on another, Monseigneur affably\npassed through his rooms to the remote region of the Circumference of\nTruth. There, Monseigneur turned, and came back again, and so in due\ncourse of time got himself shut up in his sanctuary by the chocolate\nsprites, and was seen no more.\n\nThe show being over, the flutter in the air became quite a little storm,\nand the precious little bells went ringing downstairs. There was soon\nbut one person left of all the crowd, and he, with his hat under his arm\nand his snuff-box in his hand, slowly passed among the mirrors on his\nway out.\n\n\"I devote you,\" said this person, stopping at the last door on his way,\nand turning in the direction of the sanctuary, \"to the Devil!\"\n\nWith that, he shook the snuff from his fingers as if he had shaken the\ndust from his feet, and quietly walked downstairs.\n\nHe was a man of about sixty, handsomely dressed, haughty in manner, and\nwith a face like a fine mask. A face of a transparent paleness; every\nfeature in it clearly defined; one set expression on it. The nose,\nbeautifully formed otherwise, was very slightly pinched at the top\nof each nostril. In those two compressions, or dints, the only little\nchange that the face ever showed, resided. They persisted in changing\ncolour sometimes, and they would be occasionally dilated and contracted\nby something like a faint pulsation; then, they gave a look of\ntreachery, and cruelty, to the whole countenance. Examined with\nattention, its capacity of helping such a look was to be found in the\nline of the mouth, and the lines of the orbits of the eyes, being much\ntoo horizontal and thin; still, in the effect of the face made, it was a\nhandsome face, and a remarkable one.\n\nIts owner went downstairs into the courtyard, got into his carriage, and\ndrove away. Not many people had talked with him at the reception; he had\nstood in a little space apart, and Monseigneur might have been warmer\nin his manner. It appeared, under the circumstances, rather agreeable\nto him to see the common people dispersed before his horses, and\noften barely escaping from being run down. His man drove as if he were\ncharging an enemy, and the furious recklessness of the man brought no\ncheck into the face, or to the lips, of the master. The complaint had\nsometimes made itself audible, even in that deaf city and dumb age,\nthat, in the narrow streets without footways, the fierce patrician\ncustom of hard driving endangered and maimed the mere vulgar in a\nbarbarous manner. But, few cared enough for that to think of it a second\ntime, and, in this matter, as in all others, the common wretches were\nleft to get out of their difficulties as they could.\n\nWith a wild rattle and clatter, and an inhuman abandonment of\nconsideration not easy to be understood in these days, the carriage\ndashed through streets and swept round corners, with women screaming\nbefore it, and men clutching each other and clutching children out of\nits way. At last, swooping at a street corner by a fountain, one of its\nwheels came to a sickening little jolt, and there was a loud cry from a\nnumber of voices, and the horses reared and plunged.\n\nBut for the latter inconvenience, the carriage probably would not have\nstopped; carriages were often known to drive on, and leave their wounded\nbehind, and why not? But the frightened valet had got down in a hurry,\nand there were twenty hands at the horses' bridles.\n\n\"What has gone wrong?\" said Monsieur, calmly looking out.\n\nA tall man in a nightcap had caught up a bundle from among the feet of\nthe horses, and had laid it on the basement of the fountain, and was\ndown in the mud and wet, howling over it like a wild animal.\n\n\"Pardon, Monsieur the Marquis!\" said a ragged and submissive man, \"it is\na child.\"\n\n\"Why does he make that abominable noise? Is it his child?\"\n\n\"Excuse me, Monsieur the Marquis--it is a pity--yes.\"\n\nThe fountain was a little removed; for the street opened, where it was,\ninto a space some ten or twelve yards square. As the tall man suddenly\ngot up from the ground, and came running at the carriage, Monsieur the\nMarquis clapped his hand for an instant on his sword-hilt.\n\n\"Killed!\" shrieked the man, in wild desperation, extending both arms at\ntheir length above his head, and staring at him. \"Dead!\"\n\nThe people closed round, and looked at Monsieur the Marquis. There was\nnothing revealed by the many eyes that looked at him but watchfulness\nand eagerness; there was no visible menacing or anger. Neither did the\npeople say anything; after the first cry, they had been silent, and they\nremained so. The voice of the submissive man who had spoken, was flat\nand tame in its extreme submission. Monsieur the Marquis ran his eyes\nover them all, as if they had been mere rats come out of their holes.\n\nHe took out his purse.\n\n\"It is extraordinary to me,\" said he, \"that you people cannot take care\nof yourselves and your children. One or the other of you is for ever in\nthe way. How do I know what injury you have done my horses. See! Give\nhim that.\"\n\nHe threw out a gold coin for the valet to pick up, and all the heads\ncraned forward that all the eyes might look down at it as it fell. The\ntall man called out again with a most unearthly cry, \"Dead!\"\n\nHe was arrested by the quick arrival of another man, for whom the rest\nmade way. On seeing him, the miserable creature fell upon his shoulder,\nsobbing and crying, and pointing to the fountain, where some women were\nstooping over the motionless bundle, and moving gently about it. They\nwere as silent, however, as the men.\n\n\"I know all, I know all,\" said the last comer. \"Be a brave man, my\nGaspard! It is better for the poor little plaything to die so, than to\nlive. It has died in a moment without pain. Could it have lived an hour\nas happily?\"\n\n\"You are a philosopher, you there,\" said the Marquis, smiling. \"How do\nthey call you?\"\n\n\"They call me Defarge.\"\n\n\"Of what trade?\"\n\n\"Monsieur the Marquis, vendor of wine.\"\n\n\"Pick up that, philosopher and vendor of wine,\" said the Marquis,\nthrowing him another gold coin, \"and spend it as you will. The horses\nthere; are they right?\"\n\nWithout deigning to look at the assemblage a second time, Monsieur the\nMarquis leaned back in his seat, and was just being driven away with the\nair of a gentleman who had accidentally broke some common thing, and had\npaid for it, and could afford to pay for it; when his ease was suddenly\ndisturbed by a coin flying into his carriage, and ringing on its floor.\n\n\"Hold!\" said Monsieur the Marquis. \"Hold the horses! Who threw that?\"\n\nHe looked to the spot where Defarge the vendor of wine had stood, a\nmoment before; but the wretched father was grovelling on his face on\nthe pavement in that spot, and the figure that stood beside him was the\nfigure of a dark stout woman, knitting.\n\n\"You dogs!\" said the Marquis, but smoothly, and with an unchanged front,\nexcept as to the spots on his nose: \"I would ride over any of you very\nwillingly, and exterminate you from the earth. If I knew which rascal\nthrew at the carriage, and if that brigand were sufficiently near it, he\nshould be crushed under the wheels.\"\n\nSo cowed was their condition, and so long and hard their experience of\nwhat such a man could do to them, within the law and beyond it, that not\na voice, or a hand, or even an eye was raised. Among the men, not one.\nBut the woman who stood knitting looked up steadily, and looked the\nMarquis in the face. It was not for his dignity to notice it; his\ncontemptuous eyes passed over her, and over all the other rats; and he\nleaned back in his seat again, and gave the word \"Go on!\"\n\nHe was driven on, and other carriages came whirling by in quick\nsuccession; the Minister, the State-Projector, the Farmer-General, the\nDoctor, the Lawyer, the Ecclesiastic, the Grand Opera, the Comedy, the\nwhole Fancy Ball in a bright continuous flow, came whirling by. The rats\nhad crept out of their holes to look on, and they remained looking\non for hours; soldiers and police often passing between them and the\nspectacle, and making a barrier behind which they slunk, and through\nwhich they peeped. The father had long ago taken up his bundle and\nbidden himself away with it, when the women who had tended the bundle\nwhile it lay on the base of the fountain, sat there watching the running\nof the water and the rolling of the Fancy Ball--when the one woman who\nhad stood conspicuous, knitting, still knitted on with the steadfastness\nof Fate. The water of the fountain ran, the swift river ran, the day ran\ninto evening, so much life in the city ran into death according to rule,\ntime and tide waited for no man, the rats were sleeping close together\nin their dark holes again, the Fancy Ball was lighted up at supper, all\nthings ran their course.\n\n\n\n\nVIII. Monseigneur in the Country\n\n\nA beautiful landscape, with the corn bright in it, but not abundant.\nPatches of poor rye where corn should have been, patches of poor peas\nand beans, patches of most coarse vegetable substitutes for wheat. On\ninanimate nature, as on the men and women who cultivated it, a prevalent\ntendency towards an appearance of vegetating unwillingly--a dejected\ndisposition to give up, and wither away.\n\nMonsieur the Marquis in his travelling carriage (which might have been\nlighter), conducted by four post-horses and two postilions, fagged up\na steep hill. A blush on the countenance of Monsieur the Marquis was\nno impeachment of his high breeding; it was not from within; it was\noccasioned by an external circumstance beyond his control--the setting\nsun.\n\nThe sunset struck so brilliantly into the travelling carriage when it\ngained the hill-top, that its occupant was steeped in crimson. \"It will\ndie out,\" said Monsieur the Marquis, glancing at his hands, \"directly.\"\n\nIn effect, the sun was so low that it dipped at the moment. When the\nheavy drag had been adjusted to the wheel, and the carriage slid down\nhill, with a cinderous smell, in a cloud of dust, the red glow departed\nquickly; the sun and the Marquis going down together, there was no glow\nleft when the drag was taken off.\n\nBut, there remained a broken country, bold and open, a little village\nat the bottom of the hill, a broad sweep and rise beyond it, a\nchurch-tower, a windmill, a forest for the chase, and a crag with a\nfortress on it used as a prison. Round upon all these darkening objects\nas the night drew on, the Marquis looked, with the air of one who was\ncoming near home.\n\nThe village had its one poor street, with its poor brewery, poor\ntannery, poor tavern, poor stable-yard for relays of post-horses, poor\nfountain, all usual poor appointments. It had its poor people too. All\nits people were poor, and many of them were sitting at their doors,\nshredding spare onions and the like for supper, while many were at the\nfountain, washing leaves, and grasses, and any such small yieldings of\nthe earth that could be eaten. Expressive signs of what made them poor,\nwere not wanting; the tax for the state, the tax for the church, the tax\nfor the lord, tax local and tax general, were to be paid here and to be\npaid there, according to solemn inscription in the little village, until\nthe wonder was, that there was any village left unswallowed.\n\nFew children were to be seen, and no dogs. As to the men and women,\ntheir choice on earth was stated in the prospect--Life on the lowest\nterms that could sustain it, down in the little village under the mill;\nor captivity and Death in the dominant prison on the crag.\n\nHeralded by a courier in advance, and by the cracking of his postilions'\nwhips, which twined snake-like about their heads in the evening air, as\nif he came attended by the Furies, Monsieur the Marquis drew up in\nhis travelling carriage at the posting-house gate. It was hard by the\nfountain, and the peasants suspended their operations to look at him.\nHe looked at them, and saw in them, without knowing it, the slow\nsure filing down of misery-worn face and figure, that was to make the\nmeagreness of Frenchmen an English superstition which should survive the\ntruth through the best part of a hundred years.\n\nMonsieur the Marquis cast his eyes over the submissive faces that\ndrooped before him, as the like of himself had drooped before\nMonseigneur of the Court--only the difference was, that these faces\ndrooped merely to suffer and not to propitiate--when a grizzled mender\nof the roads joined the group.\n\n\"Bring me hither that fellow!\" said the Marquis to the courier.\n\nThe fellow was brought, cap in hand, and the other fellows closed round\nto look and listen, in the manner of the people at the Paris fountain.\n\n\"I passed you on the road?\"\n\n\"Monseigneur, it is true. I had the honour of being passed on the road.\"\n\n\"Coming up the hill, and at the top of the hill, both?\"\n\n\"Monseigneur, it is true.\"\n\n\"What did you look at, so fixedly?\"\n\n\"Monseigneur, I looked at the man.\"\n\nHe stooped a little, and with his tattered blue cap pointed under the\ncarriage. All his fellows stooped to look under the carriage.\n\n\"What man, pig? And why look there?\"\n\n\"Pardon, Monseigneur; he swung by the chain of the shoe--the drag.\"\n\n\"Who?\" demanded the traveller.\n\n\"Monseigneur, the man.\"\n\n\"May the Devil carry away these idiots! How do you call the man? You\nknow all the men of this part of the country. Who was he?\"\n\n\"Your clemency, Monseigneur! He was not of this part of the country. Of\nall the days of my life, I never saw him.\"\n\n\"Swinging by the chain? To be suffocated?\"\n\n\"With your gracious permission, that was the wonder of it, Monseigneur.\nHis head hanging over--like this!\"\n\nHe turned himself sideways to the carriage, and leaned back, with his\nface thrown up to the sky, and his head hanging down; then recovered\nhimself, fumbled with his cap, and made a bow.\n\n\"What was he like?\"\n\n\"Monseigneur, he was whiter than the miller. All covered with dust,\nwhite as a spectre, tall as a spectre!\"\n\nThe picture produced an immense sensation in the little crowd; but all\neyes, without comparing notes with other eyes, looked at Monsieur\nthe Marquis. Perhaps, to observe whether he had any spectre on his\nconscience.\n\n\"Truly, you did well,\" said the Marquis, felicitously sensible that such\nvermin were not to ruffle him, \"to see a thief accompanying my carriage,\nand not open that great mouth of yours. Bah! Put him aside, Monsieur\nGabelle!\"\n\nMonsieur Gabelle was the Postmaster, and some other taxing functionary\nunited; he had come out with great obsequiousness to assist at this\nexamination, and had held the examined by the drapery of his arm in an\nofficial manner.\n\n\"Bah! Go aside!\" said Monsieur Gabelle.\n\n\"Lay hands on this stranger if he seeks to lodge in your village\nto-night, and be sure that his business is honest, Gabelle.\"\n\n\"Monseigneur, I am flattered to devote myself to your orders.\"\n\n\"Did he run away, fellow?--where is that Accursed?\"\n\nThe accursed was already under the carriage with some half-dozen\nparticular friends, pointing out the chain with his blue cap. Some\nhalf-dozen other particular friends promptly hauled him out, and\npresented him breathless to Monsieur the Marquis.\n\n\"Did the man run away, Dolt, when we stopped for the drag?\"\n\n\"Monseigneur, he precipitated himself over the hill-side, head first, as\na person plunges into the river.\"\n\n\"See to it, Gabelle. Go on!\"\n\nThe half-dozen who were peering at the chain were still among the\nwheels, like sheep; the wheels turned so suddenly that they were lucky\nto save their skins and bones; they had very little else to save, or\nthey might not have been so fortunate.\n\nThe burst with which the carriage started out of the village and up the\nrise beyond, was soon checked by the steepness of the hill. Gradually,\nit subsided to a foot pace, swinging and lumbering upward among the many\nsweet scents of a summer night. The postilions, with a thousand gossamer\ngnats circling about them in lieu of the Furies, quietly mended the\npoints to the lashes of their whips; the valet walked by the horses; the\ncourier was audible, trotting on ahead into the dull distance.\n\nAt the steepest point of the hill there was a little burial-ground,\nwith a Cross and a new large figure of Our Saviour on it; it was a poor\nfigure in wood, done by some inexperienced rustic carver, but he had\nstudied the figure from the life--his own life, maybe--for it was\ndreadfully spare and thin.\n\nTo this distressful emblem of a great distress that had long been\ngrowing worse, and was not at its worst, a woman was kneeling. She\nturned her head as the carriage came up to her, rose quickly, and\npresented herself at the carriage-door.\n\n\"It is you, Monseigneur! Monseigneur, a petition.\"\n\nWith an exclamation of impatience, but with his unchangeable face,\nMonseigneur looked out.\n\n\"How, then! What is it? Always petitions!\"\n\n\"Monseigneur. For the love of the great God! My husband, the forester.\"\n\n\"What of your husband, the forester? Always the same with you people. He\ncannot pay something?\"\n\n\"He has paid all, Monseigneur. He is dead.\"\n\n\"Well! He is quiet. Can I restore him to you?\"\n\n\"Alas, no, Monseigneur! But he lies yonder, under a little heap of poor\ngrass.\"\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"Monseigneur, there are so many little heaps of poor grass?\"\n\n\"Again, well?\"\n\nShe looked an old woman, but was young. Her manner was one of passionate\ngrief; by turns she clasped her veinous and knotted hands together\nwith wild energy, and laid one of them on the carriage-door--tenderly,\ncaressingly, as if it had been a human breast, and could be expected to\nfeel the appealing touch.\n\n\"Monseigneur, hear me! Monseigneur, hear my petition! My husband died of\nwant; so many die of want; so many more will die of want.\"\n\n\"Again, well? Can I feed them?\"\n\n\"Monseigneur, the good God knows; but I don't ask it. My petition is,\nthat a morsel of stone or wood, with my husband's name, may be placed\nover him to show where he lies. Otherwise, the place will be quickly\nforgotten, it will never be found when I am dead of the same malady, I\nshall be laid under some other heap of poor grass. Monseigneur, they\nare so many, they increase so fast, there is so much want. Monseigneur!\nMonseigneur!\"\n\nThe valet had put her away from the door, the carriage had broken into\na brisk trot, the postilions had quickened the pace, she was left far\nbehind, and Monseigneur, again escorted by the Furies, was rapidly\ndiminishing the league or two of distance that remained between him and\nhis chateau.\n\nThe sweet scents of the summer night rose all around him, and rose, as\nthe rain falls, impartially, on the dusty, ragged, and toil-worn group\nat the fountain not far away; to whom the mender of roads, with the aid\nof the blue cap without which he was nothing, still enlarged upon his\nman like a spectre, as long as they could bear it. By degrees, as they\ncould bear no more, they dropped off one by one, and lights twinkled\nin little casements; which lights, as the casements darkened, and more\nstars came out, seemed to have shot up into the sky instead of having\nbeen extinguished.\n\nThe shadow of a large high-roofed house, and of many over-hanging trees,\nwas upon Monsieur the Marquis by that time; and the shadow was exchanged\nfor the light of a flambeau, as his carriage stopped, and the great door\nof his chateau was opened to him.\n\n\"Monsieur Charles, whom I expect; is he arrived from England?\"\n\n\"Monseigneur, not yet.\"\n\n\n\n\nIX. The Gorgon's Head\n\n\nIt was a heavy mass of building, that chateau of Monsieur the Marquis,\nwith a large stone courtyard before it, and two stone sweeps of\nstaircase meeting in a stone terrace before the principal door. A stony\nbusiness altogether, with heavy stone balustrades, and stone urns, and\nstone flowers, and stone faces of men, and stone heads of lions, in\nall directions. As if the Gorgon's head had surveyed it, when it was\nfinished, two centuries ago.\n\nUp the broad flight of shallow steps, Monsieur the Marquis, flambeau\npreceded, went from his carriage, sufficiently disturbing the darkness\nto elicit loud remonstrance from an owl in the roof of the great pile\nof stable building away among the trees. All else was so quiet, that the\nflambeau carried up the steps, and the other flambeau held at the great\ndoor, burnt as if they were in a close room of state, instead of being\nin the open night-air. Other sound than the owl's voice there was none,\nsave the falling of a fountain into its stone basin; for, it was one of\nthose dark nights that hold their breath by the hour together, and then\nheave a long low sigh, and hold their breath again.\n\nThe great door clanged behind him, and Monsieur the Marquis crossed a\nhall grim with certain old boar-spears, swords, and knives of the chase;\ngrimmer with certain heavy riding-rods and riding-whips, of which many a\npeasant, gone to his benefactor Death, had felt the weight when his lord\nwas angry.\n\nAvoiding the larger rooms, which were dark and made fast for the night,\nMonsieur the Marquis, with his flambeau-bearer going on before, went up\nthe staircase to a door in a corridor. This thrown open, admitted him\nto his own private apartment of three rooms: his bed-chamber and two\nothers. High vaulted rooms with cool uncarpeted floors, great dogs upon\nthe hearths for the burning of wood in winter time, and all luxuries\nbefitting the state of a marquis in a luxurious age and country.\nThe fashion of the last Louis but one, of the line that was never to\nbreak--the fourteenth Louis--was conspicuous in their rich furniture;\nbut, it was diversified by many objects that were illustrations of old\npages in the history of France.\n\nA supper-table was laid for two, in the third of the rooms; a round\nroom, in one of the chateau's four extinguisher-topped towers. A small\nlofty room, with its window wide open, and the wooden jalousie-blinds\nclosed, so that the dark night only showed in slight horizontal lines of\nblack, alternating with their broad lines of stone colour.\n\n\"My nephew,\" said the Marquis, glancing at the supper preparation; \"they\nsaid he was not arrived.\"\n\nNor was he; but, he had been expected with Monseigneur.\n\n\"Ah! It is not probable he will arrive to-night; nevertheless, leave the\ntable as it is. I shall be ready in a quarter of an hour.\"\n\nIn a quarter of an hour Monseigneur was ready, and sat down alone to his\nsumptuous and choice supper. His chair was opposite to the window, and\nhe had taken his soup, and was raising his glass of Bordeaux to his\nlips, when he put it down.\n\n\"What is that?\" he calmly asked, looking with attention at the\nhorizontal lines of black and stone colour.\n\n\"Monseigneur? That?\"\n\n\"Outside the blinds. Open the blinds.\"\n\nIt was done.\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"Monseigneur, it is nothing. The trees and the night are all that are\nhere.\"\n\nThe servant who spoke, had thrown the blinds wide, had looked out into\nthe vacant darkness, and stood with that blank behind him, looking round\nfor instructions.\n\n\"Good,\" said the imperturbable master. \"Close them again.\"\n\nThat was done too, and the Marquis went on with his supper. He was\nhalf way through it, when he again stopped with his glass in his hand,\nhearing the sound of wheels. It came on briskly, and came up to the\nfront of the chateau.\n\n\"Ask who is arrived.\"\n\nIt was the nephew of Monseigneur. He had been some few leagues behind\nMonseigneur, early in the afternoon. He had diminished the distance\nrapidly, but not so rapidly as to come up with Monseigneur on the road.\nHe had heard of Monseigneur, at the posting-houses, as being before him.\n\nHe was to be told (said Monseigneur) that supper awaited him then and\nthere, and that he was prayed to come to it. In a little while he came.\nHe had been known in England as Charles Darnay.\n\nMonseigneur received him in a courtly manner, but they did not shake\nhands.\n\n\"You left Paris yesterday, sir?\" he said to Monseigneur, as he took his\nseat at table.\n\n\"Yesterday. And you?\"\n\n\"I come direct.\"\n\n\"From London?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"You have been a long time coming,\" said the Marquis, with a smile.\n\n\"On the contrary; I come direct.\"\n\n\"Pardon me! I mean, not a long time on the journey; a long time\nintending the journey.\"\n\n\"I have been detained by\"--the nephew stopped a moment in his\nanswer--\"various business.\"\n\n\"Without doubt,\" said the polished uncle.\n\nSo long as a servant was present, no other words passed between them.\nWhen coffee had been served and they were alone together, the nephew,\nlooking at the uncle and meeting the eyes of the face that was like a\nfine mask, opened a conversation.\n\n\"I have come back, sir, as you anticipate, pursuing the object that\ntook me away. It carried me into great and unexpected peril; but it is\na sacred object, and if it had carried me to death I hope it would have\nsustained me.\"\n\n\"Not to death,\" said the uncle; \"it is not necessary to say, to death.\"\n\n\"I doubt, sir,\" returned the nephew, \"whether, if it had carried me to\nthe utmost brink of death, you would have cared to stop me there.\"\n\nThe deepened marks in the nose, and the lengthening of the fine straight\nlines in the cruel face, looked ominous as to that; the uncle made a\ngraceful gesture of protest, which was so clearly a slight form of good\nbreeding that it was not reassuring.\n\n\"Indeed, sir,\" pursued the nephew, \"for anything I know, you may have\nexpressly worked to give a more suspicious appearance to the suspicious\ncircumstances that surrounded me.\"\n\n\"No, no, no,\" said the uncle, pleasantly.\n\n\"But, however that may be,\" resumed the nephew, glancing at him with\ndeep distrust, \"I know that your diplomacy would stop me by any means,\nand would know no scruple as to means.\"\n\n\"My friend, I told you so,\" said the uncle, with a fine pulsation in the\ntwo marks. \"Do me the favour to recall that I told you so, long ago.\"\n\n\"I recall it.\"\n\n\"Thank you,\" said the Marquis--very sweetly indeed.\n\nHis tone lingered in the air, almost like the tone of a musical\ninstrument.\n\n\"In effect, sir,\" pursued the nephew, \"I believe it to be at once your\nbad fortune, and my good fortune, that has kept me out of a prison in\nFrance here.\"\n\n\"I do not quite understand,\" returned the uncle, sipping his coffee.\n\"Dare I ask you to explain?\"\n\n\"I believe that if you were not in disgrace with the Court, and had not\nbeen overshadowed by that cloud for years past, a letter de cachet would\nhave sent me to some fortress indefinitely.\"\n\n\"It is possible,\" said the uncle, with great calmness. \"For the honour\nof the family, I could even resolve to incommode you to that extent.\nPray excuse me!\"\n\n\"I perceive that, happily for me, the Reception of the day before\nyesterday was, as usual, a cold one,\" observed the nephew.\n\n\"I would not say happily, my friend,\" returned the uncle, with refined\npoliteness; \"I would not be sure of that. A good opportunity for\nconsideration, surrounded by the advantages of solitude, might influence\nyour destiny to far greater advantage than you influence it for\nyourself. But it is useless to discuss the question. I am, as you say,\nat a disadvantage. These little instruments of correction, these gentle\naids to the power and honour of families, these slight favours that\nmight so incommode you, are only to be obtained now by interest\nand importunity. They are sought by so many, and they are granted\n(comparatively) to so few! It used not to be so, but France in all such\nthings is changed for the worse. Our not remote ancestors held the right\nof life and death over the surrounding vulgar. From this room, many such\ndogs have been taken out to be hanged; in the next room (my bedroom),\none fellow, to our knowledge, was poniarded on the spot for professing\nsome insolent delicacy respecting his daughter--_his_ daughter? We have\nlost many privileges; a new philosophy has become the mode; and the\nassertion of our station, in these days, might (I do not go so far as\nto say would, but might) cause us real inconvenience. All very bad, very\nbad!\"\n\nThe Marquis took a gentle little pinch of snuff, and shook his head;\nas elegantly despondent as he could becomingly be of a country still\ncontaining himself, that great means of regeneration.\n\n\"We have so asserted our station, both in the old time and in the modern\ntime also,\" said the nephew, gloomily, \"that I believe our name to be\nmore detested than any name in France.\"\n\n\"Let us hope so,\" said the uncle. \"Detestation of the high is the\ninvoluntary homage of the low.\"\n\n\"There is not,\" pursued the nephew, in his former tone, \"a face I can\nlook at, in all this country round about us, which looks at me with any\ndeference on it but the dark deference of fear and slavery.\"\n\n\"A compliment,\" said the Marquis, \"to the grandeur of the family,\nmerited by the manner in which the family has sustained its grandeur.\nHah!\" And he took another gentle little pinch of snuff, and lightly\ncrossed his legs.\n\nBut, when his nephew, leaning an elbow on the table, covered his eyes\nthoughtfully and dejectedly with his hand, the fine mask looked at\nhim sideways with a stronger concentration of keenness, closeness,\nand dislike, than was comportable with its wearer's assumption of\nindifference.\n\n\"Repression is the only lasting philosophy. The dark deference of fear\nand slavery, my friend,\" observed the Marquis, \"will keep the dogs\nobedient to the whip, as long as this roof,\" looking up to it, \"shuts\nout the sky.\"\n\nThat might not be so long as the Marquis supposed. If a picture of the\nchateau as it was to be a very few years hence, and of fifty like it as\nthey too were to be a very few years hence, could have been shown to\nhim that night, he might have been at a loss to claim his own from\nthe ghastly, fire-charred, plunder-wrecked rains. As for the roof\nhe vaunted, he might have found _that_ shutting out the sky in a new\nway--to wit, for ever, from the eyes of the bodies into which its lead\nwas fired, out of the barrels of a hundred thousand muskets.\n\n\"Meanwhile,\" said the Marquis, \"I will preserve the honour and repose\nof the family, if you will not. But you must be fatigued. Shall we\nterminate our conference for the night?\"\n\n\"A moment more.\"\n\n\"An hour, if you please.\"\n\n\"Sir,\" said the nephew, \"we have done wrong, and are reaping the fruits\nof wrong.\"\n\n\"_We_ have done wrong?\" repeated the Marquis, with an inquiring smile,\nand delicately pointing, first to his nephew, then to himself.\n\n\"Our family; our honourable family, whose honour is of so much account\nto both of us, in such different ways. Even in my father's time, we did\na world of wrong, injuring every human creature who came between us and\nour pleasure, whatever it was. Why need I speak of my father's time,\nwhen it is equally yours? Can I separate my father's twin-brother, joint\ninheritor, and next successor, from himself?\"\n\n\"Death has done that!\" said the Marquis.\n\n\"And has left me,\" answered the nephew, \"bound to a system that is\nfrightful to me, responsible for it, but powerless in it; seeking to\nexecute the last request of my dear mother's lips, and obey the last\nlook of my dear mother's eyes, which implored me to have mercy and to\nredress; and tortured by seeking assistance and power in vain.\"\n\n\"Seeking them from me, my nephew,\" said the Marquis, touching him on the\nbreast with his forefinger--they were now standing by the hearth--\"you\nwill for ever seek them in vain, be assured.\"\n\nEvery fine straight line in the clear whiteness of his face, was\ncruelly, craftily, and closely compressed, while he stood looking\nquietly at his nephew, with his snuff-box in his hand. Once again he\ntouched him on the breast, as though his finger were the fine point of\na small sword, with which, in delicate finesse, he ran him through the\nbody, and said,\n\n\"My friend, I will die, perpetuating the system under which I have\nlived.\"\n\nWhen he had said it, he took a culminating pinch of snuff, and put his\nbox in his pocket.\n\n\"Better to be a rational creature,\" he added then, after ringing a small\nbell on the table, \"and accept your natural destiny. But you are lost,\nMonsieur Charles, I see.\"\n\n\"This property and France are lost to me,\" said the nephew, sadly; \"I\nrenounce them.\"\n\n\"Are they both yours to renounce? France may be, but is the property? It\nis scarcely worth mentioning; but, is it yet?\"\n\n\"I had no intention, in the words I used, to claim it yet. If it passed\nto me from you, to-morrow--\"\n\n\"Which I have the vanity to hope is not probable.\"\n\n\"--or twenty years hence--\"\n\n\"You do me too much honour,\" said the Marquis; \"still, I prefer that\nsupposition.\"\n\n\"--I would abandon it, and live otherwise and elsewhere. It is little to\nrelinquish. What is it but a wilderness of misery and ruin!\"\n\n\"Hah!\" said the Marquis, glancing round the luxurious room.\n\n\"To the eye it is fair enough, here; but seen in its integrity,\nunder the sky, and by the daylight, it is a crumbling tower of waste,\nmismanagement, extortion, debt, mortgage, oppression, hunger, nakedness,\nand suffering.\"\n\n\"Hah!\" said the Marquis again, in a well-satisfied manner.\n\n\"If it ever becomes mine, it shall be put into some hands better\nqualified to free it slowly (if such a thing is possible) from the\nweight that drags it down, so that the miserable people who cannot leave\nit and who have been long wrung to the last point of endurance, may, in\nanother generation, suffer less; but it is not for me. There is a curse\non it, and on all this land.\"\n\n\"And you?\" said the uncle. \"Forgive my curiosity; do you, under your new\nphilosophy, graciously intend to live?\"\n\n\"I must do, to live, what others of my countrymen, even with nobility at\ntheir backs, may have to do some day--work.\"\n\n\"In England, for example?\"\n\n\"Yes. The family honour, sir, is safe from me in this country. The\nfamily name can suffer from me in no other, for I bear it in no other.\"\n\nThe ringing of the bell had caused the adjoining bed-chamber to be\nlighted. It now shone brightly, through the door of communication. The\nMarquis looked that way, and listened for the retreating step of his\nvalet.\n\n\"England is very attractive to you, seeing how indifferently you have\nprospered there,\" he observed then, turning his calm face to his nephew\nwith a smile.\n\n\"I have already said, that for my prospering there, I am sensible I may\nbe indebted to you, sir. For the rest, it is my Refuge.\"\n\n\"They say, those boastful English, that it is the Refuge of many. You\nknow a compatriot who has found a Refuge there? A Doctor?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"With a daughter?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said the Marquis. \"You are fatigued. Good night!\"\n\nAs he bent his head in his most courtly manner, there was a secrecy\nin his smiling face, and he conveyed an air of mystery to those words,\nwhich struck the eyes and ears of his nephew forcibly. At the same\ntime, the thin straight lines of the setting of the eyes, and the thin\nstraight lips, and the markings in the nose, curved with a sarcasm that\nlooked handsomely diabolic.\n\n\"Yes,\" repeated the Marquis. \"A Doctor with a daughter. Yes. So\ncommences the new philosophy! You are fatigued. Good night!\"\n\nIt would have been of as much avail to interrogate any stone face\noutside the chateau as to interrogate that face of his. The nephew\nlooked at him, in vain, in passing on to the door.\n\n\"Good night!\" said the uncle. \"I look to the pleasure of seeing you\nagain in the morning. Good repose! Light Monsieur my nephew to his\nchamber there!--And burn Monsieur my nephew in his bed, if you will,\" he\nadded to himself, before he rang his little bell again, and summoned his\nvalet to his own bedroom.\n\nThe valet come and gone, Monsieur the Marquis walked to and fro in his\nloose chamber-robe, to prepare himself gently for sleep, that hot still\nnight. Rustling about the room, his softly-slippered feet making no\nnoise on the floor, he moved like a refined tiger:--looked like some\nenchanted marquis of the impenitently wicked sort, in story, whose\nperiodical change into tiger form was either just going off, or just\ncoming on.\n\nHe moved from end to end of his voluptuous bedroom, looking again at the\nscraps of the day's journey that came unbidden into his mind; the slow\ntoil up the hill at sunset, the setting sun, the descent, the mill, the\nprison on the crag, the little village in the hollow, the peasants at\nthe fountain, and the mender of roads with his blue cap pointing out the\nchain under the carriage. That fountain suggested the Paris fountain,\nthe little bundle lying on the step, the women bending over it, and the\ntall man with his arms up, crying, \"Dead!\"\n\n\"I am cool now,\" said Monsieur the Marquis, \"and may go to bed.\"\n\nSo, leaving only one light burning on the large hearth, he let his thin\ngauze curtains fall around him, and heard the night break its silence\nwith a long sigh as he composed himself to sleep.\n\nThe stone faces on the outer walls stared blindly at the black night\nfor three heavy hours; for three heavy hours, the horses in the stables\nrattled at their racks, the dogs barked, and the owl made a noise with\nvery little resemblance in it to the noise conventionally assigned to\nthe owl by men-poets. But it is the obstinate custom of such creatures\nhardly ever to say what is set down for them.\n\nFor three heavy hours, the stone faces of the chateau, lion and human,\nstared blindly at the night. Dead darkness lay on all the landscape,\ndead darkness added its own hush to the hushing dust on all the roads.\nThe burial-place had got to the pass that its little heaps of poor grass\nwere undistinguishable from one another; the figure on the Cross might\nhave come down, for anything that could be seen of it. In the village,\ntaxers and taxed were fast asleep. Dreaming, perhaps, of banquets, as\nthe starved usually do, and of ease and rest, as the driven slave and\nthe yoked ox may, its lean inhabitants slept soundly, and were fed and\nfreed.\n\nThe fountain in the village flowed unseen and unheard, and the fountain\nat the chateau dropped unseen and unheard--both melting away, like the\nminutes that were falling from the spring of Time--through three dark\nhours. Then, the grey water of both began to be ghostly in the light,\nand the eyes of the stone faces of the chateau were opened.\n\nLighter and lighter, until at last the sun touched the tops of the still\ntrees, and poured its radiance over the hill. In the glow, the water\nof the chateau fountain seemed to turn to blood, and the stone faces\ncrimsoned. The carol of the birds was loud and high, and, on the\nweather-beaten sill of the great window of the bed-chamber of Monsieur\nthe Marquis, one little bird sang its sweetest song with all its might.\nAt this, the nearest stone face seemed to stare amazed, and, with open\nmouth and dropped under-jaw, looked awe-stricken.\n\nNow, the sun was full up, and movement began in the village. Casement\nwindows opened, crazy doors were unbarred, and people came forth\nshivering--chilled, as yet, by the new sweet air. Then began the rarely\nlightened toil of the day among the village population. Some, to the\nfountain; some, to the fields; men and women here, to dig and delve; men\nand women there, to see to the poor live stock, and lead the bony cows\nout, to such pasture as could be found by the roadside. In the church\nand at the Cross, a kneeling figure or two; attendant on the latter\nprayers, the led cow, trying for a breakfast among the weeds at its\nfoot.\n\nThe chateau awoke later, as became its quality, but awoke gradually and\nsurely. First, the lonely boar-spears and knives of the chase had been\nreddened as of old; then, had gleamed trenchant in the morning sunshine;\nnow, doors and windows were thrown open, horses in their stables looked\nround over their shoulders at the light and freshness pouring in at\ndoorways, leaves sparkled and rustled at iron-grated windows, dogs\npulled hard at their chains, and reared impatient to be loosed.\n\nAll these trivial incidents belonged to the routine of life, and the\nreturn of morning. Surely, not so the ringing of the great bell of the\nchateau, nor the running up and down the stairs; nor the hurried\nfigures on the terrace; nor the booting and tramping here and there and\neverywhere, nor the quick saddling of horses and riding away?\n\nWhat winds conveyed this hurry to the grizzled mender of roads, already\nat work on the hill-top beyond the village, with his day's dinner (not\nmuch to carry) lying in a bundle that it was worth no crow's while to\npeck at, on a heap of stones? Had the birds, carrying some grains of it\nto a distance, dropped one over him as they sow chance seeds? Whether or\nno, the mender of roads ran, on the sultry morning, as if for his life,\ndown the hill, knee-high in dust, and never stopped till he got to the\nfountain.\n\nAll the people of the village were at the fountain, standing about\nin their depressed manner, and whispering low, but showing no other\nemotions than grim curiosity and surprise. The led cows, hastily brought\nin and tethered to anything that would hold them, were looking stupidly\non, or lying down chewing the cud of nothing particularly repaying their\ntrouble, which they had picked up in their interrupted saunter. Some of\nthe people of the chateau, and some of those of the posting-house, and\nall the taxing authorities, were armed more or less, and were crowded\non the other side of the little street in a purposeless way, that was\nhighly fraught with nothing. Already, the mender of roads had penetrated\ninto the midst of a group of fifty particular friends, and was smiting\nhimself in the breast with his blue cap. What did all this portend,\nand what portended the swift hoisting-up of Monsieur Gabelle behind\na servant on horseback, and the conveying away of the said Gabelle\n(double-laden though the horse was), at a gallop, like a new version of\nthe German ballad of Leonora?\n\nIt portended that there was one stone face too many, up at the chateau.\n\nThe Gorgon had surveyed the building again in the night, and had added\nthe one stone face wanting; the stone face for which it had waited\nthrough about two hundred years.\n\nIt lay back on the pillow of Monsieur the Marquis. It was like a fine\nmask, suddenly startled, made angry, and petrified. Driven home into the\nheart of the stone figure attached to it, was a knife. Round its hilt\nwas a frill of paper, on which was scrawled:\n\n\"Drive him fast to his tomb. This, from Jacques.\"\n\n\n\n\nX. Two Promises\n\n\nMore months, to the number of twelve, had come and gone, and Mr. Charles\nDarnay was established in England as a higher teacher of the French\nlanguage who was conversant with French literature. In this age, he\nwould have been a Professor; in that age, he was a Tutor. He read with\nyoung men who could find any leisure and interest for the study of a\nliving tongue spoken all over the world, and he cultivated a taste for\nits stores of knowledge and fancy. He could write of them, besides, in\nsound English, and render them into sound English. Such masters were not\nat that time easily found; Princes that had been, and Kings that were\nto be, were not yet of the Teacher class, and no ruined nobility had\ndropped out of Tellson's ledgers, to turn cooks and carpenters. As a\ntutor, whose attainments made the student's way unusually pleasant and\nprofitable, and as an elegant translator who brought something to his\nwork besides mere dictionary knowledge, young Mr. Darnay soon became\nknown and encouraged. He was well acquainted, more-over, with the\ncircumstances of his country, and those were of ever-growing interest.\nSo, with great perseverance and untiring industry, he prospered.\n\nIn London, he had expected neither to walk on pavements of gold, nor\nto lie on beds of roses; if he had had any such exalted expectation, he\nwould not have prospered. He had expected labour, and he found it, and\ndid it and made the best of it. In this, his prosperity consisted.\n\nA certain portion of his time was passed at Cambridge, where he\nread with undergraduates as a sort of tolerated smuggler who drove a\ncontraband trade in European languages, instead of conveying Greek\nand Latin through the Custom-house. The rest of his time he passed in\nLondon.\n\nNow, from the days when it was always summer in Eden, to these days\nwhen it is mostly winter in fallen latitudes, the world of a man has\ninvariably gone one way--Charles Darnay's way--the way of the love of a\nwoman.\n\nHe had loved Lucie Manette from the hour of his danger. He had never\nheard a sound so sweet and dear as the sound of her compassionate voice;\nhe had never seen a face so tenderly beautiful, as hers when it was\nconfronted with his own on the edge of the grave that had been dug for\nhim. But, he had not yet spoken to her on the subject; the assassination\nat the deserted chateau far away beyond the heaving water and the long,\nlong, dusty roads--the solid stone chateau which had itself become the\nmere mist of a dream--had been done a year, and he had never yet, by so\nmuch as a single spoken word, disclosed to her the state of his heart.\n\nThat he had his reasons for this, he knew full well. It was again a\nsummer day when, lately arrived in London from his college occupation,\nhe turned into the quiet corner in Soho, bent on seeking an opportunity\nof opening his mind to Doctor Manette. It was the close of the summer\nday, and he knew Lucie to be out with Miss Pross.\n\nHe found the Doctor reading in his arm-chair at a window. The energy\nwhich had at once supported him under his old sufferings and aggravated\ntheir sharpness, had been gradually restored to him. He was now a\nvery energetic man indeed, with great firmness of purpose, strength\nof resolution, and vigour of action. In his recovered energy he was\nsometimes a little fitful and sudden, as he had at first been in the\nexercise of his other recovered faculties; but, this had never been\nfrequently observable, and had grown more and more rare.\n\nHe studied much, slept little, sustained a great deal of fatigue with\nease, and was equably cheerful. To him, now entered Charles Darnay, at\nsight of whom he laid aside his book and held out his hand.\n\n\"Charles Darnay! I rejoice to see you. We have been counting on your\nreturn these three or four days past. Mr. Stryver and Sydney Carton were\nboth here yesterday, and both made you out to be more than due.\"\n\n\"I am obliged to them for their interest in the matter,\" he answered,\na little coldly as to them, though very warmly as to the Doctor. \"Miss\nManette--\"\n\n\"Is well,\" said the Doctor, as he stopped short, \"and your return will\ndelight us all. She has gone out on some household matters, but will\nsoon be home.\"\n\n\"Doctor Manette, I knew she was from home. I took the opportunity of her\nbeing from home, to beg to speak to you.\"\n\nThere was a blank silence.\n\n\"Yes?\" said the Doctor, with evident constraint. \"Bring your chair here,\nand speak on.\"\n\nHe complied as to the chair, but appeared to find the speaking on less\neasy.\n\n\"I have had the happiness, Doctor Manette, of being so intimate here,\"\nso he at length began, \"for some year and a half, that I hope the topic\non which I am about to touch may not--\"\n\nHe was stayed by the Doctor's putting out his hand to stop him. When he\nhad kept it so a little while, he said, drawing it back:\n\n\"Is Lucie the topic?\"\n\n\"She is.\"\n\n\"It is hard for me to speak of her at any time. It is very hard for me\nto hear her spoken of in that tone of yours, Charles Darnay.\"\n\n\"It is a tone of fervent admiration, true homage, and deep love, Doctor\nManette!\" he said deferentially.\n\nThere was another blank silence before her father rejoined:\n\n\"I believe it. I do you justice; I believe it.\"\n\nHis constraint was so manifest, and it was so manifest, too, that it\noriginated in an unwillingness to approach the subject, that Charles\nDarnay hesitated.\n\n\"Shall I go on, sir?\"\n\nAnother blank.\n\n\"Yes, go on.\"\n\n\"You anticipate what I would say, though you cannot know how earnestly\nI say it, how earnestly I feel it, without knowing my secret heart, and\nthe hopes and fears and anxieties with which it has long been\nladen. Dear Doctor Manette, I love your daughter fondly, dearly,\ndisinterestedly, devotedly. If ever there were love in the world, I love\nher. You have loved yourself; let your old love speak for me!\"\n\nThe Doctor sat with his face turned away, and his eyes bent on the\nground. At the last words, he stretched out his hand again, hurriedly,\nand cried:\n\n\"Not that, sir! Let that be! I adjure you, do not recall that!\"\n\nHis cry was so like a cry of actual pain, that it rang in Charles\nDarnay's ears long after he had ceased. He motioned with the hand he had\nextended, and it seemed to be an appeal to Darnay to pause. The latter\nso received it, and remained silent.\n\n\"I ask your pardon,\" said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, after some\nmoments. \"I do not doubt your loving Lucie; you may be satisfied of it.\"\n\nHe turned towards him in his chair, but did not look at him, or\nraise his eyes. His chin dropped upon his hand, and his white hair\novershadowed his face:\n\n\"Have you spoken to Lucie?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Nor written?\"\n\n\"Never.\"\n\n\"It would be ungenerous to affect not to know that your self-denial is\nto be referred to your consideration for her father. Her father thanks\nyou.\"\n\nHe offered his hand; but his eyes did not go with it.\n\n\"I know,\" said Darnay, respectfully, \"how can I fail to know, Doctor\nManette, I who have seen you together from day to day, that between\nyou and Miss Manette there is an affection so unusual, so touching, so\nbelonging to the circumstances in which it has been nurtured, that it\ncan have few parallels, even in the tenderness between a father and\nchild. I know, Doctor Manette--how can I fail to know--that, mingled\nwith the affection and duty of a daughter who has become a woman, there\nis, in her heart, towards you, all the love and reliance of infancy\nitself. I know that, as in her childhood she had no parent, so she is\nnow devoted to you with all the constancy and fervour of her present\nyears and character, united to the trustfulness and attachment of the\nearly days in which you were lost to her. I know perfectly well that if\nyou had been restored to her from the world beyond this life, you could\nhardly be invested, in her sight, with a more sacred character than that\nin which you are always with her. I know that when she is clinging to\nyou, the hands of baby, girl, and woman, all in one, are round your\nneck. I know that in loving you she sees and loves her mother at her\nown age, sees and loves you at my age, loves her mother broken-hearted,\nloves you through your dreadful trial and in your blessed restoration. I\nhave known this, night and day, since I have known you in your home.\"\n\nHer father sat silent, with his face bent down. His breathing was a\nlittle quickened; but he repressed all other signs of agitation.\n\n\"Dear Doctor Manette, always knowing this, always seeing her and you\nwith this hallowed light about you, I have forborne, and forborne, as\nlong as it was in the nature of man to do it. I have felt, and do even\nnow feel, that to bring my love--even mine--between you, is to touch\nyour history with something not quite so good as itself. But I love her.\nHeaven is my witness that I love her!\"\n\n\"I believe it,\" answered her father, mournfully. \"I have thought so\nbefore now. I believe it.\"\n\n\"But, do not believe,\" said Darnay, upon whose ear the mournful voice\nstruck with a reproachful sound, \"that if my fortune were so cast as\nthat, being one day so happy as to make her my wife, I must at any time\nput any separation between her and you, I could or would breathe a\nword of what I now say. Besides that I should know it to be hopeless, I\nshould know it to be a baseness. If I had any such possibility, even at\na remote distance of years, harboured in my thoughts, and hidden in my\nheart--if it ever had been there--if it ever could be there--I could not\nnow touch this honoured hand.\"\n\nHe laid his own upon it as he spoke.\n\n\"No, dear Doctor Manette. Like you, a voluntary exile from France; like\nyou, driven from it by its distractions, oppressions, and miseries; like\nyou, striving to live away from it by my own exertions, and trusting\nin a happier future; I look only to sharing your fortunes, sharing your\nlife and home, and being faithful to you to the death. Not to divide\nwith Lucie her privilege as your child, companion, and friend; but to\ncome in aid of it, and bind her closer to you, if such a thing can be.\"\n\nHis touch still lingered on her father's hand. Answering the touch for a\nmoment, but not coldly, her father rested his hands upon the arms of\nhis chair, and looked up for the first time since the beginning of the\nconference. A struggle was evidently in his face; a struggle with that\noccasional look which had a tendency in it to dark doubt and dread.\n\n\"You speak so feelingly and so manfully, Charles Darnay, that I thank\nyou with all my heart, and will open all my heart--or nearly so. Have\nyou any reason to believe that Lucie loves you?\"\n\n\"None. As yet, none.\"\n\n\"Is it the immediate object of this confidence, that you may at once\nascertain that, with my knowledge?\"\n\n\"Not even so. I might not have the hopefulness to do it for weeks; I\nmight (mistaken or not mistaken) have that hopefulness to-morrow.\"\n\n\"Do you seek any guidance from me?\"\n\n\"I ask none, sir. But I have thought it possible that you might have it\nin your power, if you should deem it right, to give me some.\"\n\n\"Do you seek any promise from me?\"\n\n\"I do seek that.\"\n\n\"What is it?\"\n\n\"I well understand that, without you, I could have no hope. I well\nunderstand that, even if Miss Manette held me at this moment in her\ninnocent heart--do not think I have the presumption to assume so much--I\ncould retain no place in it against her love for her father.\"\n\n\"If that be so, do you see what, on the other hand, is involved in it?\"\n\n\"I understand equally well, that a word from her father in any suitor's\nfavour, would outweigh herself and all the world. For which reason,\nDoctor Manette,\" said Darnay, modestly but firmly, \"I would not ask that\nword, to save my life.\"\n\n\"I am sure of it. Charles Darnay, mysteries arise out of close love, as\nwell as out of wide division; in the former case, they are subtle and\ndelicate, and difficult to penetrate. My daughter Lucie is, in this one\nrespect, such a mystery to me; I can make no guess at the state of her\nheart.\"\n\n\"May I ask, sir, if you think she is--\" As he hesitated, her father\nsupplied the rest.\n\n\"Is sought by any other suitor?\"\n\n\"It is what I meant to say.\"\n\nHer father considered a little before he answered:\n\n\"You have seen Mr. Carton here, yourself. Mr. Stryver is here too,\noccasionally. If it be at all, it can only be by one of these.\"\n\n\"Or both,\" said Darnay.\n\n\"I had not thought of both; I should not think either, likely. You want\na promise from me. Tell me what it is.\"\n\n\"It is, that if Miss Manette should bring to you at any time, on her own\npart, such a confidence as I have ventured to lay before you, you will\nbear testimony to what I have said, and to your belief in it. I hope you\nmay be able to think so well of me, as to urge no influence against\nme. I say nothing more of my stake in this; this is what I ask. The\ncondition on which I ask it, and which you have an undoubted right to\nrequire, I will observe immediately.\"\n\n\"I give the promise,\" said the Doctor, \"without any condition. I believe\nyour object to be, purely and truthfully, as you have stated it. I\nbelieve your intention is to perpetuate, and not to weaken, the ties\nbetween me and my other and far dearer self. If she should ever tell me\nthat you are essential to her perfect happiness, I will give her to you.\nIf there were--Charles Darnay, if there were--\"\n\nThe young man had taken his hand gratefully; their hands were joined as\nthe Doctor spoke:\n\n\"--any fancies, any reasons, any apprehensions, anything whatsoever,\nnew or old, against the man she really loved--the direct responsibility\nthereof not lying on his head--they should all be obliterated for her\nsake. She is everything to me; more to me than suffering, more to me\nthan wrong, more to me--Well! This is idle talk.\"\n\nSo strange was the way in which he faded into silence, and so strange\nhis fixed look when he had ceased to speak, that Darnay felt his own\nhand turn cold in the hand that slowly released and dropped it.\n\n\"You said something to me,\" said Doctor Manette, breaking into a smile.\n\"What was it you said to me?\"\n\nHe was at a loss how to answer, until he remembered having spoken of a\ncondition. Relieved as his mind reverted to that, he answered:\n\n\"Your confidence in me ought to be returned with full confidence on my\npart. My present name, though but slightly changed from my mother's, is\nnot, as you will remember, my own. I wish to tell you what that is, and\nwhy I am in England.\"\n\n\"Stop!\" said the Doctor of Beauvais.\n\n\"I wish it, that I may the better deserve your confidence, and have no\nsecret from you.\"\n\n\"Stop!\"\n\nFor an instant, the Doctor even had his two hands at his ears; for\nanother instant, even had his two hands laid on Darnay's lips.\n\n\"Tell me when I ask you, not now. If your suit should prosper, if Lucie\nshould love you, you shall tell me on your marriage morning. Do you\npromise?\"\n\n\"Willingly.\n\n\"Give me your hand. She will be home directly, and it is better she\nshould not see us together to-night. Go! God bless you!\"\n\nIt was dark when Charles Darnay left him, and it was an hour later and\ndarker when Lucie came home; she hurried into the room alone--for\nMiss Pross had gone straight up-stairs--and was surprised to find his\nreading-chair empty.\n\n\"My father!\" she called to him. \"Father dear!\"\n\nNothing was said in answer, but she heard a low hammering sound in his\nbedroom. Passing lightly across the intermediate room, she looked in at\nhis door and came running back frightened, crying to herself, with her\nblood all chilled, \"What shall I do! What shall I do!\"\n\nHer uncertainty lasted but a moment; she hurried back, and tapped at\nhis door, and softly called to him. The noise ceased at the sound of\nher voice, and he presently came out to her, and they walked up and down\ntogether for a long time.\n\nShe came down from her bed, to look at him in his sleep that night. He\nslept heavily, and his tray of shoemaking tools, and his old unfinished\nwork, were all as usual.\n\n\n\n\nXI. A Companion Picture\n\n\n\"Sydney,\" said Mr. Stryver, on that self-same night, or morning, to his\njackal; \"mix another bowl of punch; I have something to say to you.\"\n\nSydney had been working double tides that night, and the night before,\nand the night before that, and a good many nights in succession, making\na grand clearance among Mr. Stryver's papers before the setting in\nof the long vacation. The clearance was effected at last; the Stryver\narrears were handsomely fetched up; everything was got rid of until\nNovember should come with its fogs atmospheric, and fogs legal, and\nbring grist to the mill again.\n\nSydney was none the livelier and none the soberer for so much\napplication. It had taken a deal of extra wet-towelling to pull him\nthrough the night; a correspondingly extra quantity of wine had preceded\nthe towelling; and he was in a very damaged condition, as he now pulled\nhis turban off and threw it into the basin in which he had steeped it at\nintervals for the last six hours.\n\n\"Are you mixing that other bowl of punch?\" said Stryver the portly, with\nhis hands in his waistband, glancing round from the sofa where he lay on\nhis back.\n\n\"I am.\"\n\n\"Now, look here! I am going to tell you something that will rather\nsurprise you, and that perhaps will make you think me not quite as\nshrewd as you usually do think me. I intend to marry.\"\n\n\"_Do_ you?\"\n\n\"Yes. And not for money. What do you say now?\"\n\n\"I don't feel disposed to say much. Who is she?\"\n\n\"Guess.\"\n\n\"Do I know her?\"\n\n\"Guess.\"\n\n\"I am not going to guess, at five o'clock in the morning, with my brains\nfrying and sputtering in my head. If you want me to guess, you must ask\nme to dinner.\"\n\n\"Well then, I'll tell you,\" said Stryver, coming slowly into a sitting\nposture. \"Sydney, I rather despair of making myself intelligible to you,\nbecause you are such an insensible dog.\"\n\n\"And you,\" returned Sydney, busy concocting the punch, \"are such a\nsensitive and poetical spirit--\"\n\n\"Come!\" rejoined Stryver, laughing boastfully, \"though I don't prefer\nany claim to being the soul of Romance (for I hope I know better), still\nI am a tenderer sort of fellow than _you_.\"\n\n\"You are a luckier, if you mean that.\"\n\n\"I don't mean that. I mean I am a man of more--more--\"\n\n\"Say gallantry, while you are about it,\" suggested Carton.\n\n\"Well! I'll say gallantry. My meaning is that I am a man,\" said Stryver,\ninflating himself at his friend as he made the punch, \"who cares more to\nbe agreeable, who takes more pains to be agreeable, who knows better how\nto be agreeable, in a woman's society, than you do.\"\n\n\"Go on,\" said Sydney Carton.\n\n\"No; but before I go on,\" said Stryver, shaking his head in his bullying\nway, \"I'll have this out with you. You've been at Doctor Manette's house\nas much as I have, or more than I have. Why, I have been ashamed of your\nmoroseness there! Your manners have been of that silent and sullen and\nhangdog kind, that, upon my life and soul, I have been ashamed of you,\nSydney!\"\n\n\"It should be very beneficial to a man in your practice at the bar, to\nbe ashamed of anything,\" returned Sydney; \"you ought to be much obliged\nto me.\"\n\n\"You shall not get off in that way,\" rejoined Stryver, shouldering the\nrejoinder at him; \"no, Sydney, it's my duty to tell you--and I tell you\nto your face to do you good--that you are a devilish ill-conditioned\nfellow in that sort of society. You are a disagreeable fellow.\"\n\nSydney drank a bumper of the punch he had made, and laughed.\n\n\"Look at me!\" said Stryver, squaring himself; \"I have less need to make\nmyself agreeable than you have, being more independent in circumstances.\nWhy do I do it?\"\n\n\"I never saw you do it yet,\" muttered Carton.\n\n\"I do it because it's politic; I do it on principle. And look at me! I\nget on.\"\n\n\"You don't get on with your account of your matrimonial intentions,\"\nanswered Carton, with a careless air; \"I wish you would keep to that. As\nto me--will you never understand that I am incorrigible?\"\n\nHe asked the question with some appearance of scorn.\n\n\"You have no business to be incorrigible,\" was his friend's answer,\ndelivered in no very soothing tone.\n\n\"I have no business to be, at all, that I know of,\" said Sydney Carton.\n\"Who is the lady?\"\n\n\"Now, don't let my announcement of the name make you uncomfortable,\nSydney,\" said Mr. Stryver, preparing him with ostentatious friendliness\nfor the disclosure he was about to make, \"because I know you don't mean\nhalf you say; and if you meant it all, it would be of no importance. I\nmake this little preface, because you once mentioned the young lady to\nme in slighting terms.\"\n\n\"I did?\"\n\n\"Certainly; and in these chambers.\"\n\nSydney Carton looked at his punch and looked at his complacent friend;\ndrank his punch and looked at his complacent friend.\n\n\"You made mention of the young lady as a golden-haired doll. The young\nlady is Miss Manette. If you had been a fellow of any sensitiveness or\ndelicacy of feeling in that kind of way, Sydney, I might have been a\nlittle resentful of your employing such a designation; but you are not.\nYou want that sense altogether; therefore I am no more annoyed when I\nthink of the expression, than I should be annoyed by a man's opinion of\na picture of mine, who had no eye for pictures: or of a piece of music\nof mine, who had no ear for music.\"\n\nSydney Carton drank the punch at a great rate; drank it by bumpers,\nlooking at his friend.\n\n\"Now you know all about it, Syd,\" said Mr. Stryver. \"I don't care about\nfortune: she is a charming creature, and I have made up my mind to\nplease myself: on the whole, I think I can afford to please myself. She\nwill have in me a man already pretty well off, and a rapidly rising man,\nand a man of some distinction: it is a piece of good fortune for her,\nbut she is worthy of good fortune. Are you astonished?\"\n\nCarton, still drinking the punch, rejoined, \"Why should I be\nastonished?\"\n\n\"You approve?\"\n\nCarton, still drinking the punch, rejoined, \"Why should I not approve?\"\n\n\"Well!\" said his friend Stryver, \"you take it more easily than I fancied\nyou would, and are less mercenary on my behalf than I thought you would\nbe; though, to be sure, you know well enough by this time that your\nancient chum is a man of a pretty strong will. Yes, Sydney, I have had\nenough of this style of life, with no other as a change from it; I\nfeel that it is a pleasant thing for a man to have a home when he feels\ninclined to go to it (when he doesn't, he can stay away), and I feel\nthat Miss Manette will tell well in any station, and will always do me\ncredit. So I have made up my mind. And now, Sydney, old boy, I want to\nsay a word to _you_ about _your_ prospects. You are in a bad way, you\nknow; you really are in a bad way. You don't know the value of money,\nyou live hard, you'll knock up one of these days, and be ill and poor;\nyou really ought to think about a nurse.\"\n\nThe prosperous patronage with which he said it, made him look twice as\nbig as he was, and four times as offensive.\n\n\"Now, let me recommend you,\" pursued Stryver, \"to look it in the face.\nI have looked it in the face, in my different way; look it in the face,\nyou, in your different way. Marry. Provide somebody to take care of\nyou. Never mind your having no enjoyment of women's society, nor\nunderstanding of it, nor tact for it. Find out somebody. Find out some\nrespectable woman with a little property--somebody in the landlady way,\nor lodging-letting way--and marry her, against a rainy day. That's the\nkind of thing for _you_. Now think of it, Sydney.\"\n\n\"I'll think of it,\" said Sydney.\n\n\n\n\nXII. The Fellow of Delicacy\n\n\nMr. Stryver having made up his mind to that magnanimous bestowal of good\nfortune on the Doctor's daughter, resolved to make her happiness known\nto her before he left town for the Long Vacation. After some mental\ndebating of the point, he came to the conclusion that it would be as\nwell to get all the preliminaries done with, and they could then arrange\nat their leisure whether he should give her his hand a week or two\nbefore Michaelmas Term, or in the little Christmas vacation between it\nand Hilary.\n\nAs to the strength of his case, he had not a doubt about it, but clearly\nsaw his way to the verdict. Argued with the jury on substantial worldly\ngrounds--the only grounds ever worth taking into account--it was a\nplain case, and had not a weak spot in it. He called himself for the\nplaintiff, there was no getting over his evidence, the counsel for\nthe defendant threw up his brief, and the jury did not even turn to\nconsider. After trying it, Stryver, C. J., was satisfied that no plainer\ncase could be.\n\nAccordingly, Mr. Stryver inaugurated the Long Vacation with a formal\nproposal to take Miss Manette to Vauxhall Gardens; that failing, to\nRanelagh; that unaccountably failing too, it behoved him to present\nhimself in Soho, and there declare his noble mind.\n\nTowards Soho, therefore, Mr. Stryver shouldered his way from the Temple,\nwhile the bloom of the Long Vacation's infancy was still upon it.\nAnybody who had seen him projecting himself into Soho while he was yet\non Saint Dunstan's side of Temple Bar, bursting in his full-blown way\nalong the pavement, to the jostlement of all weaker people, might have\nseen how safe and strong he was.\n\nHis way taking him past Tellson's, and he both banking at Tellson's and\nknowing Mr. Lorry as the intimate friend of the Manettes, it entered Mr.\nStryver's mind to enter the bank, and reveal to Mr. Lorry the brightness\nof the Soho horizon. So, he pushed open the door with the weak rattle\nin its throat, stumbled down the two steps, got past the two ancient\ncashiers, and shouldered himself into the musty back closet where Mr.\nLorry sat at great books ruled for figures, with perpendicular iron\nbars to his window as if that were ruled for figures too, and everything\nunder the clouds were a sum.\n\n\"Halloa!\" said Mr. Stryver. \"How do you do? I hope you are well!\"\n\nIt was Stryver's grand peculiarity that he always seemed too big for any\nplace, or space. He was so much too big for Tellson's, that old clerks\nin distant corners looked up with looks of remonstrance, as though he\nsqueezed them against the wall. The House itself, magnificently reading\nthe paper quite in the far-off perspective, lowered displeased, as if\nthe Stryver head had been butted into its responsible waistcoat.\n\nThe discreet Mr. Lorry said, in a sample tone of the voice he would\nrecommend under the circumstances, \"How do you do, Mr. Stryver? How do\nyou do, sir?\" and shook hands. There was a peculiarity in his manner\nof shaking hands, always to be seen in any clerk at Tellson's who shook\nhands with a customer when the House pervaded the air. He shook in a\nself-abnegating way, as one who shook for Tellson and Co.\n\n\"Can I do anything for you, Mr. Stryver?\" asked Mr. Lorry, in his\nbusiness character.\n\n\"Why, no, thank you; this is a private visit to yourself, Mr. Lorry; I\nhave come for a private word.\"\n\n\"Oh indeed!\" said Mr. Lorry, bending down his ear, while his eye strayed\nto the House afar off.\n\n\"I am going,\" said Mr. Stryver, leaning his arms confidentially on the\ndesk: whereupon, although it was a large double one, there appeared to\nbe not half desk enough for him: \"I am going to make an offer of myself\nin marriage to your agreeable little friend, Miss Manette, Mr. Lorry.\"\n\n\"Oh dear me!\" cried Mr. Lorry, rubbing his chin, and looking at his\nvisitor dubiously.\n\n\"Oh dear me, sir?\" repeated Stryver, drawing back. \"Oh dear you, sir?\nWhat may your meaning be, Mr. Lorry?\"\n\n\"My meaning,\" answered the man of business, \"is, of course, friendly and\nappreciative, and that it does you the greatest credit, and--in short,\nmy meaning is everything you could desire. But--really, you know, Mr.\nStryver--\" Mr. Lorry paused, and shook his head at him in the oddest\nmanner, as if he were compelled against his will to add, internally,\n\"you know there really is so much too much of you!\"\n\n\"Well!\" said Stryver, slapping the desk with his contentious hand,\nopening his eyes wider, and taking a long breath, \"if I understand you,\nMr. Lorry, I'll be hanged!\"\n\nMr. Lorry adjusted his little wig at both ears as a means towards that\nend, and bit the feather of a pen.\n\n\"D--n it all, sir!\" said Stryver, staring at him, \"am I not eligible?\"\n\n\"Oh dear yes! Yes. Oh yes, you're eligible!\" said Mr. Lorry. \"If you say\neligible, you are eligible.\"\n\n\"Am I not prosperous?\" asked Stryver.\n\n\"Oh! if you come to prosperous, you are prosperous,\" said Mr. Lorry.\n\n\"And advancing?\"\n\n\"If you come to advancing you know,\" said Mr. Lorry, delighted to be\nable to make another admission, \"nobody can doubt that.\"\n\n\"Then what on earth is your meaning, Mr. Lorry?\" demanded Stryver,\nperceptibly crestfallen.\n\n\"Well! I--Were you going there now?\" asked Mr. Lorry.\n\n\"Straight!\" said Stryver, with a plump of his fist on the desk.\n\n\"Then I think I wouldn't, if I was you.\"\n\n\"Why?\" said Stryver. \"Now, I'll put you in a corner,\" forensically\nshaking a forefinger at him. \"You are a man of business and bound to\nhave a reason. State your reason. Why wouldn't you go?\"\n\n\"Because,\" said Mr. Lorry, \"I wouldn't go on such an object without\nhaving some cause to believe that I should succeed.\"\n\n\"D--n _me_!\" cried Stryver, \"but this beats everything.\"\n\nMr. Lorry glanced at the distant House, and glanced at the angry\nStryver.\n\n\"Here's a man of business--a man of years--a man of experience--_in_\na Bank,\" said Stryver; \"and having summed up three leading reasons for\ncomplete success, he says there's no reason at all! Says it with his\nhead on!\" Mr. Stryver remarked upon the peculiarity as if it would have\nbeen infinitely less remarkable if he had said it with his head off.\n\n\"When I speak of success, I speak of success with the young lady; and\nwhen I speak of causes and reasons to make success probable, I speak of\ncauses and reasons that will tell as such with the young lady. The young\nlady, my good sir,\" said Mr. Lorry, mildly tapping the Stryver arm, \"the\nyoung lady. The young lady goes before all.\"\n\n\"Then you mean to tell me, Mr. Lorry,\" said Stryver, squaring his\nelbows, \"that it is your deliberate opinion that the young lady at\npresent in question is a mincing Fool?\"\n\n\"Not exactly so. I mean to tell you, Mr. Stryver,\" said Mr. Lorry,\nreddening, \"that I will hear no disrespectful word of that young lady\nfrom any lips; and that if I knew any man--which I hope I do not--whose\ntaste was so coarse, and whose temper was so overbearing, that he could\nnot restrain himself from speaking disrespectfully of that young lady at\nthis desk, not even Tellson's should prevent my giving him a piece of my\nmind.\"\n\nThe necessity of being angry in a suppressed tone had put Mr. Stryver's\nblood-vessels into a dangerous state when it was his turn to be angry;\nMr. Lorry's veins, methodical as their courses could usually be, were in\nno better state now it was his turn.\n\n\"That is what I mean to tell you, sir,\" said Mr. Lorry. \"Pray let there\nbe no mistake about it.\"\n\nMr. Stryver sucked the end of a ruler for a little while, and then stood\nhitting a tune out of his teeth with it, which probably gave him the\ntoothache. He broke the awkward silence by saying:\n\n\"This is something new to me, Mr. Lorry. You deliberately advise me not\nto go up to Soho and offer myself--_my_self, Stryver of the King's Bench\nbar?\"\n\n\"Do you ask me for my advice, Mr. Stryver?\"\n\n\"Yes, I do.\"\n\n\"Very good. Then I give it, and you have repeated it correctly.\"\n\n\"And all I can say of it is,\" laughed Stryver with a vexed laugh, \"that\nthis--ha, ha!--beats everything past, present, and to come.\"\n\n\"Now understand me,\" pursued Mr. Lorry. \"As a man of business, I am\nnot justified in saying anything about this matter, for, as a man of\nbusiness, I know nothing of it. But, as an old fellow, who has carried\nMiss Manette in his arms, who is the trusted friend of Miss Manette and\nof her father too, and who has a great affection for them both, I have\nspoken. The confidence is not of my seeking, recollect. Now, you think I\nmay not be right?\"\n\n\"Not I!\" said Stryver, whistling. \"I can't undertake to find third\nparties in common sense; I can only find it for myself. I suppose sense\nin certain quarters; you suppose mincing bread-and-butter nonsense. It's\nnew to me, but you are right, I dare say.\"\n\n\"What I suppose, Mr. Stryver, I claim to characterise for myself--And\nunderstand me, sir,\" said Mr. Lorry, quickly flushing again, \"I\nwill not--not even at Tellson's--have it characterised for me by any\ngentleman breathing.\"\n\n\"There! I beg your pardon!\" said Stryver.\n\n\"Granted. Thank you. Well, Mr. Stryver, I was about to say:--it might be\npainful to you to find yourself mistaken, it might be painful to Doctor\nManette to have the task of being explicit with you, it might be very\npainful to Miss Manette to have the task of being explicit with you. You\nknow the terms upon which I have the honour and happiness to stand with\nthe family. If you please, committing you in no way, representing you\nin no way, I will undertake to correct my advice by the exercise of a\nlittle new observation and judgment expressly brought to bear upon\nit. If you should then be dissatisfied with it, you can but test its\nsoundness for yourself; if, on the other hand, you should be satisfied\nwith it, and it should be what it now is, it may spare all sides what is\nbest spared. What do you say?\"\n\n\"How long would you keep me in town?\"\n\n\"Oh! It is only a question of a few hours. I could go to Soho in the\nevening, and come to your chambers afterwards.\"\n\n\"Then I say yes,\" said Stryver: \"I won't go up there now, I am not so\nhot upon it as that comes to; I say yes, and I shall expect you to look\nin to-night. Good morning.\"\n\nThen Mr. Stryver turned and burst out of the Bank, causing such a\nconcussion of air on his passage through, that to stand up against it\nbowing behind the two counters, required the utmost remaining strength\nof the two ancient clerks. Those venerable and feeble persons were\nalways seen by the public in the act of bowing, and were popularly\nbelieved, when they had bowed a customer out, still to keep on bowing in\nthe empty office until they bowed another customer in.\n\nThe barrister was keen enough to divine that the banker would not have\ngone so far in his expression of opinion on any less solid ground than\nmoral certainty. Unprepared as he was for the large pill he had to\nswallow, he got it down. \"And now,\" said Mr. Stryver, shaking his\nforensic forefinger at the Temple in general, when it was down, \"my way\nout of this, is, to put you all in the wrong.\"\n\nIt was a bit of the art of an Old Bailey tactician, in which he found\ngreat relief. \"You shall not put me in the wrong, young lady,\" said Mr.\nStryver; \"I'll do that for you.\"\n\nAccordingly, when Mr. Lorry called that night as late as ten o'clock,\nMr. Stryver, among a quantity of books and papers littered out for the\npurpose, seemed to have nothing less on his mind than the subject of\nthe morning. He even showed surprise when he saw Mr. Lorry, and was\naltogether in an absent and preoccupied state.\n\n\"Well!\" said that good-natured emissary, after a full half-hour of\nbootless attempts to bring him round to the question. \"I have been to\nSoho.\"\n\n\"To Soho?\" repeated Mr. Stryver, coldly. \"Oh, to be sure! What am I\nthinking of!\"\n\n\"And I have no doubt,\" said Mr. Lorry, \"that I was right in the\nconversation we had. My opinion is confirmed, and I reiterate my\nadvice.\"\n\n\"I assure you,\" returned Mr. Stryver, in the friendliest way, \"that I\nam sorry for it on your account, and sorry for it on the poor father's\naccount. I know this must always be a sore subject with the family; let\nus say no more about it.\"\n\n\"I don't understand you,\" said Mr. Lorry.\n\n\"I dare say not,\" rejoined Stryver, nodding his head in a smoothing and\nfinal way; \"no matter, no matter.\"\n\n\"But it does matter,\" Mr. Lorry urged.\n\n\"No it doesn't; I assure you it doesn't. Having supposed that there was\nsense where there is no sense, and a laudable ambition where there is\nnot a laudable ambition, I am well out of my mistake, and no harm is\ndone. Young women have committed similar follies often before, and have\nrepented them in poverty and obscurity often before. In an unselfish\naspect, I am sorry that the thing is dropped, because it would have been\na bad thing for me in a worldly point of view; in a selfish aspect, I am\nglad that the thing has dropped, because it would have been a bad thing\nfor me in a worldly point of view--it is hardly necessary to say I could\nhave gained nothing by it. There is no harm at all done. I have not\nproposed to the young lady, and, between ourselves, I am by no means\ncertain, on reflection, that I ever should have committed myself to\nthat extent. Mr. Lorry, you cannot control the mincing vanities and\ngiddinesses of empty-headed girls; you must not expect to do it, or you\nwill always be disappointed. Now, pray say no more about it. I tell you,\nI regret it on account of others, but I am satisfied on my own account.\nAnd I am really very much obliged to you for allowing me to sound you,\nand for giving me your advice; you know the young lady better than I do;\nyou were right, it never would have done.\"\n\nMr. Lorry was so taken aback, that he looked quite stupidly at Mr.\nStryver shouldering him towards the door, with an appearance of\nshowering generosity, forbearance, and goodwill, on his erring head.\n\"Make the best of it, my dear sir,\" said Stryver; \"say no more about it;\nthank you again for allowing me to sound you; good night!\"\n\nMr. Lorry was out in the night, before he knew where he was. Mr. Stryver\nwas lying back on his sofa, winking at his ceiling.\n\n\n\n\nXIII. The Fellow of No Delicacy\n\n\nIf Sydney Carton ever shone anywhere, he certainly never shone in the\nhouse of Doctor Manette. He had been there often, during a whole year,\nand had always been the same moody and morose lounger there. When he\ncared to talk, he talked well; but, the cloud of caring for nothing,\nwhich overshadowed him with such a fatal darkness, was very rarely\npierced by the light within him.\n\nAnd yet he did care something for the streets that environed that house,\nand for the senseless stones that made their pavements. Many a night\nhe vaguely and unhappily wandered there, when wine had brought no\ntransitory gladness to him; many a dreary daybreak revealed his solitary\nfigure lingering there, and still lingering there when the first beams\nof the sun brought into strong relief, removed beauties of architecture\nin spires of churches and lofty buildings, as perhaps the quiet time\nbrought some sense of better things, else forgotten and unattainable,\ninto his mind. Of late, the neglected bed in the Temple Court had known\nhim more scantily than ever; and often when he had thrown himself upon\nit no longer than a few minutes, he had got up again, and haunted that\nneighbourhood.\n\nOn a day in August, when Mr. Stryver (after notifying to his jackal\nthat \"he had thought better of that marrying matter\") had carried his\ndelicacy into Devonshire, and when the sight and scent of flowers in the\nCity streets had some waifs of goodness in them for the worst, of health\nfor the sickliest, and of youth for the oldest, Sydney's feet still trod\nthose stones. From being irresolute and purposeless, his feet became\nanimated by an intention, and, in the working out of that intention,\nthey took him to the Doctor's door.\n\nHe was shown up-stairs, and found Lucie at her work, alone. She had\nnever been quite at her ease with him, and received him with some little\nembarrassment as he seated himself near her table. But, looking up at\nhis face in the interchange of the first few common-places, she observed\na change in it.\n\n\"I fear you are not well, Mr. Carton!\"\n\n\"No. But the life I lead, Miss Manette, is not conducive to health. What\nis to be expected of, or by, such profligates?\"\n\n\"Is it not--forgive me; I have begun the question on my lips--a pity to\nlive no better life?\"\n\n\"God knows it is a shame!\"\n\n\"Then why not change it?\"\n\nLooking gently at him again, she was surprised and saddened to see that\nthere were tears in his eyes. There were tears in his voice too, as he\nanswered:\n\n\"It is too late for that. I shall never be better than I am. I shall\nsink lower, and be worse.\"\n\nHe leaned an elbow on her table, and covered his eyes with his hand. The\ntable trembled in the silence that followed.\n\nShe had never seen him softened, and was much distressed. He knew her to\nbe so, without looking at her, and said:\n\n\"Pray forgive me, Miss Manette. I break down before the knowledge of\nwhat I want to say to you. Will you hear me?\"\n\n\"If it will do you any good, Mr. Carton, if it would make you happier,\nit would make me very glad!\"\n\n\"God bless you for your sweet compassion!\"\n\nHe unshaded his face after a little while, and spoke steadily.\n\n\"Don't be afraid to hear me. Don't shrink from anything I say. I am like\none who died young. All my life might have been.\"\n\n\"No, Mr. Carton. I am sure that the best part of it might still be; I am\nsure that you might be much, much worthier of yourself.\"\n\n\"Say of you, Miss Manette, and although I know better--although in the\nmystery of my own wretched heart I know better--I shall never forget\nit!\"\n\nShe was pale and trembling. He came to her relief with a fixed despair\nof himself which made the interview unlike any other that could have\nbeen holden.\n\n\"If it had been possible, Miss Manette, that you could have returned the\nlove of the man you see before yourself--flung away, wasted, drunken,\npoor creature of misuse as you know him to be--he would have been\nconscious this day and hour, in spite of his happiness, that he would\nbring you to misery, bring you to sorrow and repentance, blight you,\ndisgrace you, pull you down with him. I know very well that you can have\nno tenderness for me; I ask for none; I am even thankful that it cannot\nbe.\"\n\n\"Without it, can I not save you, Mr. Carton? Can I not recall\nyou--forgive me again!--to a better course? Can I in no way repay your\nconfidence? I know this is a confidence,\" she modestly said, after a\nlittle hesitation, and in earnest tears, \"I know you would say this to\nno one else. Can I turn it to no good account for yourself, Mr. Carton?\"\n\nHe shook his head.\n\n\"To none. No, Miss Manette, to none. If you will hear me through a very\nlittle more, all you can ever do for me is done. I wish you to know that\nyou have been the last dream of my soul. In my degradation I have not\nbeen so degraded but that the sight of you with your father, and of this\nhome made such a home by you, has stirred old shadows that I thought had\ndied out of me. Since I knew you, I have been troubled by a remorse that\nI thought would never reproach me again, and have heard whispers from\nold voices impelling me upward, that I thought were silent for ever. I\nhave had unformed ideas of striving afresh, beginning anew, shaking off\nsloth and sensuality, and fighting out the abandoned fight. A dream, all\na dream, that ends in nothing, and leaves the sleeper where he lay down,\nbut I wish you to know that you inspired it.\"\n\n\"Will nothing of it remain? O Mr. Carton, think again! Try again!\"\n\n\"No, Miss Manette; all through it, I have known myself to be quite\nundeserving. And yet I have had the weakness, and have still the\nweakness, to wish you to know with what a sudden mastery you kindled me,\nheap of ashes that I am, into fire--a fire, however, inseparable in\nits nature from myself, quickening nothing, lighting nothing, doing no\nservice, idly burning away.\"\n\n\"Since it is my misfortune, Mr. Carton, to have made you more unhappy\nthan you were before you knew me--\"\n\n\"Don't say that, Miss Manette, for you would have reclaimed me, if\nanything could. You will not be the cause of my becoming worse.\"\n\n\"Since the state of your mind that you describe, is, at all events,\nattributable to some influence of mine--this is what I mean, if I can\nmake it plain--can I use no influence to serve you? Have I no power for\ngood, with you, at all?\"\n\n\"The utmost good that I am capable of now, Miss Manette, I have come\nhere to realise. Let me carry through the rest of my misdirected life,\nthe remembrance that I opened my heart to you, last of all the world;\nand that there was something left in me at this time which you could\ndeplore and pity.\"\n\n\"Which I entreated you to believe, again and again, most fervently, with\nall my heart, was capable of better things, Mr. Carton!\"\n\n\"Entreat me to believe it no more, Miss Manette. I have proved myself,\nand I know better. I distress you; I draw fast to an end. Will you let\nme believe, when I recall this day, that the last confidence of my life\nwas reposed in your pure and innocent breast, and that it lies there\nalone, and will be shared by no one?\"\n\n\"If that will be a consolation to you, yes.\"\n\n\"Not even by the dearest one ever to be known to you?\"\n\n\"Mr. Carton,\" she answered, after an agitated pause, \"the secret is\nyours, not mine; and I promise to respect it.\"\n\n\"Thank you. And again, God bless you.\"\n\nHe put her hand to his lips, and moved towards the door.\n\n\"Be under no apprehension, Miss Manette, of my ever resuming this\nconversation by so much as a passing word. I will never refer to it\nagain. If I were dead, that could not be surer than it is henceforth. In\nthe hour of my death, I shall hold sacred the one good remembrance--and\nshall thank and bless you for it--that my last avowal of myself was made\nto you, and that my name, and faults, and miseries were gently carried\nin your heart. May it otherwise be light and happy!\"\n\nHe was so unlike what he had ever shown himself to be, and it was so\nsad to think how much he had thrown away, and how much he every day kept\ndown and perverted, that Lucie Manette wept mournfully for him as he\nstood looking back at her.\n\n\"Be comforted!\" he said, \"I am not worth such feeling, Miss Manette. An\nhour or two hence, and the low companions and low habits that I scorn\nbut yield to, will render me less worth such tears as those, than any\nwretch who creeps along the streets. Be comforted! But, within myself, I\nshall always be, towards you, what I am now, though outwardly I shall be\nwhat you have heretofore seen me. The last supplication but one I make\nto you, is, that you will believe this of me.\"\n\n\"I will, Mr. Carton.\"\n\n\"My last supplication of all, is this; and with it, I will relieve\nyou of a visitor with whom I well know you have nothing in unison, and\nbetween whom and you there is an impassable space. It is useless to say\nit, I know, but it rises out of my soul. For you, and for any dear to\nyou, I would do anything. If my career were of that better kind that\nthere was any opportunity or capacity of sacrifice in it, I would\nembrace any sacrifice for you and for those dear to you. Try to hold\nme in your mind, at some quiet times, as ardent and sincere in this one\nthing. The time will come, the time will not be long in coming, when new\nties will be formed about you--ties that will bind you yet more tenderly\nand strongly to the home you so adorn--the dearest ties that will ever\ngrace and gladden you. O Miss Manette, when the little picture of a\nhappy father's face looks up in yours, when you see your own bright\nbeauty springing up anew at your feet, think now and then that there is\na man who would give his life, to keep a life you love beside you!\"\n\nHe said, \"Farewell!\" said a last \"God bless you!\" and left her.\n\n\n\n\nXIV. The Honest Tradesman\n\n\nTo the eyes of Mr. Jeremiah Cruncher, sitting on his stool in\nFleet-street with his grisly urchin beside him, a vast number and\nvariety of objects in movement were every day presented. Who could sit\nupon anything in Fleet-street during the busy hours of the day, and\nnot be dazed and deafened by two immense processions, one ever tending\nwestward with the sun, the other ever tending eastward from the sun,\nboth ever tending to the plains beyond the range of red and purple where\nthe sun goes down!\n\nWith his straw in his mouth, Mr. Cruncher sat watching the two streams,\nlike the heathen rustic who has for several centuries been on duty\nwatching one stream--saving that Jerry had no expectation of their ever\nrunning dry. Nor would it have been an expectation of a hopeful kind,\nsince a small part of his income was derived from the pilotage of timid\nwomen (mostly of a full habit and past the middle term of life) from\nTellson's side of the tides to the opposite shore. Brief as such\ncompanionship was in every separate instance, Mr. Cruncher never failed\nto become so interested in the lady as to express a strong desire to\nhave the honour of drinking her very good health. And it was from\nthe gifts bestowed upon him towards the execution of this benevolent\npurpose, that he recruited his finances, as just now observed.\n\nTime was, when a poet sat upon a stool in a public place, and mused in\nthe sight of men. Mr. Cruncher, sitting on a stool in a public place,\nbut not being a poet, mused as little as possible, and looked about him.\n\nIt fell out that he was thus engaged in a season when crowds were\nfew, and belated women few, and when his affairs in general were so\nunprosperous as to awaken a strong suspicion in his breast that Mrs.\nCruncher must have been \"flopping\" in some pointed manner, when an\nunusual concourse pouring down Fleet-street westward, attracted his\nattention. Looking that way, Mr. Cruncher made out that some kind of\nfuneral was coming along, and that there was popular objection to this\nfuneral, which engendered uproar.\n\n\"Young Jerry,\" said Mr. Cruncher, turning to his offspring, \"it's a\nburyin'.\"\n\n\"Hooroar, father!\" cried Young Jerry.\n\nThe young gentleman uttered this exultant sound with mysterious\nsignificance. The elder gentleman took the cry so ill, that he watched\nhis opportunity, and smote the young gentleman on the ear.\n\n\"What d'ye mean? What are you hooroaring at? What do you want to conwey\nto your own father, you young Rip? This boy is a getting too many for\n_me_!\" said Mr. Cruncher, surveying him. \"Him and his hooroars! Don't\nlet me hear no more of you, or you shall feel some more of me. D'ye\nhear?\"\n\n\"I warn't doing no harm,\" Young Jerry protested, rubbing his cheek.\n\n\"Drop it then,\" said Mr. Cruncher; \"I won't have none of _your_ no\nharms. Get a top of that there seat, and look at the crowd.\"\n\nHis son obeyed, and the crowd approached; they were bawling and hissing\nround a dingy hearse and dingy mourning coach, in which mourning coach\nthere was only one mourner, dressed in the dingy trappings that were\nconsidered essential to the dignity of the position. The position\nappeared by no means to please him, however, with an increasing rabble\nsurrounding the coach, deriding him, making grimaces at him, and\nincessantly groaning and calling out: \"Yah! Spies! Tst! Yaha! Spies!\"\nwith many compliments too numerous and forcible to repeat.\n\nFunerals had at all times a remarkable attraction for Mr. Cruncher; he\nalways pricked up his senses, and became excited, when a funeral passed\nTellson's. Naturally, therefore, a funeral with this uncommon attendance\nexcited him greatly, and he asked of the first man who ran against him:\n\n\"What is it, brother? What's it about?\"\n\n\"_I_ don't know,\" said the man. \"Spies! Yaha! Tst! Spies!\"\n\nHe asked another man. \"Who is it?\"\n\n\"_I_ don't know,\" returned the man, clapping his hands to his mouth\nnevertheless, and vociferating in a surprising heat and with the\ngreatest ardour, \"Spies! Yaha! Tst, tst! Spi--ies!\"\n\nAt length, a person better informed on the merits of the case, tumbled\nagainst him, and from this person he learned that the funeral was the\nfuneral of one Roger Cly.\n\n\"Was He a spy?\" asked Mr. Cruncher.\n\n\"Old Bailey spy,\" returned his informant. \"Yaha! Tst! Yah! Old Bailey\nSpi--i--ies!\"\n\n\"Why, to be sure!\" exclaimed Jerry, recalling the Trial at which he had\nassisted. \"I've seen him. Dead, is he?\"\n\n\"Dead as mutton,\" returned the other, \"and can't be too dead. Have 'em\nout, there! Spies! Pull 'em out, there! Spies!\"\n\nThe idea was so acceptable in the prevalent absence of any idea,\nthat the crowd caught it up with eagerness, and loudly repeating the\nsuggestion to have 'em out, and to pull 'em out, mobbed the two vehicles\nso closely that they came to a stop. On the crowd's opening the coach\ndoors, the one mourner scuffled out of himself and was in their hands\nfor a moment; but he was so alert, and made such good use of his time,\nthat in another moment he was scouring away up a bye-street, after\nshedding his cloak, hat, long hatband, white pocket-handkerchief, and\nother symbolical tears.\n\nThese, the people tore to pieces and scattered far and wide with great\nenjoyment, while the tradesmen hurriedly shut up their shops; for a\ncrowd in those times stopped at nothing, and was a monster much dreaded.\nThey had already got the length of opening the hearse to take the coffin\nout, when some brighter genius proposed instead, its being escorted to\nits destination amidst general rejoicing. Practical suggestions being\nmuch needed, this suggestion, too, was received with acclamation, and\nthe coach was immediately filled with eight inside and a dozen out,\nwhile as many people got on the roof of the hearse as could by any\nexercise of ingenuity stick upon it. Among the first of these volunteers\nwas Jerry Cruncher himself, who modestly concealed his spiky head from\nthe observation of Tellson's, in the further corner of the mourning\ncoach.\n\nThe officiating undertakers made some protest against these changes in\nthe ceremonies; but, the river being alarmingly near, and several voices\nremarking on the efficacy of cold immersion in bringing refractory\nmembers of the profession to reason, the protest was faint and brief.\nThe remodelled procession started, with a chimney-sweep driving the\nhearse--advised by the regular driver, who was perched beside him, under\nclose inspection, for the purpose--and with a pieman, also attended\nby his cabinet minister, driving the mourning coach. A bear-leader, a\npopular street character of the time, was impressed as an additional\nornament, before the cavalcade had gone far down the Strand; and his\nbear, who was black and very mangy, gave quite an Undertaking air to\nthat part of the procession in which he walked.\n\nThus, with beer-drinking, pipe-smoking, song-roaring, and infinite\ncaricaturing of woe, the disorderly procession went its way, recruiting\nat every step, and all the shops shutting up before it. Its destination\nwas the old church of Saint Pancras, far off in the fields. It got there\nin course of time; insisted on pouring into the burial-ground; finally,\naccomplished the interment of the deceased Roger Cly in its own way, and\nhighly to its own satisfaction.\n\nThe dead man disposed of, and the crowd being under the necessity of\nproviding some other entertainment for itself, another brighter\ngenius (or perhaps the same) conceived the humour of impeaching casual\npassers-by, as Old Bailey spies, and wreaking vengeance on them. Chase\nwas given to some scores of inoffensive persons who had never been near\nthe Old Bailey in their lives, in the realisation of this fancy, and\nthey were roughly hustled and maltreated. The transition to the sport of\nwindow-breaking, and thence to the plundering of public-houses, was easy\nand natural. At last, after several hours, when sundry summer-houses had\nbeen pulled down, and some area-railings had been torn up, to arm\nthe more belligerent spirits, a rumour got about that the Guards were\ncoming. Before this rumour, the crowd gradually melted away, and perhaps\nthe Guards came, and perhaps they never came, and this was the usual\nprogress of a mob.\n\nMr. Cruncher did not assist at the closing sports, but had remained\nbehind in the churchyard, to confer and condole with the undertakers.\nThe place had a soothing influence on him. He procured a pipe from a\nneighbouring public-house, and smoked it, looking in at the railings and\nmaturely considering the spot.\n\n\"Jerry,\" said Mr. Cruncher, apostrophising himself in his usual way,\n\"you see that there Cly that day, and you see with your own eyes that he\nwas a young 'un and a straight made 'un.\"\n\nHaving smoked his pipe out, and ruminated a little longer, he turned\nhimself about, that he might appear, before the hour of closing, on his\nstation at Tellson's. Whether his meditations on mortality had touched\nhis liver, or whether his general health had been previously at all\namiss, or whether he desired to show a little attention to an eminent\nman, is not so much to the purpose, as that he made a short call upon\nhis medical adviser--a distinguished surgeon--on his way back.\n\nYoung Jerry relieved his father with dutiful interest, and reported No\njob in his absence. The bank closed, the ancient clerks came out, the\nusual watch was set, and Mr. Cruncher and his son went home to tea.\n\n\"Now, I tell you where it is!\" said Mr. Cruncher to his wife, on\nentering. \"If, as a honest tradesman, my wenturs goes wrong to-night, I\nshall make sure that you've been praying again me, and I shall work you\nfor it just the same as if I seen you do it.\"\n\nThe dejected Mrs. Cruncher shook her head.\n\n\"Why, you're at it afore my face!\" said Mr. Cruncher, with signs of\nangry apprehension.\n\n\"I am saying nothing.\"\n\n\"Well, then; don't meditate nothing. You might as well flop as meditate.\nYou may as well go again me one way as another. Drop it altogether.\"\n\n\"Yes, Jerry.\"\n\n\"Yes, Jerry,\" repeated Mr. Cruncher sitting down to tea. \"Ah! It _is_\nyes, Jerry. That's about it. You may say yes, Jerry.\"\n\nMr. Cruncher had no particular meaning in these sulky corroborations,\nbut made use of them, as people not unfrequently do, to express general\nironical dissatisfaction.\n\n\"You and your yes, Jerry,\" said Mr. Cruncher, taking a bite out of his\nbread-and-butter, and seeming to help it down with a large invisible\noyster out of his saucer. \"Ah! I think so. I believe you.\"\n\n\"You are going out to-night?\" asked his decent wife, when he took\nanother bite.\n\n\"Yes, I am.\"\n\n\"May I go with you, father?\" asked his son, briskly.\n\n\"No, you mayn't. I'm a going--as your mother knows--a fishing. That's\nwhere I'm going to. Going a fishing.\"\n\n\"Your fishing-rod gets rayther rusty; don't it, father?\"\n\n\"Never you mind.\"\n\n\"Shall you bring any fish home, father?\"\n\n\"If I don't, you'll have short commons, to-morrow,\" returned that\ngentleman, shaking his head; \"that's questions enough for you; I ain't a\ngoing out, till you've been long abed.\"\n\nHe devoted himself during the remainder of the evening to keeping a\nmost vigilant watch on Mrs. Cruncher, and sullenly holding her in\nconversation that she might be prevented from meditating any petitions\nto his disadvantage. With this view, he urged his son to hold her in\nconversation also, and led the unfortunate woman a hard life by dwelling\non any causes of complaint he could bring against her, rather than\nhe would leave her for a moment to her own reflections. The devoutest\nperson could have rendered no greater homage to the efficacy of an\nhonest prayer than he did in this distrust of his wife. It was as if a\nprofessed unbeliever in ghosts should be frightened by a ghost story.\n\n\"And mind you!\" said Mr. Cruncher. \"No games to-morrow! If I, as a\nhonest tradesman, succeed in providing a jinte of meat or two, none\nof your not touching of it, and sticking to bread. If I, as a honest\ntradesman, am able to provide a little beer, none of your declaring\non water. When you go to Rome, do as Rome does. Rome will be a ugly\ncustomer to you, if you don't. _I_'m your Rome, you know.\"\n\nThen he began grumbling again:\n\n\"With your flying into the face of your own wittles and drink! I don't\nknow how scarce you mayn't make the wittles and drink here, by your\nflopping tricks and your unfeeling conduct. Look at your boy: he _is_\nyour'n, ain't he? He's as thin as a lath. Do you call yourself a mother,\nand not know that a mother's first duty is to blow her boy out?\"\n\nThis touched Young Jerry on a tender place; who adjured his mother to\nperform her first duty, and, whatever else she did or neglected, above\nall things to lay especial stress on the discharge of that maternal\nfunction so affectingly and delicately indicated by his other parent.\n\nThus the evening wore away with the Cruncher family, until Young Jerry\nwas ordered to bed, and his mother, laid under similar injunctions,\nobeyed them. Mr. Cruncher beguiled the earlier watches of the night with\nsolitary pipes, and did not start upon his excursion until nearly one\no'clock. Towards that small and ghostly hour, he rose up from his chair,\ntook a key out of his pocket, opened a locked cupboard, and brought\nforth a sack, a crowbar of convenient size, a rope and chain, and other\nfishing tackle of that nature. Disposing these articles about him\nin skilful manner, he bestowed a parting defiance on Mrs. Cruncher,\nextinguished the light, and went out.\n\nYoung Jerry, who had only made a feint of undressing when he went to\nbed, was not long after his father. Under cover of the darkness he\nfollowed out of the room, followed down the stairs, followed down the\ncourt, followed out into the streets. He was in no uneasiness concerning\nhis getting into the house again, for it was full of lodgers, and the\ndoor stood ajar all night.\n\nImpelled by a laudable ambition to study the art and mystery of his\nfather's honest calling, Young Jerry, keeping as close to house fronts,\nwalls, and doorways, as his eyes were close to one another, held his\nhonoured parent in view. The honoured parent steering Northward, had not\ngone far, when he was joined by another disciple of Izaak Walton, and\nthe two trudged on together.\n\nWithin half an hour from the first starting, they were beyond the\nwinking lamps, and the more than winking watchmen, and were out upon a\nlonely road. Another fisherman was picked up here--and that so silently,\nthat if Young Jerry had been superstitious, he might have supposed the\nsecond follower of the gentle craft to have, all of a sudden, split\nhimself into two.\n\nThe three went on, and Young Jerry went on, until the three stopped\nunder a bank overhanging the road. Upon the top of the bank was a low\nbrick wall, surmounted by an iron railing. In the shadow of bank and\nwall the three turned out of the road, and up a blind lane, of which\nthe wall--there, risen to some eight or ten feet high--formed one side.\nCrouching down in a corner, peeping up the lane, the next object that\nYoung Jerry saw, was the form of his honoured parent, pretty well\ndefined against a watery and clouded moon, nimbly scaling an iron gate.\nHe was soon over, and then the second fisherman got over, and then the\nthird. They all dropped softly on the ground within the gate, and lay\nthere a little--listening perhaps. Then, they moved away on their hands\nand knees.\n\nIt was now Young Jerry's turn to approach the gate: which he did,\nholding his breath. Crouching down again in a corner there, and looking\nin, he made out the three fishermen creeping through some rank grass!\nand all the gravestones in the churchyard--it was a large churchyard\nthat they were in--looking on like ghosts in white, while the church\ntower itself looked on like the ghost of a monstrous giant. They did not\ncreep far, before they stopped and stood upright. And then they began to\nfish.\n\nThey fished with a spade, at first. Presently the honoured parent\nappeared to be adjusting some instrument like a great corkscrew.\nWhatever tools they worked with, they worked hard, until the awful\nstriking of the church clock so terrified Young Jerry, that he made off,\nwith his hair as stiff as his father's.\n\nBut, his long-cherished desire to know more about these matters, not\nonly stopped him in his running away, but lured him back again. They\nwere still fishing perseveringly, when he peeped in at the gate for\nthe second time; but, now they seemed to have got a bite. There was a\nscrewing and complaining sound down below, and their bent figures were\nstrained, as if by a weight. By slow degrees the weight broke away the\nearth upon it, and came to the surface. Young Jerry very well knew what\nit would be; but, when he saw it, and saw his honoured parent about to\nwrench it open, he was so frightened, being new to the sight, that he\nmade off again, and never stopped until he had run a mile or more.\n\nHe would not have stopped then, for anything less necessary than breath,\nit being a spectral sort of race that he ran, and one highly desirable\nto get to the end of. He had a strong idea that the coffin he had seen\nwas running after him; and, pictured as hopping on behind him, bolt\nupright, upon its narrow end, always on the point of overtaking him\nand hopping on at his side--perhaps taking his arm--it was a pursuer to\nshun. It was an inconsistent and ubiquitous fiend too, for, while it\nwas making the whole night behind him dreadful, he darted out into the\nroadway to avoid dark alleys, fearful of its coming hopping out of them\nlike a dropsical boy's Kite without tail and wings. It hid in doorways\ntoo, rubbing its horrible shoulders against doors, and drawing them up\nto its ears, as if it were laughing. It got into shadows on the road,\nand lay cunningly on its back to trip him up. All this time it was\nincessantly hopping on behind and gaining on him, so that when the boy\ngot to his own door he had reason for being half dead. And even then\nit would not leave him, but followed him upstairs with a bump on every\nstair, scrambled into bed with him, and bumped down, dead and heavy, on\nhis breast when he fell asleep.\n\nFrom his oppressed slumber, Young Jerry in his closet was awakened after\ndaybreak and before sunrise, by the presence of his father in the\nfamily room. Something had gone wrong with him; at least, so Young Jerry\ninferred, from the circumstance of his holding Mrs. Cruncher by the\nears, and knocking the back of her head against the head-board of the\nbed.\n\n\"I told you I would,\" said Mr. Cruncher, \"and I did.\"\n\n\"Jerry, Jerry, Jerry!\" his wife implored.\n\n\"You oppose yourself to the profit of the business,\" said Jerry, \"and me\nand my partners suffer. You was to honour and obey; why the devil don't\nyou?\"\n\n\"I try to be a good wife, Jerry,\" the poor woman protested, with tears.\n\n\"Is it being a good wife to oppose your husband's business? Is it\nhonouring your husband to dishonour his business? Is it obeying your\nhusband to disobey him on the wital subject of his business?\"\n\n\"You hadn't taken to the dreadful business then, Jerry.\"\n\n\"It's enough for you,\" retorted Mr. Cruncher, \"to be the wife of a\nhonest tradesman, and not to occupy your female mind with calculations\nwhen he took to his trade or when he didn't. A honouring and obeying\nwife would let his trade alone altogether. Call yourself a religious\nwoman? If you're a religious woman, give me a irreligious one! You have\nno more nat'ral sense of duty than the bed of this here Thames river has\nof a pile, and similarly it must be knocked into you.\"\n\nThe altercation was conducted in a low tone of voice, and terminated in\nthe honest tradesman's kicking off his clay-soiled boots, and lying down\nat his length on the floor. After taking a timid peep at him lying on\nhis back, with his rusty hands under his head for a pillow, his son lay\ndown too, and fell asleep again.\n\nThere was no fish for breakfast, and not much of anything else. Mr.\nCruncher was out of spirits, and out of temper, and kept an iron pot-lid\nby him as a projectile for the correction of Mrs. Cruncher, in case\nhe should observe any symptoms of her saying Grace. He was brushed\nand washed at the usual hour, and set off with his son to pursue his\nostensible calling.\n\nYoung Jerry, walking with the stool under his arm at his father's side\nalong sunny and crowded Fleet-street, was a very different Young Jerry\nfrom him of the previous night, running home through darkness and\nsolitude from his grim pursuer. His cunning was fresh with the day,\nand his qualms were gone with the night--in which particulars it is not\nimprobable that he had compeers in Fleet-street and the City of London,\nthat fine morning.\n\n\"Father,\" said Young Jerry, as they walked along: taking care to keep\nat arm's length and to have the stool well between them: \"what's a\nResurrection-Man?\"\n\nMr. Cruncher came to a stop on the pavement before he answered, \"How\nshould I know?\"\n\n\"I thought you knowed everything, father,\" said the artless boy.\n\n\"Hem! Well,\" returned Mr. Cruncher, going on again, and lifting off his\nhat to give his spikes free play, \"he's a tradesman.\"\n\n\"What's his goods, father?\" asked the brisk Young Jerry.\n\n\"His goods,\" said Mr. Cruncher, after turning it over in his mind, \"is a\nbranch of Scientific goods.\"\n\n\"Persons' bodies, ain't it, father?\" asked the lively boy.\n\n\"I believe it is something of that sort,\" said Mr. Cruncher.\n\n\"Oh, father, I should so like to be a Resurrection-Man when I'm quite\ngrowed up!\"\n\nMr. Cruncher was soothed, but shook his head in a dubious and moral way.\n\"It depends upon how you dewelop your talents. Be careful to dewelop\nyour talents, and never to say no more than you can help to nobody, and\nthere's no telling at the present time what you may not come to be fit\nfor.\" As Young Jerry, thus encouraged, went on a few yards in advance,\nto plant the stool in the shadow of the Bar, Mr. Cruncher added to\nhimself: \"Jerry, you honest tradesman, there's hopes wot that boy will\nyet be a blessing to you, and a recompense to you for his mother!\"\n\n\n\n\nXV. Knitting\n\n\nThere had been earlier drinking than usual in the wine-shop of Monsieur\nDefarge. As early as six o'clock in the morning, sallow faces peeping\nthrough its barred windows had descried other faces within, bending over\nmeasures of wine. Monsieur Defarge sold a very thin wine at the best\nof times, but it would seem to have been an unusually thin wine that\nhe sold at this time. A sour wine, moreover, or a souring, for its\ninfluence on the mood of those who drank it was to make them gloomy. No\nvivacious Bacchanalian flame leaped out of the pressed grape of Monsieur\nDefarge: but, a smouldering fire that burnt in the dark, lay hidden in\nthe dregs of it.\n\nThis had been the third morning in succession, on which there had been\nearly drinking at the wine-shop of Monsieur Defarge. It had begun\non Monday, and here was Wednesday come. There had been more of early\nbrooding than drinking; for, many men had listened and whispered and\nslunk about there from the time of the opening of the door, who could\nnot have laid a piece of money on the counter to save their souls. These\nwere to the full as interested in the place, however, as if they could\nhave commanded whole barrels of wine; and they glided from seat to seat,\nand from corner to corner, swallowing talk in lieu of drink, with greedy\nlooks.\n\nNotwithstanding an unusual flow of company, the master of the wine-shop\nwas not visible. He was not missed; for, nobody who crossed the\nthreshold looked for him, nobody asked for him, nobody wondered to see\nonly Madame Defarge in her seat, presiding over the distribution of\nwine, with a bowl of battered small coins before her, as much defaced\nand beaten out of their original impress as the small coinage of\nhumanity from whose ragged pockets they had come.\n\nA suspended interest and a prevalent absence of mind, were perhaps\nobserved by the spies who looked in at the wine-shop, as they looked in\nat every place, high and low, from the king's palace to the criminal's\ngaol. Games at cards languished, players at dominoes musingly built\ntowers with them, drinkers drew figures on the tables with spilt drops\nof wine, Madame Defarge herself picked out the pattern on her sleeve\nwith her toothpick, and saw and heard something inaudible and invisible\na long way off.\n\nThus, Saint Antoine in this vinous feature of his, until midday. It was\nhigh noontide, when two dusty men passed through his streets and under\nhis swinging lamps: of whom, one was Monsieur Defarge: the other a\nmender of roads in a blue cap. All adust and athirst, the two entered\nthe wine-shop. Their arrival had lighted a kind of fire in the breast\nof Saint Antoine, fast spreading as they came along, which stirred and\nflickered in flames of faces at most doors and windows. Yet, no one had\nfollowed them, and no man spoke when they entered the wine-shop, though\nthe eyes of every man there were turned upon them.\n\n\"Good day, gentlemen!\" said Monsieur Defarge.\n\nIt may have been a signal for loosening the general tongue. It elicited\nan answering chorus of \"Good day!\"\n\n\"It is bad weather, gentlemen,\" said Defarge, shaking his head.\n\nUpon which, every man looked at his neighbour, and then all cast down\ntheir eyes and sat silent. Except one man, who got up and went out.\n\n\"My wife,\" said Defarge aloud, addressing Madame Defarge: \"I have\ntravelled certain leagues with this good mender of roads, called\nJacques. I met him--by accident--a day and half's journey out of Paris.\nHe is a good child, this mender of roads, called Jacques. Give him to\ndrink, my wife!\"\n\nA second man got up and went out. Madame Defarge set wine before the\nmender of roads called Jacques, who doffed his blue cap to the company,\nand drank. In the breast of his blouse he carried some coarse dark\nbread; he ate of this between whiles, and sat munching and drinking near\nMadame Defarge's counter. A third man got up and went out.\n\nDefarge refreshed himself with a draught of wine--but, he took less\nthan was given to the stranger, as being himself a man to whom it was no\nrarity--and stood waiting until the countryman had made his breakfast.\nHe looked at no one present, and no one now looked at him; not even\nMadame Defarge, who had taken up her knitting, and was at work.\n\n\"Have you finished your repast, friend?\" he asked, in due season.\n\n\"Yes, thank you.\"\n\n\"Come, then! You shall see the apartment that I told you you could\noccupy. It will suit you to a marvel.\"\n\nOut of the wine-shop into the street, out of the street into a\ncourtyard, out of the courtyard up a steep staircase, out of the\nstaircase into a garret--formerly the garret where a white-haired man\nsat on a low bench, stooping forward and very busy, making shoes.\n\nNo white-haired man was there now; but, the three men were there who had\ngone out of the wine-shop singly. And between them and the white-haired\nman afar off, was the one small link, that they had once looked in at\nhim through the chinks in the wall.\n\nDefarge closed the door carefully, and spoke in a subdued voice:\n\n\"Jacques One, Jacques Two, Jacques Three! This is the witness\nencountered by appointment, by me, Jacques Four. He will tell you all.\nSpeak, Jacques Five!\"\n\nThe mender of roads, blue cap in hand, wiped his swarthy forehead with\nit, and said, \"Where shall I commence, monsieur?\"\n\n\"Commence,\" was Monsieur Defarge's not unreasonable reply, \"at the\ncommencement.\"\n\n\"I saw him then, messieurs,\" began the mender of roads, \"a year ago this\nrunning summer, underneath the carriage of the Marquis, hanging by the\nchain. Behold the manner of it. I leaving my work on the road, the sun\ngoing to bed, the carriage of the Marquis slowly ascending the hill, he\nhanging by the chain--like this.\"\n\nAgain the mender of roads went through the whole performance; in which\nhe ought to have been perfect by that time, seeing that it had been\nthe infallible resource and indispensable entertainment of his village\nduring a whole year.\n\nJacques One struck in, and asked if he had ever seen the man before?\n\n\"Never,\" answered the mender of roads, recovering his perpendicular.\n\nJacques Three demanded how he afterwards recognised him then?\n\n\"By his tall figure,\" said the mender of roads, softly, and with his\nfinger at his nose. \"When Monsieur the Marquis demands that evening,\n'Say, what is he like?' I make response, 'Tall as a spectre.'\"\n\n\"You should have said, short as a dwarf,\" returned Jacques Two.\n\n\"But what did I know? The deed was not then accomplished, neither did he\nconfide in me. Observe! Under those circumstances even, I do not\noffer my testimony. Monsieur the Marquis indicates me with his finger,\nstanding near our little fountain, and says, 'To me! Bring that rascal!'\nMy faith, messieurs, I offer nothing.\"\n\n\"He is right there, Jacques,\" murmured Defarge, to him who had\ninterrupted. \"Go on!\"\n\n\"Good!\" said the mender of roads, with an air of mystery. \"The tall man\nis lost, and he is sought--how many months? Nine, ten, eleven?\"\n\n\"No matter, the number,\" said Defarge. \"He is well hidden, but at last\nhe is unluckily found. Go on!\"\n\n\"I am again at work upon the hill-side, and the sun is again about to\ngo to bed. I am collecting my tools to descend to my cottage down in the\nvillage below, where it is already dark, when I raise my eyes, and see\ncoming over the hill six soldiers. In the midst of them is a tall man\nwith his arms bound--tied to his sides--like this!\"\n\nWith the aid of his indispensable cap, he represented a man with his\nelbows bound fast at his hips, with cords that were knotted behind him.\n\n\"I stand aside, messieurs, by my heap of stones, to see the soldiers\nand their prisoner pass (for it is a solitary road, that, where any\nspectacle is well worth looking at), and at first, as they approach, I\nsee no more than that they are six soldiers with a tall man bound, and\nthat they are almost black to my sight--except on the side of the sun\ngoing to bed, where they have a red edge, messieurs. Also, I see that\ntheir long shadows are on the hollow ridge on the opposite side of the\nroad, and are on the hill above it, and are like the shadows of giants.\nAlso, I see that they are covered with dust, and that the dust moves\nwith them as they come, tramp, tramp! But when they advance quite near\nto me, I recognise the tall man, and he recognises me. Ah, but he would\nbe well content to precipitate himself over the hill-side once again, as\non the evening when he and I first encountered, close to the same spot!\"\n\nHe described it as if he were there, and it was evident that he saw it\nvividly; perhaps he had not seen much in his life.\n\n\"I do not show the soldiers that I recognise the tall man; he does not\nshow the soldiers that he recognises me; we do it, and we know it, with\nour eyes. 'Come on!' says the chief of that company, pointing to the\nvillage, 'bring him fast to his tomb!' and they bring him faster. I\nfollow. His arms are swelled because of being bound so tight, his wooden\nshoes are large and clumsy, and he is lame. Because he is lame, and\nconsequently slow, they drive him with their guns--like this!\"\n\nHe imitated the action of a man's being impelled forward by the\nbutt-ends of muskets.\n\n\"As they descend the hill like madmen running a race, he falls. They\nlaugh and pick him up again. His face is bleeding and covered with dust,\nbut he cannot touch it; thereupon they laugh again. They bring him into\nthe village; all the village runs to look; they take him past the mill,\nand up to the prison; all the village sees the prison gate open in the\ndarkness of the night, and swallow him--like this!\"\n\nHe opened his mouth as wide as he could, and shut it with a sounding\nsnap of his teeth. Observant of his unwillingness to mar the effect by\nopening it again, Defarge said, \"Go on, Jacques.\"\n\n\"All the village,\" pursued the mender of roads, on tiptoe and in a low\nvoice, \"withdraws; all the village whispers by the fountain; all the\nvillage sleeps; all the village dreams of that unhappy one, within the\nlocks and bars of the prison on the crag, and never to come out of it,\nexcept to perish. In the morning, with my tools upon my shoulder, eating\nmy morsel of black bread as I go, I make a circuit by the prison, on\nmy way to my work. There I see him, high up, behind the bars of a lofty\niron cage, bloody and dusty as last night, looking through. He has no\nhand free, to wave to me; I dare not call to him; he regards me like a\ndead man.\"\n\nDefarge and the three glanced darkly at one another. The looks of all\nof them were dark, repressed, and revengeful, as they listened to the\ncountryman's story; the manner of all of them, while it was secret, was\nauthoritative too. They had the air of a rough tribunal; Jacques One\nand Two sitting on the old pallet-bed, each with his chin resting on\nhis hand, and his eyes intent on the road-mender; Jacques Three, equally\nintent, on one knee behind them, with his agitated hand always gliding\nover the network of fine nerves about his mouth and nose; Defarge\nstanding between them and the narrator, whom he had stationed in the\nlight of the window, by turns looking from him to them, and from them to\nhim.\n\n\"Go on, Jacques,\" said Defarge.\n\n\"He remains up there in his iron cage some days. The village looks\nat him by stealth, for it is afraid. But it always looks up, from a\ndistance, at the prison on the crag; and in the evening, when the work\nof the day is achieved and it assembles to gossip at the fountain, all\nfaces are turned towards the prison. Formerly, they were turned towards\nthe posting-house; now, they are turned towards the prison. They\nwhisper at the fountain, that although condemned to death he will not be\nexecuted; they say that petitions have been presented in Paris, showing\nthat he was enraged and made mad by the death of his child; they say\nthat a petition has been presented to the King himself. What do I know?\nIt is possible. Perhaps yes, perhaps no.\"\n\n\"Listen then, Jacques,\" Number One of that name sternly interposed.\n\"Know that a petition was presented to the King and Queen. All here,\nyourself excepted, saw the King take it, in his carriage in the street,\nsitting beside the Queen. It is Defarge whom you see here, who, at the\nhazard of his life, darted out before the horses, with the petition in\nhis hand.\"\n\n\"And once again listen, Jacques!\" said the kneeling Number Three:\nhis fingers ever wandering over and over those fine nerves, with a\nstrikingly greedy air, as if he hungered for something--that was neither\nfood nor drink; \"the guard, horse and foot, surrounded the petitioner,\nand struck him blows. You hear?\"\n\n\"I hear, messieurs.\"\n\n\"Go on then,\" said Defarge.\n\n\"Again; on the other hand, they whisper at the fountain,\" resumed the\ncountryman, \"that he is brought down into our country to be executed on\nthe spot, and that he will very certainly be executed. They even whisper\nthat because he has slain Monseigneur, and because Monseigneur was the\nfather of his tenants--serfs--what you will--he will be executed as a\nparricide. One old man says at the fountain, that his right hand, armed\nwith the knife, will be burnt off before his face; that, into wounds\nwhich will be made in his arms, his breast, and his legs, there will be\npoured boiling oil, melted lead, hot resin, wax, and sulphur; finally,\nthat he will be torn limb from limb by four strong horses. That old man\nsays, all this was actually done to a prisoner who made an attempt on\nthe life of the late King, Louis Fifteen. But how do I know if he lies?\nI am not a scholar.\"\n\n\"Listen once again then, Jacques!\" said the man with the restless hand\nand the craving air. \"The name of that prisoner was Damiens, and it was\nall done in open day, in the open streets of this city of Paris; and\nnothing was more noticed in the vast concourse that saw it done, than\nthe crowd of ladies of quality and fashion, who were full of eager\nattention to the last--to the last, Jacques, prolonged until nightfall,\nwhen he had lost two legs and an arm, and still breathed! And it was\ndone--why, how old are you?\"\n\n\"Thirty-five,\" said the mender of roads, who looked sixty.\n\n\"It was done when you were more than ten years old; you might have seen\nit.\"\n\n\"Enough!\" said Defarge, with grim impatience. \"Long live the Devil! Go\non.\"\n\n\"Well! Some whisper this, some whisper that; they speak of nothing else;\neven the fountain appears to fall to that tune. At length, on Sunday\nnight when all the village is asleep, come soldiers, winding down from\nthe prison, and their guns ring on the stones of the little street.\nWorkmen dig, workmen hammer, soldiers laugh and sing; in the morning, by\nthe fountain, there is raised a gallows forty feet high, poisoning the\nwater.\"\n\nThe mender of roads looked _through_ rather than _at_ the low ceiling,\nand pointed as if he saw the gallows somewhere in the sky.\n\n\"All work is stopped, all assemble there, nobody leads the cows out,\nthe cows are there with the rest. At midday, the roll of drums. Soldiers\nhave marched into the prison in the night, and he is in the midst\nof many soldiers. He is bound as before, and in his mouth there is\na gag--tied so, with a tight string, making him look almost as if he\nlaughed.\" He suggested it, by creasing his face with his two thumbs,\nfrom the corners of his mouth to his ears. \"On the top of the gallows is\nfixed the knife, blade upwards, with its point in the air. He is hanged\nthere forty feet high--and is left hanging, poisoning the water.\"\n\nThey looked at one another, as he used his blue cap to wipe his face,\non which the perspiration had started afresh while he recalled the\nspectacle.\n\n\"It is frightful, messieurs. How can the women and the children draw\nwater! Who can gossip of an evening, under that shadow! Under it, have\nI said? When I left the village, Monday evening as the sun was going to\nbed, and looked back from the hill, the shadow struck across the church,\nacross the mill, across the prison--seemed to strike across the earth,\nmessieurs, to where the sky rests upon it!\"\n\nThe hungry man gnawed one of his fingers as he looked at the other\nthree, and his finger quivered with the craving that was on him.\n\n\"That's all, messieurs. I left at sunset (as I had been warned to do),\nand I walked on, that night and half next day, until I met (as I was\nwarned I should) this comrade. With him, I came on, now riding and now\nwalking, through the rest of yesterday and through last night. And here\nyou see me!\"\n\nAfter a gloomy silence, the first Jacques said, \"Good! You have acted\nand recounted faithfully. Will you wait for us a little, outside the\ndoor?\"\n\n\"Very willingly,\" said the mender of roads. Whom Defarge escorted to the\ntop of the stairs, and, leaving seated there, returned.\n\nThe three had risen, and their heads were together when he came back to\nthe garret.\n\n\"How say you, Jacques?\" demanded Number One. \"To be registered?\"\n\n\"To be registered, as doomed to destruction,\" returned Defarge.\n\n\"Magnificent!\" croaked the man with the craving.\n\n\"The chateau, and all the race?\" inquired the first.\n\n\"The chateau and all the race,\" returned Defarge. \"Extermination.\"\n\nThe hungry man repeated, in a rapturous croak, \"Magnificent!\" and began\ngnawing another finger.\n\n\"Are you sure,\" asked Jacques Two, of Defarge, \"that no embarrassment\ncan arise from our manner of keeping the register? Without doubt it is\nsafe, for no one beyond ourselves can decipher it; but shall we always\nbe able to decipher it--or, I ought to say, will she?\"\n\n\"Jacques,\" returned Defarge, drawing himself up, \"if madame my wife\nundertook to keep the register in her memory alone, she would not lose\na word of it--not a syllable of it. Knitted, in her own stitches and her\nown symbols, it will always be as plain to her as the sun. Confide in\nMadame Defarge. It would be easier for the weakest poltroon that lives,\nto erase himself from existence, than to erase one letter of his name or\ncrimes from the knitted register of Madame Defarge.\"\n\nThere was a murmur of confidence and approval, and then the man who\nhungered, asked: \"Is this rustic to be sent back soon? I hope so. He is\nvery simple; is he not a little dangerous?\"\n\n\"He knows nothing,\" said Defarge; \"at least nothing more than would\neasily elevate himself to a gallows of the same height. I charge myself\nwith him; let him remain with me; I will take care of him, and set him\non his road. He wishes to see the fine world--the King, the Queen, and\nCourt; let him see them on Sunday.\"\n\n\"What?\" exclaimed the hungry man, staring. \"Is it a good sign, that he\nwishes to see Royalty and Nobility?\"\n\n\"Jacques,\" said Defarge; \"judiciously show a cat milk, if you wish her\nto thirst for it. Judiciously show a dog his natural prey, if you wish\nhim to bring it down one day.\"\n\nNothing more was said, and the mender of roads, being found already\ndozing on the topmost stair, was advised to lay himself down on the\npallet-bed and take some rest. He needed no persuasion, and was soon\nasleep.\n\nWorse quarters than Defarge's wine-shop, could easily have been found\nin Paris for a provincial slave of that degree. Saving for a mysterious\ndread of madame by which he was constantly haunted, his life was very\nnew and agreeable. But, madame sat all day at her counter, so expressly\nunconscious of him, and so particularly determined not to perceive that\nhis being there had any connection with anything below the surface, that\nhe shook in his wooden shoes whenever his eye lighted on her. For, he\ncontended with himself that it was impossible to foresee what that lady\nmight pretend next; and he felt assured that if she should take it\ninto her brightly ornamented head to pretend that she had seen him do a\nmurder and afterwards flay the victim, she would infallibly go through\nwith it until the play was played out.\n\nTherefore, when Sunday came, the mender of roads was not enchanted\n(though he said he was) to find that madame was to accompany monsieur\nand himself to Versailles. It was additionally disconcerting to have\nmadame knitting all the way there, in a public conveyance; it was\nadditionally disconcerting yet, to have madame in the crowd in the\nafternoon, still with her knitting in her hands as the crowd waited to\nsee the carriage of the King and Queen.\n\n\"You work hard, madame,\" said a man near her.\n\n\"Yes,\" answered Madame Defarge; \"I have a good deal to do.\"\n\n\"What do you make, madame?\"\n\n\"Many things.\"\n\n\"For instance--\"\n\n\"For instance,\" returned Madame Defarge, composedly, \"shrouds.\"\n\nThe man moved a little further away, as soon as he could, and the mender\nof roads fanned himself with his blue cap: feeling it mightily close\nand oppressive. If he needed a King and Queen to restore him, he was\nfortunate in having his remedy at hand; for, soon the large-faced King\nand the fair-faced Queen came in their golden coach, attended by the\nshining Bull's Eye of their Court, a glittering multitude of laughing\nladies and fine lords; and in jewels and silks and powder and splendour\nand elegantly spurning figures and handsomely disdainful faces of both\nsexes, the mender of roads bathed himself, so much to his temporary\nintoxication, that he cried Long live the King, Long live the Queen,\nLong live everybody and everything! as if he had never heard of\nubiquitous Jacques in his time. Then, there were gardens, courtyards,\nterraces, fountains, green banks, more King and Queen, more Bull's Eye,\nmore lords and ladies, more Long live they all! until he absolutely wept\nwith sentiment. During the whole of this scene, which lasted some three\nhours, he had plenty of shouting and weeping and sentimental company,\nand throughout Defarge held him by the collar, as if to restrain him\nfrom flying at the objects of his brief devotion and tearing them to\npieces.\n\n\"Bravo!\" said Defarge, clapping him on the back when it was over, like a\npatron; \"you are a good boy!\"\n\nThe mender of roads was now coming to himself, and was mistrustful of\nhaving made a mistake in his late demonstrations; but no.\n\n\"You are the fellow we want,\" said Defarge, in his ear; \"you make\nthese fools believe that it will last for ever. Then, they are the more\ninsolent, and it is the nearer ended.\"\n\n\"Hey!\" cried the mender of roads, reflectively; \"that's true.\"\n\n\"These fools know nothing. While they despise your breath, and would\nstop it for ever and ever, in you or in a hundred like you rather than\nin one of their own horses or dogs, they only know what your breath\ntells them. Let it deceive them, then, a little longer; it cannot\ndeceive them too much.\"\n\nMadame Defarge looked superciliously at the client, and nodded in\nconfirmation.\n\n\"As to you,\" said she, \"you would shout and shed tears for anything, if\nit made a show and a noise. Say! Would you not?\"\n\n\"Truly, madame, I think so. For the moment.\"\n\n\"If you were shown a great heap of dolls, and were set upon them to\npluck them to pieces and despoil them for your own advantage, you would\npick out the richest and gayest. Say! Would you not?\"\n\n\"Truly yes, madame.\"\n\n\"Yes. And if you were shown a flock of birds, unable to fly, and were\nset upon them to strip them of their feathers for your own advantage,\nyou would set upon the birds of the finest feathers; would you not?\"\n\n\"It is true, madame.\"\n\n\"You have seen both dolls and birds to-day,\" said Madame Defarge, with\na wave of her hand towards the place where they had last been apparent;\n\"now, go home!\"\n\n\n\n\nXVI. Still Knitting\n\n\nMadame Defarge and monsieur her husband returned amicably to the\nbosom of Saint Antoine, while a speck in a blue cap toiled through the\ndarkness, and through the dust, and down the weary miles of avenue by\nthe wayside, slowly tending towards that point of the compass where\nthe chateau of Monsieur the Marquis, now in his grave, listened to\nthe whispering trees. Such ample leisure had the stone faces, now,\nfor listening to the trees and to the fountain, that the few village\nscarecrows who, in their quest for herbs to eat and fragments of dead\nstick to burn, strayed within sight of the great stone courtyard and\nterrace staircase, had it borne in upon their starved fancy that\nthe expression of the faces was altered. A rumour just lived in the\nvillage--had a faint and bare existence there, as its people had--that\nwhen the knife struck home, the faces changed, from faces of pride to\nfaces of anger and pain; also, that when that dangling figure was hauled\nup forty feet above the fountain, they changed again, and bore a cruel\nlook of being avenged, which they would henceforth bear for ever. In the\nstone face over the great window of the bed-chamber where the murder\nwas done, two fine dints were pointed out in the sculptured nose, which\neverybody recognised, and which nobody had seen of old; and on the\nscarce occasions when two or three ragged peasants emerged from the\ncrowd to take a hurried peep at Monsieur the Marquis petrified, a\nskinny finger would not have pointed to it for a minute, before they all\nstarted away among the moss and leaves, like the more fortunate hares\nwho could find a living there.\n\nChateau and hut, stone face and dangling figure, the red stain on the\nstone floor, and the pure water in the village well--thousands of acres\nof land--a whole province of France--all France itself--lay under the\nnight sky, concentrated into a faint hair-breadth line. So does a whole\nworld, with all its greatnesses and littlenesses, lie in a twinkling\nstar. And as mere human knowledge can split a ray of light and analyse\nthe manner of its composition, so, sublimer intelligences may read in\nthe feeble shining of this earth of ours, every thought and act, every\nvice and virtue, of every responsible creature on it.\n\nThe Defarges, husband and wife, came lumbering under the starlight,\nin their public vehicle, to that gate of Paris whereunto their\njourney naturally tended. There was the usual stoppage at the barrier\nguardhouse, and the usual lanterns came glancing forth for the usual\nexamination and inquiry. Monsieur Defarge alighted; knowing one or two\nof the soldiery there, and one of the police. The latter he was intimate\nwith, and affectionately embraced.\n\nWhen Saint Antoine had again enfolded the Defarges in his dusky wings,\nand they, having finally alighted near the Saint's boundaries, were\npicking their way on foot through the black mud and offal of his\nstreets, Madame Defarge spoke to her husband:\n\n\"Say then, my friend; what did Jacques of the police tell thee?\"\n\n\"Very little to-night, but all he knows. There is another spy\ncommissioned for our quarter. There may be many more, for all that he\ncan say, but he knows of one.\"\n\n\"Eh well!\" said Madame Defarge, raising her eyebrows with a cool\nbusiness air. \"It is necessary to register him. How do they call that\nman?\"\n\n\"He is English.\"\n\n\"So much the better. His name?\"\n\n\"Barsad,\" said Defarge, making it French by pronunciation. But, he had\nbeen so careful to get it accurately, that he then spelt it with perfect\ncorrectness.\n\n\"Barsad,\" repeated madame. \"Good. Christian name?\"\n\n\"John.\"\n\n\"John Barsad,\" repeated madame, after murmuring it once to herself.\n\"Good. His appearance; is it known?\"\n\n\"Age, about forty years; height, about five feet nine; black hair;\ncomplexion dark; generally, rather handsome visage; eyes dark, face\nthin, long, and sallow; nose aquiline, but not straight, having a\npeculiar inclination towards the left cheek; expression, therefore,\nsinister.\"\n\n\"Eh my faith. It is a portrait!\" said madame, laughing. \"He shall be\nregistered to-morrow.\"\n\nThey turned into the wine-shop, which was closed (for it was midnight),\nand where Madame Defarge immediately took her post at her desk, counted\nthe small moneys that had been taken during her absence, examined the\nstock, went through the entries in the book, made other entries of\nher own, checked the serving man in every possible way, and finally\ndismissed him to bed. Then she turned out the contents of the bowl\nof money for the second time, and began knotting them up in her\nhandkerchief, in a chain of separate knots, for safe keeping through the\nnight. All this while, Defarge, with his pipe in his mouth, walked\nup and down, complacently admiring, but never interfering; in which\ncondition, indeed, as to the business and his domestic affairs, he\nwalked up and down through life.\n\nThe night was hot, and the shop, close shut and surrounded by so foul a\nneighbourhood, was ill-smelling. Monsieur Defarge's olfactory sense was\nby no means delicate, but the stock of wine smelt much stronger than\nit ever tasted, and so did the stock of rum and brandy and aniseed. He\nwhiffed the compound of scents away, as he put down his smoked-out pipe.\n\n\"You are fatigued,\" said madame, raising her glance as she knotted the\nmoney. \"There are only the usual odours.\"\n\n\"I am a little tired,\" her husband acknowledged.\n\n\"You are a little depressed, too,\" said madame, whose quick eyes had\nnever been so intent on the accounts, but they had had a ray or two for\nhim. \"Oh, the men, the men!\"\n\n\"But my dear!\" began Defarge.\n\n\"But my dear!\" repeated madame, nodding firmly; \"but my dear! You are\nfaint of heart to-night, my dear!\"\n\n\"Well, then,\" said Defarge, as if a thought were wrung out of his\nbreast, \"it _is_ a long time.\"\n\n\"It is a long time,\" repeated his wife; \"and when is it not a long time?\nVengeance and retribution require a long time; it is the rule.\"\n\n\"It does not take a long time to strike a man with Lightning,\" said\nDefarge.\n\n\"How long,\" demanded madame, composedly, \"does it take to make and store\nthe lightning? Tell me.\"\n\nDefarge raised his head thoughtfully, as if there were something in that\ntoo.\n\n\"It does not take a long time,\" said madame, \"for an earthquake to\nswallow a town. Eh well! Tell me how long it takes to prepare the\nearthquake?\"\n\n\"A long time, I suppose,\" said Defarge.\n\n\"But when it is ready, it takes place, and grinds to pieces everything\nbefore it. In the meantime, it is always preparing, though it is not\nseen or heard. That is your consolation. Keep it.\"\n\nShe tied a knot with flashing eyes, as if it throttled a foe.\n\n\"I tell thee,\" said madame, extending her right hand, for emphasis,\n\"that although it is a long time on the road, it is on the road and\ncoming. I tell thee it never retreats, and never stops. I tell thee it\nis always advancing. Look around and consider the lives of all the world\nthat we know, consider the faces of all the world that we know, consider\nthe rage and discontent to which the Jacquerie addresses itself with\nmore and more of certainty every hour. Can such things last? Bah! I mock\nyou.\"\n\n\"My brave wife,\" returned Defarge, standing before her with his head\na little bent, and his hands clasped at his back, like a docile and\nattentive pupil before his catechist, \"I do not question all this. But\nit has lasted a long time, and it is possible--you know well, my wife,\nit is possible--that it may not come, during our lives.\"\n\n\"Eh well! How then?\" demanded madame, tying another knot, as if there\nwere another enemy strangled.\n\n\"Well!\" said Defarge, with a half complaining and half apologetic shrug.\n\"We shall not see the triumph.\"\n\n\"We shall have helped it,\" returned madame, with her extended hand in\nstrong action. \"Nothing that we do, is done in vain. I believe, with all\nmy soul, that we shall see the triumph. But even if not, even if I knew\ncertainly not, show me the neck of an aristocrat and tyrant, and still I\nwould--\"\n\nThen madame, with her teeth set, tied a very terrible knot indeed.\n\n\"Hold!\" cried Defarge, reddening a little as if he felt charged with\ncowardice; \"I too, my dear, will stop at nothing.\"\n\n\"Yes! But it is your weakness that you sometimes need to see your victim\nand your opportunity, to sustain you. Sustain yourself without that.\nWhen the time comes, let loose a tiger and a devil; but wait for the\ntime with the tiger and the devil chained--not shown--yet always ready.\"\n\nMadame enforced the conclusion of this piece of advice by striking her\nlittle counter with her chain of money as if she knocked its brains\nout, and then gathering the heavy handkerchief under her arm in a serene\nmanner, and observing that it was time to go to bed.\n\nNext noontide saw the admirable woman in her usual place in the\nwine-shop, knitting away assiduously. A rose lay beside her, and if she\nnow and then glanced at the flower, it was with no infraction of her\nusual preoccupied air. There were a few customers, drinking or not\ndrinking, standing or seated, sprinkled about. The day was very hot,\nand heaps of flies, who were extending their inquisitive and adventurous\nperquisitions into all the glutinous little glasses near madame, fell\ndead at the bottom. Their decease made no impression on the other flies\nout promenading, who looked at them in the coolest manner (as if they\nthemselves were elephants, or something as far removed), until they met\nthe same fate. Curious to consider how heedless flies are!--perhaps they\nthought as much at Court that sunny summer day.\n\nA figure entering at the door threw a shadow on Madame Defarge which she\nfelt to be a new one. She laid down her knitting, and began to pin her\nrose in her head-dress, before she looked at the figure.\n\nIt was curious. The moment Madame Defarge took up the rose, the\ncustomers ceased talking, and began gradually to drop out of the\nwine-shop.\n\n\"Good day, madame,\" said the new-comer.\n\n\"Good day, monsieur.\"\n\nShe said it aloud, but added to herself, as she resumed her knitting:\n\"Hah! Good day, age about forty, height about five feet nine, black\nhair, generally rather handsome visage, complexion dark, eyes dark,\nthin, long and sallow face, aquiline nose but not straight, having a\npeculiar inclination towards the left cheek which imparts a sinister\nexpression! Good day, one and all!\"\n\n\"Have the goodness to give me a little glass of old cognac, and a\nmouthful of cool fresh water, madame.\"\n\nMadame complied with a polite air.\n\n\"Marvellous cognac this, madame!\"\n\nIt was the first time it had ever been so complimented, and Madame\nDefarge knew enough of its antecedents to know better. She said,\nhowever, that the cognac was flattered, and took up her knitting. The\nvisitor watched her fingers for a few moments, and took the opportunity\nof observing the place in general.\n\n\"You knit with great skill, madame.\"\n\n\"I am accustomed to it.\"\n\n\"A pretty pattern too!\"\n\n\"_You_ think so?\" said madame, looking at him with a smile.\n\n\"Decidedly. May one ask what it is for?\"\n\n\"Pastime,\" said madame, still looking at him with a smile while her\nfingers moved nimbly.\n\n\"Not for use?\"\n\n\"That depends. I may find a use for it one day. If I do--Well,\" said\nmadame, drawing a breath and nodding her head with a stern kind of\ncoquetry, \"I'll use it!\"\n\nIt was remarkable; but, the taste of Saint Antoine seemed to be\ndecidedly opposed to a rose on the head-dress of Madame Defarge. Two\nmen had entered separately, and had been about to order drink, when,\ncatching sight of that novelty, they faltered, made a pretence of\nlooking about as if for some friend who was not there, and went away.\nNor, of those who had been there when this visitor entered, was there\none left. They had all dropped off. The spy had kept his eyes open,\nbut had been able to detect no sign. They had lounged away in a\npoverty-stricken, purposeless, accidental manner, quite natural and\nunimpeachable.\n\n\"_John_,\" thought madame, checking off her work as her fingers knitted,\nand her eyes looked at the stranger. \"Stay long enough, and I shall knit\n'BARSAD' before you go.\"\n\n\"You have a husband, madame?\"\n\n\"I have.\"\n\n\"Children?\"\n\n\"No children.\"\n\n\"Business seems bad?\"\n\n\"Business is very bad; the people are so poor.\"\n\n\"Ah, the unfortunate, miserable people! So oppressed, too--as you say.\"\n\n\"As _you_ say,\" madame retorted, correcting him, and deftly knitting an\nextra something into his name that boded him no good.\n\n\"Pardon me; certainly it was I who said so, but you naturally think so.\nOf course.\"\n\n\"_I_ think?\" returned madame, in a high voice. \"I and my husband have\nenough to do to keep this wine-shop open, without thinking. All we\nthink, here, is how to live. That is the subject _we_ think of, and\nit gives us, from morning to night, enough to think about, without\nembarrassing our heads concerning others. _I_ think for others? No, no.\"\n\nThe spy, who was there to pick up any crumbs he could find or make, did\nnot allow his baffled state to express itself in his sinister face; but,\nstood with an air of gossiping gallantry, leaning his elbow on Madame\nDefarge's little counter, and occasionally sipping his cognac.\n\n\"A bad business this, madame, of Gaspard's execution. Ah! the poor\nGaspard!\" With a sigh of great compassion.\n\n\"My faith!\" returned madame, coolly and lightly, \"if people use knives\nfor such purposes, they have to pay for it. He knew beforehand what the\nprice of his luxury was; he has paid the price.\"\n\n\"I believe,\" said the spy, dropping his soft voice to a tone\nthat invited confidence, and expressing an injured revolutionary\nsusceptibility in every muscle of his wicked face: \"I believe there\nis much compassion and anger in this neighbourhood, touching the poor\nfellow? Between ourselves.\"\n\n\"Is there?\" asked madame, vacantly.\n\n\"Is there not?\"\n\n\"--Here is my husband!\" said Madame Defarge.\n\nAs the keeper of the wine-shop entered at the door, the spy saluted\nhim by touching his hat, and saying, with an engaging smile, \"Good day,\nJacques!\" Defarge stopped short, and stared at him.\n\n\"Good day, Jacques!\" the spy repeated; with not quite so much\nconfidence, or quite so easy a smile under the stare.\n\n\"You deceive yourself, monsieur,\" returned the keeper of the wine-shop.\n\"You mistake me for another. That is not my name. I am Ernest Defarge.\"\n\n\"It is all the same,\" said the spy, airily, but discomfited too: \"good\nday!\"\n\n\"Good day!\" answered Defarge, drily.\n\n\"I was saying to madame, with whom I had the pleasure of chatting when\nyou entered, that they tell me there is--and no wonder!--much sympathy\nand anger in Saint Antoine, touching the unhappy fate of poor Gaspard.\"\n\n\"No one has told me so,\" said Defarge, shaking his head. \"I know nothing\nof it.\"\n\nHaving said it, he passed behind the little counter, and stood with his\nhand on the back of his wife's chair, looking over that barrier at the\nperson to whom they were both opposed, and whom either of them would\nhave shot with the greatest satisfaction.\n\nThe spy, well used to his business, did not change his unconscious\nattitude, but drained his little glass of cognac, took a sip of fresh\nwater, and asked for another glass of cognac. Madame Defarge poured it\nout for him, took to her knitting again, and hummed a little song over\nit.\n\n\"You seem to know this quarter well; that is to say, better than I do?\"\nobserved Defarge.\n\n\"Not at all, but I hope to know it better. I am so profoundly interested\nin its miserable inhabitants.\"\n\n\"Hah!\" muttered Defarge.\n\n\"The pleasure of conversing with you, Monsieur Defarge, recalls to me,\"\npursued the spy, \"that I have the honour of cherishing some interesting\nassociations with your name.\"\n\n\"Indeed!\" said Defarge, with much indifference.\n\n\"Yes, indeed. When Doctor Manette was released, you, his old domestic,\nhad the charge of him, I know. He was delivered to you. You see I am\ninformed of the circumstances?\"\n\n\"Such is the fact, certainly,\" said Defarge. He had had it conveyed\nto him, in an accidental touch of his wife's elbow as she knitted and\nwarbled, that he would do best to answer, but always with brevity.\n\n\"It was to you,\" said the spy, \"that his daughter came; and it was\nfrom your care that his daughter took him, accompanied by a neat brown\nmonsieur; how is he called?--in a little wig--Lorry--of the bank of\nTellson and Company--over to England.\"\n\n\"Such is the fact,\" repeated Defarge.\n\n\"Very interesting remembrances!\" said the spy. \"I have known Doctor\nManette and his daughter, in England.\"\n\n\"Yes?\" said Defarge.\n\n\"You don't hear much about them now?\" said the spy.\n\n\"No,\" said Defarge.\n\n\"In effect,\" madame struck in, looking up from her work and her little\nsong, \"we never hear about them. We received the news of their safe\narrival, and perhaps another letter, or perhaps two; but, since then,\nthey have gradually taken their road in life--we, ours--and we have held\nno correspondence.\"\n\n\"Perfectly so, madame,\" replied the spy. \"She is going to be married.\"\n\n\"Going?\" echoed madame. \"She was pretty enough to have been married long\nago. You English are cold, it seems to me.\"\n\n\"Oh! You know I am English.\"\n\n\"I perceive your tongue is,\" returned madame; \"and what the tongue is, I\nsuppose the man is.\"\n\nHe did not take the identification as a compliment; but he made the best\nof it, and turned it off with a laugh. After sipping his cognac to the\nend, he added:\n\n\"Yes, Miss Manette is going to be married. But not to an Englishman; to\none who, like herself, is French by birth. And speaking of Gaspard (ah,\npoor Gaspard! It was cruel, cruel!), it is a curious thing that she is\ngoing to marry the nephew of Monsieur the Marquis, for whom Gaspard\nwas exalted to that height of so many feet; in other words, the present\nMarquis. But he lives unknown in England, he is no Marquis there; he is\nMr. Charles Darnay. D'Aulnais is the name of his mother's family.\"\n\nMadame Defarge knitted steadily, but the intelligence had a palpable\neffect upon her husband. Do what he would, behind the little counter,\nas to the striking of a light and the lighting of his pipe, he was\ntroubled, and his hand was not trustworthy. The spy would have been no\nspy if he had failed to see it, or to record it in his mind.\n\nHaving made, at least, this one hit, whatever it might prove to be\nworth, and no customers coming in to help him to any other, Mr. Barsad\npaid for what he had drunk, and took his leave: taking occasion to say,\nin a genteel manner, before he departed, that he looked forward to the\npleasure of seeing Monsieur and Madame Defarge again. For some minutes\nafter he had emerged into the outer presence of Saint Antoine, the\nhusband and wife remained exactly as he had left them, lest he should\ncome back.\n\n\"Can it be true,\" said Defarge, in a low voice, looking down at his wife\nas he stood smoking with his hand on the back of her chair: \"what he has\nsaid of Ma'amselle Manette?\"\n\n\"As he has said it,\" returned madame, lifting her eyebrows a little, \"it\nis probably false. But it may be true.\"\n\n\"If it is--\" Defarge began, and stopped.\n\n\"If it is?\" repeated his wife.\n\n\"--And if it does come, while we live to see it triumph--I hope, for her\nsake, Destiny will keep her husband out of France.\"\n\n\"Her husband's destiny,\" said Madame Defarge, with her usual composure,\n\"will take him where he is to go, and will lead him to the end that is\nto end him. That is all I know.\"\n\n\"But it is very strange--now, at least, is it not very strange\"--said\nDefarge, rather pleading with his wife to induce her to admit it,\n\"that, after all our sympathy for Monsieur her father, and herself, her\nhusband's name should be proscribed under your hand at this moment, by\nthe side of that infernal dog's who has just left us?\"\n\n\"Stranger things than that will happen when it does come,\" answered\nmadame. \"I have them both here, of a certainty; and they are both here\nfor their merits; that is enough.\"\n\nShe rolled up her knitting when she had said those words, and presently\ntook the rose out of the handkerchief that was wound about her head.\nEither Saint Antoine had an instinctive sense that the objectionable\ndecoration was gone, or Saint Antoine was on the watch for its\ndisappearance; howbeit, the Saint took courage to lounge in, very\nshortly afterwards, and the wine-shop recovered its habitual aspect.\n\nIn the evening, at which season of all others Saint Antoine turned\nhimself inside out, and sat on door-steps and window-ledges, and came\nto the corners of vile streets and courts, for a breath of air, Madame\nDefarge with her work in her hand was accustomed to pass from place\nto place and from group to group: a Missionary--there were many like\nher--such as the world will do well never to breed again. All the women\nknitted. They knitted worthless things; but, the mechanical work was a\nmechanical substitute for eating and drinking; the hands moved for the\njaws and the digestive apparatus: if the bony fingers had been still,\nthe stomachs would have been more famine-pinched.\n\nBut, as the fingers went, the eyes went, and the thoughts. And as Madame\nDefarge moved on from group to group, all three went quicker and fiercer\namong every little knot of women that she had spoken with, and left\nbehind.\n\nHer husband smoked at his door, looking after her with admiration. \"A\ngreat woman,\" said he, \"a strong woman, a grand woman, a frightfully\ngrand woman!\"\n\nDarkness closed around, and then came the ringing of church bells and\nthe distant beating of the military drums in the Palace Courtyard, as\nthe women sat knitting, knitting. Darkness encompassed them. Another\ndarkness was closing in as surely, when the church bells, then ringing\npleasantly in many an airy steeple over France, should be melted into\nthundering cannon; when the military drums should be beating to drown a\nwretched voice, that night all potent as the voice of Power and Plenty,\nFreedom and Life. So much was closing in about the women who sat\nknitting, knitting, that they their very selves were closing in around\na structure yet unbuilt, where they were to sit knitting, knitting,\ncounting dropping heads.\n\n\n\n\nXVII. One Night\n\n\nNever did the sun go down with a brighter glory on the quiet corner in\nSoho, than one memorable evening when the Doctor and his daughter sat\nunder the plane-tree together. Never did the moon rise with a milder\nradiance over great London, than on that night when it found them still\nseated under the tree, and shone upon their faces through its leaves.\n\nLucie was to be married to-morrow. She had reserved this last evening\nfor her father, and they sat alone under the plane-tree.\n\n\"You are happy, my dear father?\"\n\n\"Quite, my child.\"\n\nThey had said little, though they had been there a long time. When it\nwas yet light enough to work and read, she had neither engaged herself\nin her usual work, nor had she read to him. She had employed herself in\nboth ways, at his side under the tree, many and many a time; but, this\ntime was not quite like any other, and nothing could make it so.\n\n\"And I am very happy to-night, dear father. I am deeply happy in the\nlove that Heaven has so blessed--my love for Charles, and Charles's love\nfor me. But, if my life were not to be still consecrated to you, or\nif my marriage were so arranged as that it would part us, even by\nthe length of a few of these streets, I should be more unhappy and\nself-reproachful now than I can tell you. Even as it is--\"\n\nEven as it was, she could not command her voice.\n\nIn the sad moonlight, she clasped him by the neck, and laid her face\nupon his breast. In the moonlight which is always sad, as the light of\nthe sun itself is--as the light called human life is--at its coming and\nits going.\n\n\"Dearest dear! Can you tell me, this last time, that you feel quite,\nquite sure, no new affections of mine, and no new duties of mine, will\never interpose between us? _I_ know it well, but do you know it? In your\nown heart, do you feel quite certain?\"\n\nHer father answered, with a cheerful firmness of conviction he could\nscarcely have assumed, \"Quite sure, my darling! More than that,\" he\nadded, as he tenderly kissed her: \"my future is far brighter, Lucie,\nseen through your marriage, than it could have been--nay, than it ever\nwas--without it.\"\n\n\"If I could hope _that_, my father!--\"\n\n\"Believe it, love! Indeed it is so. Consider how natural and how plain\nit is, my dear, that it should be so. You, devoted and young, cannot\nfully appreciate the anxiety I have felt that your life should not be\nwasted--\"\n\nShe moved her hand towards his lips, but he took it in his, and repeated\nthe word.\n\n\"--wasted, my child--should not be wasted, struck aside from the\nnatural order of things--for my sake. Your unselfishness cannot entirely\ncomprehend how much my mind has gone on this; but, only ask yourself,\nhow could my happiness be perfect, while yours was incomplete?\"\n\n\"If I had never seen Charles, my father, I should have been quite happy\nwith you.\"\n\nHe smiled at her unconscious admission that she would have been unhappy\nwithout Charles, having seen him; and replied:\n\n\"My child, you did see him, and it is Charles. If it had not been\nCharles, it would have been another. Or, if it had been no other, I\nshould have been the cause, and then the dark part of my life would have\ncast its shadow beyond myself, and would have fallen on you.\"\n\nIt was the first time, except at the trial, of her ever hearing him\nrefer to the period of his suffering. It gave her a strange and new\nsensation while his words were in her ears; and she remembered it long\nafterwards.\n\n\"See!\" said the Doctor of Beauvais, raising his hand towards the moon.\n\"I have looked at her from my prison-window, when I could not bear her\nlight. I have looked at her when it has been such torture to me to think\nof her shining upon what I had lost, that I have beaten my head against\nmy prison-walls. I have looked at her, in a state so dull and lethargic,\nthat I have thought of nothing but the number of horizontal lines I\ncould draw across her at the full, and the number of perpendicular lines\nwith which I could intersect them.\" He added in his inward and pondering\nmanner, as he looked at the moon, \"It was twenty either way, I remember,\nand the twentieth was difficult to squeeze in.\"\n\nThe strange thrill with which she heard him go back to that time,\ndeepened as he dwelt upon it; but, there was nothing to shock her in\nthe manner of his reference. He only seemed to contrast his present\ncheerfulness and felicity with the dire endurance that was over.\n\n\"I have looked at her, speculating thousands of times upon the unborn\nchild from whom I had been rent. Whether it was alive. Whether it had\nbeen born alive, or the poor mother's shock had killed it. Whether it\nwas a son who would some day avenge his father. (There was a time in my\nimprisonment, when my desire for vengeance was unbearable.) Whether it\nwas a son who would never know his father's story; who might even live\nto weigh the possibility of his father's having disappeared of his own\nwill and act. Whether it was a daughter who would grow to be a woman.\"\n\nShe drew closer to him, and kissed his cheek and his hand.\n\n\"I have pictured my daughter, to myself, as perfectly forgetful of\nme--rather, altogether ignorant of me, and unconscious of me. I have\ncast up the years of her age, year after year. I have seen her married\nto a man who knew nothing of my fate. I have altogether perished from\nthe remembrance of the living, and in the next generation my place was a\nblank.\"\n\n\"My father! Even to hear that you had such thoughts of a daughter who\nnever existed, strikes to my heart as if I had been that child.\"\n\n\"You, Lucie? It is out of the Consolation and restoration you have\nbrought to me, that these remembrances arise, and pass between us and\nthe moon on this last night.--What did I say just now?\"\n\n\"She knew nothing of you. She cared nothing for you.\"\n\n\"So! But on other moonlight nights, when the sadness and the silence\nhave touched me in a different way--have affected me with something as\nlike a sorrowful sense of peace, as any emotion that had pain for its\nfoundations could--I have imagined her as coming to me in my cell, and\nleading me out into the freedom beyond the fortress. I have seen her\nimage in the moonlight often, as I now see you; except that I never held\nher in my arms; it stood between the little grated window and the door.\nBut, you understand that that was not the child I am speaking of?\"\n\n\"The figure was not; the--the--image; the fancy?\"\n\n\"No. That was another thing. It stood before my disturbed sense of\nsight, but it never moved. The phantom that my mind pursued, was another\nand more real child. Of her outward appearance I know no more than\nthat she was like her mother. The other had that likeness too--as you\nhave--but was not the same. Can you follow me, Lucie? Hardly, I think?\nI doubt you must have been a solitary prisoner to understand these\nperplexed distinctions.\"\n\nHis collected and calm manner could not prevent her blood from running\ncold, as he thus tried to anatomise his old condition.\n\n\"In that more peaceful state, I have imagined her, in the moonlight,\ncoming to me and taking me out to show me that the home of her married\nlife was full of her loving remembrance of her lost father. My picture\nwas in her room, and I was in her prayers. Her life was active,\ncheerful, useful; but my poor history pervaded it all.\"\n\n\"I was that child, my father, I was not half so good, but in my love\nthat was I.\"\n\n\"And she showed me her children,\" said the Doctor of Beauvais, \"and\nthey had heard of me, and had been taught to pity me. When they passed\na prison of the State, they kept far from its frowning walls, and looked\nup at its bars, and spoke in whispers. She could never deliver me; I\nimagined that she always brought me back after showing me such things.\nBut then, blessed with the relief of tears, I fell upon my knees, and\nblessed her.\"\n\n\"I am that child, I hope, my father. O my dear, my dear, will you bless\nme as fervently to-morrow?\"\n\n\"Lucie, I recall these old troubles in the reason that I have to-night\nfor loving you better than words can tell, and thanking God for my great\nhappiness. My thoughts, when they were wildest, never rose near the\nhappiness that I have known with you, and that we have before us.\"\n\nHe embraced her, solemnly commended her to Heaven, and humbly thanked\nHeaven for having bestowed her on him. By-and-bye, they went into the\nhouse.\n\nThere was no one bidden to the marriage but Mr. Lorry; there was even to\nbe no bridesmaid but the gaunt Miss Pross. The marriage was to make no\nchange in their place of residence; they had been able to extend it,\nby taking to themselves the upper rooms formerly belonging to the\napocryphal invisible lodger, and they desired nothing more.\n\nDoctor Manette was very cheerful at the little supper. They were only\nthree at table, and Miss Pross made the third. He regretted that Charles\nwas not there; was more than half disposed to object to the loving\nlittle plot that kept him away; and drank to him affectionately.\n\nSo, the time came for him to bid Lucie good night, and they separated.\nBut, in the stillness of the third hour of the morning, Lucie came\ndownstairs again, and stole into his room; not free from unshaped fears,\nbeforehand.\n\nAll things, however, were in their places; all was quiet; and he lay\nasleep, his white hair picturesque on the untroubled pillow, and his\nhands lying quiet on the coverlet. She put her needless candle in the\nshadow at a distance, crept up to his bed, and put her lips to his;\nthen, leaned over him, and looked at him.\n\nInto his handsome face, the bitter waters of captivity had worn; but, he\ncovered up their tracks with a determination so strong, that he held the\nmastery of them even in his sleep. A more remarkable face in its quiet,\nresolute, and guarded struggle with an unseen assailant, was not to be\nbeheld in all the wide dominions of sleep, that night.\n\nShe timidly laid her hand on his dear breast, and put up a prayer that\nshe might ever be as true to him as her love aspired to be, and as his\nsorrows deserved. Then, she withdrew her hand, and kissed his lips once\nmore, and went away. So, the sunrise came, and the shadows of the leaves\nof the plane-tree moved upon his face, as softly as her lips had moved\nin praying for him.\n\n\n\n\nXVIII. Nine Days\n\n\nThe marriage-day was shining brightly, and they were ready outside the\nclosed door of the Doctor's room, where he was speaking with Charles\nDarnay. They were ready to go to church; the beautiful bride, Mr.\nLorry, and Miss Pross--to whom the event, through a gradual process of\nreconcilement to the inevitable, would have been one of absolute bliss,\nbut for the yet lingering consideration that her brother Solomon should\nhave been the bridegroom.\n\n\"And so,\" said Mr. Lorry, who could not sufficiently admire the bride,\nand who had been moving round her to take in every point of her quiet,\npretty dress; \"and so it was for this, my sweet Lucie, that I brought\nyou across the Channel, such a baby! Lord bless me! How little I thought\nwhat I was doing! How lightly I valued the obligation I was conferring\non my friend Mr. Charles!\"\n\n\"You didn't mean it,\" remarked the matter-of-fact Miss Pross, \"and\ntherefore how could you know it? Nonsense!\"\n\n\"Really? Well; but don't cry,\" said the gentle Mr. Lorry.\n\n\"I am not crying,\" said Miss Pross; \"_you_ are.\"\n\n\"I, my Pross?\" (By this time, Mr. Lorry dared to be pleasant with her,\non occasion.)\n\n\"You were, just now; I saw you do it, and I don't wonder at it. Such\na present of plate as you have made 'em, is enough to bring tears into\nanybody's eyes. There's not a fork or a spoon in the collection,\" said\nMiss Pross, \"that I didn't cry over, last night after the box came, till\nI couldn't see it.\"\n\n\"I am highly gratified,\" said Mr. Lorry, \"though, upon my honour, I\nhad no intention of rendering those trifling articles of remembrance\ninvisible to any one. Dear me! This is an occasion that makes a man\nspeculate on all he has lost. Dear, dear, dear! To think that there\nmight have been a Mrs. Lorry, any time these fifty years almost!\"\n\n\"Not at all!\" From Miss Pross.\n\n\"You think there never might have been a Mrs. Lorry?\" asked the\ngentleman of that name.\n\n\"Pooh!\" rejoined Miss Pross; \"you were a bachelor in your cradle.\"\n\n\"Well!\" observed Mr. Lorry, beamingly adjusting his little wig, \"that\nseems probable, too.\"\n\n\"And you were cut out for a bachelor,\" pursued Miss Pross, \"before you\nwere put in your cradle.\"\n\n\"Then, I think,\" said Mr. Lorry, \"that I was very unhandsomely dealt\nwith, and that I ought to have had a voice in the selection of my\npattern. Enough! Now, my dear Lucie,\" drawing his arm soothingly round\nher waist, \"I hear them moving in the next room, and Miss Pross and\nI, as two formal folks of business, are anxious not to lose the final\nopportunity of saying something to you that you wish to hear. You leave\nyour good father, my dear, in hands as earnest and as loving as your\nown; he shall be taken every conceivable care of; during the next\nfortnight, while you are in Warwickshire and thereabouts, even Tellson's\nshall go to the wall (comparatively speaking) before him. And when, at\nthe fortnight's end, he comes to join you and your beloved husband, on\nyour other fortnight's trip in Wales, you shall say that we have sent\nhim to you in the best health and in the happiest frame. Now, I hear\nSomebody's step coming to the door. Let me kiss my dear girl with an\nold-fashioned bachelor blessing, before Somebody comes to claim his\nown.\"\n\nFor a moment, he held the fair face from him to look at the\nwell-remembered expression on the forehead, and then laid the bright\ngolden hair against his little brown wig, with a genuine tenderness and\ndelicacy which, if such things be old-fashioned, were as old as Adam.\n\nThe door of the Doctor's room opened, and he came out with Charles\nDarnay. He was so deadly pale--which had not been the case when they\nwent in together--that no vestige of colour was to be seen in his face.\nBut, in the composure of his manner he was unaltered, except that to the\nshrewd glance of Mr. Lorry it disclosed some shadowy indication that the\nold air of avoidance and dread had lately passed over him, like a cold\nwind.\n\nHe gave his arm to his daughter, and took her down-stairs to the chariot\nwhich Mr. Lorry had hired in honour of the day. The rest followed in\nanother carriage, and soon, in a neighbouring church, where no strange\neyes looked on, Charles Darnay and Lucie Manette were happily married.\n\nBesides the glancing tears that shone among the smiles of the little\ngroup when it was done, some diamonds, very bright and sparkling,\nglanced on the bride's hand, which were newly released from the\ndark obscurity of one of Mr. Lorry's pockets. They returned home to\nbreakfast, and all went well, and in due course the golden hair that had\nmingled with the poor shoemaker's white locks in the Paris garret, were\nmingled with them again in the morning sunlight, on the threshold of the\ndoor at parting.\n\nIt was a hard parting, though it was not for long. But her father\ncheered her, and said at last, gently disengaging himself from her\nenfolding arms, \"Take her, Charles! She is yours!\"\n\nAnd her agitated hand waved to them from a chaise window, and she was\ngone.\n\nThe corner being out of the way of the idle and curious, and the\npreparations having been very simple and few, the Doctor, Mr. Lorry,\nand Miss Pross, were left quite alone. It was when they turned into\nthe welcome shade of the cool old hall, that Mr. Lorry observed a great\nchange to have come over the Doctor; as if the golden arm uplifted\nthere, had struck him a poisoned blow.\n\nHe had naturally repressed much, and some revulsion might have been\nexpected in him when the occasion for repression was gone. But, it was\nthe old scared lost look that troubled Mr. Lorry; and through his absent\nmanner of clasping his head and drearily wandering away into his own\nroom when they got up-stairs, Mr. Lorry was reminded of Defarge the\nwine-shop keeper, and the starlight ride.\n\n\"I think,\" he whispered to Miss Pross, after anxious consideration, \"I\nthink we had best not speak to him just now, or at all disturb him.\nI must look in at Tellson's; so I will go there at once and come back\npresently. Then, we will take him a ride into the country, and dine\nthere, and all will be well.\"\n\nIt was easier for Mr. Lorry to look in at Tellson's, than to look out of\nTellson's. He was detained two hours. When he came back, he ascended the\nold staircase alone, having asked no question of the servant; going thus\ninto the Doctor's rooms, he was stopped by a low sound of knocking.\n\n\"Good God!\" he said, with a start. \"What's that?\"\n\nMiss Pross, with a terrified face, was at his ear. \"O me, O me! All is\nlost!\" cried she, wringing her hands. \"What is to be told to Ladybird?\nHe doesn't know me, and is making shoes!\"\n\nMr. Lorry said what he could to calm her, and went himself into the\nDoctor's room. The bench was turned towards the light, as it had been\nwhen he had seen the shoemaker at his work before, and his head was bent\ndown, and he was very busy.\n\n\"Doctor Manette. My dear friend, Doctor Manette!\"\n\nThe Doctor looked at him for a moment--half inquiringly, half as if he\nwere angry at being spoken to--and bent over his work again.\n\nHe had laid aside his coat and waistcoat; his shirt was open at the\nthroat, as it used to be when he did that work; and even the old\nhaggard, faded surface of face had come back to him. He worked\nhard--impatiently--as if in some sense of having been interrupted.\n\nMr. Lorry glanced at the work in his hand, and observed that it was a\nshoe of the old size and shape. He took up another that was lying by\nhim, and asked what it was.\n\n\"A young lady's walking shoe,\" he muttered, without looking up. \"It\nought to have been finished long ago. Let it be.\"\n\n\"But, Doctor Manette. Look at me!\"\n\nHe obeyed, in the old mechanically submissive manner, without pausing in\nhis work.\n\n\"You know me, my dear friend? Think again. This is not your proper\noccupation. Think, dear friend!\"\n\nNothing would induce him to speak more. He looked up, for an instant at\na time, when he was requested to do so; but, no persuasion would extract\na word from him. He worked, and worked, and worked, in silence, and\nwords fell on him as they would have fallen on an echoless wall, or on\nthe air. The only ray of hope that Mr. Lorry could discover, was, that\nhe sometimes furtively looked up without being asked. In that, there\nseemed a faint expression of curiosity or perplexity--as though he were\ntrying to reconcile some doubts in his mind.\n\nTwo things at once impressed themselves on Mr. Lorry, as important above\nall others; the first, that this must be kept secret from Lucie;\nthe second, that it must be kept secret from all who knew him. In\nconjunction with Miss Pross, he took immediate steps towards the latter\nprecaution, by giving out that the Doctor was not well, and required a\nfew days of complete rest. In aid of the kind deception to be practised\non his daughter, Miss Pross was to write, describing his having been\ncalled away professionally, and referring to an imaginary letter of\ntwo or three hurried lines in his own hand, represented to have been\naddressed to her by the same post.\n\nThese measures, advisable to be taken in any case, Mr. Lorry took in\nthe hope of his coming to himself. If that should happen soon, he kept\nanother course in reserve; which was, to have a certain opinion that he\nthought the best, on the Doctor's case.\n\nIn the hope of his recovery, and of resort to this third course\nbeing thereby rendered practicable, Mr. Lorry resolved to watch him\nattentively, with as little appearance as possible of doing so. He\ntherefore made arrangements to absent himself from Tellson's for the\nfirst time in his life, and took his post by the window in the same\nroom.\n\nHe was not long in discovering that it was worse than useless to speak\nto him, since, on being pressed, he became worried. He abandoned that\nattempt on the first day, and resolved merely to keep himself always\nbefore him, as a silent protest against the delusion into which he had\nfallen, or was falling. He remained, therefore, in his seat near the\nwindow, reading and writing, and expressing in as many pleasant and\nnatural ways as he could think of, that it was a free place.\n\nDoctor Manette took what was given him to eat and drink, and worked on,\nthat first day, until it was too dark to see--worked on, half an hour\nafter Mr. Lorry could not have seen, for his life, to read or write.\nWhen he put his tools aside as useless, until morning, Mr. Lorry rose\nand said to him:\n\n\"Will you go out?\"\n\nHe looked down at the floor on either side of him in the old manner,\nlooked up in the old manner, and repeated in the old low voice:\n\n\"Out?\"\n\n\"Yes; for a walk with me. Why not?\"\n\nHe made no effort to say why not, and said not a word more. But, Mr.\nLorry thought he saw, as he leaned forward on his bench in the dusk,\nwith his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, that he was in\nsome misty way asking himself, \"Why not?\" The sagacity of the man of\nbusiness perceived an advantage here, and determined to hold it.\n\nMiss Pross and he divided the night into two watches, and observed him\nat intervals from the adjoining room. He paced up and down for a long\ntime before he lay down; but, when he did finally lay himself down, he\nfell asleep. In the morning, he was up betimes, and went straight to his\nbench and to work.\n\nOn this second day, Mr. Lorry saluted him cheerfully by his name,\nand spoke to him on topics that had been of late familiar to them. He\nreturned no reply, but it was evident that he heard what was said, and\nthat he thought about it, however confusedly. This encouraged Mr. Lorry\nto have Miss Pross in with her work, several times during the day;\nat those times, they quietly spoke of Lucie, and of her father then\npresent, precisely in the usual manner, and as if there were nothing\namiss. This was done without any demonstrative accompaniment, not long\nenough, or often enough to harass him; and it lightened Mr. Lorry's\nfriendly heart to believe that he looked up oftener, and that he\nappeared to be stirred by some perception of inconsistencies surrounding\nhim.\n\nWhen it fell dark again, Mr. Lorry asked him as before:\n\n\"Dear Doctor, will you go out?\"\n\nAs before, he repeated, \"Out?\"\n\n\"Yes; for a walk with me. Why not?\"\n\nThis time, Mr. Lorry feigned to go out when he could extract no answer\nfrom him, and, after remaining absent for an hour, returned. In the\nmeanwhile, the Doctor had removed to the seat in the window, and had\nsat there looking down at the plane-tree; but, on Mr. Lorry's return, he\nslipped away to his bench.\n\nThe time went very slowly on, and Mr. Lorry's hope darkened, and his\nheart grew heavier again, and grew yet heavier and heavier every day.\nThe third day came and went, the fourth, the fifth. Five days, six days,\nseven days, eight days, nine days.\n\nWith a hope ever darkening, and with a heart always growing heavier and\nheavier, Mr. Lorry passed through this anxious time. The secret was\nwell kept, and Lucie was unconscious and happy; but he could not fail to\nobserve that the shoemaker, whose hand had been a little out at first,\nwas growing dreadfully skilful, and that he had never been so intent on\nhis work, and that his hands had never been so nimble and expert, as in\nthe dusk of the ninth evening.\n\n\n\n\nXIX. An Opinion\n\n\nWorn out by anxious watching, Mr. Lorry fell asleep at his post. On the\ntenth morning of his suspense, he was startled by the shining of the sun\ninto the room where a heavy slumber had overtaken him when it was dark\nnight.\n\nHe rubbed his eyes and roused himself; but he doubted, when he had\ndone so, whether he was not still asleep. For, going to the door of the\nDoctor's room and looking in, he perceived that the shoemaker's bench\nand tools were put aside again, and that the Doctor himself sat reading\nat the window. He was in his usual morning dress, and his face (which\nMr. Lorry could distinctly see), though still very pale, was calmly\nstudious and attentive.\n\nEven when he had satisfied himself that he was awake, Mr. Lorry felt\ngiddily uncertain for some few moments whether the late shoemaking might\nnot be a disturbed dream of his own; for, did not his eyes show him his\nfriend before him in his accustomed clothing and aspect, and employed\nas usual; and was there any sign within their range, that the change of\nwhich he had so strong an impression had actually happened?\n\nIt was but the inquiry of his first confusion and astonishment, the\nanswer being obvious. If the impression were not produced by a real\ncorresponding and sufficient cause, how came he, Jarvis Lorry, there?\nHow came he to have fallen asleep, in his clothes, on the sofa in Doctor\nManette's consulting-room, and to be debating these points outside the\nDoctor's bedroom door in the early morning?\n\nWithin a few minutes, Miss Pross stood whispering at his side. If he\nhad had any particle of doubt left, her talk would of necessity have\nresolved it; but he was by that time clear-headed, and had none.\nHe advised that they should let the time go by until the regular\nbreakfast-hour, and should then meet the Doctor as if nothing unusual\nhad occurred. If he appeared to be in his customary state of mind, Mr.\nLorry would then cautiously proceed to seek direction and guidance from\nthe opinion he had been, in his anxiety, so anxious to obtain.\n\nMiss Pross, submitting herself to his judgment, the scheme was worked\nout with care. Having abundance of time for his usual methodical\ntoilette, Mr. Lorry presented himself at the breakfast-hour in his usual\nwhite linen, and with his usual neat leg. The Doctor was summoned in the\nusual way, and came to breakfast.\n\nSo far as it was possible to comprehend him without overstepping those\ndelicate and gradual approaches which Mr. Lorry felt to be the only safe\nadvance, he at first supposed that his daughter's marriage had taken\nplace yesterday. An incidental allusion, purposely thrown out, to\nthe day of the week, and the day of the month, set him thinking and\ncounting, and evidently made him uneasy. In all other respects, however,\nhe was so composedly himself, that Mr. Lorry determined to have the aid\nhe sought. And that aid was his own.\n\nTherefore, when the breakfast was done and cleared away, and he and the\nDoctor were left together, Mr. Lorry said, feelingly:\n\n\"My dear Manette, I am anxious to have your opinion, in confidence, on a\nvery curious case in which I am deeply interested; that is to say, it is\nvery curious to me; perhaps, to your better information it may be less\nso.\"\n\nGlancing at his hands, which were discoloured by his late work, the\nDoctor looked troubled, and listened attentively. He had already glanced\nat his hands more than once.\n\n\"Doctor Manette,\" said Mr. Lorry, touching him affectionately on the\narm, \"the case is the case of a particularly dear friend of mine. Pray\ngive your mind to it, and advise me well for his sake--and above all,\nfor his daughter's--his daughter's, my dear Manette.\"\n\n\"If I understand,\" said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, \"some mental\nshock--?\"\n\n\"Yes!\"\n\n\"Be explicit,\" said the Doctor. \"Spare no detail.\"\n\nMr. Lorry saw that they understood one another, and proceeded.\n\n\"My dear Manette, it is the case of an old and a prolonged shock,\nof great acuteness and severity to the affections, the feelings,\nthe--the--as you express it--the mind. The mind. It is the case of a\nshock under which the sufferer was borne down, one cannot say for how\nlong, because I believe he cannot calculate the time himself, and there\nare no other means of getting at it. It is the case of a shock from\nwhich the sufferer recovered, by a process that he cannot trace\nhimself--as I once heard him publicly relate in a striking manner. It is\nthe case of a shock from which he has recovered, so completely, as to\nbe a highly intelligent man, capable of close application of mind, and\ngreat exertion of body, and of constantly making fresh additions to his\nstock of knowledge, which was already very large. But, unfortunately,\nthere has been,\" he paused and took a deep breath--\"a slight relapse.\"\n\nThe Doctor, in a low voice, asked, \"Of how long duration?\"\n\n\"Nine days and nights.\"\n\n\"How did it show itself? I infer,\" glancing at his hands again, \"in the\nresumption of some old pursuit connected with the shock?\"\n\n\"That is the fact.\"\n\n\"Now, did you ever see him,\" asked the Doctor, distinctly and\ncollectedly, though in the same low voice, \"engaged in that pursuit\noriginally?\"\n\n\"Once.\"\n\n\"And when the relapse fell on him, was he in most respects--or in all\nrespects--as he was then?\"\n\n\"I think in all respects.\"\n\n\"You spoke of his daughter. Does his daughter know of the relapse?\"\n\n\"No. It has been kept from her, and I hope will always be kept from her.\nIt is known only to myself, and to one other who may be trusted.\"\n\nThe Doctor grasped his hand, and murmured, \"That was very kind. That was\nvery thoughtful!\" Mr. Lorry grasped his hand in return, and neither of\nthe two spoke for a little while.\n\n\"Now, my dear Manette,\" said Mr. Lorry, at length, in his most\nconsiderate and most affectionate way, \"I am a mere man of business,\nand unfit to cope with such intricate and difficult matters. I do not\npossess the kind of information necessary; I do not possess the kind of\nintelligence; I want guiding. There is no man in this world on whom\nI could so rely for right guidance, as on you. Tell me, how does this\nrelapse come about? Is there danger of another? Could a repetition of it\nbe prevented? How should a repetition of it be treated? How does it come\nabout at all? What can I do for my friend? No man ever can have been\nmore desirous in his heart to serve a friend, than I am to serve mine,\nif I knew how.\n\n\"But I don't know how to originate, in such a case. If your sagacity,\nknowledge, and experience, could put me on the right track, I might be\nable to do so much; unenlightened and undirected, I can do so little.\nPray discuss it with me; pray enable me to see it a little more clearly,\nand teach me how to be a little more useful.\"\n\nDoctor Manette sat meditating after these earnest words were spoken, and\nMr. Lorry did not press him.\n\n\"I think it probable,\" said the Doctor, breaking silence with an effort,\n\"that the relapse you have described, my dear friend, was not quite\nunforeseen by its subject.\"\n\n\"Was it dreaded by him?\" Mr. Lorry ventured to ask.\n\n\"Very much.\" He said it with an involuntary shudder.\n\n\"You have no idea how such an apprehension weighs on the sufferer's\nmind, and how difficult--how almost impossible--it is, for him to force\nhimself to utter a word upon the topic that oppresses him.\"\n\n\"Would he,\" asked Mr. Lorry, \"be sensibly relieved if he could prevail\nupon himself to impart that secret brooding to any one, when it is on\nhim?\"\n\n\"I think so. But it is, as I have told you, next to impossible. I even\nbelieve it--in some cases--to be quite impossible.\"\n\n\"Now,\" said Mr. Lorry, gently laying his hand on the Doctor's arm again,\nafter a short silence on both sides, \"to what would you refer this\nattack?\"\n\n\"I believe,\" returned Doctor Manette, \"that there had been a strong and\nextraordinary revival of the train of thought and remembrance that\nwas the first cause of the malady. Some intense associations of a most\ndistressing nature were vividly recalled, I think. It is probable that\nthere had long been a dread lurking in his mind, that those associations\nwould be recalled--say, under certain circumstances--say, on a\nparticular occasion. He tried to prepare himself in vain; perhaps the\neffort to prepare himself made him less able to bear it.\"\n\n\"Would he remember what took place in the relapse?\" asked Mr. Lorry,\nwith natural hesitation.\n\nThe Doctor looked desolately round the room, shook his head, and\nanswered, in a low voice, \"Not at all.\"\n\n\"Now, as to the future,\" hinted Mr. Lorry.\n\n\"As to the future,\" said the Doctor, recovering firmness, \"I should have\ngreat hope. As it pleased Heaven in its mercy to restore him so soon, I\nshould have great hope. He, yielding under the pressure of a complicated\nsomething, long dreaded and long vaguely foreseen and contended against,\nand recovering after the cloud had burst and passed, I should hope that\nthe worst was over.\"\n\n\"Well, well! That's good comfort. I am thankful!\" said Mr. Lorry.\n\n\"I am thankful!\" repeated the Doctor, bending his head with reverence.\n\n\"There are two other points,\" said Mr. Lorry, \"on which I am anxious to\nbe instructed. I may go on?\"\n\n\"You cannot do your friend a better service.\" The Doctor gave him his\nhand.\n\n\"To the first, then. He is of a studious habit, and unusually energetic;\nhe applies himself with great ardour to the acquisition of professional\nknowledge, to the conducting of experiments, to many things. Now, does\nhe do too much?\"\n\n\"I think not. It may be the character of his mind, to be always in\nsingular need of occupation. That may be, in part, natural to it; in\npart, the result of affliction. The less it was occupied with healthy\nthings, the more it would be in danger of turning in the unhealthy\ndirection. He may have observed himself, and made the discovery.\"\n\n\"You are sure that he is not under too great a strain?\"\n\n\"I think I am quite sure of it.\"\n\n\"My dear Manette, if he were overworked now--\"\n\n\"My dear Lorry, I doubt if that could easily be. There has been a\nviolent stress in one direction, and it needs a counterweight.\"\n\n\"Excuse me, as a persistent man of business. Assuming for a moment,\nthat he _was_ overworked; it would show itself in some renewal of this\ndisorder?\"\n\n\"I do not think so. I do not think,\" said Doctor Manette with the\nfirmness of self-conviction, \"that anything but the one train of\nassociation would renew it. I think that, henceforth, nothing but some\nextraordinary jarring of that chord could renew it. After what has\nhappened, and after his recovery, I find it difficult to imagine any\nsuch violent sounding of that string again. I trust, and I almost\nbelieve, that the circumstances likely to renew it are exhausted.\"\n\nHe spoke with the diffidence of a man who knew how slight a thing\nwould overset the delicate organisation of the mind, and yet with the\nconfidence of a man who had slowly won his assurance out of personal\nendurance and distress. It was not for his friend to abate that\nconfidence. He professed himself more relieved and encouraged than he\nreally was, and approached his second and last point. He felt it to\nbe the most difficult of all; but, remembering his old Sunday morning\nconversation with Miss Pross, and remembering what he had seen in the\nlast nine days, he knew that he must face it.\n\n\"The occupation resumed under the influence of this passing affliction\nso happily recovered from,\" said Mr. Lorry, clearing his throat, \"we\nwill call--Blacksmith's work, Blacksmith's work. We will say, to put a\ncase and for the sake of illustration, that he had been used, in his bad\ntime, to work at a little forge. We will say that he was unexpectedly\nfound at his forge again. Is it not a pity that he should keep it by\nhim?\"\n\nThe Doctor shaded his forehead with his hand, and beat his foot\nnervously on the ground.\n\n\"He has always kept it by him,\" said Mr. Lorry, with an anxious look at\nhis friend. \"Now, would it not be better that he should let it go?\"\n\nStill, the Doctor, with shaded forehead, beat his foot nervously on the\nground.\n\n\"You do not find it easy to advise me?\" said Mr. Lorry. \"I quite\nunderstand it to be a nice question. And yet I think--\" And there he\nshook his head, and stopped.\n\n\"You see,\" said Doctor Manette, turning to him after an uneasy pause,\n\"it is very hard to explain, consistently, the innermost workings\nof this poor man's mind. He once yearned so frightfully for that\noccupation, and it was so welcome when it came; no doubt it relieved\nhis pain so much, by substituting the perplexity of the fingers for\nthe perplexity of the brain, and by substituting, as he became more\npractised, the ingenuity of the hands, for the ingenuity of the mental\ntorture; that he has never been able to bear the thought of putting it\nquite out of his reach. Even now, when I believe he is more hopeful of\nhimself than he has ever been, and even speaks of himself with a kind\nof confidence, the idea that he might need that old employment, and not\nfind it, gives him a sudden sense of terror, like that which one may\nfancy strikes to the heart of a lost child.\"\n\nHe looked like his illustration, as he raised his eyes to Mr. Lorry's\nface.\n\n\"But may not--mind! I ask for information, as a plodding man of business\nwho only deals with such material objects as guineas, shillings, and\nbank-notes--may not the retention of the thing involve the retention of\nthe idea? If the thing were gone, my dear Manette, might not the fear go\nwith it? In short, is it not a concession to the misgiving, to keep the\nforge?\"\n\nThere was another silence.\n\n\"You see, too,\" said the Doctor, tremulously, \"it is such an old\ncompanion.\"\n\n\"I would not keep it,\" said Mr. Lorry, shaking his head; for he gained\nin firmness as he saw the Doctor disquieted. \"I would recommend him to\nsacrifice it. I only want your authority. I am sure it does no good.\nCome! Give me your authority, like a dear good man. For his daughter's\nsake, my dear Manette!\"\n\nVery strange to see what a struggle there was within him!\n\n\"In her name, then, let it be done; I sanction it. But, I would not take\nit away while he was present. Let it be removed when he is not there;\nlet him miss his old companion after an absence.\"\n\nMr. Lorry readily engaged for that, and the conference was ended. They\npassed the day in the country, and the Doctor was quite restored. On the\nthree following days he remained perfectly well, and on the fourteenth\nday he went away to join Lucie and her husband. The precaution that\nhad been taken to account for his silence, Mr. Lorry had previously\nexplained to him, and he had written to Lucie in accordance with it, and\nshe had no suspicions.\n\nOn the night of the day on which he left the house, Mr. Lorry went into\nhis room with a chopper, saw, chisel, and hammer, attended by Miss Pross\ncarrying a light. There, with closed doors, and in a mysterious and\nguilty manner, Mr. Lorry hacked the shoemaker's bench to pieces, while\nMiss Pross held the candle as if she were assisting at a murder--for\nwhich, indeed, in her grimness, she was no unsuitable figure. The\nburning of the body (previously reduced to pieces convenient for the\npurpose) was commenced without delay in the kitchen fire; and the tools,\nshoes, and leather, were buried in the garden. So wicked do destruction\nand secrecy appear to honest minds, that Mr. Lorry and Miss Pross,\nwhile engaged in the commission of their deed and in the removal of its\ntraces, almost felt, and almost looked, like accomplices in a horrible\ncrime.\n\n\n\n\nXX. A Plea\n\n\nWhen the newly-married pair came home, the first person who appeared, to\noffer his congratulations, was Sydney Carton. They had not been at home\nmany hours, when he presented himself. He was not improved in habits, or\nin looks, or in manner; but there was a certain rugged air of fidelity\nabout him, which was new to the observation of Charles Darnay.\n\nHe watched his opportunity of taking Darnay aside into a window, and of\nspeaking to him when no one overheard.\n\n\"Mr. Darnay,\" said Carton, \"I wish we might be friends.\"\n\n\"We are already friends, I hope.\"\n\n\"You are good enough to say so, as a fashion of speech; but, I don't\nmean any fashion of speech. Indeed, when I say I wish we might be\nfriends, I scarcely mean quite that, either.\"\n\nCharles Darnay--as was natural--asked him, in all good-humour and\ngood-fellowship, what he did mean?\n\n\"Upon my life,\" said Carton, smiling, \"I find that easier to comprehend\nin my own mind, than to convey to yours. However, let me try. You\nremember a certain famous occasion when I was more drunk than--than\nusual?\"\n\n\"I remember a certain famous occasion when you forced me to confess that\nyou had been drinking.\"\n\n\"I remember it too. The curse of those occasions is heavy upon me, for I\nalways remember them. I hope it may be taken into account one day,\nwhen all days are at an end for me! Don't be alarmed; I am not going to\npreach.\"\n\n\"I am not at all alarmed. Earnestness in you, is anything but alarming\nto me.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said Carton, with a careless wave of his hand, as if he waved that\naway. \"On the drunken occasion in question (one of a large number, as\nyou know), I was insufferable about liking you, and not liking you. I\nwish you would forget it.\"\n\n\"I forgot it long ago.\"\n\n\"Fashion of speech again! But, Mr. Darnay, oblivion is not so easy to\nme, as you represent it to be to you. I have by no means forgotten it,\nand a light answer does not help me to forget it.\"\n\n\"If it was a light answer,\" returned Darnay, \"I beg your forgiveness\nfor it. I had no other object than to turn a slight thing, which, to my\nsurprise, seems to trouble you too much, aside. I declare to you, on the\nfaith of a gentleman, that I have long dismissed it from my mind. Good\nHeaven, what was there to dismiss! Have I had nothing more important to\nremember, in the great service you rendered me that day?\"\n\n\"As to the great service,\" said Carton, \"I am bound to avow to you, when\nyou speak of it in that way, that it was mere professional claptrap, I\ndon't know that I cared what became of you, when I rendered it.--Mind! I\nsay when I rendered it; I am speaking of the past.\"\n\n\"You make light of the obligation,\" returned Darnay, \"but I will not\nquarrel with _your_ light answer.\"\n\n\"Genuine truth, Mr. Darnay, trust me! I have gone aside from my purpose;\nI was speaking about our being friends. Now, you know me; you know I am\nincapable of all the higher and better flights of men. If you doubt it,\nask Stryver, and he'll tell you so.\"\n\n\"I prefer to form my own opinion, without the aid of his.\"\n\n\"Well! At any rate you know me as a dissolute dog, who has never done\nany good, and never will.\"\n\n\"I don't know that you 'never will.'\"\n\n\"But I do, and you must take my word for it. Well! If you could endure\nto have such a worthless fellow, and a fellow of such indifferent\nreputation, coming and going at odd times, I should ask that I might be\npermitted to come and go as a privileged person here; that I might\nbe regarded as an useless (and I would add, if it were not for the\nresemblance I detected between you and me, an unornamental) piece of\nfurniture, tolerated for its old service, and taken no notice of. I\ndoubt if I should abuse the permission. It is a hundred to one if I\nshould avail myself of it four times in a year. It would satisfy me, I\ndare say, to know that I had it.\"\n\n\"Will you try?\"\n\n\"That is another way of saying that I am placed on the footing I have\nindicated. I thank you, Darnay. I may use that freedom with your name?\"\n\n\"I think so, Carton, by this time.\"\n\nThey shook hands upon it, and Sydney turned away. Within a minute\nafterwards, he was, to all outward appearance, as unsubstantial as ever.\n\nWhen he was gone, and in the course of an evening passed with Miss\nPross, the Doctor, and Mr. Lorry, Charles Darnay made some mention of\nthis conversation in general terms, and spoke of Sydney Carton as a\nproblem of carelessness and recklessness. He spoke of him, in short, not\nbitterly or meaning to bear hard upon him, but as anybody might who saw\nhim as he showed himself.\n\nHe had no idea that this could dwell in the thoughts of his fair young\nwife; but, when he afterwards joined her in their own rooms, he found\nher waiting for him with the old pretty lifting of the forehead strongly\nmarked.\n\n\"We are thoughtful to-night!\" said Darnay, drawing his arm about her.\n\n\"Yes, dearest Charles,\" with her hands on his breast, and the inquiring\nand attentive expression fixed upon him; \"we are rather thoughtful\nto-night, for we have something on our mind to-night.\"\n\n\"What is it, my Lucie?\"\n\n\"Will you promise not to press one question on me, if I beg you not to\nask it?\"\n\n\"Will I promise? What will I not promise to my Love?\"\n\nWhat, indeed, with his hand putting aside the golden hair from the\ncheek, and his other hand against the heart that beat for him!\n\n\"I think, Charles, poor Mr. Carton deserves more consideration and\nrespect than you expressed for him to-night.\"\n\n\"Indeed, my own? Why so?\"\n\n\"That is what you are not to ask me. But I think--I know--he does.\"\n\n\"If you know it, it is enough. What would you have me do, my Life?\"\n\n\"I would ask you, dearest, to be very generous with him always, and very\nlenient on his faults when he is not by. I would ask you to believe that\nhe has a heart he very, very seldom reveals, and that there are deep\nwounds in it. My dear, I have seen it bleeding.\"\n\n\"It is a painful reflection to me,\" said Charles Darnay, quite\nastounded, \"that I should have done him any wrong. I never thought this\nof him.\"\n\n\"My husband, it is so. I fear he is not to be reclaimed; there is\nscarcely a hope that anything in his character or fortunes is reparable\nnow. But, I am sure that he is capable of good things, gentle things,\neven magnanimous things.\"\n\nShe looked so beautiful in the purity of her faith in this lost man,\nthat her husband could have looked at her as she was for hours.\n\n\"And, O my dearest Love!\" she urged, clinging nearer to him, laying her\nhead upon his breast, and raising her eyes to his, \"remember how strong\nwe are in our happiness, and how weak he is in his misery!\"\n\nThe supplication touched him home. \"I will always remember it, dear\nHeart! I will remember it as long as I live.\"\n\nHe bent over the golden head, and put the rosy lips to his, and folded\nher in his arms. If one forlorn wanderer then pacing the dark streets,\ncould have heard her innocent disclosure, and could have seen the drops\nof pity kissed away by her husband from the soft blue eyes so loving of\nthat husband, he might have cried to the night--and the words would not\nhave parted from his lips for the first time--\n\n\"God bless her for her sweet compassion!\"\n\n\n\n\nXXI. Echoing Footsteps\n\n\nA wonderful corner for echoes, it has been remarked, that corner where\nthe Doctor lived. Ever busily winding the golden thread which bound\nher husband, and her father, and herself, and her old directress and\ncompanion, in a life of quiet bliss, Lucie sat in the still house in\nthe tranquilly resounding corner, listening to the echoing footsteps of\nyears.\n\nAt first, there were times, though she was a perfectly happy young wife,\nwhen her work would slowly fall from her hands, and her eyes would be\ndimmed. For, there was something coming in the echoes, something light,\nafar off, and scarcely audible yet, that stirred her heart too much.\nFluttering hopes and doubts--hopes, of a love as yet unknown to her:\ndoubts, of her remaining upon earth, to enjoy that new delight--divided\nher breast. Among the echoes then, there would arise the sound of\nfootsteps at her own early grave; and thoughts of the husband who would\nbe left so desolate, and who would mourn for her so much, swelled to her\neyes, and broke like waves.\n\nThat time passed, and her little Lucie lay on her bosom. Then, among the\nadvancing echoes, there was the tread of her tiny feet and the sound of\nher prattling words. Let greater echoes resound as they would, the young\nmother at the cradle side could always hear those coming. They came, and\nthe shady house was sunny with a child's laugh, and the Divine friend of\nchildren, to whom in her trouble she had confided hers, seemed to take\nher child in his arms, as He took the child of old, and made it a sacred\njoy to her.\n\nEver busily winding the golden thread that bound them all together,\nweaving the service of her happy influence through the tissue of all\ntheir lives, and making it predominate nowhere, Lucie heard in the\nechoes of years none but friendly and soothing sounds. Her husband's\nstep was strong and prosperous among them; her father's firm and equal.\nLo, Miss Pross, in harness of string, awakening the echoes, as an\nunruly charger, whip-corrected, snorting and pawing the earth under the\nplane-tree in the garden!\n\nEven when there were sounds of sorrow among the rest, they were not\nharsh nor cruel. Even when golden hair, like her own, lay in a halo on a\npillow round the worn face of a little boy, and he said, with a radiant\nsmile, \"Dear papa and mamma, I am very sorry to leave you both, and to\nleave my pretty sister; but I am called, and I must go!\" those were not\ntears all of agony that wetted his young mother's cheek, as the spirit\ndeparted from her embrace that had been entrusted to it. Suffer them and\nforbid them not. They see my Father's face. O Father, blessed words!\n\nThus, the rustling of an Angel's wings got blended with the other\nechoes, and they were not wholly of earth, but had in them that breath\nof Heaven. Sighs of the winds that blew over a little garden-tomb were\nmingled with them also, and both were audible to Lucie, in a hushed\nmurmur--like the breathing of a summer sea asleep upon a sandy shore--as\nthe little Lucie, comically studious at the task of the morning, or\ndressing a doll at her mother's footstool, chattered in the tongues of\nthe Two Cities that were blended in her life.\n\nThe Echoes rarely answered to the actual tread of Sydney Carton. Some\nhalf-dozen times a year, at most, he claimed his privilege of coming in\nuninvited, and would sit among them through the evening, as he had once\ndone often. He never came there heated with wine. And one other thing\nregarding him was whispered in the echoes, which has been whispered by\nall true echoes for ages and ages.\n\nNo man ever really loved a woman, lost her, and knew her with a\nblameless though an unchanged mind, when she was a wife and a mother,\nbut her children had a strange sympathy with him--an instinctive\ndelicacy of pity for him. What fine hidden sensibilities are touched in\nsuch a case, no echoes tell; but it is so, and it was so here. Carton\nwas the first stranger to whom little Lucie held out her chubby arms,\nand he kept his place with her as she grew. The little boy had spoken of\nhim, almost at the last. \"Poor Carton! Kiss him for me!\"\n\nMr. Stryver shouldered his way through the law, like some great engine\nforcing itself through turbid water, and dragged his useful friend in\nhis wake, like a boat towed astern. As the boat so favoured is usually\nin a rough plight, and mostly under water, so, Sydney had a swamped\nlife of it. But, easy and strong custom, unhappily so much easier and\nstronger in him than any stimulating sense of desert or disgrace, made\nit the life he was to lead; and he no more thought of emerging from his\nstate of lion's jackal, than any real jackal may be supposed to think of\nrising to be a lion. Stryver was rich; had married a florid widow with\nproperty and three boys, who had nothing particularly shining about them\nbut the straight hair of their dumpling heads.\n\nThese three young gentlemen, Mr. Stryver, exuding patronage of the most\noffensive quality from every pore, had walked before him like three\nsheep to the quiet corner in Soho, and had offered as pupils to\nLucie's husband: delicately saying \"Halloa! here are three lumps of\nbread-and-cheese towards your matrimonial picnic, Darnay!\" The polite\nrejection of the three lumps of bread-and-cheese had quite bloated Mr.\nStryver with indignation, which he afterwards turned to account in the\ntraining of the young gentlemen, by directing them to beware of the\npride of Beggars, like that tutor-fellow. He was also in the habit of\ndeclaiming to Mrs. Stryver, over his full-bodied wine, on the arts\nMrs. Darnay had once put in practice to \"catch\" him, and on the\ndiamond-cut-diamond arts in himself, madam, which had rendered him \"not\nto be caught.\" Some of his King's Bench familiars, who were occasionally\nparties to the full-bodied wine and the lie, excused him for the\nlatter by saying that he had told it so often, that he believed\nit himself--which is surely such an incorrigible aggravation of an\noriginally bad offence, as to justify any such offender's being carried\noff to some suitably retired spot, and there hanged out of the way.\n\nThese were among the echoes to which Lucie, sometimes pensive, sometimes\namused and laughing, listened in the echoing corner, until her little\ndaughter was six years old. How near to her heart the echoes of her\nchild's tread came, and those of her own dear father's, always active\nand self-possessed, and those of her dear husband's, need not be told.\nNor, how the lightest echo of their united home, directed by herself\nwith such a wise and elegant thrift that it was more abundant than any\nwaste, was music to her. Nor, how there were echoes all about her, sweet\nin her ears, of the many times her father had told her that he found her\nmore devoted to him married (if that could be) than single, and of the\nmany times her husband had said to her that no cares and duties seemed\nto divide her love for him or her help to him, and asked her \"What is\nthe magic secret, my darling, of your being everything to all of us,\nas if there were only one of us, yet never seeming to be hurried, or to\nhave too much to do?\"\n\nBut, there were other echoes, from a distance, that rumbled menacingly\nin the corner all through this space of time. And it was now, about\nlittle Lucie's sixth birthday, that they began to have an awful sound,\nas of a great storm in France with a dreadful sea rising.\n\nOn a night in mid-July, one thousand seven hundred and eighty-nine, Mr.\nLorry came in late, from Tellson's, and sat himself down by Lucie and\nher husband in the dark window. It was a hot, wild night, and they were\nall three reminded of the old Sunday night when they had looked at the\nlightning from the same place.\n\n\"I began to think,\" said Mr. Lorry, pushing his brown wig back, \"that\nI should have to pass the night at Tellson's. We have been so full of\nbusiness all day, that we have not known what to do first, or which way\nto turn. There is such an uneasiness in Paris, that we have actually a\nrun of confidence upon us! Our customers over there, seem not to be able\nto confide their property to us fast enough. There is positively a mania\namong some of them for sending it to England.\"\n\n\"That has a bad look,\" said Darnay--\n\n\"A bad look, you say, my dear Darnay? Yes, but we don't know what reason\nthere is in it. People are so unreasonable! Some of us at Tellson's are\ngetting old, and we really can't be troubled out of the ordinary course\nwithout due occasion.\"\n\n\"Still,\" said Darnay, \"you know how gloomy and threatening the sky is.\"\n\n\"I know that, to be sure,\" assented Mr. Lorry, trying to persuade\nhimself that his sweet temper was soured, and that he grumbled, \"but I\nam determined to be peevish after my long day's botheration. Where is\nManette?\"\n\n\"Here he is,\" said the Doctor, entering the dark room at the moment.\n\n\"I am quite glad you are at home; for these hurries and forebodings by\nwhich I have been surrounded all day long, have made me nervous without\nreason. You are not going out, I hope?\"\n\n\"No; I am going to play backgammon with you, if you like,\" said the\nDoctor.\n\n\"I don't think I do like, if I may speak my mind. I am not fit to be\npitted against you to-night. Is the teaboard still there, Lucie? I can't\nsee.\"\n\n\"Of course, it has been kept for you.\"\n\n\"Thank ye, my dear. The precious child is safe in bed?\"\n\n\"And sleeping soundly.\"\n\n\"That's right; all safe and well! I don't know why anything should be\notherwise than safe and well here, thank God; but I have been so put out\nall day, and I am not as young as I was! My tea, my dear! Thank ye. Now,\ncome and take your place in the circle, and let us sit quiet, and hear\nthe echoes about which you have your theory.\"\n\n\"Not a theory; it was a fancy.\"\n\n\"A fancy, then, my wise pet,\" said Mr. Lorry, patting her hand. \"They\nare very numerous and very loud, though, are they not? Only hear them!\"\n\nHeadlong, mad, and dangerous footsteps to force their way into anybody's\nlife, footsteps not easily made clean again if once stained red, the\nfootsteps raging in Saint Antoine afar off, as the little circle sat in\nthe dark London window.\n\nSaint Antoine had been, that morning, a vast dusky mass of scarecrows\nheaving to and fro, with frequent gleams of light above the billowy\nheads, where steel blades and bayonets shone in the sun. A tremendous\nroar arose from the throat of Saint Antoine, and a forest of naked arms\nstruggled in the air like shrivelled branches of trees in a winter wind:\nall the fingers convulsively clutching at every weapon or semblance of a\nweapon that was thrown up from the depths below, no matter how far off.\n\nWho gave them out, whence they last came, where they began, through what\nagency they crookedly quivered and jerked, scores at a time, over the\nheads of the crowd, like a kind of lightning, no eye in the throng could\nhave told; but, muskets were being distributed--so were cartridges,\npowder, and ball, bars of iron and wood, knives, axes, pikes, every\nweapon that distracted ingenuity could discover or devise. People who\ncould lay hold of nothing else, set themselves with bleeding hands to\nforce stones and bricks out of their places in walls. Every pulse and\nheart in Saint Antoine was on high-fever strain and at high-fever heat.\nEvery living creature there held life as of no account, and was demented\nwith a passionate readiness to sacrifice it.\n\nAs a whirlpool of boiling waters has a centre point, so, all this raging\ncircled round Defarge's wine-shop, and every human drop in the caldron\nhad a tendency to be sucked towards the vortex where Defarge himself,\nalready begrimed with gunpowder and sweat, issued orders, issued arms,\nthrust this man back, dragged this man forward, disarmed one to arm\nanother, laboured and strove in the thickest of the uproar.\n\n\"Keep near to me, Jacques Three,\" cried Defarge; \"and do you, Jacques\nOne and Two, separate and put yourselves at the head of as many of these\npatriots as you can. Where is my wife?\"\n\n\"Eh, well! Here you see me!\" said madame, composed as ever, but not\nknitting to-day. Madame's resolute right hand was occupied with an axe,\nin place of the usual softer implements, and in her girdle were a pistol\nand a cruel knife.\n\n\"Where do you go, my wife?\"\n\n\"I go,\" said madame, \"with you at present. You shall see me at the head\nof women, by-and-bye.\"\n\n\"Come, then!\" cried Defarge, in a resounding voice. \"Patriots and\nfriends, we are ready! The Bastille!\"\n\nWith a roar that sounded as if all the breath in France had been shaped\ninto the detested word, the living sea rose, wave on wave, depth on\ndepth, and overflowed the city to that point. Alarm-bells ringing, drums\nbeating, the sea raging and thundering on its new beach, the attack\nbegan.\n\nDeep ditches, double drawbridge, massive stone walls, eight great\ntowers, cannon, muskets, fire and smoke. Through the fire and through\nthe smoke--in the fire and in the smoke, for the sea cast him up against\na cannon, and on the instant he became a cannonier--Defarge of the\nwine-shop worked like a manful soldier, Two fierce hours.\n\nDeep ditch, single drawbridge, massive stone walls, eight great towers,\ncannon, muskets, fire and smoke. One drawbridge down! \"Work, comrades\nall, work! Work, Jacques One, Jacques Two, Jacques One Thousand, Jacques\nTwo Thousand, Jacques Five-and-Twenty Thousand; in the name of all\nthe Angels or the Devils--which you prefer--work!\" Thus Defarge of the\nwine-shop, still at his gun, which had long grown hot.\n\n\"To me, women!\" cried madame his wife. \"What! We can kill as well as\nthe men when the place is taken!\" And to her, with a shrill thirsty\ncry, trooping women variously armed, but all armed alike in hunger and\nrevenge.\n\nCannon, muskets, fire and smoke; but, still the deep ditch, the single\ndrawbridge, the massive stone walls, and the eight great towers. Slight\ndisplacements of the raging sea, made by the falling wounded. Flashing\nweapons, blazing torches, smoking waggonloads of wet straw, hard work\nat neighbouring barricades in all directions, shrieks, volleys,\nexecrations, bravery without stint, boom smash and rattle, and the\nfurious sounding of the living sea; but, still the deep ditch, and the\nsingle drawbridge, and the massive stone walls, and the eight great\ntowers, and still Defarge of the wine-shop at his gun, grown doubly hot\nby the service of Four fierce hours.\n\nA white flag from within the fortress, and a parley--this dimly\nperceptible through the raging storm, nothing audible in it--suddenly\nthe sea rose immeasurably wider and higher, and swept Defarge of the\nwine-shop over the lowered drawbridge, past the massive stone outer\nwalls, in among the eight great towers surrendered!\n\nSo resistless was the force of the ocean bearing him on, that even to\ndraw his breath or turn his head was as impracticable as if he had been\nstruggling in the surf at the South Sea, until he was landed in the\nouter courtyard of the Bastille. There, against an angle of a wall, he\nmade a struggle to look about him. Jacques Three was nearly at his side;\nMadame Defarge, still heading some of her women, was visible in the\ninner distance, and her knife was in her hand. Everywhere was tumult,\nexultation, deafening and maniacal bewilderment, astounding noise, yet\nfurious dumb-show.\n\n\"The Prisoners!\"\n\n\"The Records!\"\n\n\"The secret cells!\"\n\n\"The instruments of torture!\"\n\n\"The Prisoners!\"\n\nOf all these cries, and ten thousand incoherences, \"The Prisoners!\" was\nthe cry most taken up by the sea that rushed in, as if there were an\neternity of people, as well as of time and space. When the foremost\nbillows rolled past, bearing the prison officers with them, and\nthreatening them all with instant death if any secret nook remained\nundisclosed, Defarge laid his strong hand on the breast of one of\nthese men--a man with a grey head, who had a lighted torch in his\nhand--separated him from the rest, and got him between himself and the\nwall.\n\n\"Show me the North Tower!\" said Defarge. \"Quick!\"\n\n\"I will faithfully,\" replied the man, \"if you will come with me. But\nthere is no one there.\"\n\n\"What is the meaning of One Hundred and Five, North Tower?\" asked\nDefarge. \"Quick!\"\n\n\"The meaning, monsieur?\"\n\n\"Does it mean a captive, or a place of captivity? Or do you mean that I\nshall strike you dead?\"\n\n\"Kill him!\" croaked Jacques Three, who had come close up.\n\n\"Monsieur, it is a cell.\"\n\n\"Show it me!\"\n\n\"Pass this way, then.\"\n\nJacques Three, with his usual craving on him, and evidently disappointed\nby the dialogue taking a turn that did not seem to promise bloodshed,\nheld by Defarge's arm as he held by the turnkey's. Their three heads had\nbeen close together during this brief discourse, and it had been as much\nas they could do to hear one another, even then: so tremendous was the\nnoise of the living ocean, in its irruption into the Fortress, and\nits inundation of the courts and passages and staircases. All around\noutside, too, it beat the walls with a deep, hoarse roar, from which,\noccasionally, some partial shouts of tumult broke and leaped into the\nair like spray.\n\nThrough gloomy vaults where the light of day had never shone, past\nhideous doors of dark dens and cages, down cavernous flights of steps,\nand again up steep rugged ascents of stone and brick, more like dry\nwaterfalls than staircases, Defarge, the turnkey, and Jacques Three,\nlinked hand and arm, went with all the speed they could make. Here and\nthere, especially at first, the inundation started on them and swept by;\nbut when they had done descending, and were winding and climbing up a\ntower, they were alone. Hemmed in here by the massive thickness of walls\nand arches, the storm within the fortress and without was only audible\nto them in a dull, subdued way, as if the noise out of which they had\ncome had almost destroyed their sense of hearing.\n\nThe turnkey stopped at a low door, put a key in a clashing lock, swung\nthe door slowly open, and said, as they all bent their heads and passed\nin:\n\n\"One hundred and five, North Tower!\"\n\nThere was a small, heavily-grated, unglazed window high in the wall,\nwith a stone screen before it, so that the sky could be only seen by\nstooping low and looking up. There was a small chimney, heavily barred\nacross, a few feet within. There was a heap of old feathery wood-ashes\non the hearth. There was a stool, and table, and a straw bed. There were\nthe four blackened walls, and a rusted iron ring in one of them.\n\n\"Pass that torch slowly along these walls, that I may see them,\" said\nDefarge to the turnkey.\n\nThe man obeyed, and Defarge followed the light closely with his eyes.\n\n\"Stop!--Look here, Jacques!\"\n\n\"A. M.!\" croaked Jacques Three, as he read greedily.\n\n\"Alexandre Manette,\" said Defarge in his ear, following the letters\nwith his swart forefinger, deeply engrained with gunpowder. \"And here he\nwrote 'a poor physician.' And it was he, without doubt, who scratched\na calendar on this stone. What is that in your hand? A crowbar? Give it\nme!\"\n\nHe had still the linstock of his gun in his own hand. He made a sudden\nexchange of the two instruments, and turning on the worm-eaten stool and\ntable, beat them to pieces in a few blows.\n\n\"Hold the light higher!\" he said, wrathfully, to the turnkey. \"Look\namong those fragments with care, Jacques. And see! Here is my knife,\"\nthrowing it to him; \"rip open that bed, and search the straw. Hold the\nlight higher, you!\"\n\nWith a menacing look at the turnkey he crawled upon the hearth, and,\npeering up the chimney, struck and prised at its sides with the crowbar,\nand worked at the iron grating across it. In a few minutes, some mortar\nand dust came dropping down, which he averted his face to avoid; and\nin it, and in the old wood-ashes, and in a crevice in the chimney\ninto which his weapon had slipped or wrought itself, he groped with a\ncautious touch.\n\n\"Nothing in the wood, and nothing in the straw, Jacques?\"\n\n\"Nothing.\"\n\n\"Let us collect them together, in the middle of the cell. So! Light\nthem, you!\"\n\nThe turnkey fired the little pile, which blazed high and hot. Stooping\nagain to come out at the low-arched door, they left it burning, and\nretraced their way to the courtyard; seeming to recover their sense\nof hearing as they came down, until they were in the raging flood once\nmore.\n\nThey found it surging and tossing, in quest of Defarge himself. Saint\nAntoine was clamorous to have its wine-shop keeper foremost in the guard\nupon the governor who had defended the Bastille and shot the people.\nOtherwise, the governor would not be marched to the Hotel de Ville for\njudgment. Otherwise, the governor would escape, and the people's\nblood (suddenly of some value, after many years of worthlessness) be\nunavenged.\n\nIn the howling universe of passion and contention that seemed to\nencompass this grim old officer conspicuous in his grey coat and red\ndecoration, there was but one quite steady figure, and that was a\nwoman's. \"See, there is my husband!\" she cried, pointing him out.\n\"See Defarge!\" She stood immovable close to the grim old officer, and\nremained immovable close to him; remained immovable close to him through\nthe streets, as Defarge and the rest bore him along; remained immovable\nclose to him when he was got near his destination, and began to\nbe struck at from behind; remained immovable close to him when the\nlong-gathering rain of stabs and blows fell heavy; was so close to him\nwhen he dropped dead under it, that, suddenly animated, she put her foot\nupon his neck, and with her cruel knife--long ready--hewed off his head.\n\nThe hour was come, when Saint Antoine was to execute his horrible idea\nof hoisting up men for lamps to show what he could be and do. Saint\nAntoine's blood was up, and the blood of tyranny and domination by the\niron hand was down--down on the steps of the Hotel de Ville where the\ngovernor's body lay--down on the sole of the shoe of Madame Defarge\nwhere she had trodden on the body to steady it for mutilation. \"Lower\nthe lamp yonder!\" cried Saint Antoine, after glaring round for a new\nmeans of death; \"here is one of his soldiers to be left on guard!\" The\nswinging sentinel was posted, and the sea rushed on.\n\nThe sea of black and threatening waters, and of destructive upheaving\nof wave against wave, whose depths were yet unfathomed and whose forces\nwere yet unknown. The remorseless sea of turbulently swaying shapes,\nvoices of vengeance, and faces hardened in the furnaces of suffering\nuntil the touch of pity could make no mark on them.\n\nBut, in the ocean of faces where every fierce and furious expression was\nin vivid life, there were two groups of faces--each seven in number--so\nfixedly contrasting with the rest, that never did sea roll which bore\nmore memorable wrecks with it. Seven faces of prisoners, suddenly\nreleased by the storm that had burst their tomb, were carried high\noverhead: all scared, all lost, all wondering and amazed, as if the Last\nDay were come, and those who rejoiced around them were lost spirits.\nOther seven faces there were, carried higher, seven dead faces, whose\ndrooping eyelids and half-seen eyes awaited the Last Day. Impassive\nfaces, yet with a suspended--not an abolished--expression on them;\nfaces, rather, in a fearful pause, as having yet to raise the dropped\nlids of the eyes, and bear witness with the bloodless lips, \"THOU DIDST\nIT!\"\n\nSeven prisoners released, seven gory heads on pikes, the keys of the\naccursed fortress of the eight strong towers, some discovered letters\nand other memorials of prisoners of old time, long dead of broken\nhearts,--such, and such--like, the loudly echoing footsteps of Saint\nAntoine escort through the Paris streets in mid-July, one thousand seven\nhundred and eighty-nine. Now, Heaven defeat the fancy of Lucie Darnay,\nand keep these feet far out of her life! For, they are headlong, mad,\nand dangerous; and in the years so long after the breaking of the cask\nat Defarge's wine-shop door, they are not easily purified when once\nstained red.\n\n\n\n\nXXII. The Sea Still Rises\n\n\nHaggard Saint Antoine had had only one exultant week, in which to soften\nhis modicum of hard and bitter bread to such extent as he could, with\nthe relish of fraternal embraces and congratulations, when Madame\nDefarge sat at her counter, as usual, presiding over the customers.\nMadame Defarge wore no rose in her head, for the great brotherhood of\nSpies had become, even in one short week, extremely chary of trusting\nthemselves to the saint's mercies. The lamps across his streets had a\nportentously elastic swing with them.\n\nMadame Defarge, with her arms folded, sat in the morning light and heat,\ncontemplating the wine-shop and the street. In both, there were several\nknots of loungers, squalid and miserable, but now with a manifest sense\nof power enthroned on their distress. The raggedest nightcap, awry on\nthe wretchedest head, had this crooked significance in it: \"I know how\nhard it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to support life in myself;\nbut do you know how easy it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to\ndestroy life in you?\" Every lean bare arm, that had been without work\nbefore, had this work always ready for it now, that it could strike.\nThe fingers of the knitting women were vicious, with the experience that\nthey could tear. There was a change in the appearance of Saint Antoine;\nthe image had been hammering into this for hundreds of years, and the\nlast finishing blows had told mightily on the expression.\n\nMadame Defarge sat observing it, with such suppressed approval as was\nto be desired in the leader of the Saint Antoine women. One of her\nsisterhood knitted beside her. The short, rather plump wife of a starved\ngrocer, and the mother of two children withal, this lieutenant had\nalready earned the complimentary name of The Vengeance.\n\n\"Hark!\" said The Vengeance. \"Listen, then! Who comes?\"\n\nAs if a train of powder laid from the outermost bound of Saint Antoine\nQuarter to the wine-shop door, had been suddenly fired, a fast-spreading\nmurmur came rushing along.\n\n\"It is Defarge,\" said madame. \"Silence, patriots!\"\n\nDefarge came in breathless, pulled off a red cap he wore, and looked\naround him! \"Listen, everywhere!\" said madame again. \"Listen to him!\"\nDefarge stood, panting, against a background of eager eyes and open\nmouths, formed outside the door; all those within the wine-shop had\nsprung to their feet.\n\n\"Say then, my husband. What is it?\"\n\n\"News from the other world!\"\n\n\"How, then?\" cried madame, contemptuously. \"The other world?\"\n\n\"Does everybody here recall old Foulon, who told the famished people\nthat they might eat grass, and who died, and went to Hell?\"\n\n\"Everybody!\" from all throats.\n\n\"The news is of him. He is among us!\"\n\n\"Among us!\" from the universal throat again. \"And dead?\"\n\n\"Not dead! He feared us so much--and with reason--that he caused himself\nto be represented as dead, and had a grand mock-funeral. But they have\nfound him alive, hiding in the country, and have brought him in. I have\nseen him but now, on his way to the Hotel de Ville, a prisoner. I have\nsaid that he had reason to fear us. Say all! _Had_ he reason?\"\n\nWretched old sinner of more than threescore years and ten, if he had\nnever known it yet, he would have known it in his heart of hearts if he\ncould have heard the answering cry.\n\nA moment of profound silence followed. Defarge and his wife looked\nsteadfastly at one another. The Vengeance stooped, and the jar of a drum\nwas heard as she moved it at her feet behind the counter.\n\n\"Patriots!\" said Defarge, in a determined voice, \"are we ready?\"\n\nInstantly Madame Defarge's knife was in her girdle; the drum was beating\nin the streets, as if it and a drummer had flown together by magic; and\nThe Vengeance, uttering terrific shrieks, and flinging her arms about\nher head like all the forty Furies at once, was tearing from house to\nhouse, rousing the women.\n\nThe men were terrible, in the bloody-minded anger with which they looked\nfrom windows, caught up what arms they had, and came pouring down into\nthe streets; but, the women were a sight to chill the boldest. From\nsuch household occupations as their bare poverty yielded, from their\nchildren, from their aged and their sick crouching on the bare ground\nfamished and naked, they ran out with streaming hair, urging one\nanother, and themselves, to madness with the wildest cries and actions.\nVillain Foulon taken, my sister! Old Foulon taken, my mother! Miscreant\nFoulon taken, my daughter! Then, a score of others ran into the midst of\nthese, beating their breasts, tearing their hair, and screaming, Foulon\nalive! Foulon who told the starving people they might eat grass! Foulon\nwho told my old father that he might eat grass, when I had no bread\nto give him! Foulon who told my baby it might suck grass, when these\nbreasts were dry with want! O mother of God, this Foulon! O Heaven our\nsuffering! Hear me, my dead baby and my withered father: I swear on my\nknees, on these stones, to avenge you on Foulon! Husbands, and brothers,\nand young men, Give us the blood of Foulon, Give us the head of Foulon,\nGive us the heart of Foulon, Give us the body and soul of Foulon, Rend\nFoulon to pieces, and dig him into the ground, that grass may grow from\nhim! With these cries, numbers of the women, lashed into blind frenzy,\nwhirled about, striking and tearing at their own friends until they\ndropped into a passionate swoon, and were only saved by the men\nbelonging to them from being trampled under foot.\n\nNevertheless, not a moment was lost; not a moment! This Foulon was at\nthe Hotel de Ville, and might be loosed. Never, if Saint Antoine knew\nhis own sufferings, insults, and wrongs! Armed men and women flocked out\nof the Quarter so fast, and drew even these last dregs after them with\nsuch a force of suction, that within a quarter of an hour there was not\na human creature in Saint Antoine's bosom but a few old crones and the\nwailing children.\n\nNo. They were all by that time choking the Hall of Examination where\nthis old man, ugly and wicked, was, and overflowing into the adjacent\nopen space and streets. The Defarges, husband and wife, The Vengeance,\nand Jacques Three, were in the first press, and at no great distance\nfrom him in the Hall.\n\n\"See!\" cried madame, pointing with her knife. \"See the old villain bound\nwith ropes. That was well done to tie a bunch of grass upon his back.\nHa, ha! That was well done. Let him eat it now!\" Madame put her knife\nunder her arm, and clapped her hands as at a play.\n\nThe people immediately behind Madame Defarge, explaining the cause of\nher satisfaction to those behind them, and those again explaining to\nothers, and those to others, the neighbouring streets resounded with the\nclapping of hands. Similarly, during two or three hours of drawl,\nand the winnowing of many bushels of words, Madame Defarge's frequent\nexpressions of impatience were taken up, with marvellous quickness, at\na distance: the more readily, because certain men who had by some\nwonderful exercise of agility climbed up the external architecture\nto look in from the windows, knew Madame Defarge well, and acted as a\ntelegraph between her and the crowd outside the building.\n\nAt length the sun rose so high that it struck a kindly ray as of hope or\nprotection, directly down upon the old prisoner's head. The favour was\ntoo much to bear; in an instant the barrier of dust and chaff that had\nstood surprisingly long, went to the winds, and Saint Antoine had got\nhim!\n\nIt was known directly, to the furthest confines of the crowd. Defarge\nhad but sprung over a railing and a table, and folded the miserable\nwretch in a deadly embrace--Madame Defarge had but followed and turned\nher hand in one of the ropes with which he was tied--The Vengeance and\nJacques Three were not yet up with them, and the men at the windows\nhad not yet swooped into the Hall, like birds of prey from their high\nperches--when the cry seemed to go up, all over the city, \"Bring him\nout! Bring him to the lamp!\"\n\nDown, and up, and head foremost on the steps of the building; now, on\nhis knees; now, on his feet; now, on his back; dragged, and struck at,\nand stifled by the bunches of grass and straw that were thrust into his\nface by hundreds of hands; torn, bruised, panting, bleeding, yet always\nentreating and beseeching for mercy; now full of vehement agony of\naction, with a small clear space about him as the people drew one\nanother back that they might see; now, a log of dead wood drawn through\na forest of legs; he was hauled to the nearest street corner where one\nof the fatal lamps swung, and there Madame Defarge let him go--as a cat\nmight have done to a mouse--and silently and composedly looked at him\nwhile they made ready, and while he besought her: the women passionately\nscreeching at him all the time, and the men sternly calling out to have\nhim killed with grass in his mouth. Once, he went aloft, and the rope\nbroke, and they caught him shrieking; twice, he went aloft, and the rope\nbroke, and they caught him shrieking; then, the rope was merciful, and\nheld him, and his head was soon upon a pike, with grass enough in the\nmouth for all Saint Antoine to dance at the sight of.\n\nNor was this the end of the day's bad work, for Saint Antoine so shouted\nand danced his angry blood up, that it boiled again, on hearing when\nthe day closed in that the son-in-law of the despatched, another of the\npeople's enemies and insulters, was coming into Paris under a guard\nfive hundred strong, in cavalry alone. Saint Antoine wrote his crimes\non flaring sheets of paper, seized him--would have torn him out of the\nbreast of an army to bear Foulon company--set his head and heart on\npikes, and carried the three spoils of the day, in Wolf-procession\nthrough the streets.\n\nNot before dark night did the men and women come back to the children,\nwailing and breadless. Then, the miserable bakers' shops were beset by\nlong files of them, patiently waiting to buy bad bread; and while\nthey waited with stomachs faint and empty, they beguiled the time by\nembracing one another on the triumphs of the day, and achieving them\nagain in gossip. Gradually, these strings of ragged people shortened and\nfrayed away; and then poor lights began to shine in high windows, and\nslender fires were made in the streets, at which neighbours cooked in\ncommon, afterwards supping at their doors.\n\nScanty and insufficient suppers those, and innocent of meat, as of\nmost other sauce to wretched bread. Yet, human fellowship infused\nsome nourishment into the flinty viands, and struck some sparks of\ncheerfulness out of them. Fathers and mothers who had had their full\nshare in the worst of the day, played gently with their meagre children;\nand lovers, with such a world around them and before them, loved and\nhoped.\n\nIt was almost morning, when Defarge's wine-shop parted with its last\nknot of customers, and Monsieur Defarge said to madame his wife, in\nhusky tones, while fastening the door:\n\n\"At last it is come, my dear!\"\n\n\"Eh well!\" returned madame. \"Almost.\"\n\nSaint Antoine slept, the Defarges slept: even The Vengeance slept with\nher starved grocer, and the drum was at rest. The drum's was the\nonly voice in Saint Antoine that blood and hurry had not changed. The\nVengeance, as custodian of the drum, could have wakened him up and had\nthe same speech out of him as before the Bastille fell, or old Foulon\nwas seized; not so with the hoarse tones of the men and women in Saint\nAntoine's bosom.\n\n\n\n\nXXIII. Fire Rises\n\n\nThere was a change on the village where the fountain fell, and where\nthe mender of roads went forth daily to hammer out of the stones on the\nhighway such morsels of bread as might serve for patches to hold his\npoor ignorant soul and his poor reduced body together. The prison on the\ncrag was not so dominant as of yore; there were soldiers to guard it,\nbut not many; there were officers to guard the soldiers, but not one of\nthem knew what his men would do--beyond this: that it would probably not\nbe what he was ordered.\n\nFar and wide lay a ruined country, yielding nothing but desolation.\nEvery green leaf, every blade of grass and blade of grain, was as\nshrivelled and poor as the miserable people. Everything was bowed down,\ndejected, oppressed, and broken. Habitations, fences, domesticated\nanimals, men, women, children, and the soil that bore them--all worn\nout.\n\nMonseigneur (often a most worthy individual gentleman) was a national\nblessing, gave a chivalrous tone to things, was a polite example of\nluxurious and shining life, and a great deal more to equal purpose;\nnevertheless, Monseigneur as a class had, somehow or other, brought\nthings to this. Strange that Creation, designed expressly for\nMonseigneur, should be so soon wrung dry and squeezed out! There must\nbe something short-sighted in the eternal arrangements, surely! Thus it\nwas, however; and the last drop of blood having been extracted from the\nflints, and the last screw of the rack having been turned so often that\nits purchase crumbled, and it now turned and turned with nothing\nto bite, Monseigneur began to run away from a phenomenon so low and\nunaccountable.\n\nBut, this was not the change on the village, and on many a village like\nit. For scores of years gone by, Monseigneur had squeezed it and wrung\nit, and had seldom graced it with his presence except for the pleasures\nof the chase--now, found in hunting the people; now, found in hunting\nthe beasts, for whose preservation Monseigneur made edifying spaces\nof barbarous and barren wilderness. No. The change consisted in\nthe appearance of strange faces of low caste, rather than in the\ndisappearance of the high caste, chiselled, and otherwise beautified and\nbeautifying features of Monseigneur.\n\nFor, in these times, as the mender of roads worked, solitary, in the\ndust, not often troubling himself to reflect that dust he was and\nto dust he must return, being for the most part too much occupied in\nthinking how little he had for supper and how much more he would eat if\nhe had it--in these times, as he raised his eyes from his lonely labour,\nand viewed the prospect, he would see some rough figure approaching on\nfoot, the like of which was once a rarity in those parts, but was now\na frequent presence. As it advanced, the mender of roads would discern\nwithout surprise, that it was a shaggy-haired man, of almost barbarian\naspect, tall, in wooden shoes that were clumsy even to the eyes of a\nmender of roads, grim, rough, swart, steeped in the mud and dust of many\nhighways, dank with the marshy moisture of many low grounds, sprinkled\nwith the thorns and leaves and moss of many byways through woods.\n\nSuch a man came upon him, like a ghost, at noon in the July weather,\nas he sat on his heap of stones under a bank, taking such shelter as he\ncould get from a shower of hail.\n\nThe man looked at him, looked at the village in the hollow, at the mill,\nand at the prison on the crag. When he had identified these objects\nin what benighted mind he had, he said, in a dialect that was just\nintelligible:\n\n\"How goes it, Jacques?\"\n\n\"All well, Jacques.\"\n\n\"Touch then!\"\n\nThey joined hands, and the man sat down on the heap of stones.\n\n\"No dinner?\"\n\n\"Nothing but supper now,\" said the mender of roads, with a hungry face.\n\n\"It is the fashion,\" growled the man. \"I meet no dinner anywhere.\"\n\nHe took out a blackened pipe, filled it, lighted it with flint and\nsteel, pulled at it until it was in a bright glow: then, suddenly held\nit from him and dropped something into it from between his finger and\nthumb, that blazed and went out in a puff of smoke.\n\n\"Touch then.\" It was the turn of the mender of roads to say it this\ntime, after observing these operations. They again joined hands.\n\n\"To-night?\" said the mender of roads.\n\n\"To-night,\" said the man, putting the pipe in his mouth.\n\n\"Where?\"\n\n\"Here.\"\n\nHe and the mender of roads sat on the heap of stones looking silently at\none another, with the hail driving in between them like a pigmy charge\nof bayonets, until the sky began to clear over the village.\n\n\"Show me!\" said the traveller then, moving to the brow of the hill.\n\n\"See!\" returned the mender of roads, with extended finger. \"You go down\nhere, and straight through the street, and past the fountain--\"\n\n\"To the Devil with all that!\" interrupted the other, rolling his eye\nover the landscape. \"_I_ go through no streets and past no fountains.\nWell?\"\n\n\"Well! About two leagues beyond the summit of that hill above the\nvillage.\"\n\n\"Good. When do you cease to work?\"\n\n\"At sunset.\"\n\n\"Will you wake me, before departing? I have walked two nights without\nresting. Let me finish my pipe, and I shall sleep like a child. Will you\nwake me?\"\n\n\"Surely.\"\n\nThe wayfarer smoked his pipe out, put it in his breast, slipped off his\ngreat wooden shoes, and lay down on his back on the heap of stones. He\nwas fast asleep directly.\n\nAs the road-mender plied his dusty labour, and the hail-clouds, rolling\naway, revealed bright bars and streaks of sky which were responded to\nby silver gleams upon the landscape, the little man (who wore a red cap\nnow, in place of his blue one) seemed fascinated by the figure on the\nheap of stones. His eyes were so often turned towards it, that he used\nhis tools mechanically, and, one would have said, to very poor account.\nThe bronze face, the shaggy black hair and beard, the coarse woollen\nred cap, the rough medley dress of home-spun stuff and hairy skins of\nbeasts, the powerful frame attenuated by spare living, and the sullen\nand desperate compression of the lips in sleep, inspired the mender\nof roads with awe. The traveller had travelled far, and his feet were\nfootsore, and his ankles chafed and bleeding; his great shoes, stuffed\nwith leaves and grass, had been heavy to drag over the many long\nleagues, and his clothes were chafed into holes, as he himself was into\nsores. Stooping down beside him, the road-mender tried to get a peep at\nsecret weapons in his breast or where not; but, in vain, for he slept\nwith his arms crossed upon him, and set as resolutely as his lips.\nFortified towns with their stockades, guard-houses, gates, trenches, and\ndrawbridges, seemed to the mender of roads, to be so much air as against\nthis figure. And when he lifted his eyes from it to the horizon and\nlooked around, he saw in his small fancy similar figures, stopped by no\nobstacle, tending to centres all over France.\n\nThe man slept on, indifferent to showers of hail and intervals of\nbrightness, to sunshine on his face and shadow, to the paltering lumps\nof dull ice on his body and the diamonds into which the sun changed\nthem, until the sun was low in the west, and the sky was glowing. Then,\nthe mender of roads having got his tools together and all things ready\nto go down into the village, roused him.\n\n\"Good!\" said the sleeper, rising on his elbow. \"Two leagues beyond the\nsummit of the hill?\"\n\n\"About.\"\n\n\"About. Good!\"\n\nThe mender of roads went home, with the dust going on before him\naccording to the set of the wind, and was soon at the fountain,\nsqueezing himself in among the lean kine brought there to drink, and\nappearing even to whisper to them in his whispering to all the village.\nWhen the village had taken its poor supper, it did not creep to bed,\nas it usually did, but came out of doors again, and remained there. A\ncurious contagion of whispering was upon it, and also, when it gathered\ntogether at the fountain in the dark, another curious contagion of\nlooking expectantly at the sky in one direction only. Monsieur Gabelle,\nchief functionary of the place, became uneasy; went out on his house-top\nalone, and looked in that direction too; glanced down from behind his\nchimneys at the darkening faces by the fountain below, and sent word to\nthe sacristan who kept the keys of the church, that there might be need\nto ring the tocsin by-and-bye.\n\nThe night deepened. The trees environing the old chateau, keeping its\nsolitary state apart, moved in a rising wind, as though they threatened\nthe pile of building massive and dark in the gloom. Up the two terrace\nflights of steps the rain ran wildly, and beat at the great door, like a\nswift messenger rousing those within; uneasy rushes of wind went through\nthe hall, among the old spears and knives, and passed lamenting up the\nstairs, and shook the curtains of the bed where the last Marquis\nhad slept. East, West, North, and South, through the woods, four\nheavy-treading, unkempt figures crushed the high grass and cracked the\nbranches, striding on cautiously to come together in the courtyard. Four\nlights broke out there, and moved away in different directions, and all\nwas black again.\n\nBut, not for long. Presently, the chateau began to make itself strangely\nvisible by some light of its own, as though it were growing luminous.\nThen, a flickering streak played behind the architecture of the front,\npicking out transparent places, and showing where balustrades, arches,\nand windows were. Then it soared higher, and grew broader and brighter.\nSoon, from a score of the great windows, flames burst forth, and the\nstone faces awakened, stared out of fire.\n\nA faint murmur arose about the house from the few people who were left\nthere, and there was a saddling of a horse and riding away. There was\nspurring and splashing through the darkness, and bridle was drawn in the\nspace by the village fountain, and the horse in a foam stood at Monsieur\nGabelle's door. \"Help, Gabelle! Help, every one!\" The tocsin rang\nimpatiently, but other help (if that were any) there was none. The\nmender of roads, and two hundred and fifty particular friends, stood\nwith folded arms at the fountain, looking at the pillar of fire in the\nsky. \"It must be forty feet high,\" said they, grimly; and never moved.\n\nThe rider from the chateau, and the horse in a foam, clattered away\nthrough the village, and galloped up the stony steep, to the prison on\nthe crag. At the gate, a group of officers were looking at the fire;\nremoved from them, a group of soldiers. \"Help, gentlemen--officers! The\nchateau is on fire; valuable objects may be saved from the flames by\ntimely aid! Help, help!\" The officers looked towards the soldiers who\nlooked at the fire; gave no orders; and answered, with shrugs and biting\nof lips, \"It must burn.\"\n\nAs the rider rattled down the hill again and through the street, the\nvillage was illuminating. The mender of roads, and the two hundred and\nfifty particular friends, inspired as one man and woman by the idea of\nlighting up, had darted into their houses, and were putting candles in\nevery dull little pane of glass. The general scarcity of everything,\noccasioned candles to be borrowed in a rather peremptory manner of\nMonsieur Gabelle; and in a moment of reluctance and hesitation on\nthat functionary's part, the mender of roads, once so submissive to\nauthority, had remarked that carriages were good to make bonfires with,\nand that post-horses would roast.\n\nThe chateau was left to itself to flame and burn. In the roaring and\nraging of the conflagration, a red-hot wind, driving straight from the\ninfernal regions, seemed to be blowing the edifice away. With the rising\nand falling of the blaze, the stone faces showed as if they were in\ntorment. When great masses of stone and timber fell, the face with the\ntwo dints in the nose became obscured: anon struggled out of the smoke\nagain, as if it were the face of the cruel Marquis, burning at the stake\nand contending with the fire.\n\nThe chateau burned; the nearest trees, laid hold of by the fire,\nscorched and shrivelled; trees at a distance, fired by the four fierce\nfigures, begirt the blazing edifice with a new forest of smoke. Molten\nlead and iron boiled in the marble basin of the fountain; the water ran\ndry; the extinguisher tops of the towers vanished like ice before the\nheat, and trickled down into four rugged wells of flame. Great rents and\nsplits branched out in the solid walls, like crystallisation; stupefied\nbirds wheeled about and dropped into the furnace; four fierce figures\ntrudged away, East, West, North, and South, along the night-enshrouded\nroads, guided by the beacon they had lighted, towards their next\ndestination. The illuminated village had seized hold of the tocsin, and,\nabolishing the lawful ringer, rang for joy.\n\nNot only that; but the village, light-headed with famine, fire, and\nbell-ringing, and bethinking itself that Monsieur Gabelle had to do with\nthe collection of rent and taxes--though it was but a small instalment\nof taxes, and no rent at all, that Gabelle had got in those latter\ndays--became impatient for an interview with him, and, surrounding his\nhouse, summoned him to come forth for personal conference. Whereupon,\nMonsieur Gabelle did heavily bar his door, and retire to hold counsel\nwith himself. The result of that conference was, that Gabelle again\nwithdrew himself to his housetop behind his stack of chimneys; this time\nresolved, if his door were broken in (he was a small Southern man\nof retaliative temperament), to pitch himself head foremost over the\nparapet, and crush a man or two below.\n\nProbably, Monsieur Gabelle passed a long night up there, with the\ndistant chateau for fire and candle, and the beating at his door,\ncombined with the joy-ringing, for music; not to mention his having an\nill-omened lamp slung across the road before his posting-house gate,\nwhich the village showed a lively inclination to displace in his favour.\nA trying suspense, to be passing a whole summer night on the brink of\nthe black ocean, ready to take that plunge into it upon which Monsieur\nGabelle had resolved! But, the friendly dawn appearing at last, and the\nrush-candles of the village guttering out, the people happily dispersed,\nand Monsieur Gabelle came down bringing his life with him for that\nwhile.\n\nWithin a hundred miles, and in the light of other fires, there were\nother functionaries less fortunate, that night and other nights, whom\nthe rising sun found hanging across once-peaceful streets, where they\nhad been born and bred; also, there were other villagers and townspeople\nless fortunate than the mender of roads and his fellows, upon whom the\nfunctionaries and soldiery turned with success, and whom they strung up\nin their turn. But, the fierce figures were steadily wending East, West,\nNorth, and South, be that as it would; and whosoever hung, fire burned.\nThe altitude of the gallows that would turn to water and quench it,\nno functionary, by any stretch of mathematics, was able to calculate\nsuccessfully.\n\n\n\n\nXXIV. Drawn to the Loadstone Rock\n\n\nIn such risings of fire and risings of sea--the firm earth shaken by\nthe rushes of an angry ocean which had now no ebb, but was always on the\nflow, higher and higher, to the terror and wonder of the beholders on\nthe shore--three years of tempest were consumed. Three more birthdays\nof little Lucie had been woven by the golden thread into the peaceful\ntissue of the life of her home.\n\nMany a night and many a day had its inmates listened to the echoes in\nthe corner, with hearts that failed them when they heard the thronging\nfeet. For, the footsteps had become to their minds as the footsteps of\na people, tumultuous under a red flag and with their country declared in\ndanger, changed into wild beasts, by terrible enchantment long persisted\nin.\n\nMonseigneur, as a class, had dissociated himself from the phenomenon of\nhis not being appreciated: of his being so little wanted in France, as\nto incur considerable danger of receiving his dismissal from it, and\nthis life together. Like the fabled rustic who raised the Devil with\ninfinite pains, and was so terrified at the sight of him that he could\nask the Enemy no question, but immediately fled; so, Monseigneur, after\nboldly reading the Lord's Prayer backwards for a great number of years,\nand performing many other potent spells for compelling the Evil One, no\nsooner beheld him in his terrors than he took to his noble heels.\n\nThe shining Bull's Eye of the Court was gone, or it would have been the\nmark for a hurricane of national bullets. It had never been a good\neye to see with--had long had the mote in it of Lucifer's pride,\nSardanapalus's luxury, and a mole's blindness--but it had dropped\nout and was gone. The Court, from that exclusive inner circle to its\noutermost rotten ring of intrigue, corruption, and dissimulation, was\nall gone together. Royalty was gone; had been besieged in its Palace and\n\"suspended,\" when the last tidings came over.\n\nThe August of the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety-two was\ncome, and Monseigneur was by this time scattered far and wide.\n\nAs was natural, the head-quarters and great gathering-place of\nMonseigneur, in London, was Tellson's Bank. Spirits are supposed to\nhaunt the places where their bodies most resorted, and Monseigneur\nwithout a guinea haunted the spot where his guineas used to be.\nMoreover, it was the spot to which such French intelligence as was most\nto be relied upon, came quickest. Again: Tellson's was a munificent\nhouse, and extended great liberality to old customers who had fallen\nfrom their high estate. Again: those nobles who had seen the coming\nstorm in time, and anticipating plunder or confiscation, had made\nprovident remittances to Tellson's, were always to be heard of there\nby their needy brethren. To which it must be added that every new-comer\nfrom France reported himself and his tidings at Tellson's, almost as\na matter of course. For such variety of reasons, Tellson's was at that\ntime, as to French intelligence, a kind of High Exchange; and this\nwas so well known to the public, and the inquiries made there were in\nconsequence so numerous, that Tellson's sometimes wrote the latest news\nout in a line or so and posted it in the Bank windows, for all who ran\nthrough Temple Bar to read.\n\nOn a steaming, misty afternoon, Mr. Lorry sat at his desk, and Charles\nDarnay stood leaning on it, talking with him in a low voice. The\npenitential den once set apart for interviews with the House, was now\nthe news-Exchange, and was filled to overflowing. It was within half an\nhour or so of the time of closing.\n\n\"But, although you are the youngest man that ever lived,\" said Charles\nDarnay, rather hesitating, \"I must still suggest to you--\"\n\n\"I understand. That I am too old?\" said Mr. Lorry.\n\n\"Unsettled weather, a long journey, uncertain means of travelling, a\ndisorganised country, a city that may not be even safe for you.\"\n\n\"My dear Charles,\" said Mr. Lorry, with cheerful confidence, \"you touch\nsome of the reasons for my going: not for my staying away. It is safe\nenough for me; nobody will care to interfere with an old fellow of hard\nupon fourscore when there are so many people there much better worth\ninterfering with. As to its being a disorganised city, if it were not a\ndisorganised city there would be no occasion to send somebody from our\nHouse here to our House there, who knows the city and the business, of\nold, and is in Tellson's confidence. As to the uncertain travelling, the\nlong journey, and the winter weather, if I were not prepared to submit\nmyself to a few inconveniences for the sake of Tellson's, after all\nthese years, who ought to be?\"\n\n\"I wish I were going myself,\" said Charles Darnay, somewhat restlessly,\nand like one thinking aloud.\n\n\"Indeed! You are a pretty fellow to object and advise!\" exclaimed Mr.\nLorry. \"You wish you were going yourself? And you a Frenchman born? You\nare a wise counsellor.\"\n\n\"My dear Mr. Lorry, it is because I am a Frenchman born, that the\nthought (which I did not mean to utter here, however) has passed through\nmy mind often. One cannot help thinking, having had some sympathy for\nthe miserable people, and having abandoned something to them,\" he spoke\nhere in his former thoughtful manner, \"that one might be listened to,\nand might have the power to persuade to some restraint. Only last night,\nafter you had left us, when I was talking to Lucie--\"\n\n\"When you were talking to Lucie,\" Mr. Lorry repeated. \"Yes. I wonder you\nare not ashamed to mention the name of Lucie! Wishing you were going to\nFrance at this time of day!\"\n\n\"However, I am not going,\" said Charles Darnay, with a smile. \"It is\nmore to the purpose that you say you are.\"\n\n\"And I am, in plain reality. The truth is, my dear Charles,\" Mr. Lorry\nglanced at the distant House, and lowered his voice, \"you can have no\nconception of the difficulty with which our business is transacted, and\nof the peril in which our books and papers over yonder are involved. The\nLord above knows what the compromising consequences would be to numbers\nof people, if some of our documents were seized or destroyed; and they\nmight be, at any time, you know, for who can say that Paris is not set\nafire to-day, or sacked to-morrow! Now, a judicious selection from these\nwith the least possible delay, and the burying of them, or otherwise\ngetting of them out of harm's way, is within the power (without loss of\nprecious time) of scarcely any one but myself, if any one. And shall\nI hang back, when Tellson's knows this and says this--Tellson's, whose\nbread I have eaten these sixty years--because I am a little stiff about\nthe joints? Why, I am a boy, sir, to half a dozen old codgers here!\"\n\n\"How I admire the gallantry of your youthful spirit, Mr. Lorry.\"\n\n\"Tut! Nonsense, sir!--And, my dear Charles,\" said Mr. Lorry, glancing at\nthe House again, \"you are to remember, that getting things out of\nParis at this present time, no matter what things, is next to an\nimpossibility. Papers and precious matters were this very day brought\nto us here (I speak in strict confidence; it is not business-like to\nwhisper it, even to you), by the strangest bearers you can imagine,\nevery one of whom had his head hanging on by a single hair as he passed\nthe Barriers. At another time, our parcels would come and go, as easily\nas in business-like Old England; but now, everything is stopped.\"\n\n\"And do you really go to-night?\"\n\n\"I really go to-night, for the case has become too pressing to admit of\ndelay.\"\n\n\"And do you take no one with you?\"\n\n\"All sorts of people have been proposed to me, but I will have nothing\nto say to any of them. I intend to take Jerry. Jerry has been my\nbodyguard on Sunday nights for a long time past and I am used to him.\nNobody will suspect Jerry of being anything but an English bull-dog, or\nof having any design in his head but to fly at anybody who touches his\nmaster.\"\n\n\"I must say again that I heartily admire your gallantry and\nyouthfulness.\"\n\n\"I must say again, nonsense, nonsense! When I have executed this little\ncommission, I shall, perhaps, accept Tellson's proposal to retire and\nlive at my ease. Time enough, then, to think about growing old.\"\n\nThis dialogue had taken place at Mr. Lorry's usual desk, with\nMonseigneur swarming within a yard or two of it, boastful of what he\nwould do to avenge himself on the rascal-people before long. It was too\nmuch the way of Monseigneur under his reverses as a refugee, and it\nwas much too much the way of native British orthodoxy, to talk of this\nterrible Revolution as if it were the only harvest ever known under\nthe skies that had not been sown--as if nothing had ever been done, or\nomitted to be done, that had led to it--as if observers of the wretched\nmillions in France, and of the misused and perverted resources that\nshould have made them prosperous, had not seen it inevitably coming,\nyears before, and had not in plain words recorded what they saw. Such\nvapouring, combined with the extravagant plots of Monseigneur for the\nrestoration of a state of things that had utterly exhausted itself,\nand worn out Heaven and earth as well as itself, was hard to be endured\nwithout some remonstrance by any sane man who knew the truth. And it was\nsuch vapouring all about his ears, like a troublesome confusion of blood\nin his own head, added to a latent uneasiness in his mind, which had\nalready made Charles Darnay restless, and which still kept him so.\n\nAmong the talkers, was Stryver, of the King's Bench Bar, far on his\nway to state promotion, and, therefore, loud on the theme: broaching\nto Monseigneur, his devices for blowing the people up and exterminating\nthem from the face of the earth, and doing without them: and for\naccomplishing many similar objects akin in their nature to the abolition\nof eagles by sprinkling salt on the tails of the race. Him, Darnay heard\nwith a particular feeling of objection; and Darnay stood divided between\ngoing away that he might hear no more, and remaining to interpose his\nword, when the thing that was to be, went on to shape itself out.\n\nThe House approached Mr. Lorry, and laying a soiled and unopened letter\nbefore him, asked if he had yet discovered any traces of the person to\nwhom it was addressed? The House laid the letter down so close to Darnay\nthat he saw the direction--the more quickly because it was his own right\nname. The address, turned into English, ran:\n\n\"Very pressing. To Monsieur heretofore the Marquis St. Evremonde, of\nFrance. Confided to the cares of Messrs. Tellson and Co., Bankers,\nLondon, England.\"\n\nOn the marriage morning, Doctor Manette had made it his one urgent and\nexpress request to Charles Darnay, that the secret of this name should\nbe--unless he, the Doctor, dissolved the obligation--kept inviolate\nbetween them. Nobody else knew it to be his name; his own wife had no\nsuspicion of the fact; Mr. Lorry could have none.\n\n\"No,\" said Mr. Lorry, in reply to the House; \"I have referred it,\nI think, to everybody now here, and no one can tell me where this\ngentleman is to be found.\"\n\nThe hands of the clock verging upon the hour of closing the Bank, there\nwas a general set of the current of talkers past Mr. Lorry's desk. He\nheld the letter out inquiringly; and Monseigneur looked at it, in the\nperson of this plotting and indignant refugee; and Monseigneur looked at\nit in the person of that plotting and indignant refugee; and This, That,\nand The Other, all had something disparaging to say, in French or in\nEnglish, concerning the Marquis who was not to be found.\n\n\"Nephew, I believe--but in any case degenerate successor--of the\npolished Marquis who was murdered,\" said one. \"Happy to say, I never\nknew him.\"\n\n\"A craven who abandoned his post,\" said another--this Monseigneur had\nbeen got out of Paris, legs uppermost and half suffocated, in a load of\nhay--\"some years ago.\"\n\n\"Infected with the new doctrines,\" said a third, eyeing the direction\nthrough his glass in passing; \"set himself in opposition to the last\nMarquis, abandoned the estates when he inherited them, and left them to\nthe ruffian herd. They will recompense him now, I hope, as he deserves.\"\n\n\"Hey?\" cried the blatant Stryver. \"Did he though? Is that the sort of\nfellow? Let us look at his infamous name. D--n the fellow!\"\n\nDarnay, unable to restrain himself any longer, touched Mr. Stryver on\nthe shoulder, and said:\n\n\"I know the fellow.\"\n\n\"Do you, by Jupiter?\" said Stryver. \"I am sorry for it.\"\n\n\"Why?\"\n\n\"Why, Mr. Darnay? D'ye hear what he did? Don't ask, why, in these\ntimes.\"\n\n\"But I do ask why?\"\n\n\"Then I tell you again, Mr. Darnay, I am sorry for it. I am sorry to\nhear you putting any such extraordinary questions. Here is a fellow,\nwho, infected by the most pestilent and blasphemous code of devilry that\never was known, abandoned his property to the vilest scum of the earth\nthat ever did murder by wholesale, and you ask me why I am sorry that a\nman who instructs youth knows him? Well, but I'll answer you. I am sorry\nbecause I believe there is contamination in such a scoundrel. That's\nwhy.\"\n\nMindful of the secret, Darnay with great difficulty checked himself, and\nsaid: \"You may not understand the gentleman.\"\n\n\"I understand how to put _you_ in a corner, Mr. Darnay,\" said Bully\nStryver, \"and I'll do it. If this fellow is a gentleman, I _don't_\nunderstand him. You may tell him so, with my compliments. You may also\ntell him, from me, that after abandoning his worldly goods and position\nto this butcherly mob, I wonder he is not at the head of them. But, no,\ngentlemen,\" said Stryver, looking all round, and snapping his fingers,\n\"I know something of human nature, and I tell you that you'll never\nfind a fellow like this fellow, trusting himself to the mercies of such\nprecious _protégés_. No, gentlemen; he'll always show 'em a clean pair\nof heels very early in the scuffle, and sneak away.\"\n\nWith those words, and a final snap of his fingers, Mr. Stryver\nshouldered himself into Fleet-street, amidst the general approbation of\nhis hearers. Mr. Lorry and Charles Darnay were left alone at the desk,\nin the general departure from the Bank.\n\n\"Will you take charge of the letter?\" said Mr. Lorry. \"You know where to\ndeliver it?\"\n\n\"I do.\"\n\n\"Will you undertake to explain, that we suppose it to have been\naddressed here, on the chance of our knowing where to forward it, and\nthat it has been here some time?\"\n\n\"I will do so. Do you start for Paris from here?\"\n\n\"From here, at eight.\"\n\n\"I will come back, to see you off.\"\n\nVery ill at ease with himself, and with Stryver and most other men,\nDarnay made the best of his way into the quiet of the Temple, opened the\nletter, and read it. These were its contents:\n\n\n\"Prison of the Abbaye, Paris.\n\n\"June 21, 1792. \"MONSIEUR HERETOFORE THE MARQUIS.\n\n\"After having long been in danger of my life at the hands of the\nvillage, I have been seized, with great violence and indignity, and\nbrought a long journey on foot to Paris. On the road I have suffered a\ngreat deal. Nor is that all; my house has been destroyed--razed to the\nground.\n\n\"The crime for which I am imprisoned, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis,\nand for which I shall be summoned before the tribunal, and shall lose my\nlife (without your so generous help), is, they tell me, treason against\nthe majesty of the people, in that I have acted against them for an\nemigrant. It is in vain I represent that I have acted for them, and not\nagainst, according to your commands. It is in vain I represent that,\nbefore the sequestration of emigrant property, I had remitted the\nimposts they had ceased to pay; that I had collected no rent; that I had\nhad recourse to no process. The only response is, that I have acted for\nan emigrant, and where is that emigrant?\n\n\"Ah! most gracious Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, where is that\nemigrant? I cry in my sleep where is he? I demand of Heaven, will he\nnot come to deliver me? No answer. Ah Monsieur heretofore the Marquis,\nI send my desolate cry across the sea, hoping it may perhaps reach your\nears through the great bank of Tilson known at Paris!\n\n\"For the love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the honour of\nyour noble name, I supplicate you, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, to\nsuccour and release me. My fault is, that I have been true to you. Oh\nMonsieur heretofore the Marquis, I pray you be you true to me!\n\n\"From this prison here of horror, whence I every hour tend nearer and\nnearer to destruction, I send you, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, the\nassurance of my dolorous and unhappy service.\n\n\"Your afflicted,\n\n\"Gabelle.\"\n\n\nThe latent uneasiness in Darnay's mind was roused to vigourous life\nby this letter. The peril of an old servant and a good one, whose\nonly crime was fidelity to himself and his family, stared him so\nreproachfully in the face, that, as he walked to and fro in the Temple\nconsidering what to do, he almost hid his face from the passersby.\n\nHe knew very well, that in his horror of the deed which had culminated\nthe bad deeds and bad reputation of the old family house, in his\nresentful suspicions of his uncle, and in the aversion with which his\nconscience regarded the crumbling fabric that he was supposed to uphold,\nhe had acted imperfectly. He knew very well, that in his love for Lucie,\nhis renunciation of his social place, though by no means new to his own\nmind, had been hurried and incomplete. He knew that he ought to have\nsystematically worked it out and supervised it, and that he had meant to\ndo it, and that it had never been done.\n\nThe happiness of his own chosen English home, the necessity of being\nalways actively employed, the swift changes and troubles of the time\nwhich had followed on one another so fast, that the events of this week\nannihilated the immature plans of last week, and the events of the week\nfollowing made all new again; he knew very well, that to the force of\nthese circumstances he had yielded:--not without disquiet, but still\nwithout continuous and accumulating resistance. That he had watched\nthe times for a time of action, and that they had shifted and struggled\nuntil the time had gone by, and the nobility were trooping from\nFrance by every highway and byway, and their property was in course of\nconfiscation and destruction, and their very names were blotting out,\nwas as well known to himself as it could be to any new authority in\nFrance that might impeach him for it.\n\nBut, he had oppressed no man, he had imprisoned no man; he was so\nfar from having harshly exacted payment of his dues, that he had\nrelinquished them of his own will, thrown himself on a world with no\nfavour in it, won his own private place there, and earned his own\nbread. Monsieur Gabelle had held the impoverished and involved estate\non written instructions, to spare the people, to give them what little\nthere was to give--such fuel as the heavy creditors would let them have\nin the winter, and such produce as could be saved from the same grip in\nthe summer--and no doubt he had put the fact in plea and proof, for his\nown safety, so that it could not but appear now.\n\nThis favoured the desperate resolution Charles Darnay had begun to make,\nthat he would go to Paris.\n\nYes. Like the mariner in the old story, the winds and streams had driven\nhim within the influence of the Loadstone Rock, and it was drawing him\nto itself, and he must go. Everything that arose before his mind drifted\nhim on, faster and faster, more and more steadily, to the terrible\nattraction. His latent uneasiness had been, that bad aims were being\nworked out in his own unhappy land by bad instruments, and that he who\ncould not fail to know that he was better than they, was not there,\ntrying to do something to stay bloodshed, and assert the claims of mercy\nand humanity. With this uneasiness half stifled, and half reproaching\nhim, he had been brought to the pointed comparison of himself with the\nbrave old gentleman in whom duty was so strong; upon that comparison\n(injurious to himself) had instantly followed the sneers of Monseigneur,\nwhich had stung him bitterly, and those of Stryver, which above all were\ncoarse and galling, for old reasons. Upon those, had followed Gabelle's\nletter: the appeal of an innocent prisoner, in danger of death, to his\njustice, honour, and good name.\n\nHis resolution was made. He must go to Paris.\n\nYes. The Loadstone Rock was drawing him, and he must sail on, until he\nstruck. He knew of no rock; he saw hardly any danger. The intention\nwith which he had done what he had done, even although he had left\nit incomplete, presented it before him in an aspect that would be\ngratefully acknowledged in France on his presenting himself to assert\nit. Then, that glorious vision of doing good, which is so often the\nsanguine mirage of so many good minds, arose before him, and he even\nsaw himself in the illusion with some influence to guide this raging\nRevolution that was running so fearfully wild.\n\nAs he walked to and fro with his resolution made, he considered that\nneither Lucie nor her father must know of it until he was gone.\nLucie should be spared the pain of separation; and her father, always\nreluctant to turn his thoughts towards the dangerous ground of old,\nshould come to the knowledge of the step, as a step taken, and not in\nthe balance of suspense and doubt. How much of the incompleteness of his\nsituation was referable to her father, through the painful anxiety\nto avoid reviving old associations of France in his mind, he did not\ndiscuss with himself. But, that circumstance too, had had its influence\nin his course.\n\nHe walked to and fro, with thoughts very busy, until it was time to\nreturn to Tellson's and take leave of Mr. Lorry. As soon as he arrived\nin Paris he would present himself to this old friend, but he must say\nnothing of his intention now.\n\nA carriage with post-horses was ready at the Bank door, and Jerry was\nbooted and equipped.\n\n\"I have delivered that letter,\" said Charles Darnay to Mr. Lorry. \"I\nwould not consent to your being charged with any written answer, but\nperhaps you will take a verbal one?\"\n\n\"That I will, and readily,\" said Mr. Lorry, \"if it is not dangerous.\"\n\n\"Not at all. Though it is to a prisoner in the Abbaye.\"\n\n\"What is his name?\" said Mr. Lorry, with his open pocket-book in his\nhand.\n\n\"Gabelle.\"\n\n\"Gabelle. And what is the message to the unfortunate Gabelle in prison?\"\n\n\"Simply, 'that he has received the letter, and will come.'\"\n\n\"Any time mentioned?\"\n\n\"He will start upon his journey to-morrow night.\"\n\n\"Any person mentioned?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nHe helped Mr. Lorry to wrap himself in a number of coats and cloaks,\nand went out with him from the warm atmosphere of the old Bank, into the\nmisty air of Fleet-street. \"My love to Lucie, and to little Lucie,\" said\nMr. Lorry at parting, \"and take precious care of them till I come back.\"\nCharles Darnay shook his head and doubtfully smiled, as the carriage\nrolled away.\n\nThat night--it was the fourteenth of August--he sat up late, and wrote\ntwo fervent letters; one was to Lucie, explaining the strong obligation\nhe was under to go to Paris, and showing her, at length, the reasons\nthat he had, for feeling confident that he could become involved in no\npersonal danger there; the other was to the Doctor, confiding Lucie and\ntheir dear child to his care, and dwelling on the same topics with the\nstrongest assurances. To both, he wrote that he would despatch letters\nin proof of his safety, immediately after his arrival.\n\nIt was a hard day, that day of being among them, with the first\nreservation of their joint lives on his mind. It was a hard matter to\npreserve the innocent deceit of which they were profoundly unsuspicious.\nBut, an affectionate glance at his wife, so happy and busy, made him\nresolute not to tell her what impended (he had been half moved to do it,\nso strange it was to him to act in anything without her quiet aid), and\nthe day passed quickly. Early in the evening he embraced her, and her\nscarcely less dear namesake, pretending that he would return by-and-bye\n(an imaginary engagement took him out, and he had secreted a valise\nof clothes ready), and so he emerged into the heavy mist of the heavy\nstreets, with a heavier heart.\n\nThe unseen force was drawing him fast to itself, now, and all the tides\nand winds were setting straight and strong towards it. He left his\ntwo letters with a trusty porter, to be delivered half an hour before\nmidnight, and no sooner; took horse for Dover; and began his journey.\n\"For the love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the honour of\nyour noble name!\" was the poor prisoner's cry with which he strengthened\nhis sinking heart, as he left all that was dear on earth behind him, and\nfloated away for the Loadstone Rock.\n\n\nThe end of the second book.\n\n\n\n\n\nBook the Third--the Track of a Storm\n\n\n\n\nI. In Secret\n\n\nThe traveller fared slowly on his way, who fared towards Paris from\nEngland in the autumn of the year one thousand seven hundred and\nninety-two. More than enough of bad roads, bad equipages, and bad\nhorses, he would have encountered to delay him, though the fallen and\nunfortunate King of France had been upon his throne in all his glory;\nbut, the changed times were fraught with other obstacles than\nthese. Every town-gate and village taxing-house had its band of\ncitizen-patriots, with their national muskets in a most explosive state\nof readiness, who stopped all comers and goers, cross-questioned them,\ninspected their papers, looked for their names in lists of their own,\nturned them back, or sent them on, or stopped them and laid them in\nhold, as their capricious judgment or fancy deemed best for the dawning\nRepublic One and Indivisible, of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or\nDeath.\n\nA very few French leagues of his journey were accomplished, when Charles\nDarnay began to perceive that for him along these country roads there\nwas no hope of return until he should have been declared a good citizen\nat Paris. Whatever might befall now, he must on to his journey's end.\nNot a mean village closed upon him, not a common barrier dropped across\nthe road behind him, but he knew it to be another iron door in\nthe series that was barred between him and England. The universal\nwatchfulness so encompassed him, that if he had been taken in a net,\nor were being forwarded to his destination in a cage, he could not have\nfelt his freedom more completely gone.\n\nThis universal watchfulness not only stopped him on the highway twenty\ntimes in a stage, but retarded his progress twenty times in a day, by\nriding after him and taking him back, riding before him and stopping him\nby anticipation, riding with him and keeping him in charge. He had been\ndays upon his journey in France alone, when he went to bed tired out, in\na little town on the high road, still a long way from Paris.\n\nNothing but the production of the afflicted Gabelle's letter from his\nprison of the Abbaye would have got him on so far. His difficulty at the\nguard-house in this small place had been such, that he felt his journey\nto have come to a crisis. And he was, therefore, as little surprised as\na man could be, to find himself awakened at the small inn to which he\nhad been remitted until morning, in the middle of the night.\n\nAwakened by a timid local functionary and three armed patriots in rough\nred caps and with pipes in their mouths, who sat down on the bed.\n\n\"Emigrant,\" said the functionary, \"I am going to send you on to Paris,\nunder an escort.\"\n\n\"Citizen, I desire nothing more than to get to Paris, though I could\ndispense with the escort.\"\n\n\"Silence!\" growled a red-cap, striking at the coverlet with the butt-end\nof his musket. \"Peace, aristocrat!\"\n\n\"It is as the good patriot says,\" observed the timid functionary. \"You\nare an aristocrat, and must have an escort--and must pay for it.\"\n\n\"I have no choice,\" said Charles Darnay.\n\n\"Choice! Listen to him!\" cried the same scowling red-cap. \"As if it was\nnot a favour to be protected from the lamp-iron!\"\n\n\"It is always as the good patriot says,\" observed the functionary. \"Rise\nand dress yourself, emigrant.\"\n\nDarnay complied, and was taken back to the guard-house, where other\npatriots in rough red caps were smoking, drinking, and sleeping, by\na watch-fire. Here he paid a heavy price for his escort, and hence he\nstarted with it on the wet, wet roads at three o'clock in the morning.\n\nThe escort were two mounted patriots in red caps and tri-coloured\ncockades, armed with national muskets and sabres, who rode one on either\nside of him.\n\nThe escorted governed his own horse, but a loose line was attached to\nhis bridle, the end of which one of the patriots kept girded round his\nwrist. In this state they set forth with the sharp rain driving in their\nfaces: clattering at a heavy dragoon trot over the uneven town pavement,\nand out upon the mire-deep roads. In this state they traversed without\nchange, except of horses and pace, all the mire-deep leagues that lay\nbetween them and the capital.\n\nThey travelled in the night, halting an hour or two after daybreak, and\nlying by until the twilight fell. The escort were so wretchedly clothed,\nthat they twisted straw round their bare legs, and thatched their ragged\nshoulders to keep the wet off. Apart from the personal discomfort of\nbeing so attended, and apart from such considerations of present danger\nas arose from one of the patriots being chronically drunk, and carrying\nhis musket very recklessly, Charles Darnay did not allow the restraint\nthat was laid upon him to awaken any serious fears in his breast; for,\nhe reasoned with himself that it could have no reference to the merits\nof an individual case that was not yet stated, and of representations,\nconfirmable by the prisoner in the Abbaye, that were not yet made.\n\nBut when they came to the town of Beauvais--which they did at eventide,\nwhen the streets were filled with people--he could not conceal from\nhimself that the aspect of affairs was very alarming. An ominous crowd\ngathered to see him dismount of the posting-yard, and many voices called\nout loudly, \"Down with the emigrant!\"\n\nHe stopped in the act of swinging himself out of his saddle, and,\nresuming it as his safest place, said:\n\n\"Emigrant, my friends! Do you not see me here, in France, of my own\nwill?\"\n\n\"You are a cursed emigrant,\" cried a farrier, making at him in a\nfurious manner through the press, hammer in hand; \"and you are a cursed\naristocrat!\"\n\nThe postmaster interposed himself between this man and the rider's\nbridle (at which he was evidently making), and soothingly said, \"Let him\nbe; let him be! He will be judged at Paris.\"\n\n\"Judged!\" repeated the farrier, swinging his hammer. \"Ay! and condemned\nas a traitor.\" At this the crowd roared approval.\n\nChecking the postmaster, who was for turning his horse's head to the\nyard (the drunken patriot sat composedly in his saddle looking on, with\nthe line round his wrist), Darnay said, as soon as he could make his\nvoice heard:\n\n\"Friends, you deceive yourselves, or you are deceived. I am not a\ntraitor.\"\n\n\"He lies!\" cried the smith. \"He is a traitor since the decree. His life\nis forfeit to the people. His cursed life is not his own!\"\n\nAt the instant when Darnay saw a rush in the eyes of the crowd, which\nanother instant would have brought upon him, the postmaster turned his\nhorse into the yard, the escort rode in close upon his horse's flanks,\nand the postmaster shut and barred the crazy double gates. The farrier\nstruck a blow upon them with his hammer, and the crowd groaned; but, no\nmore was done.\n\n\"What is this decree that the smith spoke of?\" Darnay asked the\npostmaster, when he had thanked him, and stood beside him in the yard.\n\n\"Truly, a decree for selling the property of emigrants.\"\n\n\"When passed?\"\n\n\"On the fourteenth.\"\n\n\"The day I left England!\"\n\n\"Everybody says it is but one of several, and that there will be\nothers--if there are not already--banishing all emigrants, and\ncondemning all to death who return. That is what he meant when he said\nyour life was not your own.\"\n\n\"But there are no such decrees yet?\"\n\n\"What do I know!\" said the postmaster, shrugging his shoulders; \"there\nmay be, or there will be. It is all the same. What would you have?\"\n\nThey rested on some straw in a loft until the middle of the night, and\nthen rode forward again when all the town was asleep. Among the many\nwild changes observable on familiar things which made this wild ride\nunreal, not the least was the seeming rarity of sleep. After long and\nlonely spurring over dreary roads, they would come to a cluster of poor\ncottages, not steeped in darkness, but all glittering with lights, and\nwould find the people, in a ghostly manner in the dead of the night,\ncircling hand in hand round a shrivelled tree of Liberty, or all drawn\nup together singing a Liberty song. Happily, however, there was sleep in\nBeauvais that night to help them out of it and they passed on once more\ninto solitude and loneliness: jingling through the untimely cold and\nwet, among impoverished fields that had yielded no fruits of the earth\nthat year, diversified by the blackened remains of burnt houses, and by\nthe sudden emergence from ambuscade, and sharp reining up across their\nway, of patriot patrols on the watch on all the roads.\n\nDaylight at last found them before the wall of Paris. The barrier was\nclosed and strongly guarded when they rode up to it.\n\n\"Where are the papers of this prisoner?\" demanded a resolute-looking man\nin authority, who was summoned out by the guard.\n\nNaturally struck by the disagreeable word, Charles Darnay requested the\nspeaker to take notice that he was a free traveller and French citizen,\nin charge of an escort which the disturbed state of the country had\nimposed upon him, and which he had paid for.\n\n\"Where,\" repeated the same personage, without taking any heed of him\nwhatever, \"are the papers of this prisoner?\"\n\nThe drunken patriot had them in his cap, and produced them. Casting his\neyes over Gabelle's letter, the same personage in authority showed some\ndisorder and surprise, and looked at Darnay with a close attention.\n\nHe left escort and escorted without saying a word, however, and went\ninto the guard-room; meanwhile, they sat upon their horses outside the\ngate. Looking about him while in this state of suspense, Charles\nDarnay observed that the gate was held by a mixed guard of soldiers and\npatriots, the latter far outnumbering the former; and that while ingress\ninto the city for peasants' carts bringing in supplies, and for similar\ntraffic and traffickers, was easy enough, egress, even for the homeliest\npeople, was very difficult. A numerous medley of men and women, not\nto mention beasts and vehicles of various sorts, was waiting to issue\nforth; but, the previous identification was so strict, that they\nfiltered through the barrier very slowly. Some of these people knew\ntheir turn for examination to be so far off, that they lay down on the\nground to sleep or smoke, while others talked together, or loitered\nabout. The red cap and tri-colour cockade were universal, both among men\nand women.\n\nWhen he had sat in his saddle some half-hour, taking note of these\nthings, Darnay found himself confronted by the same man in authority,\nwho directed the guard to open the barrier. Then he delivered to the\nescort, drunk and sober, a receipt for the escorted, and requested him\nto dismount. He did so, and the two patriots, leading his tired horse,\nturned and rode away without entering the city.\n\nHe accompanied his conductor into a guard-room, smelling of common wine\nand tobacco, where certain soldiers and patriots, asleep and awake,\ndrunk and sober, and in various neutral states between sleeping and\nwaking, drunkenness and sobriety, were standing and lying about. The\nlight in the guard-house, half derived from the waning oil-lamps of\nthe night, and half from the overcast day, was in a correspondingly\nuncertain condition. Some registers were lying open on a desk, and an\nofficer of a coarse, dark aspect, presided over these.\n\n\"Citizen Defarge,\" said he to Darnay's conductor, as he took a slip of\npaper to write on. \"Is this the emigrant Evremonde?\"\n\n\"This is the man.\"\n\n\"Your age, Evremonde?\"\n\n\"Thirty-seven.\"\n\n\"Married, Evremonde?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Where married?\"\n\n\"In England.\"\n\n\"Without doubt. Where is your wife, Evremonde?\"\n\n\"In England.\"\n\n\"Without doubt. You are consigned, Evremonde, to the prison of La\nForce.\"\n\n\"Just Heaven!\" exclaimed Darnay. \"Under what law, and for what offence?\"\n\nThe officer looked up from his slip of paper for a moment.\n\n\"We have new laws, Evremonde, and new offences, since you were here.\" He\nsaid it with a hard smile, and went on writing.\n\n\"I entreat you to observe that I have come here voluntarily, in response\nto that written appeal of a fellow-countryman which lies before you. I\ndemand no more than the opportunity to do so without delay. Is not that\nmy right?\"\n\n\"Emigrants have no rights, Evremonde,\" was the stolid reply. The officer\nwrote until he had finished, read over to himself what he had written,\nsanded it, and handed it to Defarge, with the words \"In secret.\"\n\nDefarge motioned with the paper to the prisoner that he must accompany\nhim. The prisoner obeyed, and a guard of two armed patriots attended\nthem.\n\n\"Is it you,\" said Defarge, in a low voice, as they went down the\nguardhouse steps and turned into Paris, \"who married the daughter of\nDoctor Manette, once a prisoner in the Bastille that is no more?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" replied Darnay, looking at him with surprise.\n\n\"My name is Defarge, and I keep a wine-shop in the Quarter Saint\nAntoine. Possibly you have heard of me.\"\n\n\"My wife came to your house to reclaim her father? Yes!\"\n\nThe word \"wife\" seemed to serve as a gloomy reminder to Defarge, to say\nwith sudden impatience, \"In the name of that sharp female newly-born,\nand called La Guillotine, why did you come to France?\"\n\n\"You heard me say why, a minute ago. Do you not believe it is the\ntruth?\"\n\n\"A bad truth for you,\" said Defarge, speaking with knitted brows, and\nlooking straight before him.\n\n\"Indeed I am lost here. All here is so unprecedented, so changed, so\nsudden and unfair, that I am absolutely lost. Will you render me a\nlittle help?\"\n\n\"None.\" Defarge spoke, always looking straight before him.\n\n\"Will you answer me a single question?\"\n\n\"Perhaps. According to its nature. You can say what it is.\"\n\n\"In this prison that I am going to so unjustly, shall I have some free\ncommunication with the world outside?\"\n\n\"You will see.\"\n\n\"I am not to be buried there, prejudged, and without any means of\npresenting my case?\"\n\n\"You will see. But, what then? Other people have been similarly buried\nin worse prisons, before now.\"\n\n\"But never by me, Citizen Defarge.\"\n\nDefarge glanced darkly at him for answer, and walked on in a steady\nand set silence. The deeper he sank into this silence, the fainter hope\nthere was--or so Darnay thought--of his softening in any slight degree.\nHe, therefore, made haste to say:\n\n\"It is of the utmost importance to me (you know, Citizen, even better\nthan I, of how much importance), that I should be able to communicate to\nMr. Lorry of Tellson's Bank, an English gentleman who is now in Paris,\nthe simple fact, without comment, that I have been thrown into the\nprison of La Force. Will you cause that to be done for me?\"\n\n\"I will do,\" Defarge doggedly rejoined, \"nothing for you. My duty is to\nmy country and the People. I am the sworn servant of both, against you.\nI will do nothing for you.\"\n\nCharles Darnay felt it hopeless to entreat him further, and his pride\nwas touched besides. As they walked on in silence, he could not but see\nhow used the people were to the spectacle of prisoners passing along the\nstreets. The very children scarcely noticed him. A few passers turned\ntheir heads, and a few shook their fingers at him as an aristocrat;\notherwise, that a man in good clothes should be going to prison, was no\nmore remarkable than that a labourer in working clothes should be\ngoing to work. In one narrow, dark, and dirty street through which they\npassed, an excited orator, mounted on a stool, was addressing an excited\naudience on the crimes against the people, of the king and the royal\nfamily. The few words that he caught from this man's lips, first made\nit known to Charles Darnay that the king was in prison, and that the\nforeign ambassadors had one and all left Paris. On the road (except at\nBeauvais) he had heard absolutely nothing. The escort and the universal\nwatchfulness had completely isolated him.\n\nThat he had fallen among far greater dangers than those which had\ndeveloped themselves when he left England, he of course knew now. That\nperils had thickened about him fast, and might thicken faster and faster\nyet, he of course knew now. He could not but admit to himself that he\nmight not have made this journey, if he could have foreseen the events\nof a few days. And yet his misgivings were not so dark as, imagined by\nthe light of this later time, they would appear. Troubled as the future\nwas, it was the unknown future, and in its obscurity there was ignorant\nhope. The horrible massacre, days and nights long, which, within a few\nrounds of the clock, was to set a great mark of blood upon the blessed\ngarnering time of harvest, was as far out of his knowledge as if it had\nbeen a hundred thousand years away. The \"sharp female newly-born, and\ncalled La Guillotine,\" was hardly known to him, or to the generality\nof people, by name. The frightful deeds that were to be soon done, were\nprobably unimagined at that time in the brains of the doers. How could\nthey have a place in the shadowy conceptions of a gentle mind?\n\nOf unjust treatment in detention and hardship, and in cruel separation\nfrom his wife and child, he foreshadowed the likelihood, or the\ncertainty; but, beyond this, he dreaded nothing distinctly. With this on\nhis mind, which was enough to carry into a dreary prison courtyard, he\narrived at the prison of La Force.\n\nA man with a bloated face opened the strong wicket, to whom Defarge\npresented \"The Emigrant Evremonde.\"\n\n\"What the Devil! How many more of them!\" exclaimed the man with the\nbloated face.\n\nDefarge took his receipt without noticing the exclamation, and withdrew,\nwith his two fellow-patriots.\n\n\"What the Devil, I say again!\" exclaimed the gaoler, left with his wife.\n\"How many more!\"\n\nThe gaoler's wife, being provided with no answer to the question, merely\nreplied, \"One must have patience, my dear!\" Three turnkeys who entered\nresponsive to a bell she rang, echoed the sentiment, and one added, \"For\nthe love of Liberty;\" which sounded in that place like an inappropriate\nconclusion.\n\nThe prison of La Force was a gloomy prison, dark and filthy, and with a\nhorrible smell of foul sleep in it. Extraordinary how soon the noisome\nflavour of imprisoned sleep, becomes manifest in all such places that\nare ill cared for!\n\n\"In secret, too,\" grumbled the gaoler, looking at the written paper. \"As\nif I was not already full to bursting!\"\n\nHe stuck the paper on a file, in an ill-humour, and Charles Darnay\nawaited his further pleasure for half an hour: sometimes, pacing to and\nfro in the strong arched room: sometimes, resting on a stone seat: in\neither case detained to be imprinted on the memory of the chief and his\nsubordinates.\n\n\"Come!\" said the chief, at length taking up his keys, \"come with me,\nemigrant.\"\n\nThrough the dismal prison twilight, his new charge accompanied him by\ncorridor and staircase, many doors clanging and locking behind them,\nuntil they came into a large, low, vaulted chamber, crowded with\nprisoners of both sexes. The women were seated at a long table, reading\nand writing, knitting, sewing, and embroidering; the men were for the\nmost part standing behind their chairs, or lingering up and down the\nroom.\n\nIn the instinctive association of prisoners with shameful crime and\ndisgrace, the new-comer recoiled from this company. But the crowning\nunreality of his long unreal ride, was, their all at once rising to\nreceive him, with every refinement of manner known to the time, and with\nall the engaging graces and courtesies of life.\n\nSo strangely clouded were these refinements by the prison manners and\ngloom, so spectral did they become in the inappropriate squalor and\nmisery through which they were seen, that Charles Darnay seemed to stand\nin a company of the dead. Ghosts all! The ghost of beauty, the ghost\nof stateliness, the ghost of elegance, the ghost of pride, the ghost of\nfrivolity, the ghost of wit, the ghost of youth, the ghost of age, all\nwaiting their dismissal from the desolate shore, all turning on him eyes\nthat were changed by the death they had died in coming there.\n\nIt struck him motionless. The gaoler standing at his side, and the other\ngaolers moving about, who would have been well enough as to appearance\nin the ordinary exercise of their functions, looked so extravagantly\ncoarse contrasted with sorrowing mothers and blooming daughters who were\nthere--with the apparitions of the coquette, the young beauty, and the\nmature woman delicately bred--that the inversion of all experience and\nlikelihood which the scene of shadows presented, was heightened to its\nutmost. Surely, ghosts all. Surely, the long unreal ride some progress\nof disease that had brought him to these gloomy shades!\n\n\"In the name of the assembled companions in misfortune,\" said a\ngentleman of courtly appearance and address, coming forward, \"I have the\nhonour of giving you welcome to La Force, and of condoling with you\non the calamity that has brought you among us. May it soon terminate\nhappily! It would be an impertinence elsewhere, but it is not so here,\nto ask your name and condition?\"\n\nCharles Darnay roused himself, and gave the required information, in\nwords as suitable as he could find.\n\n\"But I hope,\" said the gentleman, following the chief gaoler with his\neyes, who moved across the room, \"that you are not in secret?\"\n\n\"I do not understand the meaning of the term, but I have heard them say\nso.\"\n\n\"Ah, what a pity! We so much regret it! But take courage; several\nmembers of our society have been in secret, at first, and it has lasted\nbut a short time.\" Then he added, raising his voice, \"I grieve to inform\nthe society--in secret.\"\n\nThere was a murmur of commiseration as Charles Darnay crossed the room\nto a grated door where the gaoler awaited him, and many voices--among\nwhich, the soft and compassionate voices of women were conspicuous--gave\nhim good wishes and encouragement. He turned at the grated door, to\nrender the thanks of his heart; it closed under the gaoler's hand; and\nthe apparitions vanished from his sight forever.\n\nThe wicket opened on a stone staircase, leading upward. When they had\nascended forty steps (the prisoner of half an hour already counted\nthem), the gaoler opened a low black door, and they passed into a\nsolitary cell. It struck cold and damp, but was not dark.\n\n\"Yours,\" said the gaoler.\n\n\"Why am I confined alone?\"\n\n\"How do I know!\"\n\n\"I can buy pen, ink, and paper?\"\n\n\"Such are not my orders. You will be visited, and can ask then. At\npresent, you may buy your food, and nothing more.\"\n\nThere were in the cell, a chair, a table, and a straw mattress. As\nthe gaoler made a general inspection of these objects, and of the four\nwalls, before going out, a wandering fancy wandered through the mind of\nthe prisoner leaning against the wall opposite to him, that this gaoler\nwas so unwholesomely bloated, both in face and person, as to look like\na man who had been drowned and filled with water. When the gaoler was\ngone, he thought in the same wandering way, \"Now am I left, as if I were\ndead.\" Stopping then, to look down at the mattress, he turned from it\nwith a sick feeling, and thought, \"And here in these crawling creatures\nis the first condition of the body after death.\"\n\n\"Five paces by four and a half, five paces by four and a half, five\npaces by four and a half.\" The prisoner walked to and fro in his cell,\ncounting its measurement, and the roar of the city arose like muffled\ndrums with a wild swell of voices added to them. \"He made shoes, he made\nshoes, he made shoes.\" The prisoner counted the measurement again, and\npaced faster, to draw his mind with him from that latter repetition.\n\"The ghosts that vanished when the wicket closed. There was one among\nthem, the appearance of a lady dressed in black, who was leaning in the\nembrasure of a window, and she had a light shining upon her golden\nhair, and she looked like * * * * Let us ride on again, for God's sake,\nthrough the illuminated villages with the people all awake! * * * * He\nmade shoes, he made shoes, he made shoes. * * * * Five paces by four and\na half.\" With such scraps tossing and rolling upward from the depths of\nhis mind, the prisoner walked faster and faster, obstinately counting\nand counting; and the roar of the city changed to this extent--that it\nstill rolled in like muffled drums, but with the wail of voices that he\nknew, in the swell that rose above them.\n\n\n\n\nII. The Grindstone\n\n\nTellson's Bank, established in the Saint Germain Quarter of Paris, was\nin a wing of a large house, approached by a courtyard and shut off from\nthe street by a high wall and a strong gate. The house belonged to\na great nobleman who had lived in it until he made a flight from the\ntroubles, in his own cook's dress, and got across the borders. A\nmere beast of the chase flying from hunters, he was still in his\nmetempsychosis no other than the same Monseigneur, the preparation\nof whose chocolate for whose lips had once occupied three strong men\nbesides the cook in question.\n\nMonseigneur gone, and the three strong men absolving themselves from the\nsin of having drawn his high wages, by being more than ready and\nwilling to cut his throat on the altar of the dawning Republic one and\nindivisible of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, Monseigneur's\nhouse had been first sequestrated, and then confiscated. For, all\nthings moved so fast, and decree followed decree with that fierce\nprecipitation, that now upon the third night of the autumn month\nof September, patriot emissaries of the law were in possession of\nMonseigneur's house, and had marked it with the tri-colour, and were\ndrinking brandy in its state apartments.\n\nA place of business in London like Tellson's place of business in Paris,\nwould soon have driven the House out of its mind and into the Gazette.\nFor, what would staid British responsibility and respectability have\nsaid to orange-trees in boxes in a Bank courtyard, and even to a Cupid\nover the counter? Yet such things were. Tellson's had whitewashed the\nCupid, but he was still to be seen on the ceiling, in the coolest\nlinen, aiming (as he very often does) at money from morning to\nnight. Bankruptcy must inevitably have come of this young Pagan, in\nLombard-street, London, and also of a curtained alcove in the rear of\nthe immortal boy, and also of a looking-glass let into the wall, and\nalso of clerks not at all old, who danced in public on the slightest\nprovocation. Yet, a French Tellson's could get on with these things\nexceedingly well, and, as long as the times held together, no man had\ntaken fright at them, and drawn out his money.\n\nWhat money would be drawn out of Tellson's henceforth, and what would\nlie there, lost and forgotten; what plate and jewels would tarnish in\nTellson's hiding-places, while the depositors rusted in prisons,\nand when they should have violently perished; how many accounts with\nTellson's never to be balanced in this world, must be carried over into\nthe next; no man could have said, that night, any more than Mr. Jarvis\nLorry could, though he thought heavily of these questions. He sat by\na newly-lighted wood fire (the blighted and unfruitful year was\nprematurely cold), and on his honest and courageous face there was a\ndeeper shade than the pendent lamp could throw, or any object in the\nroom distortedly reflect--a shade of horror.\n\nHe occupied rooms in the Bank, in his fidelity to the House of which\nhe had grown to be a part, like strong root-ivy. It chanced that they\nderived a kind of security from the patriotic occupation of the main\nbuilding, but the true-hearted old gentleman never calculated about\nthat. All such circumstances were indifferent to him, so that he did\nhis duty. On the opposite side of the courtyard, under a colonnade,\nwas extensive standing--for carriages--where, indeed, some carriages\nof Monseigneur yet stood. Against two of the pillars were fastened two\ngreat flaring flambeaux, and in the light of these, standing out in the\nopen air, was a large grindstone: a roughly mounted thing which appeared\nto have hurriedly been brought there from some neighbouring smithy,\nor other workshop. Rising and looking out of window at these harmless\nobjects, Mr. Lorry shivered, and retired to his seat by the fire. He had\nopened, not only the glass window, but the lattice blind outside it, and\nhe had closed both again, and he shivered through his frame.\n\nFrom the streets beyond the high wall and the strong gate, there came\nthe usual night hum of the city, with now and then an indescribable ring\nin it, weird and unearthly, as if some unwonted sounds of a terrible\nnature were going up to Heaven.\n\n\"Thank God,\" said Mr. Lorry, clasping his hands, \"that no one near and\ndear to me is in this dreadful town to-night. May He have mercy on all\nwho are in danger!\"\n\nSoon afterwards, the bell at the great gate sounded, and he thought,\n\"They have come back!\" and sat listening. But, there was no loud\nirruption into the courtyard, as he had expected, and he heard the gate\nclash again, and all was quiet.\n\nThe nervousness and dread that were upon him inspired that vague\nuneasiness respecting the Bank, which a great change would naturally\nawaken, with such feelings roused. It was well guarded, and he got up to\ngo among the trusty people who were watching it, when his door suddenly\nopened, and two figures rushed in, at sight of which he fell back in\namazement.\n\nLucie and her father! Lucie with her arms stretched out to him, and with\nthat old look of earnestness so concentrated and intensified, that it\nseemed as though it had been stamped upon her face expressly to give\nforce and power to it in this one passage of her life.\n\n\"What is this?\" cried Mr. Lorry, breathless and confused. \"What is the\nmatter? Lucie! Manette! What has happened? What has brought you here?\nWhat is it?\"\n\nWith the look fixed upon him, in her paleness and wildness, she panted\nout in his arms, imploringly, \"O my dear friend! My husband!\"\n\n\"Your husband, Lucie?\"\n\n\"Charles.\"\n\n\"What of Charles?\"\n\n\"Here.\n\n\"Here, in Paris?\"\n\n\"Has been here some days--three or four--I don't know how many--I can't\ncollect my thoughts. An errand of generosity brought him here unknown to\nus; he was stopped at the barrier, and sent to prison.\"\n\nThe old man uttered an irrepressible cry. Almost at the same moment, the\nbell of the great gate rang again, and a loud noise of feet and voices\ncame pouring into the courtyard.\n\n\"What is that noise?\" said the Doctor, turning towards the window.\n\n\"Don't look!\" cried Mr. Lorry. \"Don't look out! Manette, for your life,\ndon't touch the blind!\"\n\nThe Doctor turned, with his hand upon the fastening of the window, and\nsaid, with a cool, bold smile:\n\n\"My dear friend, I have a charmed life in this city. I have been\na Bastille prisoner. There is no patriot in Paris--in Paris? In\nFrance--who, knowing me to have been a prisoner in the Bastille, would\ntouch me, except to overwhelm me with embraces, or carry me in triumph.\nMy old pain has given me a power that has brought us through the\nbarrier, and gained us news of Charles there, and brought us here. I\nknew it would be so; I knew I could help Charles out of all danger; I\ntold Lucie so.--What is that noise?\" His hand was again upon the window.\n\n\"Don't look!\" cried Mr. Lorry, absolutely desperate. \"No, Lucie, my\ndear, nor you!\" He got his arm round her, and held her. \"Don't be so\nterrified, my love. I solemnly swear to you that I know of no harm\nhaving happened to Charles; that I had no suspicion even of his being in\nthis fatal place. What prison is he in?\"\n\n\"La Force!\"\n\n\"La Force! Lucie, my child, if ever you were brave and serviceable in\nyour life--and you were always both--you will compose yourself now, to\ndo exactly as I bid you; for more depends upon it than you can think, or\nI can say. There is no help for you in any action on your part to-night;\nyou cannot possibly stir out. I say this, because what I must bid you\nto do for Charles's sake, is the hardest thing to do of all. You must\ninstantly be obedient, still, and quiet. You must let me put you in a\nroom at the back here. You must leave your father and me alone for\ntwo minutes, and as there are Life and Death in the world you must not\ndelay.\"\n\n\"I will be submissive to you. I see in your face that you know I can do\nnothing else than this. I know you are true.\"\n\nThe old man kissed her, and hurried her into his room, and turned the\nkey; then, came hurrying back to the Doctor, and opened the window and\npartly opened the blind, and put his hand upon the Doctor's arm, and\nlooked out with him into the courtyard.\n\nLooked out upon a throng of men and women: not enough in number, or near\nenough, to fill the courtyard: not more than forty or fifty in all. The\npeople in possession of the house had let them in at the gate, and they\nhad rushed in to work at the grindstone; it had evidently been set up\nthere for their purpose, as in a convenient and retired spot.\n\nBut, such awful workers, and such awful work!\n\nThe grindstone had a double handle, and, turning at it madly were two\nmen, whose faces, as their long hair flapped back when the whirlings of\nthe grindstone brought their faces up, were more horrible and cruel than\nthe visages of the wildest savages in their most barbarous disguise.\nFalse eyebrows and false moustaches were stuck upon them, and their\nhideous countenances were all bloody and sweaty, and all awry with\nhowling, and all staring and glaring with beastly excitement and want of\nsleep. As these ruffians turned and turned, their matted locks now flung\nforward over their eyes, now flung backward over their necks, some women\nheld wine to their mouths that they might drink; and what with dropping\nblood, and what with dropping wine, and what with the stream of sparks\nstruck out of the stone, all their wicked atmosphere seemed gore and\nfire. The eye could not detect one creature in the group free from\nthe smear of blood. Shouldering one another to get next at the\nsharpening-stone, were men stripped to the waist, with the stain all\nover their limbs and bodies; men in all sorts of rags, with the stain\nupon those rags; men devilishly set off with spoils of women's lace\nand silk and ribbon, with the stain dyeing those trifles through\nand through. Hatchets, knives, bayonets, swords, all brought to be\nsharpened, were all red with it. Some of the hacked swords were tied to\nthe wrists of those who carried them, with strips of linen and fragments\nof dress: ligatures various in kind, but all deep of the one colour. And\nas the frantic wielders of these weapons snatched them from the stream\nof sparks and tore away into the streets, the same red hue was red in\ntheir frenzied eyes;--eyes which any unbrutalised beholder would have\ngiven twenty years of life, to petrify with a well-directed gun.\n\nAll this was seen in a moment, as the vision of a drowning man, or of\nany human creature at any very great pass, could see a world if it\nwere there. They drew back from the window, and the Doctor looked for\nexplanation in his friend's ashy face.\n\n\"They are,\" Mr. Lorry whispered the words, glancing fearfully round at\nthe locked room, \"murdering the prisoners. If you are sure of what you\nsay; if you really have the power you think you have--as I believe you\nhave--make yourself known to these devils, and get taken to La Force. It\nmay be too late, I don't know, but let it not be a minute later!\"\n\nDoctor Manette pressed his hand, hastened bareheaded out of the room,\nand was in the courtyard when Mr. Lorry regained the blind.\n\nHis streaming white hair, his remarkable face, and the impetuous\nconfidence of his manner, as he put the weapons aside like water,\ncarried him in an instant to the heart of the concourse at the stone.\nFor a few moments there was a pause, and a hurry, and a murmur, and\nthe unintelligible sound of his voice; and then Mr. Lorry saw him,\nsurrounded by all, and in the midst of a line of twenty men long, all\nlinked shoulder to shoulder, and hand to shoulder, hurried out with\ncries of--\"Live the Bastille prisoner! Help for the Bastille prisoner's\nkindred in La Force! Room for the Bastille prisoner in front there! Save\nthe prisoner Evremonde at La Force!\" and a thousand answering shouts.\n\nHe closed the lattice again with a fluttering heart, closed the window\nand the curtain, hastened to Lucie, and told her that her father was\nassisted by the people, and gone in search of her husband. He found\nher child and Miss Pross with her; but, it never occurred to him to be\nsurprised by their appearance until a long time afterwards, when he sat\nwatching them in such quiet as the night knew.\n\nLucie had, by that time, fallen into a stupor on the floor at his feet,\nclinging to his hand. Miss Pross had laid the child down on his own\nbed, and her head had gradually fallen on the pillow beside her pretty\ncharge. O the long, long night, with the moans of the poor wife! And O\nthe long, long night, with no return of her father and no tidings!\n\nTwice more in the darkness the bell at the great gate sounded, and the\nirruption was repeated, and the grindstone whirled and spluttered.\n\"What is it?\" cried Lucie, affrighted. \"Hush! The soldiers' swords are\nsharpened there,\" said Mr. Lorry. \"The place is national property now,\nand used as a kind of armoury, my love.\"\n\nTwice more in all; but, the last spell of work was feeble and fitful.\nSoon afterwards the day began to dawn, and he softly detached himself\nfrom the clasping hand, and cautiously looked out again. A man, so\nbesmeared that he might have been a sorely wounded soldier creeping back\nto consciousness on a field of slain, was rising from the pavement by\nthe side of the grindstone, and looking about him with a vacant air.\nShortly, this worn-out murderer descried in the imperfect light one of\nthe carriages of Monseigneur, and, staggering to that gorgeous vehicle,\nclimbed in at the door, and shut himself up to take his rest on its\ndainty cushions.\n\nThe great grindstone, Earth, had turned when Mr. Lorry looked out again,\nand the sun was red on the courtyard. But, the lesser grindstone stood\nalone there in the calm morning air, with a red upon it that the sun had\nnever given, and would never take away.\n\n\n\n\nIII. The Shadow\n\n\nOne of the first considerations which arose in the business mind of Mr.\nLorry when business hours came round, was this:--that he had no right to\nimperil Tellson's by sheltering the wife of an emigrant prisoner under\nthe Bank roof. His own possessions, safety, life, he would have hazarded\nfor Lucie and her child, without a moment's demur; but the great trust\nhe held was not his own, and as to that business charge he was a strict\nman of business.\n\nAt first, his mind reverted to Defarge, and he thought of finding out\nthe wine-shop again and taking counsel with its master in reference to\nthe safest dwelling-place in the distracted state of the city. But, the\nsame consideration that suggested him, repudiated him; he lived in the\nmost violent Quarter, and doubtless was influential there, and deep in\nits dangerous workings.\n\nNoon coming, and the Doctor not returning, and every minute's delay\ntending to compromise Tellson's, Mr. Lorry advised with Lucie. She said\nthat her father had spoken of hiring a lodging for a short term, in that\nQuarter, near the Banking-house. As there was no business objection to\nthis, and as he foresaw that even if it were all well with Charles, and\nhe were to be released, he could not hope to leave the city, Mr. Lorry\nwent out in quest of such a lodging, and found a suitable one, high up\nin a removed by-street where the closed blinds in all the other windows\nof a high melancholy square of buildings marked deserted homes.\n\nTo this lodging he at once removed Lucie and her child, and Miss Pross:\ngiving them what comfort he could, and much more than he had himself.\nHe left Jerry with them, as a figure to fill a doorway that would bear\nconsiderable knocking on the head, and returned to his own occupations.\nA disturbed and doleful mind he brought to bear upon them, and slowly\nand heavily the day lagged on with him.\n\nIt wore itself out, and wore him out with it, until the Bank closed. He\nwas again alone in his room of the previous night, considering what to\ndo next, when he heard a foot upon the stair. In a few moments, a\nman stood in his presence, who, with a keenly observant look at him,\naddressed him by his name.\n\n\"Your servant,\" said Mr. Lorry. \"Do you know me?\"\n\nHe was a strongly made man with dark curling hair, from forty-five\nto fifty years of age. For answer he repeated, without any change of\nemphasis, the words:\n\n\"Do you know me?\"\n\n\"I have seen you somewhere.\"\n\n\"Perhaps at my wine-shop?\"\n\nMuch interested and agitated, Mr. Lorry said: \"You come from Doctor\nManette?\"\n\n\"Yes. I come from Doctor Manette.\"\n\n\"And what says he? What does he send me?\"\n\nDefarge gave into his anxious hand, an open scrap of paper. It bore the\nwords in the Doctor's writing:\n\n    \"Charles is safe, but I cannot safely leave this place yet.\n     I have obtained the favour that the bearer has a short note\n     from Charles to his wife.  Let the bearer see his wife.\"\n\nIt was dated from La Force, within an hour.\n\n\"Will you accompany me,\" said Mr. Lorry, joyfully relieved after reading\nthis note aloud, \"to where his wife resides?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" returned Defarge.\n\nScarcely noticing as yet, in what a curiously reserved and mechanical\nway Defarge spoke, Mr. Lorry put on his hat and they went down into the\ncourtyard. There, they found two women; one, knitting.\n\n\"Madame Defarge, surely!\" said Mr. Lorry, who had left her in exactly\nthe same attitude some seventeen years ago.\n\n\"It is she,\" observed her husband.\n\n\"Does Madame go with us?\" inquired Mr. Lorry, seeing that she moved as\nthey moved.\n\n\"Yes. That she may be able to recognise the faces and know the persons.\nIt is for their safety.\"\n\nBeginning to be struck by Defarge's manner, Mr. Lorry looked dubiously\nat him, and led the way. Both the women followed; the second woman being\nThe Vengeance.\n\nThey passed through the intervening streets as quickly as they might,\nascended the staircase of the new domicile, were admitted by Jerry,\nand found Lucie weeping, alone. She was thrown into a transport by the\ntidings Mr. Lorry gave her of her husband, and clasped the hand that\ndelivered his note--little thinking what it had been doing near him in\nthe night, and might, but for a chance, have done to him.\n\n     \"DEAREST,--Take courage.  I am well, and your father has\n      influence around me.  You cannot answer this.\n      Kiss our child for me.\"\n\nThat was all the writing. It was so much, however, to her who received\nit, that she turned from Defarge to his wife, and kissed one of the\nhands that knitted. It was a passionate, loving, thankful, womanly\naction, but the hand made no response--dropped cold and heavy, and took\nto its knitting again.\n\nThere was something in its touch that gave Lucie a check. She stopped in\nthe act of putting the note in her bosom, and, with her hands yet at her\nneck, looked terrified at Madame Defarge. Madame Defarge met the lifted\neyebrows and forehead with a cold, impassive stare.\n\n\"My dear,\" said Mr. Lorry, striking in to explain; \"there are frequent\nrisings in the streets; and, although it is not likely they will ever\ntrouble you, Madame Defarge wishes to see those whom she has the power\nto protect at such times, to the end that she may know them--that she\nmay identify them. I believe,\" said Mr. Lorry, rather halting in his\nreassuring words, as the stony manner of all the three impressed itself\nupon him more and more, \"I state the case, Citizen Defarge?\"\n\nDefarge looked gloomily at his wife, and gave no other answer than a\ngruff sound of acquiescence.\n\n\"You had better, Lucie,\" said Mr. Lorry, doing all he could to\npropitiate, by tone and manner, \"have the dear child here, and our\ngood Pross. Our good Pross, Defarge, is an English lady, and knows no\nFrench.\"\n\nThe lady in question, whose rooted conviction that she was more than a\nmatch for any foreigner, was not to be shaken by distress and, danger,\nappeared with folded arms, and observed in English to The Vengeance,\nwhom her eyes first encountered, \"Well, I am sure, Boldface! I hope\n_you_ are pretty well!\" She also bestowed a British cough on Madame\nDefarge; but, neither of the two took much heed of her.\n\n\"Is that his child?\" said Madame Defarge, stopping in her work for the\nfirst time, and pointing her knitting-needle at little Lucie as if it\nwere the finger of Fate.\n\n\"Yes, madame,\" answered Mr. Lorry; \"this is our poor prisoner's darling\ndaughter, and only child.\"\n\nThe shadow attendant on Madame Defarge and her party seemed to fall so\nthreatening and dark on the child, that her mother instinctively\nkneeled on the ground beside her, and held her to her breast. The\nshadow attendant on Madame Defarge and her party seemed then to fall,\nthreatening and dark, on both the mother and the child.\n\n\"It is enough, my husband,\" said Madame Defarge. \"I have seen them. We\nmay go.\"\n\nBut, the suppressed manner had enough of menace in it--not visible and\npresented, but indistinct and withheld--to alarm Lucie into saying, as\nshe laid her appealing hand on Madame Defarge's dress:\n\n\"You will be good to my poor husband. You will do him no harm. You will\nhelp me to see him if you can?\"\n\n\"Your husband is not my business here,\" returned Madame Defarge, looking\ndown at her with perfect composure. \"It is the daughter of your father\nwho is my business here.\"\n\n\"For my sake, then, be merciful to my husband. For my child's sake! She\nwill put her hands together and pray you to be merciful. We are more\nafraid of you than of these others.\"\n\nMadame Defarge received it as a compliment, and looked at her husband.\nDefarge, who had been uneasily biting his thumb-nail and looking at her,\ncollected his face into a sterner expression.\n\n\"What is it that your husband says in that little letter?\" asked Madame\nDefarge, with a lowering smile. \"Influence; he says something touching\ninfluence?\"\n\n\"That my father,\" said Lucie, hurriedly taking the paper from her\nbreast, but with her alarmed eyes on her questioner and not on it, \"has\nmuch influence around him.\"\n\n\"Surely it will release him!\" said Madame Defarge. \"Let it do so.\"\n\n\"As a wife and mother,\" cried Lucie, most earnestly, \"I implore you to\nhave pity on me and not to exercise any power that you possess, against\nmy innocent husband, but to use it in his behalf. O sister-woman, think\nof me. As a wife and mother!\"\n\nMadame Defarge looked, coldly as ever, at the suppliant, and said,\nturning to her friend The Vengeance:\n\n\"The wives and mothers we have been used to see, since we were as little\nas this child, and much less, have not been greatly considered? We have\nknown _their_ husbands and fathers laid in prison and kept from them,\noften enough? All our lives, we have seen our sister-women suffer, in\nthemselves and in their children, poverty, nakedness, hunger, thirst,\nsickness, misery, oppression and neglect of all kinds?\"\n\n\"We have seen nothing else,\" returned The Vengeance.\n\n\"We have borne this a long time,\" said Madame Defarge, turning her eyes\nagain upon Lucie. \"Judge you! Is it likely that the trouble of one wife\nand mother would be much to us now?\"\n\nShe resumed her knitting and went out. The Vengeance followed. Defarge\nwent last, and closed the door.\n\n\"Courage, my dear Lucie,\" said Mr. Lorry, as he raised her. \"Courage,\ncourage! So far all goes well with us--much, much better than it has of\nlate gone with many poor souls. Cheer up, and have a thankful heart.\"\n\n\"I am not thankless, I hope, but that dreadful woman seems to throw a\nshadow on me and on all my hopes.\"\n\n\"Tut, tut!\" said Mr. Lorry; \"what is this despondency in the brave\nlittle breast? A shadow indeed! No substance in it, Lucie.\"\n\nBut the shadow of the manner of these Defarges was dark upon himself,\nfor all that, and in his secret mind it troubled him greatly.\n\n\n\n\nIV. Calm in Storm\n\n\nDoctor Manette did not return until the morning of the fourth day of his\nabsence. So much of what had happened in that dreadful time as could be\nkept from the knowledge of Lucie was so well concealed from her, that\nnot until long afterwards, when France and she were far apart, did she\nknow that eleven hundred defenceless prisoners of both sexes and all\nages had been killed by the populace; that four days and nights had been\ndarkened by this deed of horror; and that the air around her had been\ntainted by the slain. She only knew that there had been an attack upon\nthe prisons, that all political prisoners had been in danger, and that\nsome had been dragged out by the crowd and murdered.\n\nTo Mr. Lorry, the Doctor communicated under an injunction of secrecy on\nwhich he had no need to dwell, that the crowd had taken him through a\nscene of carnage to the prison of La Force. That, in the prison he had\nfound a self-appointed Tribunal sitting, before which the prisoners were\nbrought singly, and by which they were rapidly ordered to be put forth\nto be massacred, or to be released, or (in a few cases) to be sent back\nto their cells. That, presented by his conductors to this Tribunal, he\nhad announced himself by name and profession as having been for eighteen\nyears a secret and unaccused prisoner in the Bastille; that, one of the\nbody so sitting in judgment had risen and identified him, and that this\nman was Defarge.\n\nThat, hereupon he had ascertained, through the registers on the table,\nthat his son-in-law was among the living prisoners, and had pleaded hard\nto the Tribunal--of whom some members were asleep and some awake, some\ndirty with murder and some clean, some sober and some not--for his life\nand liberty. That, in the first frantic greetings lavished on himself as\na notable sufferer under the overthrown system, it had been accorded\nto him to have Charles Darnay brought before the lawless Court, and\nexamined. That, he seemed on the point of being at once released, when\nthe tide in his favour met with some unexplained check (not intelligible\nto the Doctor), which led to a few words of secret conference. That,\nthe man sitting as President had then informed Doctor Manette that\nthe prisoner must remain in custody, but should, for his sake, be held\ninviolate in safe custody. That, immediately, on a signal, the prisoner\nwas removed to the interior of the prison again; but, that he, the\nDoctor, had then so strongly pleaded for permission to remain and\nassure himself that his son-in-law was, through no malice or mischance,\ndelivered to the concourse whose murderous yells outside the gate had\noften drowned the proceedings, that he had obtained the permission, and\nhad remained in that Hall of Blood until the danger was over.\n\nThe sights he had seen there, with brief snatches of food and sleep by\nintervals, shall remain untold. The mad joy over the prisoners who were\nsaved, had astounded him scarcely less than the mad ferocity against\nthose who were cut to pieces. One prisoner there was, he said, who had\nbeen discharged into the street free, but at whom a mistaken savage had\nthrust a pike as he passed out. Being besought to go to him and dress\nthe wound, the Doctor had passed out at the same gate, and had found him\nin the arms of a company of Samaritans, who were seated on the bodies\nof their victims. With an inconsistency as monstrous as anything in this\nawful nightmare, they had helped the healer, and tended the wounded man\nwith the gentlest solicitude--had made a litter for him and escorted him\ncarefully from the spot--had then caught up their weapons and plunged\nanew into a butchery so dreadful, that the Doctor had covered his eyes\nwith his hands, and swooned away in the midst of it.\n\nAs Mr. Lorry received these confidences, and as he watched the face of\nhis friend now sixty-two years of age, a misgiving arose within him that\nsuch dread experiences would revive the old danger.\n\nBut, he had never seen his friend in his present aspect: he had never\nat all known him in his present character. For the first time the Doctor\nfelt, now, that his suffering was strength and power. For the first time\nhe felt that in that sharp fire, he had slowly forged the iron which\ncould break the prison door of his daughter's husband, and deliver him.\n\"It all tended to a good end, my friend; it was not mere waste and ruin.\nAs my beloved child was helpful in restoring me to myself, I will be\nhelpful now in restoring the dearest part of herself to her; by the aid\nof Heaven I will do it!\" Thus, Doctor Manette. And when Jarvis Lorry saw\nthe kindled eyes, the resolute face, the calm strong look and bearing\nof the man whose life always seemed to him to have been stopped, like a\nclock, for so many years, and then set going again with an energy which\nhad lain dormant during the cessation of its usefulness, he believed.\n\nGreater things than the Doctor had at that time to contend with, would\nhave yielded before his persevering purpose. While he kept himself\nin his place, as a physician, whose business was with all degrees\nof mankind, bond and free, rich and poor, bad and good, he used his\npersonal influence so wisely, that he was soon the inspecting physician\nof three prisons, and among them of La Force. He could now assure Lucie\nthat her husband was no longer confined alone, but was mixed with the\ngeneral body of prisoners; he saw her husband weekly, and brought sweet\nmessages to her, straight from his lips; sometimes her husband himself\nsent a letter to her (though never by the Doctor's hand), but she was\nnot permitted to write to him: for, among the many wild suspicions of\nplots in the prisons, the wildest of all pointed at emigrants who were\nknown to have made friends or permanent connections abroad.\n\nThis new life of the Doctor's was an anxious life, no doubt; still, the\nsagacious Mr. Lorry saw that there was a new sustaining pride in it.\nNothing unbecoming tinged the pride; it was a natural and worthy one;\nbut he observed it as a curiosity. The Doctor knew, that up to that\ntime, his imprisonment had been associated in the minds of his daughter\nand his friend, with his personal affliction, deprivation, and weakness.\nNow that this was changed, and he knew himself to be invested through\nthat old trial with forces to which they both looked for Charles's\nultimate safety and deliverance, he became so far exalted by the change,\nthat he took the lead and direction, and required them as the weak, to\ntrust to him as the strong. The preceding relative positions of himself\nand Lucie were reversed, yet only as the liveliest gratitude and\naffection could reverse them, for he could have had no pride but in\nrendering some service to her who had rendered so much to him. \"All\ncurious to see,\" thought Mr. Lorry, in his amiably shrewd way, \"but all\nnatural and right; so, take the lead, my dear friend, and keep it; it\ncouldn't be in better hands.\"\n\nBut, though the Doctor tried hard, and never ceased trying, to get\nCharles Darnay set at liberty, or at least to get him brought to trial,\nthe public current of the time set too strong and fast for him. The new\nera began; the king was tried, doomed, and beheaded; the Republic of\nLiberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, declared for victory or death\nagainst the world in arms; the black flag waved night and day from the\ngreat towers of Notre Dame; three hundred thousand men, summoned to rise\nagainst the tyrants of the earth, rose from all the varying soils\nof France, as if the dragon's teeth had been sown broadcast, and\nhad yielded fruit equally on hill and plain, on rock, in gravel, and\nalluvial mud, under the bright sky of the South and under the clouds of\nthe North, in fell and forest, in the vineyards and the olive-grounds\nand among the cropped grass and the stubble of the corn, along the\nfruitful banks of the broad rivers, and in the sand of the sea-shore.\nWhat private solicitude could rear itself against the deluge of the Year\nOne of Liberty--the deluge rising from below, not falling from above,\nand with the windows of Heaven shut, not opened!\n\nThere was no pause, no pity, no peace, no interval of relenting rest, no\nmeasurement of time. Though days and nights circled as regularly as when\ntime was young, and the evening and morning were the first day, other\ncount of time there was none. Hold of it was lost in the raging fever\nof a nation, as it is in the fever of one patient. Now, breaking the\nunnatural silence of a whole city, the executioner showed the people the\nhead of the king--and now, it seemed almost in the same breath, the\nhead of his fair wife which had had eight weary months of imprisoned\nwidowhood and misery, to turn it grey.\n\nAnd yet, observing the strange law of contradiction which obtains in\nall such cases, the time was long, while it flamed by so fast. A\nrevolutionary tribunal in the capital, and forty or fifty thousand\nrevolutionary committees all over the land; a law of the Suspected,\nwhich struck away all security for liberty or life, and delivered over\nany good and innocent person to any bad and guilty one; prisons gorged\nwith people who had committed no offence, and could obtain no hearing;\nthese things became the established order and nature of appointed\nthings, and seemed to be ancient usage before they were many weeks old.\nAbove all, one hideous figure grew as familiar as if it had been before\nthe general gaze from the foundations of the world--the figure of the\nsharp female called La Guillotine.\n\nIt was the popular theme for jests; it was the best cure for headache,\nit infallibly prevented the hair from turning grey, it imparted a\npeculiar delicacy to the complexion, it was the National Razor which\nshaved close: who kissed La Guillotine, looked through the little window\nand sneezed into the sack. It was the sign of the regeneration of the\nhuman race. It superseded the Cross. Models of it were worn on breasts\nfrom which the Cross was discarded, and it was bowed down to and\nbelieved in where the Cross was denied.\n\nIt sheared off heads so many, that it, and the ground it most polluted,\nwere a rotten red. It was taken to pieces, like a toy-puzzle for a young\nDevil, and was put together again when the occasion wanted it. It hushed\nthe eloquent, struck down the powerful, abolished the beautiful and\ngood. Twenty-two friends of high public mark, twenty-one living and one\ndead, it had lopped the heads off, in one morning, in as many minutes.\nThe name of the strong man of Old Scripture had descended to the chief\nfunctionary who worked it; but, so armed, he was stronger than his\nnamesake, and blinder, and tore away the gates of God's own Temple every\nday.\n\nAmong these terrors, and the brood belonging to them, the Doctor walked\nwith a steady head: confident in his power, cautiously persistent in his\nend, never doubting that he would save Lucie's husband at last. Yet the\ncurrent of the time swept by, so strong and deep, and carried the time\naway so fiercely, that Charles had lain in prison one year and three\nmonths when the Doctor was thus steady and confident. So much more\nwicked and distracted had the Revolution grown in that December month,\nthat the rivers of the South were encumbered with the bodies of the\nviolently drowned by night, and prisoners were shot in lines and squares\nunder the southern wintry sun. Still, the Doctor walked among the\nterrors with a steady head. No man better known than he, in Paris at\nthat day; no man in a stranger situation. Silent, humane, indispensable\nin hospital and prison, using his art equally among assassins and\nvictims, he was a man apart. In the exercise of his skill, the\nappearance and the story of the Bastille Captive removed him from all\nother men. He was not suspected or brought in question, any more than if\nhe had indeed been recalled to life some eighteen years before, or were\na Spirit moving among mortals.\n\n\n\n\nV. The Wood-Sawyer\n\n\nOne year and three months. During all that time Lucie was never\nsure, from hour to hour, but that the Guillotine would strike off her\nhusband's head next day. Every day, through the stony streets, the\ntumbrils now jolted heavily, filled with Condemned. Lovely girls; bright\nwomen, brown-haired, black-haired, and grey; youths; stalwart men and\nold; gentle born and peasant born; all red wine for La Guillotine, all\ndaily brought into light from the dark cellars of the loathsome prisons,\nand carried to her through the streets to slake her devouring thirst.\nLiberty, equality, fraternity, or death;--the last, much the easiest to\nbestow, O Guillotine!\n\nIf the suddenness of her calamity, and the whirling wheels of the time,\nhad stunned the Doctor's daughter into awaiting the result in idle\ndespair, it would but have been with her as it was with many. But, from\nthe hour when she had taken the white head to her fresh young bosom in\nthe garret of Saint Antoine, she had been true to her duties. She was\ntruest to them in the season of trial, as all the quietly loyal and good\nwill always be.\n\nAs soon as they were established in their new residence, and her father\nhad entered on the routine of his avocations, she arranged the little\nhousehold as exactly as if her husband had been there. Everything had\nits appointed place and its appointed time. Little Lucie she taught,\nas regularly, as if they had all been united in their English home. The\nslight devices with which she cheated herself into the show of a belief\nthat they would soon be reunited--the little preparations for his speedy\nreturn, the setting aside of his chair and his books--these, and the\nsolemn prayer at night for one dear prisoner especially, among the many\nunhappy souls in prison and the shadow of death--were almost the only\noutspoken reliefs of her heavy mind.\n\nShe did not greatly alter in appearance. The plain dark dresses, akin to\nmourning dresses, which she and her child wore, were as neat and as well\nattended to as the brighter clothes of happy days. She lost her colour,\nand the old and intent expression was a constant, not an occasional,\nthing; otherwise, she remained very pretty and comely. Sometimes, at\nnight on kissing her father, she would burst into the grief she had\nrepressed all day, and would say that her sole reliance, under Heaven,\nwas on him. He always resolutely answered: \"Nothing can happen to him\nwithout my knowledge, and I know that I can save him, Lucie.\"\n\nThey had not made the round of their changed life many weeks, when her\nfather said to her, on coming home one evening:\n\n\"My dear, there is an upper window in the prison, to which Charles can\nsometimes gain access at three in the afternoon. When he can get to\nit--which depends on many uncertainties and incidents--he might see you\nin the street, he thinks, if you stood in a certain place that I can\nshow you. But you will not be able to see him, my poor child, and even\nif you could, it would be unsafe for you to make a sign of recognition.\"\n\n\"O show me the place, my father, and I will go there every day.\"\n\nFrom that time, in all weathers, she waited there two hours. As the\nclock struck two, she was there, and at four she turned resignedly away.\nWhen it was not too wet or inclement for her child to be with her, they\nwent together; at other times she was alone; but, she never missed a\nsingle day.\n\nIt was the dark and dirty corner of a small winding street. The hovel\nof a cutter of wood into lengths for burning, was the only house at that\nend; all else was wall. On the third day of her being there, he noticed\nher.\n\n\"Good day, citizeness.\"\n\n\"Good day, citizen.\"\n\nThis mode of address was now prescribed by decree. It had been\nestablished voluntarily some time ago, among the more thorough patriots;\nbut, was now law for everybody.\n\n\"Walking here again, citizeness?\"\n\n\"You see me, citizen!\"\n\nThe wood-sawyer, who was a little man with a redundancy of gesture (he\nhad once been a mender of roads), cast a glance at the prison, pointed\nat the prison, and putting his ten fingers before his face to represent\nbars, peeped through them jocosely.\n\n\"But it's not my business,\" said he. And went on sawing his wood.\n\nNext day he was looking out for her, and accosted her the moment she\nappeared.\n\n\"What? Walking here again, citizeness?\"\n\n\"Yes, citizen.\"\n\n\"Ah! A child too! Your mother, is it not, my little citizeness?\"\n\n\"Do I say yes, mamma?\" whispered little Lucie, drawing close to her.\n\n\"Yes, dearest.\"\n\n\"Yes, citizen.\"\n\n\"Ah! But it's not my business. My work is my business. See my saw! I\ncall it my Little Guillotine. La, la, la; La, la, la! And off his head\ncomes!\"\n\nThe billet fell as he spoke, and he threw it into a basket.\n\n\"I call myself the Samson of the firewood guillotine. See here again!\nLoo, loo, loo; Loo, loo, loo! And off _her_ head comes! Now, a child.\nTickle, tickle; Pickle, pickle! And off _its_ head comes. All the\nfamily!\"\n\nLucie shuddered as he threw two more billets into his basket, but it was\nimpossible to be there while the wood-sawyer was at work, and not be in\nhis sight. Thenceforth, to secure his good will, she always spoke to him\nfirst, and often gave him drink-money, which he readily received.\n\nHe was an inquisitive fellow, and sometimes when she had quite forgotten\nhim in gazing at the prison roof and grates, and in lifting her heart\nup to her husband, she would come to herself to find him looking at her,\nwith his knee on his bench and his saw stopped in its work. \"But it's\nnot my business!\" he would generally say at those times, and would\nbriskly fall to his sawing again.\n\nIn all weathers, in the snow and frost of winter, in the bitter winds of\nspring, in the hot sunshine of summer, in the rains of autumn, and again\nin the snow and frost of winter, Lucie passed two hours of every day at\nthis place; and every day on leaving it, she kissed the prison wall.\nHer husband saw her (so she learned from her father) it might be once in\nfive or six times: it might be twice or thrice running: it might be, not\nfor a week or a fortnight together. It was enough that he could and did\nsee her when the chances served, and on that possibility she would have\nwaited out the day, seven days a week.\n\nThese occupations brought her round to the December month, wherein her\nfather walked among the terrors with a steady head. On a lightly-snowing\nafternoon she arrived at the usual corner. It was a day of some wild\nrejoicing, and a festival. She had seen the houses, as she came along,\ndecorated with little pikes, and with little red caps stuck upon them;\nalso, with tricoloured ribbons; also, with the standard inscription\n(tricoloured letters were the favourite), Republic One and Indivisible.\nLiberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death!\n\nThe miserable shop of the wood-sawyer was so small, that its whole\nsurface furnished very indifferent space for this legend. He had got\nsomebody to scrawl it up for him, however, who had squeezed Death in\nwith most inappropriate difficulty. On his house-top, he displayed pike\nand cap, as a good citizen must, and in a window he had stationed his\nsaw inscribed as his \"Little Sainte Guillotine\"--for the great sharp\nfemale was by that time popularly canonised. His shop was shut and he\nwas not there, which was a relief to Lucie, and left her quite alone.\n\nBut, he was not far off, for presently she heard a troubled movement\nand a shouting coming along, which filled her with fear. A moment\nafterwards, and a throng of people came pouring round the corner by the\nprison wall, in the midst of whom was the wood-sawyer hand in hand with\nThe Vengeance. There could not be fewer than five hundred people, and\nthey were dancing like five thousand demons. There was no other music\nthan their own singing. They danced to the popular Revolution song,\nkeeping a ferocious time that was like a gnashing of teeth in unison.\nMen and women danced together, women danced together, men danced\ntogether, as hazard had brought them together. At first, they were a\nmere storm of coarse red caps and coarse woollen rags; but, as they\nfilled the place, and stopped to dance about Lucie, some ghastly\napparition of a dance-figure gone raving mad arose among them. They\nadvanced, retreated, struck at one another's hands, clutched at one\nanother's heads, spun round alone, caught one another and spun round\nin pairs, until many of them dropped. While those were down, the rest\nlinked hand in hand, and all spun round together: then the ring broke,\nand in separate rings of two and four they turned and turned until they\nall stopped at once, began again, struck, clutched, and tore, and then\nreversed the spin, and all spun round another way. Suddenly they stopped\nagain, paused, struck out the time afresh, formed into lines the width\nof the public way, and, with their heads low down and their hands high\nup, swooped screaming off. No fight could have been half so terrible\nas this dance. It was so emphatically a fallen sport--a something, once\ninnocent, delivered over to all devilry--a healthy pastime changed into\na means of angering the blood, bewildering the senses, and steeling the\nheart. Such grace as was visible in it, made it the uglier, showing how\nwarped and perverted all things good by nature were become. The maidenly\nbosom bared to this, the pretty almost-child's head thus distracted, the\ndelicate foot mincing in this slough of blood and dirt, were types of\nthe disjointed time.\n\nThis was the Carmagnole. As it passed, leaving Lucie frightened and\nbewildered in the doorway of the wood-sawyer's house, the feathery snow\nfell as quietly and lay as white and soft, as if it had never been.\n\n\"O my father!\" for he stood before her when she lifted up the eyes she\nhad momentarily darkened with her hand; \"such a cruel, bad sight.\"\n\n\"I know, my dear, I know. I have seen it many times. Don't be\nfrightened! Not one of them would harm you.\"\n\n\"I am not frightened for myself, my father. But when I think of my\nhusband, and the mercies of these people--\"\n\n\"We will set him above their mercies very soon. I left him climbing to\nthe window, and I came to tell you. There is no one here to see. You may\nkiss your hand towards that highest shelving roof.\"\n\n\"I do so, father, and I send him my Soul with it!\"\n\n\"You cannot see him, my poor dear?\"\n\n\"No, father,\" said Lucie, yearning and weeping as she kissed her hand,\n\"no.\"\n\nA footstep in the snow. Madame Defarge. \"I salute you, citizeness,\"\nfrom the Doctor. \"I salute you, citizen.\" This in passing. Nothing more.\nMadame Defarge gone, like a shadow over the white road.\n\n\"Give me your arm, my love. Pass from here with an air of cheerfulness\nand courage, for his sake. That was well done;\" they had left the spot;\n\"it shall not be in vain. Charles is summoned for to-morrow.\"\n\n\"For to-morrow!\"\n\n\"There is no time to lose. I am well prepared, but there are precautions\nto be taken, that could not be taken until he was actually summoned\nbefore the Tribunal. He has not received the notice yet, but I know\nthat he will presently be summoned for to-morrow, and removed to the\nConciergerie; I have timely information. You are not afraid?\"\n\nShe could scarcely answer, \"I trust in you.\"\n\n\"Do so, implicitly. Your suspense is nearly ended, my darling; he shall\nbe restored to you within a few hours; I have encompassed him with every\nprotection. I must see Lorry.\"\n\nHe stopped. There was a heavy lumbering of wheels within hearing. They\nboth knew too well what it meant. One. Two. Three. Three tumbrils faring\naway with their dread loads over the hushing snow.\n\n\"I must see Lorry,\" the Doctor repeated, turning her another way.\n\nThe staunch old gentleman was still in his trust; had never left it. He\nand his books were in frequent requisition as to property confiscated\nand made national. What he could save for the owners, he saved. No\nbetter man living to hold fast by what Tellson's had in keeping, and to\nhold his peace.\n\nA murky red and yellow sky, and a rising mist from the Seine, denoted\nthe approach of darkness. It was almost dark when they arrived at the\nBank. The stately residence of Monseigneur was altogether blighted and\ndeserted. Above a heap of dust and ashes in the court, ran the letters:\nNational Property. Republic One and Indivisible. Liberty, Equality,\nFraternity, or Death!\n\nWho could that be with Mr. Lorry--the owner of the riding-coat upon the\nchair--who must not be seen? From whom newly arrived, did he come out,\nagitated and surprised, to take his favourite in his arms? To whom did\nhe appear to repeat her faltering words, when, raising his voice and\nturning his head towards the door of the room from which he had issued,\nhe said: \"Removed to the Conciergerie, and summoned for to-morrow?\"\n\n\n\n\nVI. Triumph\n\n\nThe dread tribunal of five Judges, Public Prosecutor, and determined\nJury, sat every day. Their lists went forth every evening, and were\nread out by the gaolers of the various prisons to their prisoners. The\nstandard gaoler-joke was, \"Come out and listen to the Evening Paper, you\ninside there!\"\n\n\"Charles Evremonde, called Darnay!\"\n\nSo at last began the Evening Paper at La Force.\n\nWhen a name was called, its owner stepped apart into a spot reserved\nfor those who were announced as being thus fatally recorded. Charles\nEvremonde, called Darnay, had reason to know the usage; he had seen\nhundreds pass away so.\n\nHis bloated gaoler, who wore spectacles to read with, glanced over them\nto assure himself that he had taken his place, and went through the\nlist, making a similar short pause at each name. There were twenty-three\nnames, but only twenty were responded to; for one of the prisoners so\nsummoned had died in gaol and been forgotten, and two had already been\nguillotined and forgotten. The list was read, in the vaulted chamber\nwhere Darnay had seen the associated prisoners on the night of his\narrival. Every one of those had perished in the massacre; every human\ncreature he had since cared for and parted with, had died on the\nscaffold.\n\nThere were hurried words of farewell and kindness, but the parting was\nsoon over. It was the incident of every day, and the society of La Force\nwere engaged in the preparation of some games of forfeits and a little\nconcert, for that evening. They crowded to the grates and shed tears\nthere; but, twenty places in the projected entertainments had to be\nrefilled, and the time was, at best, short to the lock-up hour, when the\ncommon rooms and corridors would be delivered over to the great dogs\nwho kept watch there through the night. The prisoners were far from\ninsensible or unfeeling; their ways arose out of the condition of the\ntime. Similarly, though with a subtle difference, a species of fervour\nor intoxication, known, without doubt, to have led some persons to\nbrave the guillotine unnecessarily, and to die by it, was not mere\nboastfulness, but a wild infection of the wildly shaken public mind. In\nseasons of pestilence, some of us will have a secret attraction to the\ndisease--a terrible passing inclination to die of it. And all of us have\nlike wonders hidden in our breasts, only needing circumstances to evoke\nthem.\n\nThe passage to the Conciergerie was short and dark; the night in its\nvermin-haunted cells was long and cold. Next day, fifteen prisoners were\nput to the bar before Charles Darnay's name was called. All the fifteen\nwere condemned, and the trials of the whole occupied an hour and a half.\n\n\"Charles Evremonde, called Darnay,\" was at length arraigned.\n\nHis judges sat upon the Bench in feathered hats; but the rough red cap\nand tricoloured cockade was the head-dress otherwise prevailing. Looking\nat the Jury and the turbulent audience, he might have thought that the\nusual order of things was reversed, and that the felons were trying the\nhonest men. The lowest, cruelest, and worst populace of a city, never\nwithout its quantity of low, cruel, and bad, were the directing\nspirits of the scene: noisily commenting, applauding, disapproving,\nanticipating, and precipitating the result, without a check. Of the men,\nthe greater part were armed in various ways; of the women, some wore\nknives, some daggers, some ate and drank as they looked on, many\nknitted. Among these last, was one, with a spare piece of knitting under\nher arm as she worked. She was in a front row, by the side of a man whom\nhe had never seen since his arrival at the Barrier, but whom he directly\nremembered as Defarge. He noticed that she once or twice whispered in\nhis ear, and that she seemed to be his wife; but, what he most noticed\nin the two figures was, that although they were posted as close to\nhimself as they could be, they never looked towards him. They seemed to\nbe waiting for something with a dogged determination, and they looked at\nthe Jury, but at nothing else. Under the President sat Doctor Manette,\nin his usual quiet dress. As well as the prisoner could see, he and Mr.\nLorry were the only men there, unconnected with the Tribunal, who\nwore their usual clothes, and had not assumed the coarse garb of the\nCarmagnole.\n\nCharles Evremonde, called Darnay, was accused by the public prosecutor\nas an emigrant, whose life was forfeit to the Republic, under the decree\nwhich banished all emigrants on pain of Death. It was nothing that the\ndecree bore date since his return to France. There he was, and there was\nthe decree; he had been taken in France, and his head was demanded.\n\n\"Take off his head!\" cried the audience. \"An enemy to the Republic!\"\n\nThe President rang his bell to silence those cries, and asked the\nprisoner whether it was not true that he had lived many years in\nEngland?\n\nUndoubtedly it was.\n\nWas he not an emigrant then? What did he call himself?\n\nNot an emigrant, he hoped, within the sense and spirit of the law.\n\nWhy not? the President desired to know.\n\nBecause he had voluntarily relinquished a title that was distasteful\nto him, and a station that was distasteful to him, and had left\nhis country--he submitted before the word emigrant in the present\nacceptation by the Tribunal was in use--to live by his own industry in\nEngland, rather than on the industry of the overladen people of France.\n\nWhat proof had he of this?\n\nHe handed in the names of two witnesses; Theophile Gabelle, and\nAlexandre Manette.\n\nBut he had married in England? the President reminded him.\n\nTrue, but not an English woman.\n\nA citizeness of France?\n\nYes. By birth.\n\nHer name and family?\n\n\"Lucie Manette, only daughter of Doctor Manette, the good physician who\nsits there.\"\n\nThis answer had a happy effect upon the audience. Cries in exaltation\nof the well-known good physician rent the hall. So capriciously were\nthe people moved, that tears immediately rolled down several ferocious\ncountenances which had been glaring at the prisoner a moment before, as\nif with impatience to pluck him out into the streets and kill him.\n\nOn these few steps of his dangerous way, Charles Darnay had set his foot\naccording to Doctor Manette's reiterated instructions. The same cautious\ncounsel directed every step that lay before him, and had prepared every\ninch of his road.\n\nThe President asked, why had he returned to France when he did, and not\nsooner?\n\nHe had not returned sooner, he replied, simply because he had no means\nof living in France, save those he had resigned; whereas, in England,\nhe lived by giving instruction in the French language and literature.\nHe had returned when he did, on the pressing and written entreaty of\na French citizen, who represented that his life was endangered by his\nabsence. He had come back, to save a citizen's life, and to bear his\ntestimony, at whatever personal hazard, to the truth. Was that criminal\nin the eyes of the Republic?\n\nThe populace cried enthusiastically, \"No!\" and the President rang his\nbell to quiet them. Which it did not, for they continued to cry \"No!\"\nuntil they left off, of their own will.\n\nThe President required the name of that citizen. The accused explained\nthat the citizen was his first witness. He also referred with confidence\nto the citizen's letter, which had been taken from him at the Barrier,\nbut which he did not doubt would be found among the papers then before\nthe President.\n\nThe Doctor had taken care that it should be there--had assured him that\nit would be there--and at this stage of the proceedings it was produced\nand read. Citizen Gabelle was called to confirm it, and did so. Citizen\nGabelle hinted, with infinite delicacy and politeness, that in the\npressure of business imposed on the Tribunal by the multitude of\nenemies of the Republic with which it had to deal, he had been slightly\noverlooked in his prison of the Abbaye--in fact, had rather passed out\nof the Tribunal's patriotic remembrance--until three days ago; when he\nhad been summoned before it, and had been set at liberty on the Jury's\ndeclaring themselves satisfied that the accusation against him was\nanswered, as to himself, by the surrender of the citizen Evremonde,\ncalled Darnay.\n\nDoctor Manette was next questioned. His high personal popularity,\nand the clearness of his answers, made a great impression; but, as he\nproceeded, as he showed that the Accused was his first friend on his\nrelease from his long imprisonment; that, the accused had remained in\nEngland, always faithful and devoted to his daughter and himself in\ntheir exile; that, so far from being in favour with the Aristocrat\ngovernment there, he had actually been tried for his life by it, as\nthe foe of England and friend of the United States--as he brought these\ncircumstances into view, with the greatest discretion and with the\nstraightforward force of truth and earnestness, the Jury and the\npopulace became one. At last, when he appealed by name to Monsieur\nLorry, an English gentleman then and there present, who, like himself,\nhad been a witness on that English trial and could corroborate his\naccount of it, the Jury declared that they had heard enough, and that\nthey were ready with their votes if the President were content to\nreceive them.\n\nAt every vote (the Jurymen voted aloud and individually), the populace\nset up a shout of applause. All the voices were in the prisoner's\nfavour, and the President declared him free.\n\nThen, began one of those extraordinary scenes with which the populace\nsometimes gratified their fickleness, or their better impulses towards\ngenerosity and mercy, or which they regarded as some set-off against\ntheir swollen account of cruel rage. No man can decide now to which of\nthese motives such extraordinary scenes were referable; it is probable,\nto a blending of all the three, with the second predominating. No sooner\nwas the acquittal pronounced, than tears were shed as freely as blood\nat another time, and such fraternal embraces were bestowed upon the\nprisoner by as many of both sexes as could rush at him, that after\nhis long and unwholesome confinement he was in danger of fainting from\nexhaustion; none the less because he knew very well, that the very same\npeople, carried by another current, would have rushed at him with\nthe very same intensity, to rend him to pieces and strew him over the\nstreets.\n\nHis removal, to make way for other accused persons who were to be tried,\nrescued him from these caresses for the moment. Five were to be tried\ntogether, next, as enemies of the Republic, forasmuch as they had not\nassisted it by word or deed. So quick was the Tribunal to compensate\nitself and the nation for a chance lost, that these five came down to\nhim before he left the place, condemned to die within twenty-four\nhours. The first of them told him so, with the customary prison sign\nof Death--a raised finger--and they all added in words, \"Long live the\nRepublic!\"\n\nThe five had had, it is true, no audience to lengthen their proceedings,\nfor when he and Doctor Manette emerged from the gate, there was a great\ncrowd about it, in which there seemed to be every face he had seen in\nCourt--except two, for which he looked in vain. On his coming out, the\nconcourse made at him anew, weeping, embracing, and shouting, all by\nturns and all together, until the very tide of the river on the bank of\nwhich the mad scene was acted, seemed to run mad, like the people on the\nshore.\n\nThey put him into a great chair they had among them, and which they had\ntaken either out of the Court itself, or one of its rooms or passages.\nOver the chair they had thrown a red flag, and to the back of it they\nhad bound a pike with a red cap on its top. In this car of triumph, not\neven the Doctor's entreaties could prevent his being carried to his home\non men's shoulders, with a confused sea of red caps heaving about him,\nand casting up to sight from the stormy deep such wrecks of faces, that\nhe more than once misdoubted his mind being in confusion, and that he\nwas in the tumbril on his way to the Guillotine.\n\nIn wild dreamlike procession, embracing whom they met and pointing\nhim out, they carried him on. Reddening the snowy streets with the\nprevailing Republican colour, in winding and tramping through them, as\nthey had reddened them below the snow with a deeper dye, they carried\nhim thus into the courtyard of the building where he lived. Her father\nhad gone on before, to prepare her, and when her husband stood upon his\nfeet, she dropped insensible in his arms.\n\nAs he held her to his heart and turned her beautiful head between his\nface and the brawling crowd, so that his tears and her lips might come\ntogether unseen, a few of the people fell to dancing. Instantly, all the\nrest fell to dancing, and the courtyard overflowed with the Carmagnole.\nThen, they elevated into the vacant chair a young woman from the\ncrowd to be carried as the Goddess of Liberty, and then swelling and\noverflowing out into the adjacent streets, and along the river's bank,\nand over the bridge, the Carmagnole absorbed them every one and whirled\nthem away.\n\nAfter grasping the Doctor's hand, as he stood victorious and proud\nbefore him; after grasping the hand of Mr. Lorry, who came panting in\nbreathless from his struggle against the waterspout of the Carmagnole;\nafter kissing little Lucie, who was lifted up to clasp her arms round\nhis neck; and after embracing the ever zealous and faithful Pross who\nlifted her; he took his wife in his arms, and carried her up to their\nrooms.\n\n\"Lucie! My own! I am safe.\"\n\n\"O dearest Charles, let me thank God for this on my knees as I have\nprayed to Him.\"\n\nThey all reverently bowed their heads and hearts. When she was again in\nhis arms, he said to her:\n\n\"And now speak to your father, dearest. No other man in all this France\ncould have done what he has done for me.\"\n\nShe laid her head upon her father's breast, as she had laid his poor\nhead on her own breast, long, long ago. He was happy in the return he\nhad made her, he was recompensed for his suffering, he was proud of his\nstrength. \"You must not be weak, my darling,\" he remonstrated; \"don't\ntremble so. I have saved him.\"\n\n\n\n\nVII. A Knock at the Door\n\n\n\"I have saved him.\" It was not another of the dreams in which he had\noften come back; he was really here. And yet his wife trembled, and a\nvague but heavy fear was upon her.\n\nAll the air round was so thick and dark, the people were so passionately\nrevengeful and fitful, the innocent were so constantly put to death on\nvague suspicion and black malice, it was so impossible to forget that\nmany as blameless as her husband and as dear to others as he was to\nher, every day shared the fate from which he had been clutched, that her\nheart could not be as lightened of its load as she felt it ought to be.\nThe shadows of the wintry afternoon were beginning to fall, and even now\nthe dreadful carts were rolling through the streets. Her mind pursued\nthem, looking for him among the Condemned; and then she clung closer to\nhis real presence and trembled more.\n\nHer father, cheering her, showed a compassionate superiority to this\nwoman's weakness, which was wonderful to see. No garret, no shoemaking,\nno One Hundred and Five, North Tower, now! He had accomplished the task\nhe had set himself, his promise was redeemed, he had saved Charles. Let\nthem all lean upon him.\n\nTheir housekeeping was of a very frugal kind: not only because that was\nthe safest way of life, involving the least offence to the people, but\nbecause they were not rich, and Charles, throughout his imprisonment,\nhad had to pay heavily for his bad food, and for his guard, and towards\nthe living of the poorer prisoners. Partly on this account, and\npartly to avoid a domestic spy, they kept no servant; the citizen and\ncitizeness who acted as porters at the courtyard gate, rendered them\noccasional service; and Jerry (almost wholly transferred to them by\nMr. Lorry) had become their daily retainer, and had his bed there every\nnight.\n\nIt was an ordinance of the Republic One and Indivisible of Liberty,\nEquality, Fraternity, or Death, that on the door or doorpost of every\nhouse, the name of every inmate must be legibly inscribed in letters\nof a certain size, at a certain convenient height from the ground. Mr.\nJerry Cruncher's name, therefore, duly embellished the doorpost down\nbelow; and, as the afternoon shadows deepened, the owner of that name\nhimself appeared, from overlooking a painter whom Doctor Manette had\nemployed to add to the list the name of Charles Evremonde, called\nDarnay.\n\nIn the universal fear and distrust that darkened the time, all the usual\nharmless ways of life were changed. In the Doctor's little household, as\nin very many others, the articles of daily consumption that were wanted\nwere purchased every evening, in small quantities and at various small\nshops. To avoid attracting notice, and to give as little occasion as\npossible for talk and envy, was the general desire.\n\nFor some months past, Miss Pross and Mr. Cruncher had discharged the\noffice of purveyors; the former carrying the money; the latter, the\nbasket. Every afternoon at about the time when the public lamps were\nlighted, they fared forth on this duty, and made and brought home\nsuch purchases as were needful. Although Miss Pross, through her long\nassociation with a French family, might have known as much of their\nlanguage as of her own, if she had had a mind, she had no mind in that\ndirection; consequently she knew no more of that \"nonsense\" (as she was\npleased to call it) than Mr. Cruncher did. So her manner of marketing\nwas to plump a noun-substantive at the head of a shopkeeper without any\nintroduction in the nature of an article, and, if it happened not to be\nthe name of the thing she wanted, to look round for that thing, lay hold\nof it, and hold on by it until the bargain was concluded. She always\nmade a bargain for it, by holding up, as a statement of its just price,\none finger less than the merchant held up, whatever his number might be.\n\n\"Now, Mr. Cruncher,\" said Miss Pross, whose eyes were red with felicity;\n\"if you are ready, I am.\"\n\nJerry hoarsely professed himself at Miss Pross's service. He had worn\nall his rust off long ago, but nothing would file his spiky head down.\n\n\"There's all manner of things wanted,\" said Miss Pross, \"and we shall\nhave a precious time of it. We want wine, among the rest. Nice toasts\nthese Redheads will be drinking, wherever we buy it.\"\n\n\"It will be much the same to your knowledge, miss, I should think,\"\nretorted Jerry, \"whether they drink your health or the Old Un's.\"\n\n\"Who's he?\" said Miss Pross.\n\nMr. Cruncher, with some diffidence, explained himself as meaning \"Old\nNick's.\"\n\n\"Ha!\" said Miss Pross, \"it doesn't need an interpreter to explain the\nmeaning of these creatures. They have but one, and it's Midnight Murder,\nand Mischief.\"\n\n\"Hush, dear! Pray, pray, be cautious!\" cried Lucie.\n\n\"Yes, yes, yes, I'll be cautious,\" said Miss Pross; \"but I may say\namong ourselves, that I do hope there will be no oniony and tobaccoey\nsmotherings in the form of embracings all round, going on in the\nstreets. Now, Ladybird, never you stir from that fire till I come back!\nTake care of the dear husband you have recovered, and don't move your\npretty head from his shoulder as you have it now, till you see me again!\nMay I ask a question, Doctor Manette, before I go?\"\n\n\"I think you may take that liberty,\" the Doctor answered, smiling.\n\n\"For gracious sake, don't talk about Liberty; we have quite enough of\nthat,\" said Miss Pross.\n\n\"Hush, dear! Again?\" Lucie remonstrated.\n\n\"Well, my sweet,\" said Miss Pross, nodding her head emphatically, \"the\nshort and the long of it is, that I am a subject of His Most Gracious\nMajesty King George the Third;\" Miss Pross curtseyed at the name; \"and\nas such, my maxim is, Confound their politics, Frustrate their knavish\ntricks, On him our hopes we fix, God save the King!\"\n\nMr. Cruncher, in an access of loyalty, growlingly repeated the words\nafter Miss Pross, like somebody at church.\n\n\"I am glad you have so much of the Englishman in you, though I wish you\nhad never taken that cold in your voice,\" said Miss Pross, approvingly.\n\"But the question, Doctor Manette. Is there\"--it was the good creature's\nway to affect to make light of anything that was a great anxiety\nwith them all, and to come at it in this chance manner--\"is there any\nprospect yet, of our getting out of this place?\"\n\n\"I fear not yet. It would be dangerous for Charles yet.\"\n\n\"Heigh-ho-hum!\" said Miss Pross, cheerfully repressing a sigh as she\nglanced at her darling's golden hair in the light of the fire, \"then we\nmust have patience and wait: that's all. We must hold up our heads and\nfight low, as my brother Solomon used to say. Now, Mr. Cruncher!--Don't\nyou move, Ladybird!\"\n\nThey went out, leaving Lucie, and her husband, her father, and the\nchild, by a bright fire. Mr. Lorry was expected back presently from the\nBanking House. Miss Pross had lighted the lamp, but had put it aside in\na corner, that they might enjoy the fire-light undisturbed. Little Lucie\nsat by her grandfather with her hands clasped through his arm: and he,\nin a tone not rising much above a whisper, began to tell her a story of\na great and powerful Fairy who had opened a prison-wall and let out\na captive who had once done the Fairy a service. All was subdued and\nquiet, and Lucie was more at ease than she had been.\n\n\"What is that?\" she cried, all at once.\n\n\"My dear!\" said her father, stopping in his story, and laying his hand\non hers, \"command yourself. What a disordered state you are in! The\nleast thing--nothing--startles you! _You_, your father's daughter!\"\n\n\"I thought, my father,\" said Lucie, excusing herself, with a pale face\nand in a faltering voice, \"that I heard strange feet upon the stairs.\"\n\n\"My love, the staircase is as still as Death.\"\n\nAs he said the word, a blow was struck upon the door.\n\n\"Oh father, father. What can this be! Hide Charles. Save him!\"\n\n\"My child,\" said the Doctor, rising, and laying his hand upon her\nshoulder, \"I _have_ saved him. What weakness is this, my dear! Let me go\nto the door.\"\n\nHe took the lamp in his hand, crossed the two intervening outer rooms,\nand opened it. A rude clattering of feet over the floor, and four rough\nmen in red caps, armed with sabres and pistols, entered the room.\n\n\"The Citizen Evremonde, called Darnay,\" said the first.\n\n\"Who seeks him?\" answered Darnay.\n\n\"I seek him. We seek him. I know you, Evremonde; I saw you before the\nTribunal to-day. You are again the prisoner of the Republic.\"\n\nThe four surrounded him, where he stood with his wife and child clinging\nto him.\n\n\"Tell me how and why am I again a prisoner?\"\n\n\"It is enough that you return straight to the Conciergerie, and will\nknow to-morrow. You are summoned for to-morrow.\"\n\nDoctor Manette, whom this visitation had so turned into stone, that he\nstood with the lamp in his hand, as if he were a statue made to hold it,\nmoved after these words were spoken, put the lamp down, and confronting\nthe speaker, and taking him, not ungently, by the loose front of his red\nwoollen shirt, said:\n\n\"You know him, you have said. Do you know me?\"\n\n\"Yes, I know you, Citizen Doctor.\"\n\n\"We all know you, Citizen Doctor,\" said the other three.\n\nHe looked abstractedly from one to another, and said, in a lower voice,\nafter a pause:\n\n\"Will you answer his question to me then? How does this happen?\"\n\n\"Citizen Doctor,\" said the first, reluctantly, \"he has been denounced to\nthe Section of Saint Antoine. This citizen,\" pointing out the second who\nhad entered, \"is from Saint Antoine.\"\n\nThe citizen here indicated nodded his head, and added:\n\n\"He is accused by Saint Antoine.\"\n\n\"Of what?\" asked the Doctor.\n\n\"Citizen Doctor,\" said the first, with his former reluctance, \"ask no\nmore. If the Republic demands sacrifices from you, without doubt you as\na good patriot will be happy to make them. The Republic goes before all.\nThe People is supreme. Evremonde, we are pressed.\"\n\n\"One word,\" the Doctor entreated. \"Will you tell me who denounced him?\"\n\n\"It is against rule,\" answered the first; \"but you can ask Him of Saint\nAntoine here.\"\n\nThe Doctor turned his eyes upon that man. Who moved uneasily on his\nfeet, rubbed his beard a little, and at length said:\n\n\"Well! Truly it is against rule. But he is denounced--and gravely--by\nthe Citizen and Citizeness Defarge. And by one other.\"\n\n\"What other?\"\n\n\"Do _you_ ask, Citizen Doctor?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Then,\" said he of Saint Antoine, with a strange look, \"you will be\nanswered to-morrow. Now, I am dumb!\"\n\n\n\n\nVIII. A Hand at Cards\n\n\nHappily unconscious of the new calamity at home, Miss Pross threaded her\nway along the narrow streets and crossed the river by the bridge of the\nPont-Neuf, reckoning in her mind the number of indispensable purchases\nshe had to make. Mr. Cruncher, with the basket, walked at her side. They\nboth looked to the right and to the left into most of the shops they\npassed, had a wary eye for all gregarious assemblages of people, and\nturned out of their road to avoid any very excited group of talkers. It\nwas a raw evening, and the misty river, blurred to the eye with blazing\nlights and to the ear with harsh noises, showed where the barges were\nstationed in which the smiths worked, making guns for the Army of the\nRepublic. Woe to the man who played tricks with _that_ Army, or got\nundeserved promotion in it! Better for him that his beard had never\ngrown, for the National Razor shaved him close.\n\nHaving purchased a few small articles of grocery, and a measure of oil\nfor the lamp, Miss Pross bethought herself of the wine they wanted.\nAfter peeping into several wine-shops, she stopped at the sign of the\nGood Republican Brutus of Antiquity, not far from the National Palace,\nonce (and twice) the Tuileries, where the aspect of things rather\ntook her fancy. It had a quieter look than any other place of the same\ndescription they had passed, and, though red with patriotic caps, was\nnot so red as the rest. Sounding Mr. Cruncher, and finding him of her\nopinion, Miss Pross resorted to the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity,\nattended by her cavalier.\n\nSlightly observant of the smoky lights; of the people, pipe in mouth,\nplaying with limp cards and yellow dominoes; of the one bare-breasted,\nbare-armed, soot-begrimed workman reading a journal aloud, and of\nthe others listening to him; of the weapons worn, or laid aside to be\nresumed; of the two or three customers fallen forward asleep, who in the\npopular high-shouldered shaggy black spencer looked, in that attitude,\nlike slumbering bears or dogs; the two outlandish customers approached\nthe counter, and showed what they wanted.\n\nAs their wine was measuring out, a man parted from another man in a\ncorner, and rose to depart. In going, he had to face Miss Pross. No\nsooner did he face her, than Miss Pross uttered a scream, and clapped\nher hands.\n\nIn a moment, the whole company were on their feet. That somebody was\nassassinated by somebody vindicating a difference of opinion was the\nlikeliest occurrence. Everybody looked to see somebody fall, but only\nsaw a man and a woman standing staring at each other; the man with all\nthe outward aspect of a Frenchman and a thorough Republican; the woman,\nevidently English.\n\nWhat was said in this disappointing anti-climax, by the disciples of the\nGood Republican Brutus of Antiquity, except that it was something very\nvoluble and loud, would have been as so much Hebrew or Chaldean to Miss\nPross and her protector, though they had been all ears. But, they had no\nears for anything in their surprise. For, it must be recorded, that\nnot only was Miss Pross lost in amazement and agitation, but,\nMr. Cruncher--though it seemed on his own separate and individual\naccount--was in a state of the greatest wonder.\n\n\"What is the matter?\" said the man who had caused Miss Pross to scream;\nspeaking in a vexed, abrupt voice (though in a low tone), and in\nEnglish.\n\n\"Oh, Solomon, dear Solomon!\" cried Miss Pross, clapping her hands again.\n\"After not setting eyes upon you or hearing of you for so long a time,\ndo I find you here!\"\n\n\"Don't call me Solomon. Do you want to be the death of me?\" asked the\nman, in a furtive, frightened way.\n\n\"Brother, brother!\" cried Miss Pross, bursting into tears. \"Have I ever\nbeen so hard with you that you ask me such a cruel question?\"\n\n\"Then hold your meddlesome tongue,\" said Solomon, \"and come out, if you\nwant to speak to me. Pay for your wine, and come out. Who's this man?\"\n\nMiss Pross, shaking her loving and dejected head at her by no means\naffectionate brother, said through her tears, \"Mr. Cruncher.\"\n\n\"Let him come out too,\" said Solomon. \"Does he think me a ghost?\"\n\nApparently, Mr. Cruncher did, to judge from his looks. He said not a\nword, however, and Miss Pross, exploring the depths of her reticule\nthrough her tears with great difficulty paid for her wine. As she did\nso, Solomon turned to the followers of the Good Republican Brutus\nof Antiquity, and offered a few words of explanation in the French\nlanguage, which caused them all to relapse into their former places and\npursuits.\n\n\"Now,\" said Solomon, stopping at the dark street corner, \"what do you\nwant?\"\n\n\"How dreadfully unkind in a brother nothing has ever turned my love away\nfrom!\" cried Miss Pross, \"to give me such a greeting, and show me no\naffection.\"\n\n\"There. Confound it! There,\" said Solomon, making a dab at Miss Pross's\nlips with his own. \"Now are you content?\"\n\nMiss Pross only shook her head and wept in silence.\n\n\"If you expect me to be surprised,\" said her brother Solomon, \"I am not\nsurprised; I knew you were here; I know of most people who are here. If\nyou really don't want to endanger my existence--which I half believe you\ndo--go your ways as soon as possible, and let me go mine. I am busy. I\nam an official.\"\n\n\"My English brother Solomon,\" mourned Miss Pross, casting up her\ntear-fraught eyes, \"that had the makings in him of one of the best and\ngreatest of men in his native country, an official among foreigners, and\nsuch foreigners! I would almost sooner have seen the dear boy lying in\nhis--\"\n\n\"I said so!\" cried her brother, interrupting. \"I knew it. You want to be\nthe death of me. I shall be rendered Suspected, by my own sister. Just\nas I am getting on!\"\n\n\"The gracious and merciful Heavens forbid!\" cried Miss Pross. \"Far\nrather would I never see you again, dear Solomon, though I have ever\nloved you truly, and ever shall. Say but one affectionate word to me,\nand tell me there is nothing angry or estranged between us, and I will\ndetain you no longer.\"\n\nGood Miss Pross! As if the estrangement between them had come of any\nculpability of hers. As if Mr. Lorry had not known it for a fact, years\nago, in the quiet corner in Soho, that this precious brother had spent\nher money and left her!\n\nHe was saying the affectionate word, however, with a far more grudging\ncondescension and patronage than he could have shown if their relative\nmerits and positions had been reversed (which is invariably the case,\nall the world over), when Mr. Cruncher, touching him on the shoulder,\nhoarsely and unexpectedly interposed with the following singular\nquestion:\n\n\"I say! Might I ask the favour? As to whether your name is John Solomon,\nor Solomon John?\"\n\nThe official turned towards him with sudden distrust. He had not\npreviously uttered a word.\n\n\"Come!\" said Mr. Cruncher. \"Speak out, you know.\" (Which, by the way,\nwas more than he could do himself.) \"John Solomon, or Solomon John? She\ncalls you Solomon, and she must know, being your sister. And _I_ know\nyou're John, you know. Which of the two goes first? And regarding that\nname of Pross, likewise. That warn't your name over the water.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"Well, I don't know all I mean, for I can't call to mind what your name\nwas, over the water.\"\n\n\"No?\"\n\n\"No. But I'll swear it was a name of two syllables.\"\n\n\"Indeed?\"\n\n\"Yes. T'other one's was one syllable. I know you. You was a spy--witness\nat the Bailey. What, in the name of the Father of Lies, own father to\nyourself, was you called at that time?\"\n\n\"Barsad,\" said another voice, striking in.\n\n\"That's the name for a thousand pound!\" cried Jerry.\n\nThe speaker who struck in, was Sydney Carton. He had his hands behind\nhim under the skirts of his riding-coat, and he stood at Mr. Cruncher's\nelbow as negligently as he might have stood at the Old Bailey itself.\n\n\"Don't be alarmed, my dear Miss Pross. I arrived at Mr. Lorry's, to his\nsurprise, yesterday evening; we agreed that I would not present myself\nelsewhere until all was well, or unless I could be useful; I present\nmyself here, to beg a little talk with your brother. I wish you had a\nbetter employed brother than Mr. Barsad. I wish for your sake Mr. Barsad\nwas not a Sheep of the Prisons.\"\n\nSheep was a cant word of the time for a spy, under the gaolers. The spy,\nwho was pale, turned paler, and asked him how he dared--\n\n\"I'll tell you,\" said Sydney. \"I lighted on you, Mr. Barsad, coming out\nof the prison of the Conciergerie while I was contemplating the walls,\nan hour or more ago. You have a face to be remembered, and I remember\nfaces well. Made curious by seeing you in that connection, and having\na reason, to which you are no stranger, for associating you with\nthe misfortunes of a friend now very unfortunate, I walked in your\ndirection. I walked into the wine-shop here, close after you, and\nsat near you. I had no difficulty in deducing from your unreserved\nconversation, and the rumour openly going about among your admirers, the\nnature of your calling. And gradually, what I had done at random, seemed\nto shape itself into a purpose, Mr. Barsad.\"\n\n\"What purpose?\" the spy asked.\n\n\"It would be troublesome, and might be dangerous, to explain in the\nstreet. Could you favour me, in confidence, with some minutes of your\ncompany--at the office of Tellson's Bank, for instance?\"\n\n\"Under a threat?\"\n\n\"Oh! Did I say that?\"\n\n\"Then, why should I go there?\"\n\n\"Really, Mr. Barsad, I can't say, if you can't.\"\n\n\"Do you mean that you won't say, sir?\" the spy irresolutely asked.\n\n\"You apprehend me very clearly, Mr. Barsad. I won't.\"\n\nCarton's negligent recklessness of manner came powerfully in aid of his\nquickness and skill, in such a business as he had in his secret mind,\nand with such a man as he had to do with. His practised eye saw it, and\nmade the most of it.\n\n\"Now, I told you so,\" said the spy, casting a reproachful look at his\nsister; \"if any trouble comes of this, it's your doing.\"\n\n\"Come, come, Mr. Barsad!\" exclaimed Sydney. \"Don't be ungrateful.\nBut for my great respect for your sister, I might not have led up so\npleasantly to a little proposal that I wish to make for our mutual\nsatisfaction. Do you go with me to the Bank?\"\n\n\"I'll hear what you have got to say. Yes, I'll go with you.\"\n\n\"I propose that we first conduct your sister safely to the corner of her\nown street. Let me take your arm, Miss Pross. This is not a good city,\nat this time, for you to be out in, unprotected; and as your escort\nknows Mr. Barsad, I will invite him to Mr. Lorry's with us. Are we\nready? Come then!\"\n\nMiss Pross recalled soon afterwards, and to the end of her life\nremembered, that as she pressed her hands on Sydney's arm and looked up\nin his face, imploring him to do no hurt to Solomon, there was a braced\npurpose in the arm and a kind of inspiration in the eyes, which not only\ncontradicted his light manner, but changed and raised the man. She was\ntoo much occupied then with fears for the brother who so little deserved\nher affection, and with Sydney's friendly reassurances, adequately to\nheed what she observed.\n\nThey left her at the corner of the street, and Carton led the way to Mr.\nLorry's, which was within a few minutes' walk. John Barsad, or Solomon\nPross, walked at his side.\n\nMr. Lorry had just finished his dinner, and was sitting before a cheery\nlittle log or two of fire--perhaps looking into their blaze for the\npicture of that younger elderly gentleman from Tellson's, who had looked\ninto the red coals at the Royal George at Dover, now a good many years\nago. He turned his head as they entered, and showed the surprise with\nwhich he saw a stranger.\n\n\"Miss Pross's brother, sir,\" said Sydney. \"Mr. Barsad.\"\n\n\"Barsad?\" repeated the old gentleman, \"Barsad? I have an association\nwith the name--and with the face.\"\n\n\"I told you you had a remarkable face, Mr. Barsad,\" observed Carton,\ncoolly. \"Pray sit down.\"\n\nAs he took a chair himself, he supplied the link that Mr. Lorry wanted,\nby saying to him with a frown, \"Witness at that trial.\" Mr. Lorry\nimmediately remembered, and regarded his new visitor with an undisguised\nlook of abhorrence.\n\n\"Mr. Barsad has been recognised by Miss Pross as the affectionate\nbrother you have heard of,\" said Sydney, \"and has acknowledged the\nrelationship. I pass to worse news. Darnay has been arrested again.\"\n\nStruck with consternation, the old gentleman exclaimed, \"What do you\ntell me! I left him safe and free within these two hours, and am about\nto return to him!\"\n\n\"Arrested for all that. When was it done, Mr. Barsad?\"\n\n\"Just now, if at all.\"\n\n\"Mr. Barsad is the best authority possible, sir,\" said Sydney, \"and I\nhave it from Mr. Barsad's communication to a friend and brother Sheep\nover a bottle of wine, that the arrest has taken place. He left the\nmessengers at the gate, and saw them admitted by the porter. There is no\nearthly doubt that he is retaken.\"\n\nMr. Lorry's business eye read in the speaker's face that it was loss\nof time to dwell upon the point. Confused, but sensible that something\nmight depend on his presence of mind, he commanded himself, and was\nsilently attentive.\n\n\"Now, I trust,\" said Sydney to him, \"that the name and influence of\nDoctor Manette may stand him in as good stead to-morrow--you said he\nwould be before the Tribunal again to-morrow, Mr. Barsad?--\"\n\n\"Yes; I believe so.\"\n\n\"--In as good stead to-morrow as to-day. But it may not be so. I own\nto you, I am shaken, Mr. Lorry, by Doctor Manette's not having had the\npower to prevent this arrest.\"\n\n\"He may not have known of it beforehand,\" said Mr. Lorry.\n\n\"But that very circumstance would be alarming, when we remember how\nidentified he is with his son-in-law.\"\n\n\"That's true,\" Mr. Lorry acknowledged, with his troubled hand at his\nchin, and his troubled eyes on Carton.\n\n\"In short,\" said Sydney, \"this is a desperate time, when desperate games\nare played for desperate stakes. Let the Doctor play the winning game; I\nwill play the losing one. No man's life here is worth purchase. Any one\ncarried home by the people to-day, may be condemned tomorrow. Now, the\nstake I have resolved to play for, in case of the worst, is a friend\nin the Conciergerie. And the friend I purpose to myself to win, is Mr.\nBarsad.\"\n\n\"You need have good cards, sir,\" said the spy.\n\n\"I'll run them over. I'll see what I hold,--Mr. Lorry, you know what a\nbrute I am; I wish you'd give me a little brandy.\"\n\nIt was put before him, and he drank off a glassful--drank off another\nglassful--pushed the bottle thoughtfully away.\n\n\"Mr. Barsad,\" he went on, in the tone of one who really was looking\nover a hand at cards: \"Sheep of the prisons, emissary of Republican\ncommittees, now turnkey, now prisoner, always spy and secret informer,\nso much the more valuable here for being English that an Englishman\nis less open to suspicion of subornation in those characters than a\nFrenchman, represents himself to his employers under a false name.\nThat's a very good card. Mr. Barsad, now in the employ of the republican\nFrench government, was formerly in the employ of the aristocratic\nEnglish government, the enemy of France and freedom. That's an excellent\ncard. Inference clear as day in this region of suspicion, that Mr.\nBarsad, still in the pay of the aristocratic English government, is the\nspy of Pitt, the treacherous foe of the Republic crouching in its bosom,\nthe English traitor and agent of all mischief so much spoken of and so\ndifficult to find. That's a card not to be beaten. Have you followed my\nhand, Mr. Barsad?\"\n\n\"Not to understand your play,\" returned the spy, somewhat uneasily.\n\n\"I play my Ace, Denunciation of Mr. Barsad to the nearest Section\nCommittee. Look over your hand, Mr. Barsad, and see what you have. Don't\nhurry.\"\n\nHe drew the bottle near, poured out another glassful of brandy, and\ndrank it off. He saw that the spy was fearful of his drinking himself\ninto a fit state for the immediate denunciation of him. Seeing it, he\npoured out and drank another glassful.\n\n\"Look over your hand carefully, Mr. Barsad. Take time.\"\n\nIt was a poorer hand than he suspected. Mr. Barsad saw losing cards\nin it that Sydney Carton knew nothing of. Thrown out of his honourable\nemployment in England, through too much unsuccessful hard swearing\nthere--not because he was not wanted there; our English reasons for\nvaunting our superiority to secrecy and spies are of very modern\ndate--he knew that he had crossed the Channel, and accepted service in\nFrance: first, as a tempter and an eavesdropper among his own countrymen\nthere: gradually, as a tempter and an eavesdropper among the natives. He\nknew that under the overthrown government he had been a spy upon Saint\nAntoine and Defarge's wine-shop; had received from the watchful police\nsuch heads of information concerning Doctor Manette's imprisonment,\nrelease, and history, as should serve him for an introduction to\nfamiliar conversation with the Defarges; and tried them on Madame\nDefarge, and had broken down with them signally. He always remembered\nwith fear and trembling, that that terrible woman had knitted when he\ntalked with her, and had looked ominously at him as her fingers moved.\nHe had since seen her, in the Section of Saint Antoine, over and over\nagain produce her knitted registers, and denounce people whose lives the\nguillotine then surely swallowed up. He knew, as every one employed as\nhe was did, that he was never safe; that flight was impossible; that\nhe was tied fast under the shadow of the axe; and that in spite of\nhis utmost tergiversation and treachery in furtherance of the reigning\nterror, a word might bring it down upon him. Once denounced, and on such\ngrave grounds as had just now been suggested to his mind, he foresaw\nthat the dreadful woman of whose unrelenting character he had seen many\nproofs, would produce against him that fatal register, and would quash\nhis last chance of life. Besides that all secret men are men soon\nterrified, here were surely cards enough of one black suit, to justify\nthe holder in growing rather livid as he turned them over.\n\n\"You scarcely seem to like your hand,\" said Sydney, with the greatest\ncomposure. \"Do you play?\"\n\n\"I think, sir,\" said the spy, in the meanest manner, as he turned to Mr.\nLorry, \"I may appeal to a gentleman of your years and benevolence, to\nput it to this other gentleman, so much your junior, whether he can\nunder any circumstances reconcile it to his station to play that Ace\nof which he has spoken. I admit that _I_ am a spy, and that it is\nconsidered a discreditable station--though it must be filled by\nsomebody; but this gentleman is no spy, and why should he so demean\nhimself as to make himself one?\"\n\n\"I play my Ace, Mr. Barsad,\" said Carton, taking the answer on himself,\nand looking at his watch, \"without any scruple, in a very few minutes.\"\n\n\"I should have hoped, gentlemen both,\" said the spy, always striving to\nhook Mr. Lorry into the discussion, \"that your respect for my sister--\"\n\n\"I could not better testify my respect for your sister than by finally\nrelieving her of her brother,\" said Sydney Carton.\n\n\"You think not, sir?\"\n\n\"I have thoroughly made up my mind about it.\"\n\nThe smooth manner of the spy, curiously in dissonance with his\nostentatiously rough dress, and probably with his usual demeanour,\nreceived such a check from the inscrutability of Carton,--who was a\nmystery to wiser and honester men than he,--that it faltered here and\nfailed him. While he was at a loss, Carton said, resuming his former air\nof contemplating cards:\n\n\"And indeed, now I think again, I have a strong impression that I\nhave another good card here, not yet enumerated. That friend and\nfellow-Sheep, who spoke of himself as pasturing in the country prisons;\nwho was he?\"\n\n\"French. You don't know him,\" said the spy, quickly.\n\n\"French, eh?\" repeated Carton, musing, and not appearing to notice him\nat all, though he echoed his word. \"Well; he may be.\"\n\n\"Is, I assure you,\" said the spy; \"though it's not important.\"\n\n\"Though it's not important,\" repeated Carton, in the same mechanical\nway--\"though it's not important--No, it's not important. No. Yet I know\nthe face.\"\n\n\"I think not. I am sure not. It can't be,\" said the spy.\n\n\"It-can't-be,\" muttered Sydney Carton, retrospectively, and idling his\nglass (which fortunately was a small one) again. \"Can't-be. Spoke good\nFrench. Yet like a foreigner, I thought?\"\n\n\"Provincial,\" said the spy.\n\n\"No. Foreign!\" cried Carton, striking his open hand on the table, as a\nlight broke clearly on his mind. \"Cly! Disguised, but the same man. We\nhad that man before us at the Old Bailey.\"\n\n\"Now, there you are hasty, sir,\" said Barsad, with a smile that gave his\naquiline nose an extra inclination to one side; \"there you really give\nme an advantage over you. Cly (who I will unreservedly admit, at this\ndistance of time, was a partner of mine) has been dead several years. I\nattended him in his last illness. He was buried in London, at the church\nof Saint Pancras-in-the-Fields. His unpopularity with the blackguard\nmultitude at the moment prevented my following his remains, but I helped\nto lay him in his coffin.\"\n\nHere, Mr. Lorry became aware, from where he sat, of a most remarkable\ngoblin shadow on the wall. Tracing it to its source, he discovered it\nto be caused by a sudden extraordinary rising and stiffening of all the\nrisen and stiff hair on Mr. Cruncher's head.\n\n\"Let us be reasonable,\" said the spy, \"and let us be fair. To show you\nhow mistaken you are, and what an unfounded assumption yours is, I will\nlay before you a certificate of Cly's burial, which I happened to have\ncarried in my pocket-book,\" with a hurried hand he produced and opened\nit, \"ever since. There it is. Oh, look at it, look at it! You may take\nit in your hand; it's no forgery.\"\n\nHere, Mr. Lorry perceived the reflection on the wall to elongate, and\nMr. Cruncher rose and stepped forward. His hair could not have been more\nviolently on end, if it had been that moment dressed by the Cow with the\ncrumpled horn in the house that Jack built.\n\nUnseen by the spy, Mr. Cruncher stood at his side, and touched him on\nthe shoulder like a ghostly bailiff.\n\n\"That there Roger Cly, master,\" said Mr. Cruncher, with a taciturn and\niron-bound visage. \"So _you_ put him in his coffin?\"\n\n\"I did.\"\n\n\"Who took him out of it?\"\n\nBarsad leaned back in his chair, and stammered, \"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"I mean,\" said Mr. Cruncher, \"that he warn't never in it. No! Not he!\nI'll have my head took off, if he was ever in it.\"\n\nThe spy looked round at the two gentlemen; they both looked in\nunspeakable astonishment at Jerry.\n\n\"I tell you,\" said Jerry, \"that you buried paving-stones and earth in\nthat there coffin. Don't go and tell me that you buried Cly. It was a\ntake in. Me and two more knows it.\"\n\n\"How do you know it?\"\n\n\"What's that to you? Ecod!\" growled Mr. Cruncher, \"it's you I have got a\nold grudge again, is it, with your shameful impositions upon tradesmen!\nI'd catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a guinea.\"\n\nSydney Carton, who, with Mr. Lorry, had been lost in amazement at\nthis turn of the business, here requested Mr. Cruncher to moderate and\nexplain himself.\n\n\"At another time, sir,\" he returned, evasively, \"the present time is\nill-conwenient for explainin'. What I stand to, is, that he knows well\nwot that there Cly was never in that there coffin. Let him say he was,\nin so much as a word of one syllable, and I'll either catch hold of his\nthroat and choke him for half a guinea;\" Mr. Cruncher dwelt upon this as\nquite a liberal offer; \"or I'll out and announce him.\"\n\n\"Humph! I see one thing,\" said Carton. \"I hold another card, Mr. Barsad.\nImpossible, here in raging Paris, with Suspicion filling the air, for\nyou to outlive denunciation, when you are in communication with another\naristocratic spy of the same antecedents as yourself, who, moreover, has\nthe mystery about him of having feigned death and come to life again!\nA plot in the prisons, of the foreigner against the Republic. A strong\ncard--a certain Guillotine card! Do you play?\"\n\n\"No!\" returned the spy. \"I throw up. I confess that we were so unpopular\nwith the outrageous mob, that I only got away from England at the risk\nof being ducked to death, and that Cly was so ferreted up and down, that\nhe never would have got away at all but for that sham. Though how this\nman knows it was a sham, is a wonder of wonders to me.\"\n\n\"Never you trouble your head about this man,\" retorted the contentious\nMr. Cruncher; \"you'll have trouble enough with giving your attention to\nthat gentleman. And look here! Once more!\"--Mr. Cruncher could not\nbe restrained from making rather an ostentatious parade of his\nliberality--\"I'd catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a\nguinea.\"\n\nThe Sheep of the prisons turned from him to Sydney Carton, and said,\nwith more decision, \"It has come to a point. I go on duty soon, and\ncan't overstay my time. You told me you had a proposal; what is it?\nNow, it is of no use asking too much of me. Ask me to do anything in my\noffice, putting my head in great extra danger, and I had better trust my\nlife to the chances of a refusal than the chances of consent. In short,\nI should make that choice. You talk of desperation. We are all desperate\nhere. Remember! I may denounce you if I think proper, and I can swear my\nway through stone walls, and so can others. Now, what do you want with\nme?\"\n\n\"Not very much. You are a turnkey at the Conciergerie?\"\n\n\"I tell you once for all, there is no such thing as an escape possible,\"\nsaid the spy, firmly.\n\n\"Why need you tell me what I have not asked? You are a turnkey at the\nConciergerie?\"\n\n\"I am sometimes.\"\n\n\"You can be when you choose?\"\n\n\"I can pass in and out when I choose.\"\n\nSydney Carton filled another glass with brandy, poured it slowly out\nupon the hearth, and watched it as it dropped. It being all spent, he\nsaid, rising:\n\n\"So far, we have spoken before these two, because it was as well that\nthe merits of the cards should not rest solely between you and me. Come\ninto the dark room here, and let us have one final word alone.\"\n\n\n\n\nIX. The Game Made\n\n\nWhile Sydney Carton and the Sheep of the prisons were in the adjoining\ndark room, speaking so low that not a sound was heard, Mr. Lorry looked\nat Jerry in considerable doubt and mistrust. That honest tradesman's\nmanner of receiving the look, did not inspire confidence; he changed the\nleg on which he rested, as often as if he had fifty of those limbs,\nand were trying them all; he examined his finger-nails with a very\nquestionable closeness of attention; and whenever Mr. Lorry's eye caught\nhis, he was taken with that peculiar kind of short cough requiring the\nhollow of a hand before it, which is seldom, if ever, known to be an\ninfirmity attendant on perfect openness of character.\n\n\"Jerry,\" said Mr. Lorry. \"Come here.\"\n\nMr. Cruncher came forward sideways, with one of his shoulders in advance\nof him.\n\n\"What have you been, besides a messenger?\"\n\nAfter some cogitation, accompanied with an intent look at his patron,\nMr. Cruncher conceived the luminous idea of replying, \"Agicultooral\ncharacter.\"\n\n\"My mind misgives me much,\" said Mr. Lorry, angrily shaking a forefinger\nat him, \"that you have used the respectable and great house of Tellson's\nas a blind, and that you have had an unlawful occupation of an infamous\ndescription. If you have, don't expect me to befriend you when you\nget back to England. If you have, don't expect me to keep your secret.\nTellson's shall not be imposed upon.\"\n\n\"I hope, sir,\" pleaded the abashed Mr. Cruncher, \"that a gentleman like\nyourself wot I've had the honour of odd jobbing till I'm grey at it,\nwould think twice about harming of me, even if it wos so--I don't say it\nis, but even if it wos. And which it is to be took into account that if\nit wos, it wouldn't, even then, be all o' one side. There'd be two sides\nto it. There might be medical doctors at the present hour, a picking\nup their guineas where a honest tradesman don't pick up his\nfardens--fardens! no, nor yet his half fardens--half fardens! no, nor\nyet his quarter--a banking away like smoke at Tellson's, and a cocking\ntheir medical eyes at that tradesman on the sly, a going in and going\nout to their own carriages--ah! equally like smoke, if not more so.\nWell, that 'ud be imposing, too, on Tellson's. For you cannot sarse the\ngoose and not the gander. And here's Mrs. Cruncher, or leastways wos\nin the Old England times, and would be to-morrow, if cause given,\na floppin' again the business to that degree as is ruinating--stark\nruinating! Whereas them medical doctors' wives don't flop--catch 'em at\nit! Or, if they flop, their floppings goes in favour of more patients,\nand how can you rightly have one without t'other? Then, wot with\nundertakers, and wot with parish clerks, and wot with sextons, and wot\nwith private watchmen (all awaricious and all in it), a man wouldn't get\nmuch by it, even if it wos so. And wot little a man did get, would never\nprosper with him, Mr. Lorry. He'd never have no good of it; he'd want\nall along to be out of the line, if he, could see his way out, being\nonce in--even if it wos so.\"\n\n\"Ugh!\" cried Mr. Lorry, rather relenting, nevertheless, \"I am shocked at\nthe sight of you.\"\n\n\"Now, what I would humbly offer to you, sir,\" pursued Mr. Cruncher,\n\"even if it wos so, which I don't say it is--\"\n\n\"Don't prevaricate,\" said Mr. Lorry.\n\n\"No, I will _not_, sir,\" returned Mr. Crunches as if nothing were\nfurther from his thoughts or practice--\"which I don't say it is--wot I\nwould humbly offer to you, sir, would be this. Upon that there stool, at\nthat there Bar, sets that there boy of mine, brought up and growed up to\nbe a man, wot will errand you, message you, general-light-job you, till\nyour heels is where your head is, if such should be your wishes. If it\nwos so, which I still don't say it is (for I will not prewaricate to\nyou, sir), let that there boy keep his father's place, and take care of\nhis mother; don't blow upon that boy's father--do not do it, sir--and\nlet that father go into the line of the reg'lar diggin', and make amends\nfor what he would have undug--if it wos so--by diggin' of 'em in with\na will, and with conwictions respectin' the futur' keepin' of 'em safe.\nThat, Mr. Lorry,\" said Mr. Cruncher, wiping his forehead with his\narm, as an announcement that he had arrived at the peroration of his\ndiscourse, \"is wot I would respectfully offer to you, sir. A man don't\nsee all this here a goin' on dreadful round him, in the way of Subjects\nwithout heads, dear me, plentiful enough fur to bring the price down\nto porterage and hardly that, without havin' his serious thoughts of\nthings. And these here would be mine, if it wos so, entreatin' of you\nfur to bear in mind that wot I said just now, I up and said in the good\ncause when I might have kep' it back.\"\n\n\"That at least is true,\" said Mr. Lorry. \"Say no more now. It may be\nthat I shall yet stand your friend, if you deserve it, and repent in\naction--not in words. I want no more words.\"\n\nMr. Cruncher knuckled his forehead, as Sydney Carton and the spy\nreturned from the dark room. \"Adieu, Mr. Barsad,\" said the former; \"our\narrangement thus made, you have nothing to fear from me.\"\n\nHe sat down in a chair on the hearth, over against Mr. Lorry. When they\nwere alone, Mr. Lorry asked him what he had done?\n\n\"Not much. If it should go ill with the prisoner, I have ensured access\nto him, once.\"\n\nMr. Lorry's countenance fell.\n\n\"It is all I could do,\" said Carton. \"To propose too much, would be\nto put this man's head under the axe, and, as he himself said, nothing\nworse could happen to him if he were denounced. It was obviously the\nweakness of the position. There is no help for it.\"\n\n\"But access to him,\" said Mr. Lorry, \"if it should go ill before the\nTribunal, will not save him.\"\n\n\"I never said it would.\"\n\nMr. Lorry's eyes gradually sought the fire; his sympathy with his\ndarling, and the heavy disappointment of his second arrest, gradually\nweakened them; he was an old man now, overborne with anxiety of late,\nand his tears fell.\n\n\"You are a good man and a true friend,\" said Carton, in an altered\nvoice. \"Forgive me if I notice that you are affected. I could not see my\nfather weep, and sit by, careless. And I could not respect your\nsorrow more, if you were my father. You are free from that misfortune,\nhowever.\"\n\nThough he said the last words, with a slip into his usual manner, there\nwas a true feeling and respect both in his tone and in his touch,\nthat Mr. Lorry, who had never seen the better side of him, was wholly\nunprepared for. He gave him his hand, and Carton gently pressed it.\n\n\"To return to poor Darnay,\" said Carton. \"Don't tell Her of this\ninterview, or this arrangement. It would not enable Her to go to see\nhim. She might think it was contrived, in case of the worse, to convey\nto him the means of anticipating the sentence.\"\n\nMr. Lorry had not thought of that, and he looked quickly at Carton to\nsee if it were in his mind. It seemed to be; he returned the look, and\nevidently understood it.\n\n\"She might think a thousand things,\" Carton said, \"and any of them would\nonly add to her trouble. Don't speak of me to her. As I said to you when\nI first came, I had better not see her. I can put my hand out, to do any\nlittle helpful work for her that my hand can find to do, without that.\nYou are going to her, I hope? She must be very desolate to-night.\"\n\n\"I am going now, directly.\"\n\n\"I am glad of that. She has such a strong attachment to you and reliance\non you. How does she look?\"\n\n\"Anxious and unhappy, but very beautiful.\"\n\n\"Ah!\"\n\nIt was a long, grieving sound, like a sigh--almost like a sob. It\nattracted Mr. Lorry's eyes to Carton's face, which was turned to the\nfire. A light, or a shade (the old gentleman could not have said which),\npassed from it as swiftly as a change will sweep over a hill-side on a\nwild bright day, and he lifted his foot to put back one of the little\nflaming logs, which was tumbling forward. He wore the white riding-coat\nand top-boots, then in vogue, and the light of the fire touching their\nlight surfaces made him look very pale, with his long brown hair,\nall untrimmed, hanging loose about him. His indifference to fire was\nsufficiently remarkable to elicit a word of remonstrance from Mr. Lorry;\nhis boot was still upon the hot embers of the flaming log, when it had\nbroken under the weight of his foot.\n\n\"I forgot it,\" he said.\n\nMr. Lorry's eyes were again attracted to his face. Taking note of the\nwasted air which clouded the naturally handsome features, and having\nthe expression of prisoners' faces fresh in his mind, he was strongly\nreminded of that expression.\n\n\"And your duties here have drawn to an end, sir?\" said Carton, turning\nto him.\n\n\"Yes. As I was telling you last night when Lucie came in so\nunexpectedly, I have at length done all that I can do here. I hoped to\nhave left them in perfect safety, and then to have quitted Paris. I have\nmy Leave to Pass. I was ready to go.\"\n\nThey were both silent.\n\n\"Yours is a long life to look back upon, sir?\" said Carton, wistfully.\n\n\"I am in my seventy-eighth year.\"\n\n\"You have been useful all your life; steadily and constantly occupied;\ntrusted, respected, and looked up to?\"\n\n\"I have been a man of business, ever since I have been a man. Indeed, I\nmay say that I was a man of business when a boy.\"\n\n\"See what a place you fill at seventy-eight. How many people will miss\nyou when you leave it empty!\"\n\n\"A solitary old bachelor,\" answered Mr. Lorry, shaking his head. \"There\nis nobody to weep for me.\"\n\n\"How can you say that? Wouldn't She weep for you? Wouldn't her child?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, thank God. I didn't quite mean what I said.\"\n\n\"It _is_ a thing to thank God for; is it not?\"\n\n\"Surely, surely.\"\n\n\"If you could say, with truth, to your own solitary heart, to-night,\n'I have secured to myself the love and attachment, the gratitude or\nrespect, of no human creature; I have won myself a tender place in no\nregard; I have done nothing good or serviceable to be remembered by!'\nyour seventy-eight years would be seventy-eight heavy curses; would they\nnot?\"\n\n\"You say truly, Mr. Carton; I think they would be.\"\n\nSydney turned his eyes again upon the fire, and, after a silence of a\nfew moments, said:\n\n\"I should like to ask you:--Does your childhood seem far off? Do the\ndays when you sat at your mother's knee, seem days of very long ago?\"\n\nResponding to his softened manner, Mr. Lorry answered:\n\n\"Twenty years back, yes; at this time of my life, no. For, as I draw\ncloser and closer to the end, I travel in the circle, nearer and\nnearer to the beginning. It seems to be one of the kind smoothings and\npreparings of the way. My heart is touched now, by many remembrances\nthat had long fallen asleep, of my pretty young mother (and I so old!),\nand by many associations of the days when what we call the World was not\nso real with me, and my faults were not confirmed in me.\"\n\n\"I understand the feeling!\" exclaimed Carton, with a bright flush. \"And\nyou are the better for it?\"\n\n\"I hope so.\"\n\nCarton terminated the conversation here, by rising to help him on with\nhis outer coat; \"But you,\" said Mr. Lorry, reverting to the theme, \"you\nare young.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Carton. \"I am not old, but my young way was never the way to\nage. Enough of me.\"\n\n\"And of me, I am sure,\" said Mr. Lorry. \"Are you going out?\"\n\n\"I'll walk with you to her gate. You know my vagabond and restless\nhabits. If I should prowl about the streets a long time, don't be\nuneasy; I shall reappear in the morning. You go to the Court to-morrow?\"\n\n\"Yes, unhappily.\"\n\n\"I shall be there, but only as one of the crowd. My Spy will find a\nplace for me. Take my arm, sir.\"\n\nMr. Lorry did so, and they went down-stairs and out in the streets. A\nfew minutes brought them to Mr. Lorry's destination. Carton left him\nthere; but lingered at a little distance, and turned back to the gate\nagain when it was shut, and touched it. He had heard of her going to\nthe prison every day. \"She came out here,\" he said, looking about him,\n\"turned this way, must have trod on these stones often. Let me follow in\nher steps.\"\n\nIt was ten o'clock at night when he stood before the prison of La Force,\nwhere she had stood hundreds of times. A little wood-sawyer, having\nclosed his shop, was smoking his pipe at his shop-door.\n\n\"Good night, citizen,\" said Sydney Carton, pausing in going by; for, the\nman eyed him inquisitively.\n\n\"Good night, citizen.\"\n\n\"How goes the Republic?\"\n\n\"You mean the Guillotine. Not ill. Sixty-three to-day. We shall mount\nto a hundred soon. Samson and his men complain sometimes, of being\nexhausted. Ha, ha, ha! He is so droll, that Samson. Such a Barber!\"\n\n\"Do you often go to see him--\"\n\n\"Shave? Always. Every day. What a barber! You have seen him at work?\"\n\n\"Never.\"\n\n\"Go and see him when he has a good batch. Figure this to yourself,\ncitizen; he shaved the sixty-three to-day, in less than two pipes! Less\nthan two pipes. Word of honour!\"\n\nAs the grinning little man held out the pipe he was smoking, to explain\nhow he timed the executioner, Carton was so sensible of a rising desire\nto strike the life out of him, that he turned away.\n\n\"But you are not English,\" said the wood-sawyer, \"though you wear\nEnglish dress?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Carton, pausing again, and answering over his shoulder.\n\n\"You speak like a Frenchman.\"\n\n\"I am an old student here.\"\n\n\"Aha, a perfect Frenchman! Good night, Englishman.\"\n\n\"Good night, citizen.\"\n\n\"But go and see that droll dog,\" the little man persisted, calling after\nhim. \"And take a pipe with you!\"\n\nSydney had not gone far out of sight, when he stopped in the middle of\nthe street under a glimmering lamp, and wrote with his pencil on a scrap\nof paper. Then, traversing with the decided step of one who remembered\nthe way well, several dark and dirty streets--much dirtier than usual,\nfor the best public thoroughfares remained uncleansed in those times of\nterror--he stopped at a chemist's shop, which the owner was closing with\nhis own hands. A small, dim, crooked shop, kept in a tortuous, up-hill\nthoroughfare, by a small, dim, crooked man.\n\nGiving this citizen, too, good night, as he confronted him at his\ncounter, he laid the scrap of paper before him. \"Whew!\" the chemist\nwhistled softly, as he read it. \"Hi! hi! hi!\"\n\nSydney Carton took no heed, and the chemist said:\n\n\"For you, citizen?\"\n\n\"For me.\"\n\n\"You will be careful to keep them separate, citizen? You know the\nconsequences of mixing them?\"\n\n\"Perfectly.\"\n\nCertain small packets were made and given to him. He put them, one by\none, in the breast of his inner coat, counted out the money for them,\nand deliberately left the shop. \"There is nothing more to do,\" said he,\nglancing upward at the moon, \"until to-morrow. I can't sleep.\"\n\nIt was not a reckless manner, the manner in which he said these words\naloud under the fast-sailing clouds, nor was it more expressive of\nnegligence than defiance. It was the settled manner of a tired man, who\nhad wandered and struggled and got lost, but who at length struck into\nhis road and saw its end.\n\nLong ago, when he had been famous among his earliest competitors as a\nyouth of great promise, he had followed his father to the grave. His\nmother had died, years before. These solemn words, which had been\nread at his father's grave, arose in his mind as he went down the dark\nstreets, among the heavy shadows, with the moon and the clouds sailing\non high above him. \"I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord:\nhe that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and\nwhosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die.\"\n\nIn a city dominated by the axe, alone at night, with natural sorrow\nrising in him for the sixty-three who had been that day put to death,\nand for to-morrow's victims then awaiting their doom in the prisons,\nand still of to-morrow's and to-morrow's, the chain of association that\nbrought the words home, like a rusty old ship's anchor from the deep,\nmight have been easily found. He did not seek it, but repeated them and\nwent on.\n\nWith a solemn interest in the lighted windows where the people were\ngoing to rest, forgetful through a few calm hours of the horrors\nsurrounding them; in the towers of the churches, where no prayers\nwere said, for the popular revulsion had even travelled that length\nof self-destruction from years of priestly impostors, plunderers, and\nprofligates; in the distant burial-places, reserved, as they wrote upon\nthe gates, for Eternal Sleep; in the abounding gaols; and in the streets\nalong which the sixties rolled to a death which had become so common and\nmaterial, that no sorrowful story of a haunting Spirit ever arose among\nthe people out of all the working of the Guillotine; with a solemn\ninterest in the whole life and death of the city settling down to its\nshort nightly pause in fury; Sydney Carton crossed the Seine again for\nthe lighter streets.\n\nFew coaches were abroad, for riders in coaches were liable to be\nsuspected, and gentility hid its head in red nightcaps, and put on heavy\nshoes, and trudged. But, the theatres were all well filled, and the\npeople poured cheerfully out as he passed, and went chatting home. At\none of the theatre doors, there was a little girl with a mother, looking\nfor a way across the street through the mud. He carried the child over,\nand before the timid arm was loosed from his neck asked her for a kiss.\n\n\"I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth\nin me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and\nbelieveth in me, shall never die.\"\n\nNow, that the streets were quiet, and the night wore on, the words\nwere in the echoes of his feet, and were in the air. Perfectly calm\nand steady, he sometimes repeated them to himself as he walked; but, he\nheard them always.\n\nThe night wore out, and, as he stood upon the bridge listening to the\nwater as it splashed the river-walls of the Island of Paris, where the\npicturesque confusion of houses and cathedral shone bright in the light\nof the moon, the day came coldly, looking like a dead face out of the\nsky. Then, the night, with the moon and the stars, turned pale and died,\nand for a little while it seemed as if Creation were delivered over to\nDeath's dominion.\n\nBut, the glorious sun, rising, seemed to strike those words, that burden\nof the night, straight and warm to his heart in its long bright rays.\nAnd looking along them, with reverently shaded eyes, a bridge of light\nappeared to span the air between him and the sun, while the river\nsparkled under it.\n\nThe strong tide, so swift, so deep, and certain, was like a congenial\nfriend, in the morning stillness. He walked by the stream, far from the\nhouses, and in the light and warmth of the sun fell asleep on the\nbank. When he awoke and was afoot again, he lingered there yet a little\nlonger, watching an eddy that turned and turned purposeless, until the\nstream absorbed it, and carried it on to the sea.--\"Like me.\"\n\nA trading-boat, with a sail of the softened colour of a dead leaf, then\nglided into his view, floated by him, and died away. As its silent track\nin the water disappeared, the prayer that had broken up out of his heart\nfor a merciful consideration of all his poor blindnesses and errors,\nended in the words, \"I am the resurrection and the life.\"\n\nMr. Lorry was already out when he got back, and it was easy to surmise\nwhere the good old man was gone. Sydney Carton drank nothing but a\nlittle coffee, ate some bread, and, having washed and changed to refresh\nhimself, went out to the place of trial.\n\nThe court was all astir and a-buzz, when the black sheep--whom many fell\naway from in dread--pressed him into an obscure corner among the crowd.\nMr. Lorry was there, and Doctor Manette was there. She was there,\nsitting beside her father.\n\nWhen her husband was brought in, she turned a look upon him, so\nsustaining, so encouraging, so full of admiring love and pitying\ntenderness, yet so courageous for his sake, that it called the healthy\nblood into his face, brightened his glance, and animated his heart. If\nthere had been any eyes to notice the influence of her look, on Sydney\nCarton, it would have been seen to be the same influence exactly.\n\nBefore that unjust Tribunal, there was little or no order of procedure,\nensuring to any accused person any reasonable hearing. There could have\nbeen no such Revolution, if all laws, forms, and ceremonies, had not\nfirst been so monstrously abused, that the suicidal vengeance of the\nRevolution was to scatter them all to the winds.\n\nEvery eye was turned to the jury. The same determined patriots and good\nrepublicans as yesterday and the day before, and to-morrow and the day\nafter. Eager and prominent among them, one man with a craving face, and\nhis fingers perpetually hovering about his lips, whose appearance\ngave great satisfaction to the spectators. A life-thirsting,\ncannibal-looking, bloody-minded juryman, the Jacques Three of St.\nAntoine. The whole jury, as a jury of dogs empannelled to try the deer.\n\nEvery eye then turned to the five judges and the public prosecutor.\nNo favourable leaning in that quarter to-day. A fell, uncompromising,\nmurderous business-meaning there. Every eye then sought some other eye\nin the crowd, and gleamed at it approvingly; and heads nodded at one\nanother, before bending forward with a strained attention.\n\nCharles Evremonde, called Darnay. Released yesterday. Reaccused and\nretaken yesterday. Indictment delivered to him last night. Suspected and\nDenounced enemy of the Republic, Aristocrat, one of a family of tyrants,\none of a race proscribed, for that they had used their abolished\nprivileges to the infamous oppression of the people. Charles Evremonde,\ncalled Darnay, in right of such proscription, absolutely Dead in Law.\n\nTo this effect, in as few or fewer words, the Public Prosecutor.\n\nThe President asked, was the Accused openly denounced or secretly?\n\n\"Openly, President.\"\n\n\"By whom?\"\n\n\"Three voices. Ernest Defarge, wine-vendor of St. Antoine.\"\n\n\"Good.\"\n\n\"Therese Defarge, his wife.\"\n\n\"Good.\"\n\n\"Alexandre Manette, physician.\"\n\nA great uproar took place in the court, and in the midst of it, Doctor\nManette was seen, pale and trembling, standing where he had been seated.\n\n\"President, I indignantly protest to you that this is a forgery and\na fraud. You know the accused to be the husband of my daughter. My\ndaughter, and those dear to her, are far dearer to me than my life. Who\nand where is the false conspirator who says that I denounce the husband\nof my child!\"\n\n\"Citizen Manette, be tranquil. To fail in submission to the authority of\nthe Tribunal would be to put yourself out of Law. As to what is dearer\nto you than life, nothing can be so dear to a good citizen as the\nRepublic.\"\n\nLoud acclamations hailed this rebuke. The President rang his bell, and\nwith warmth resumed.\n\n\"If the Republic should demand of you the sacrifice of your child\nherself, you would have no duty but to sacrifice her. Listen to what is\nto follow. In the meanwhile, be silent!\"\n\nFrantic acclamations were again raised. Doctor Manette sat down, with\nhis eyes looking around, and his lips trembling; his daughter drew\ncloser to him. The craving man on the jury rubbed his hands together,\nand restored the usual hand to his mouth.\n\nDefarge was produced, when the court was quiet enough to admit of his\nbeing heard, and rapidly expounded the story of the imprisonment, and of\nhis having been a mere boy in the Doctor's service, and of the release,\nand of the state of the prisoner when released and delivered to him.\nThis short examination followed, for the court was quick with its work.\n\n\"You did good service at the taking of the Bastille, citizen?\"\n\n\"I believe so.\"\n\nHere, an excited woman screeched from the crowd: \"You were one of the\nbest patriots there. Why not say so? You were a cannonier that day\nthere, and you were among the first to enter the accursed fortress when\nit fell. Patriots, I speak the truth!\"\n\nIt was The Vengeance who, amidst the warm commendations of the audience,\nthus assisted the proceedings. The President rang his bell; but, The\nVengeance, warming with encouragement, shrieked, \"I defy that bell!\"\nwherein she was likewise much commended.\n\n\"Inform the Tribunal of what you did that day within the Bastille,\ncitizen.\"\n\n\"I knew,\" said Defarge, looking down at his wife, who stood at the\nbottom of the steps on which he was raised, looking steadily up at him;\n\"I knew that this prisoner, of whom I speak, had been confined in a cell\nknown as One Hundred and Five, North Tower. I knew it from himself. He\nknew himself by no other name than One Hundred and Five, North Tower,\nwhen he made shoes under my care. As I serve my gun that day, I resolve,\nwhen the place shall fall, to examine that cell. It falls. I mount to\nthe cell, with a fellow-citizen who is one of the Jury, directed by a\ngaoler. I examine it, very closely. In a hole in the chimney, where a\nstone has been worked out and replaced, I find a written paper. This is\nthat written paper. I have made it my business to examine some specimens\nof the writing of Doctor Manette. This is the writing of Doctor Manette.\nI confide this paper, in the writing of Doctor Manette, to the hands of\nthe President.\"\n\n\"Let it be read.\"\n\nIn a dead silence and stillness--the prisoner under trial looking\nlovingly at his wife, his wife only looking from him to look with\nsolicitude at her father, Doctor Manette keeping his eyes fixed on the\nreader, Madame Defarge never taking hers from the prisoner, Defarge\nnever taking his from his feasting wife, and all the other eyes there\nintent upon the Doctor, who saw none of them--the paper was read, as\nfollows.\n\n\n\n\nX. The Substance of the Shadow\n\n\n\"I, Alexandre Manette, unfortunate physician, native of Beauvais, and\nafterwards resident in Paris, write this melancholy paper in my doleful\ncell in the Bastille, during the last month of the year, 1767. I write\nit at stolen intervals, under every difficulty. I design to secrete it\nin the wall of the chimney, where I have slowly and laboriously made a\nplace of concealment for it. Some pitying hand may find it there, when I\nand my sorrows are dust.\n\n\"These words are formed by the rusty iron point with which I write with\ndifficulty in scrapings of soot and charcoal from the chimney, mixed\nwith blood, in the last month of the tenth year of my captivity. Hope\nhas quite departed from my breast. I know from terrible warnings I have\nnoted in myself that my reason will not long remain unimpaired, but I\nsolemnly declare that I am at this time in the possession of my right\nmind--that my memory is exact and circumstantial--and that I write the\ntruth as I shall answer for these my last recorded words, whether they\nbe ever read by men or not, at the Eternal Judgment-seat.\n\n\"One cloudy moonlight night, in the third week of December (I think the\ntwenty-second of the month) in the year 1757, I was walking on a retired\npart of the quay by the Seine for the refreshment of the frosty air,\nat an hour's distance from my place of residence in the Street of the\nSchool of Medicine, when a carriage came along behind me, driven very\nfast. As I stood aside to let that carriage pass, apprehensive that it\nmight otherwise run me down, a head was put out at the window, and a\nvoice called to the driver to stop.\n\n\"The carriage stopped as soon as the driver could rein in his horses,\nand the same voice called to me by my name. I answered. The carriage\nwas then so far in advance of me that two gentlemen had time to open the\ndoor and alight before I came up with it.\n\n\"I observed that they were both wrapped in cloaks, and appeared to\nconceal themselves. As they stood side by side near the carriage door,\nI also observed that they both looked of about my own age, or rather\nyounger, and that they were greatly alike, in stature, manner, voice,\nand (as far as I could see) face too.\n\n\"'You are Doctor Manette?' said one.\n\n\"I am.\"\n\n\"'Doctor Manette, formerly of Beauvais,' said the other; 'the young\nphysician, originally an expert surgeon, who within the last year or two\nhas made a rising reputation in Paris?'\n\n\"'Gentlemen,' I returned, 'I am that Doctor Manette of whom you speak so\ngraciously.'\n\n\"'We have been to your residence,' said the first, 'and not being\nso fortunate as to find you there, and being informed that you were\nprobably walking in this direction, we followed, in the hope of\novertaking you. Will you please to enter the carriage?'\n\n\"The manner of both was imperious, and they both moved, as these words\nwere spoken, so as to place me between themselves and the carriage door.\nThey were armed. I was not.\n\n\"'Gentlemen,' said I, 'pardon me; but I usually inquire who does me\nthe honour to seek my assistance, and what is the nature of the case to\nwhich I am summoned.'\n\n\"The reply to this was made by him who had spoken second. 'Doctor,\nyour clients are people of condition. As to the nature of the case,\nour confidence in your skill assures us that you will ascertain it for\nyourself better than we can describe it. Enough. Will you please to\nenter the carriage?'\n\n\"I could do nothing but comply, and I entered it in silence. They both\nentered after me--the last springing in, after putting up the steps. The\ncarriage turned about, and drove on at its former speed.\n\n\"I repeat this conversation exactly as it occurred. I have no doubt that\nit is, word for word, the same. I describe everything exactly as it took\nplace, constraining my mind not to wander from the task. Where I make\nthe broken marks that follow here, I leave off for the time, and put my\npaper in its hiding-place.\n\n        *****\n\n\"The carriage left the streets behind, passed the North Barrier, and\nemerged upon the country road. At two-thirds of a league from the\nBarrier--I did not estimate the distance at that time, but afterwards\nwhen I traversed it--it struck out of the main avenue, and presently\nstopped at a solitary house, We all three alighted, and walked, by\na damp soft footpath in a garden where a neglected fountain had\noverflowed, to the door of the house. It was not opened immediately, in\nanswer to the ringing of the bell, and one of my two conductors struck\nthe man who opened it, with his heavy riding glove, across the face.\n\n\"There was nothing in this action to attract my particular attention,\nfor I had seen common people struck more commonly than dogs. But, the\nother of the two, being angry likewise, struck the man in like manner\nwith his arm; the look and bearing of the brothers were then so exactly\nalike, that I then first perceived them to be twin brothers.\n\n\"From the time of our alighting at the outer gate (which we found\nlocked, and which one of the brothers had opened to admit us, and had\nrelocked), I had heard cries proceeding from an upper chamber. I was\nconducted to this chamber straight, the cries growing louder as we\nascended the stairs, and I found a patient in a high fever of the brain,\nlying on a bed.\n\n\"The patient was a woman of great beauty, and young; assuredly not much\npast twenty. Her hair was torn and ragged, and her arms were bound to\nher sides with sashes and handkerchiefs. I noticed that these bonds were\nall portions of a gentleman's dress. On one of them, which was a fringed\nscarf for a dress of ceremony, I saw the armorial bearings of a Noble,\nand the letter E.\n\n\"I saw this, within the first minute of my contemplation of the patient;\nfor, in her restless strivings she had turned over on her face on the\nedge of the bed, had drawn the end of the scarf into her mouth, and was\nin danger of suffocation. My first act was to put out my hand to relieve\nher breathing; and in moving the scarf aside, the embroidery in the\ncorner caught my sight.\n\n\"I turned her gently over, placed my hands upon her breast to calm her\nand keep her down, and looked into her face. Her eyes were dilated and\nwild, and she constantly uttered piercing shrieks, and repeated the\nwords, 'My husband, my father, and my brother!' and then counted up to\ntwelve, and said, 'Hush!' For an instant, and no more, she would pause\nto listen, and then the piercing shrieks would begin again, and she\nwould repeat the cry, 'My husband, my father, and my brother!' and\nwould count up to twelve, and say, 'Hush!' There was no variation in the\norder, or the manner. There was no cessation, but the regular moment's\npause, in the utterance of these sounds.\n\n\"'How long,' I asked, 'has this lasted?'\n\n\"To distinguish the brothers, I will call them the elder and the\nyounger; by the elder, I mean him who exercised the most authority. It\nwas the elder who replied, 'Since about this hour last night.'\n\n\"'She has a husband, a father, and a brother?'\n\n\"'A brother.'\n\n\"'I do not address her brother?'\n\n\"He answered with great contempt, 'No.'\n\n\"'She has some recent association with the number twelve?'\n\n\"The younger brother impatiently rejoined, 'With twelve o'clock?'\n\n\"'See, gentlemen,' said I, still keeping my hands upon her breast, 'how\nuseless I am, as you have brought me! If I had known what I was coming\nto see, I could have come provided. As it is, time must be lost. There\nare no medicines to be obtained in this lonely place.'\n\n\"The elder brother looked to the younger, who said haughtily, 'There is\na case of medicines here;' and brought it from a closet, and put it on\nthe table.\n\n        *****\n\n\"I opened some of the bottles, smelt them, and put the stoppers to my\nlips. If I had wanted to use anything save narcotic medicines that were\npoisons in themselves, I would not have administered any of those.\n\n\"'Do you doubt them?' asked the younger brother.\n\n\"'You see, monsieur, I am going to use them,' I replied, and said no\nmore.\n\n\"I made the patient swallow, with great difficulty, and after many\nefforts, the dose that I desired to give. As I intended to repeat it\nafter a while, and as it was necessary to watch its influence, I then\nsat down by the side of the bed. There was a timid and suppressed woman\nin attendance (wife of the man down-stairs), who had retreated into\na corner. The house was damp and decayed, indifferently\nfurnished--evidently, recently occupied and temporarily used. Some thick\nold hangings had been nailed up before the windows, to deaden the\nsound of the shrieks. They continued to be uttered in their regular\nsuccession, with the cry, 'My husband, my father, and my brother!' the\ncounting up to twelve, and 'Hush!' The frenzy was so violent, that I had\nnot unfastened the bandages restraining the arms; but, I had looked to\nthem, to see that they were not painful. The only spark of encouragement\nin the case, was, that my hand upon the sufferer's breast had this much\nsoothing influence, that for minutes at a time it tranquillised the\nfigure. It had no effect upon the cries; no pendulum could be more\nregular.\n\n\"For the reason that my hand had this effect (I assume), I had sat by\nthe side of the bed for half an hour, with the two brothers looking on,\nbefore the elder said:\n\n\"'There is another patient.'\n\n\"I was startled, and asked, 'Is it a pressing case?'\n\n\"'You had better see,' he carelessly answered; and took up a light.\n\n        *****\n\n\"The other patient lay in a back room across a second staircase, which\nwas a species of loft over a stable. There was a low plastered ceiling\nto a part of it; the rest was open, to the ridge of the tiled roof, and\nthere were beams across. Hay and straw were stored in that portion of\nthe place, fagots for firing, and a heap of apples in sand. I had to\npass through that part, to get at the other. My memory is circumstantial\nand unshaken. I try it with these details, and I see them all, in\nthis my cell in the Bastille, near the close of the tenth year of my\ncaptivity, as I saw them all that night.\n\n\"On some hay on the ground, with a cushion thrown under his head, lay a\nhandsome peasant boy--a boy of not more than seventeen at the most.\nHe lay on his back, with his teeth set, his right hand clenched on his\nbreast, and his glaring eyes looking straight upward. I could not see\nwhere his wound was, as I kneeled on one knee over him; but, I could see\nthat he was dying of a wound from a sharp point.\n\n\"'I am a doctor, my poor fellow,' said I. 'Let me examine it.'\n\n\"'I do not want it examined,' he answered; 'let it be.'\n\n\"It was under his hand, and I soothed him to let me move his hand away.\nThe wound was a sword-thrust, received from twenty to twenty-four hours\nbefore, but no skill could have saved him if it had been looked to\nwithout delay. He was then dying fast. As I turned my eyes to the elder\nbrother, I saw him looking down at this handsome boy whose life was\nebbing out, as if he were a wounded bird, or hare, or rabbit; not at all\nas if he were a fellow-creature.\n\n\"'How has this been done, monsieur?' said I.\n\n\"'A crazed young common dog! A serf! Forced my brother to draw upon him,\nand has fallen by my brother's sword--like a gentleman.'\n\n\"There was no touch of pity, sorrow, or kindred humanity, in this\nanswer. The speaker seemed to acknowledge that it was inconvenient to\nhave that different order of creature dying there, and that it would\nhave been better if he had died in the usual obscure routine of his\nvermin kind. He was quite incapable of any compassionate feeling about\nthe boy, or about his fate.\n\n\"The boy's eyes had slowly moved to him as he had spoken, and they now\nslowly moved to me.\n\n\"'Doctor, they are very proud, these Nobles; but we common dogs are\nproud too, sometimes. They plunder us, outrage us, beat us, kill us; but\nwe have a little pride left, sometimes. She--have you seen her, Doctor?'\n\n\"The shrieks and the cries were audible there, though subdued by the\ndistance. He referred to them, as if she were lying in our presence.\n\n\"I said, 'I have seen her.'\n\n\"'She is my sister, Doctor. They have had their shameful rights, these\nNobles, in the modesty and virtue of our sisters, many years, but we\nhave had good girls among us. I know it, and have heard my father say\nso. She was a good girl. She was betrothed to a good young man, too: a\ntenant of his. We were all tenants of his--that man's who stands there.\nThe other is his brother, the worst of a bad race.'\n\n\"It was with the greatest difficulty that the boy gathered bodily force\nto speak; but, his spirit spoke with a dreadful emphasis.\n\n\"'We were so robbed by that man who stands there, as all we common dogs\nare by those superior Beings--taxed by him without mercy, obliged to\nwork for him without pay, obliged to grind our corn at his mill, obliged\nto feed scores of his tame birds on our wretched crops, and forbidden\nfor our lives to keep a single tame bird of our own, pillaged and\nplundered to that degree that when we chanced to have a bit of meat, we\nate it in fear, with the door barred and the shutters closed, that his\npeople should not see it and take it from us--I say, we were so robbed,\nand hunted, and were made so poor, that our father told us it was a\ndreadful thing to bring a child into the world, and that what we should\nmost pray for, was, that our women might be barren and our miserable\nrace die out!'\n\n\"I had never before seen the sense of being oppressed, bursting forth\nlike a fire. I had supposed that it must be latent in the people\nsomewhere; but, I had never seen it break out, until I saw it in the\ndying boy.\n\n\"'Nevertheless, Doctor, my sister married. He was ailing at that time,\npoor fellow, and she married her lover, that she might tend and comfort\nhim in our cottage--our dog-hut, as that man would call it. She had not\nbeen married many weeks, when that man's brother saw her and admired\nher, and asked that man to lend her to him--for what are husbands among\nus! He was willing enough, but my sister was good and virtuous, and\nhated his brother with a hatred as strong as mine. What did the two\nthen, to persuade her husband to use his influence with her, to make her\nwilling?'\n\n\"The boy's eyes, which had been fixed on mine, slowly turned to the\nlooker-on, and I saw in the two faces that all he said was true. The two\nopposing kinds of pride confronting one another, I can see, even in this\nBastille; the gentleman's, all negligent indifference; the peasant's, all\ntrodden-down sentiment, and passionate revenge.\n\n\"'You know, Doctor, that it is among the Rights of these Nobles to\nharness us common dogs to carts, and drive us. They so harnessed him and\ndrove him. You know that it is among their Rights to keep us in their\ngrounds all night, quieting the frogs, in order that their noble sleep\nmay not be disturbed. They kept him out in the unwholesome mists at\nnight, and ordered him back into his harness in the day. But he was\nnot persuaded. No! Taken out of harness one day at noon, to feed--if he\ncould find food--he sobbed twelve times, once for every stroke of the\nbell, and died on her bosom.'\n\n\"Nothing human could have held life in the boy but his determination to\ntell all his wrong. He forced back the gathering shadows of death, as\nhe forced his clenched right hand to remain clenched, and to cover his\nwound.\n\n\"'Then, with that man's permission and even with his aid, his\nbrother took her away; in spite of what I know she must have told his\nbrother--and what that is, will not be long unknown to you, Doctor, if\nit is now--his brother took her away--for his pleasure and diversion,\nfor a little while. I saw her pass me on the road. When I took the\ntidings home, our father's heart burst; he never spoke one of the words\nthat filled it. I took my young sister (for I have another) to a place\nbeyond the reach of this man, and where, at least, she will never be\n_his_ vassal. Then, I tracked the brother here, and last night climbed\nin--a common dog, but sword in hand.--Where is the loft window? It was\nsomewhere here?'\n\n\"The room was darkening to his sight; the world was narrowing around\nhim. I glanced about me, and saw that the hay and straw were trampled\nover the floor, as if there had been a struggle.\n\n\"'She heard me, and ran in. I told her not to come near us till he was\ndead. He came in and first tossed me some pieces of money; then struck\nat me with a whip. But I, though a common dog, so struck at him as to\nmake him draw. Let him break into as many pieces as he will, the sword\nthat he stained with my common blood; he drew to defend himself--thrust\nat me with all his skill for his life.'\n\n\"My glance had fallen, but a few moments before, on the fragments of\na broken sword, lying among the hay. That weapon was a gentleman's. In\nanother place, lay an old sword that seemed to have been a soldier's.\n\n\"'Now, lift me up, Doctor; lift me up. Where is he?'\n\n\"'He is not here,' I said, supporting the boy, and thinking that he\nreferred to the brother.\n\n\"'He! Proud as these nobles are, he is afraid to see me. Where is the\nman who was here? Turn my face to him.'\n\n\"I did so, raising the boy's head against my knee. But, invested for the\nmoment with extraordinary power, he raised himself completely: obliging\nme to rise too, or I could not have still supported him.\n\n\"'Marquis,' said the boy, turned to him with his eyes opened wide, and\nhis right hand raised, 'in the days when all these things are to be\nanswered for, I summon you and yours, to the last of your bad race, to\nanswer for them. I mark this cross of blood upon you, as a sign that\nI do it. In the days when all these things are to be answered for,\nI summon your brother, the worst of the bad race, to answer for them\nseparately. I mark this cross of blood upon him, as a sign that I do\nit.'\n\n\"Twice, he put his hand to the wound in his breast, and with his\nforefinger drew a cross in the air. He stood for an instant with the\nfinger yet raised, and as it dropped, he dropped with it, and I laid him\ndown dead.\n\n        *****\n\n\"When I returned to the bedside of the young woman, I found her raving\nin precisely the same order of continuity. I knew that this might last\nfor many hours, and that it would probably end in the silence of the\ngrave.\n\n\"I repeated the medicines I had given her, and I sat at the side of\nthe bed until the night was far advanced. She never abated the piercing\nquality of her shrieks, never stumbled in the distinctness or the order\nof her words. They were always 'My husband, my father, and my brother!\nOne, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven,\ntwelve. Hush!'\n\n\"This lasted twenty-six hours from the time when I first saw her. I had\ncome and gone twice, and was again sitting by her, when she began to\nfalter. I did what little could be done to assist that opportunity, and\nby-and-bye she sank into a lethargy, and lay like the dead.\n\n\"It was as if the wind and rain had lulled at last, after a long and\nfearful storm. I released her arms, and called the woman to assist me to\ncompose her figure and the dress she had torn. It was then that I knew\nher condition to be that of one in whom the first expectations of being\na mother have arisen; and it was then that I lost the little hope I had\nhad of her.\n\n\"'Is she dead?' asked the Marquis, whom I will still describe as the\nelder brother, coming booted into the room from his horse.\n\n\"'Not dead,' said I; 'but like to die.'\n\n\"'What strength there is in these common bodies!' he said, looking down\nat her with some curiosity.\n\n\"'There is prodigious strength,' I answered him, 'in sorrow and\ndespair.'\n\n\"He first laughed at my words, and then frowned at them. He moved a\nchair with his foot near to mine, ordered the woman away, and said in a\nsubdued voice,\n\n\"'Doctor, finding my brother in this difficulty with these hinds, I\nrecommended that your aid should be invited. Your reputation is high,\nand, as a young man with your fortune to make, you are probably mindful\nof your interest. The things that you see here, are things to be seen,\nand not spoken of.'\n\n\"I listened to the patient's breathing, and avoided answering.\n\n\"'Do you honour me with your attention, Doctor?'\n\n\"'Monsieur,' said I, 'in my profession, the communications of patients\nare always received in confidence.' I was guarded in my answer, for I\nwas troubled in my mind with what I had heard and seen.\n\n\"Her breathing was so difficult to trace, that I carefully tried the\npulse and the heart. There was life, and no more. Looking round as I\nresumed my seat, I found both the brothers intent upon me.\n\n        *****\n\n\"I write with so much difficulty, the cold is so severe, I am so\nfearful of being detected and consigned to an underground cell and total\ndarkness, that I must abridge this narrative. There is no confusion or\nfailure in my memory; it can recall, and could detail, every word that\nwas ever spoken between me and those brothers.\n\n\"She lingered for a week. Towards the last, I could understand some few\nsyllables that she said to me, by placing my ear close to her lips. She\nasked me where she was, and I told her; who I was, and I told her. It\nwas in vain that I asked her for her family name. She faintly shook her\nhead upon the pillow, and kept her secret, as the boy had done.\n\n\"I had no opportunity of asking her any question, until I had told the\nbrothers she was sinking fast, and could not live another day. Until\nthen, though no one was ever presented to her consciousness save the\nwoman and myself, one or other of them had always jealously sat behind\nthe curtain at the head of the bed when I was there. But when it came to\nthat, they seemed careless what communication I might hold with her; as\nif--the thought passed through my mind--I were dying too.\n\n\"I always observed that their pride bitterly resented the younger\nbrother's (as I call him) having crossed swords with a peasant, and that\npeasant a boy. The only consideration that appeared to affect the mind\nof either of them was the consideration that this was highly degrading\nto the family, and was ridiculous. As often as I caught the younger\nbrother's eyes, their expression reminded me that he disliked me deeply,\nfor knowing what I knew from the boy. He was smoother and more polite to\nme than the elder; but I saw this. I also saw that I was an incumbrance\nin the mind of the elder, too.\n\n\"My patient died, two hours before midnight--at a time, by my watch,\nanswering almost to the minute when I had first seen her. I was alone\nwith her, when her forlorn young head drooped gently on one side, and\nall her earthly wrongs and sorrows ended.\n\n\"The brothers were waiting in a room down-stairs, impatient to ride\naway. I had heard them, alone at the bedside, striking their boots with\ntheir riding-whips, and loitering up and down.\n\n\"'At last she is dead?' said the elder, when I went in.\n\n\"'She is dead,' said I.\n\n\"'I congratulate you, my brother,' were his words as he turned round.\n\n\"He had before offered me money, which I had postponed taking. He now\ngave me a rouleau of gold. I took it from his hand, but laid it on\nthe table. I had considered the question, and had resolved to accept\nnothing.\n\n\"'Pray excuse me,' said I. 'Under the circumstances, no.'\n\n\"They exchanged looks, but bent their heads to me as I bent mine to\nthem, and we parted without another word on either side.\n\n        *****\n\n\"I am weary, weary, weary--worn down by misery. I cannot read what I\nhave written with this gaunt hand.\n\n\"Early in the morning, the rouleau of gold was left at my door in a\nlittle box, with my name on the outside. From the first, I had anxiously\nconsidered what I ought to do. I decided, that day, to write privately\nto the Minister, stating the nature of the two cases to which I had been\nsummoned, and the place to which I had gone: in effect, stating all the\ncircumstances. I knew what Court influence was, and what the immunities\nof the Nobles were, and I expected that the matter would never be\nheard of; but, I wished to relieve my own mind. I had kept the matter a\nprofound secret, even from my wife; and this, too, I resolved to state\nin my letter. I had no apprehension whatever of my real danger; but\nI was conscious that there might be danger for others, if others were\ncompromised by possessing the knowledge that I possessed.\n\n\"I was much engaged that day, and could not complete my letter that\nnight. I rose long before my usual time next morning to finish it.\nIt was the last day of the year. The letter was lying before me just\ncompleted, when I was told that a lady waited, who wished to see me.\n\n        *****\n\n\"I am growing more and more unequal to the task I have set myself. It is\nso cold, so dark, my senses are so benumbed, and the gloom upon me is so\ndreadful.\n\n\"The lady was young, engaging, and handsome, but not marked for long\nlife. She was in great agitation. She presented herself to me as the\nwife of the Marquis St. Evremonde. I connected the title by which the\nboy had addressed the elder brother, with the initial letter embroidered\non the scarf, and had no difficulty in arriving at the conclusion that I\nhad seen that nobleman very lately.\n\n\"My memory is still accurate, but I cannot write the words of our\nconversation. I suspect that I am watched more closely than I was, and I\nknow not at what times I may be watched. She had in part suspected, and\nin part discovered, the main facts of the cruel story, of her husband's\nshare in it, and my being resorted to. She did not know that the girl\nwas dead. Her hope had been, she said in great distress, to show her,\nin secret, a woman's sympathy. Her hope had been to avert the wrath of\nHeaven from a House that had long been hateful to the suffering many.\n\n\"She had reasons for believing that there was a young sister living, and\nher greatest desire was, to help that sister. I could tell her nothing\nbut that there was such a sister; beyond that, I knew nothing. Her\ninducement to come to me, relying on my confidence, had been the hope\nthat I could tell her the name and place of abode. Whereas, to this\nwretched hour I am ignorant of both.\n\n        *****\n\n\"These scraps of paper fail me. One was taken from me, with a warning,\nyesterday. I must finish my record to-day.\n\n\"She was a good, compassionate lady, and not happy in her marriage. How\ncould she be! The brother distrusted and disliked her, and his influence\nwas all opposed to her; she stood in dread of him, and in dread of her\nhusband too. When I handed her down to the door, there was a child, a\npretty boy from two to three years old, in her carriage.\n\n\"'For his sake, Doctor,' she said, pointing to him in tears, 'I would do\nall I can to make what poor amends I can. He will never prosper in his\ninheritance otherwise. I have a presentiment that if no other innocent\natonement is made for this, it will one day be required of him. What\nI have left to call my own--it is little beyond the worth of a few\njewels--I will make it the first charge of his life to bestow, with the\ncompassion and lamenting of his dead mother, on this injured family, if\nthe sister can be discovered.'\n\n\"She kissed the boy, and said, caressing him, 'It is for thine own dear\nsake. Thou wilt be faithful, little Charles?' The child answered her\nbravely, 'Yes!' I kissed her hand, and she took him in her arms, and\nwent away caressing him. I never saw her more.\n\n\"As she had mentioned her husband's name in the faith that I knew it,\nI added no mention of it to my letter. I sealed my letter, and, not\ntrusting it out of my own hands, delivered it myself that day.\n\n\"That night, the last night of the year, towards nine o'clock, a man in\na black dress rang at my gate, demanded to see me, and softly followed\nmy servant, Ernest Defarge, a youth, up-stairs. When my servant came\ninto the room where I sat with my wife--O my wife, beloved of my heart!\nMy fair young English wife!--we saw the man, who was supposed to be at\nthe gate, standing silent behind him.\n\n\"An urgent case in the Rue St. Honore, he said. It would not detain me,\nhe had a coach in waiting.\n\n\"It brought me here, it brought me to my grave. When I was clear of the\nhouse, a black muffler was drawn tightly over my mouth from behind, and\nmy arms were pinioned. The two brothers crossed the road from a dark\ncorner, and identified me with a single gesture. The Marquis took from\nhis pocket the letter I had written, showed it me, burnt it in the light\nof a lantern that was held, and extinguished the ashes with his foot.\nNot a word was spoken. I was brought here, I was brought to my living\ngrave.\n\n\"If it had pleased _God_ to put it in the hard heart of either of the\nbrothers, in all these frightful years, to grant me any tidings of\nmy dearest wife--so much as to let me know by a word whether alive or\ndead--I might have thought that He had not quite abandoned them. But,\nnow I believe that the mark of the red cross is fatal to them, and that\nthey have no part in His mercies. And them and their descendants, to the\nlast of their race, I, Alexandre Manette, unhappy prisoner, do this last\nnight of the year 1767, in my unbearable agony, denounce to the times\nwhen all these things shall be answered for. I denounce them to Heaven\nand to earth.\"\n\nA terrible sound arose when the reading of this document was done. A\nsound of craving and eagerness that had nothing articulate in it but\nblood. The narrative called up the most revengeful passions of the time,\nand there was not a head in the nation but must have dropped before it.\n\nLittle need, in presence of that tribunal and that auditory, to show\nhow the Defarges had not made the paper public, with the other captured\nBastille memorials borne in procession, and had kept it, biding their\ntime. Little need to show that this detested family name had long been\nanathematised by Saint Antoine, and was wrought into the fatal register.\nThe man never trod ground whose virtues and services would have\nsustained him in that place that day, against such denunciation.\n\nAnd all the worse for the doomed man, that the denouncer was a\nwell-known citizen, his own attached friend, the father of his wife. One\nof the frenzied aspirations of the populace was, for imitations of\nthe questionable public virtues of antiquity, and for sacrifices and\nself-immolations on the people's altar. Therefore when the President\nsaid (else had his own head quivered on his shoulders), that the good\nphysician of the Republic would deserve better still of the Republic by\nrooting out an obnoxious family of Aristocrats, and would doubtless feel\na sacred glow and joy in making his daughter a widow and her child an\norphan, there was wild excitement, patriotic fervour, not a touch of\nhuman sympathy.\n\n\"Much influence around him, has that Doctor?\" murmured Madame Defarge,\nsmiling to The Vengeance. \"Save him now, my Doctor, save him!\"\n\nAt every juryman's vote, there was a roar. Another and another. Roar and\nroar.\n\nUnanimously voted. At heart and by descent an Aristocrat, an enemy\nof the Republic, a notorious oppressor of the People. Back to the\nConciergerie, and Death within four-and-twenty hours!\n\n\n\n\nXI. Dusk\n\n\nThe wretched wife of the innocent man thus doomed to die, fell under\nthe sentence, as if she had been mortally stricken. But, she uttered no\nsound; and so strong was the voice within her, representing that it was\nshe of all the world who must uphold him in his misery and not augment\nit, that it quickly raised her, even from that shock.\n\nThe Judges having to take part in a public demonstration out of doors,\nthe Tribunal adjourned. The quick noise and movement of the court's\nemptying itself by many passages had not ceased, when Lucie stood\nstretching out her arms towards her husband, with nothing in her face\nbut love and consolation.\n\n\"If I might touch him! If I might embrace him once! O, good citizens, if\nyou would have so much compassion for us!\"\n\nThere was but a gaoler left, along with two of the four men who had\ntaken him last night, and Barsad. The people had all poured out to the\nshow in the streets. Barsad proposed to the rest, \"Let her embrace\nhim then; it is but a moment.\" It was silently acquiesced in, and they\npassed her over the seats in the hall to a raised place, where he, by\nleaning over the dock, could fold her in his arms.\n\n\"Farewell, dear darling of my soul. My parting blessing on my love. We\nshall meet again, where the weary are at rest!\"\n\nThey were her husband's words, as he held her to his bosom.\n\n\"I can bear it, dear Charles. I am supported from above: don't suffer\nfor me. A parting blessing for our child.\"\n\n\"I send it to her by you. I kiss her by you. I say farewell to her by\nyou.\"\n\n\"My husband. No! A moment!\" He was tearing himself apart from her.\n\"We shall not be separated long. I feel that this will break my heart\nby-and-bye; but I will do my duty while I can, and when I leave her, God\nwill raise up friends for her, as He did for me.\"\n\nHer father had followed her, and would have fallen on his knees to both\nof them, but that Darnay put out a hand and seized him, crying:\n\n\"No, no! What have you done, what have you done, that you should kneel\nto us! We know now, what a struggle you made of old. We know, now what\nyou underwent when you suspected my descent, and when you knew it. We\nknow now, the natural antipathy you strove against, and conquered, for\nher dear sake. We thank you with all our hearts, and all our love and\nduty. Heaven be with you!\"\n\nHer father's only answer was to draw his hands through his white hair,\nand wring them with a shriek of anguish.\n\n\"It could not be otherwise,\" said the prisoner. \"All things have worked\ntogether as they have fallen out. It was the always-vain endeavour to\ndischarge my poor mother's trust that first brought my fatal presence\nnear you. Good could never come of such evil, a happier end was not in\nnature to so unhappy a beginning. Be comforted, and forgive me. Heaven\nbless you!\"\n\nAs he was drawn away, his wife released him, and stood looking after him\nwith her hands touching one another in the attitude of prayer, and\nwith a radiant look upon her face, in which there was even a comforting\nsmile. As he went out at the prisoners' door, she turned, laid her head\nlovingly on her father's breast, tried to speak to him, and fell at his\nfeet.\n\nThen, issuing from the obscure corner from which he had never moved,\nSydney Carton came and took her up. Only her father and Mr. Lorry were\nwith her. His arm trembled as it raised her, and supported her head.\nYet, there was an air about him that was not all of pity--that had a\nflush of pride in it.\n\n\"Shall I take her to a coach? I shall never feel her weight.\"\n\nHe carried her lightly to the door, and laid her tenderly down in a\ncoach. Her father and their old friend got into it, and he took his seat\nbeside the driver.\n\nWhen they arrived at the gateway where he had paused in the dark not\nmany hours before, to picture to himself on which of the rough stones of\nthe street her feet had trodden, he lifted her again, and carried her up\nthe staircase to their rooms. There, he laid her down on a couch, where\nher child and Miss Pross wept over her.\n\n\"Don't recall her to herself,\" he said, softly, to the latter, \"she is\nbetter so. Don't revive her to consciousness, while she only faints.\"\n\n\"Oh, Carton, Carton, dear Carton!\" cried little Lucie, springing up and\nthrowing her arms passionately round him, in a burst of grief. \"Now that\nyou have come, I think you will do something to help mamma, something to\nsave papa! O, look at her, dear Carton! Can you, of all the people who\nlove her, bear to see her so?\"\n\nHe bent over the child, and laid her blooming cheek against his face. He\nput her gently from him, and looked at her unconscious mother.\n\n\"Before I go,\" he said, and paused--\"I may kiss her?\"\n\nIt was remembered afterwards that when he bent down and touched her face\nwith his lips, he murmured some words. The child, who was nearest to\nhim, told them afterwards, and told her grandchildren when she was a\nhandsome old lady, that she heard him say, \"A life you love.\"\n\nWhen he had gone out into the next room, he turned suddenly on Mr. Lorry\nand her father, who were following, and said to the latter:\n\n\"You had great influence but yesterday, Doctor Manette; let it at least\nbe tried. These judges, and all the men in power, are very friendly to\nyou, and very recognisant of your services; are they not?\"\n\n\"Nothing connected with Charles was concealed from me. I had the\nstrongest assurances that I should save him; and I did.\" He returned the\nanswer in great trouble, and very slowly.\n\n\"Try them again. The hours between this and to-morrow afternoon are few\nand short, but try.\"\n\n\"I intend to try. I will not rest a moment.\"\n\n\"That's well. I have known such energy as yours do great things before\nnow--though never,\" he added, with a smile and a sigh together, \"such\ngreat things as this. But try! Of little worth as life is when we misuse\nit, it is worth that effort. It would cost nothing to lay down if it\nwere not.\"\n\n\"I will go,\" said Doctor Manette, \"to the Prosecutor and the President\nstraight, and I will go to others whom it is better not to name. I will\nwrite too, and--But stay! There is a Celebration in the streets, and no\none will be accessible until dark.\"\n\n\"That's true. Well! It is a forlorn hope at the best, and not much the\nforlorner for being delayed till dark. I should like to know how you\nspeed; though, mind! I expect nothing! When are you likely to have seen\nthese dread powers, Doctor Manette?\"\n\n\"Immediately after dark, I should hope. Within an hour or two from\nthis.\"\n\n\"It will be dark soon after four. Let us stretch the hour or two. If I\ngo to Mr. Lorry's at nine, shall I hear what you have done, either from\nour friend or from yourself?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"May you prosper!\"\n\nMr. Lorry followed Sydney to the outer door, and, touching him on the\nshoulder as he was going away, caused him to turn.\n\n\"I have no hope,\" said Mr. Lorry, in a low and sorrowful whisper.\n\n\"Nor have I.\"\n\n\"If any one of these men, or all of these men, were disposed to spare\nhim--which is a large supposition; for what is his life, or any man's\nto them!--I doubt if they durst spare him after the demonstration in the\ncourt.\"\n\n\"And so do I. I heard the fall of the axe in that sound.\"\n\nMr. Lorry leaned his arm upon the door-post, and bowed his face upon it.\n\n\"Don't despond,\" said Carton, very gently; \"don't grieve. I encouraged\nDoctor Manette in this idea, because I felt that it might one day be\nconsolatory to her. Otherwise, she might think 'his life was wantonly\nthrown away or wasted,' and that might trouble her.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, yes,\" returned Mr. Lorry, drying his eyes, \"you are right.\nBut he will perish; there is no real hope.\"\n\n\"Yes. He will perish: there is no real hope,\" echoed Carton.\n\nAnd walked with a settled step, down-stairs.\n\n\n\n\nXII. Darkness\n\n\nSydney Carton paused in the street, not quite decided where to go. \"At\nTellson's banking-house at nine,\" he said, with a musing face. \"Shall I\ndo well, in the mean time, to show myself? I think so. It is best that\nthese people should know there is such a man as I here; it is a sound\nprecaution, and may be a necessary preparation. But care, care, care!\nLet me think it out!\"\n\nChecking his steps which had begun to tend towards an object, he took a\nturn or two in the already darkening street, and traced the thought\nin his mind to its possible consequences. His first impression was\nconfirmed. \"It is best,\" he said, finally resolved, \"that these people\nshould know there is such a man as I here.\" And he turned his face\ntowards Saint Antoine.\n\nDefarge had described himself, that day, as the keeper of a wine-shop in\nthe Saint Antoine suburb. It was not difficult for one who knew the city\nwell, to find his house without asking any question. Having ascertained\nits situation, Carton came out of those closer streets again, and dined\nat a place of refreshment and fell sound asleep after dinner. For the\nfirst time in many years, he had no strong drink. Since last night he\nhad taken nothing but a little light thin wine, and last night he had\ndropped the brandy slowly down on Mr. Lorry's hearth like a man who had\ndone with it.\n\nIt was as late as seven o'clock when he awoke refreshed, and went out\ninto the streets again. As he passed along towards Saint Antoine, he\nstopped at a shop-window where there was a mirror, and slightly altered\nthe disordered arrangement of his loose cravat, and his coat-collar, and\nhis wild hair. This done, he went on direct to Defarge's, and went in.\n\nThere happened to be no customer in the shop but Jacques Three, of the\nrestless fingers and the croaking voice. This man, whom he had seen upon\nthe Jury, stood drinking at the little counter, in conversation with the\nDefarges, man and wife. The Vengeance assisted in the conversation, like\na regular member of the establishment.\n\nAs Carton walked in, took his seat and asked (in very indifferent\nFrench) for a small measure of wine, Madame Defarge cast a careless\nglance at him, and then a keener, and then a keener, and then advanced\nto him herself, and asked him what it was he had ordered.\n\nHe repeated what he had already said.\n\n\"English?\" asked Madame Defarge, inquisitively raising her dark\neyebrows.\n\nAfter looking at her, as if the sound of even a single French word were\nslow to express itself to him, he answered, in his former strong foreign\naccent. \"Yes, madame, yes. I am English!\"\n\nMadame Defarge returned to her counter to get the wine, and, as he\ntook up a Jacobin journal and feigned to pore over it puzzling out its\nmeaning, he heard her say, \"I swear to you, like Evremonde!\"\n\nDefarge brought him the wine, and gave him Good Evening.\n\n\"How?\"\n\n\"Good evening.\"\n\n\"Oh! Good evening, citizen,\" filling his glass. \"Ah! and good wine. I\ndrink to the Republic.\"\n\nDefarge went back to the counter, and said, \"Certainly, a little like.\"\nMadame sternly retorted, \"I tell you a good deal like.\" Jacques Three\npacifically remarked, \"He is so much in your mind, see you, madame.\"\nThe amiable Vengeance added, with a laugh, \"Yes, my faith! And you\nare looking forward with so much pleasure to seeing him once more\nto-morrow!\"\n\nCarton followed the lines and words of his paper, with a slow\nforefinger, and with a studious and absorbed face. They were all leaning\ntheir arms on the counter close together, speaking low. After a silence\nof a few moments, during which they all looked towards him without\ndisturbing his outward attention from the Jacobin editor, they resumed\ntheir conversation.\n\n\"It is true what madame says,\" observed Jacques Three. \"Why stop? There\nis great force in that. Why stop?\"\n\n\"Well, well,\" reasoned Defarge, \"but one must stop somewhere. After all,\nthe question is still where?\"\n\n\"At extermination,\" said madame.\n\n\"Magnificent!\" croaked Jacques Three. The Vengeance, also, highly\napproved.\n\n\"Extermination is good doctrine, my wife,\" said Defarge, rather\ntroubled; \"in general, I say nothing against it. But this Doctor has\nsuffered much; you have seen him to-day; you have observed his face when\nthe paper was read.\"\n\n\"I have observed his face!\" repeated madame, contemptuously and angrily.\n\"Yes. I have observed his face. I have observed his face to be not the\nface of a true friend of the Republic. Let him take care of his face!\"\n\n\"And you have observed, my wife,\" said Defarge, in a deprecatory manner,\n\"the anguish of his daughter, which must be a dreadful anguish to him!\"\n\n\"I have observed his daughter,\" repeated madame; \"yes, I have observed\nhis daughter, more times than one. I have observed her to-day, and I\nhave observed her other days. I have observed her in the court, and\nI have observed her in the street by the prison. Let me but lift my\nfinger--!\" She seemed to raise it (the listener's eyes were always on\nhis paper), and to let it fall with a rattle on the ledge before her, as\nif the axe had dropped.\n\n\"The citizeness is superb!\" croaked the Juryman.\n\n\"She is an Angel!\" said The Vengeance, and embraced her.\n\n\"As to thee,\" pursued madame, implacably, addressing her husband, \"if it\ndepended on thee--which, happily, it does not--thou wouldst rescue this\nman even now.\"\n\n\"No!\" protested Defarge. \"Not if to lift this glass would do it! But I\nwould leave the matter there. I say, stop there.\"\n\n\"See you then, Jacques,\" said Madame Defarge, wrathfully; \"and see you,\ntoo, my little Vengeance; see you both! Listen! For other crimes as\ntyrants and oppressors, I have this race a long time on my register,\ndoomed to destruction and extermination. Ask my husband, is that so.\"\n\n\"It is so,\" assented Defarge, without being asked.\n\n\"In the beginning of the great days, when the Bastille falls, he finds\nthis paper of to-day, and he brings it home, and in the middle of the\nnight when this place is clear and shut, we read it, here on this spot,\nby the light of this lamp. Ask him, is that so.\"\n\n\"It is so,\" assented Defarge.\n\n\"That night, I tell him, when the paper is read through, and the lamp is\nburnt out, and the day is gleaming in above those shutters and between\nthose iron bars, that I have now a secret to communicate. Ask him, is\nthat so.\"\n\n\"It is so,\" assented Defarge again.\n\n\"I communicate to him that secret. I smite this bosom with these two\nhands as I smite it now, and I tell him, 'Defarge, I was brought up\namong the fishermen of the sea-shore, and that peasant family so injured\nby the two Evremonde brothers, as that Bastille paper describes, is my\nfamily. Defarge, that sister of the mortally wounded boy upon the ground\nwas my sister, that husband was my sister's husband, that unborn child\nwas their child, that brother was my brother, that father was my father,\nthose dead are my dead, and that summons to answer for those things\ndescends to me!' Ask him, is that so.\"\n\n\"It is so,\" assented Defarge once more.\n\n\"Then tell Wind and Fire where to stop,\" returned madame; \"but don't\ntell me.\"\n\nBoth her hearers derived a horrible enjoyment from the deadly nature\nof her wrath--the listener could feel how white she was, without seeing\nher--and both highly commended it. Defarge, a weak minority, interposed\na few words for the memory of the compassionate wife of the Marquis; but\nonly elicited from his own wife a repetition of her last reply. \"Tell\nthe Wind and the Fire where to stop; not me!\"\n\nCustomers entered, and the group was broken up. The English customer\npaid for what he had had, perplexedly counted his change, and asked, as\na stranger, to be directed towards the National Palace. Madame Defarge\ntook him to the door, and put her arm on his, in pointing out the road.\nThe English customer was not without his reflections then, that it might\nbe a good deed to seize that arm, lift it, and strike under it sharp and\ndeep.\n\nBut, he went his way, and was soon swallowed up in the shadow of the\nprison wall. At the appointed hour, he emerged from it to present\nhimself in Mr. Lorry's room again, where he found the old gentleman\nwalking to and fro in restless anxiety. He said he had been with Lucie\nuntil just now, and had only left her for a few minutes, to come and\nkeep his appointment. Her father had not been seen, since he quitted the\nbanking-house towards four o'clock. She had some faint hopes that his\nmediation might save Charles, but they were very slight. He had been\nmore than five hours gone: where could he be?\n\nMr. Lorry waited until ten; but, Doctor Manette not returning, and\nhe being unwilling to leave Lucie any longer, it was arranged that he\nshould go back to her, and come to the banking-house again at midnight.\nIn the meanwhile, Carton would wait alone by the fire for the Doctor.\n\nHe waited and waited, and the clock struck twelve; but Doctor Manette\ndid not come back. Mr. Lorry returned, and found no tidings of him, and\nbrought none. Where could he be?\n\nThey were discussing this question, and were almost building up some\nweak structure of hope on his prolonged absence, when they heard him on\nthe stairs. The instant he entered the room, it was plain that all was\nlost.\n\nWhether he had really been to any one, or whether he had been all that\ntime traversing the streets, was never known. As he stood staring at\nthem, they asked him no question, for his face told them everything.\n\n\"I cannot find it,\" said he, \"and I must have it. Where is it?\"\n\nHis head and throat were bare, and, as he spoke with a helpless look\nstraying all around, he took his coat off, and let it drop on the floor.\n\n\"Where is my bench? I have been looking everywhere for my bench, and I\ncan't find it. What have they done with my work? Time presses: I must\nfinish those shoes.\"\n\nThey looked at one another, and their hearts died within them.\n\n\"Come, come!\" said he, in a whimpering miserable way; \"let me get to\nwork. Give me my work.\"\n\nReceiving no answer, he tore his hair, and beat his feet upon the\nground, like a distracted child.\n\n\"Don't torture a poor forlorn wretch,\" he implored them, with a dreadful\ncry; \"but give me my work! What is to become of us, if those shoes are\nnot done to-night?\"\n\nLost, utterly lost!\n\nIt was so clearly beyond hope to reason with him, or try to restore him,\nthat--as if by agreement--they each put a hand upon his shoulder, and\nsoothed him to sit down before the fire, with a promise that he should\nhave his work presently. He sank into the chair, and brooded over the\nembers, and shed tears. As if all that had happened since the garret\ntime were a momentary fancy, or a dream, Mr. Lorry saw him shrink into\nthe exact figure that Defarge had had in keeping.\n\nAffected, and impressed with terror as they both were, by this spectacle\nof ruin, it was not a time to yield to such emotions. His lonely\ndaughter, bereft of her final hope and reliance, appealed to them both\ntoo strongly. Again, as if by agreement, they looked at one another with\none meaning in their faces. Carton was the first to speak:\n\n\"The last chance is gone: it was not much. Yes; he had better be taken\nto her. But, before you go, will you, for a moment, steadily attend to\nme? Don't ask me why I make the stipulations I am going to make, and\nexact the promise I am going to exact; I have a reason--a good one.\"\n\n\"I do not doubt it,\" answered Mr. Lorry. \"Say on.\"\n\nThe figure in the chair between them, was all the time monotonously\nrocking itself to and fro, and moaning. They spoke in such a tone as\nthey would have used if they had been watching by a sick-bed in the\nnight.\n\nCarton stooped to pick up the coat, which lay almost entangling his\nfeet. As he did so, a small case in which the Doctor was accustomed to\ncarry the lists of his day's duties, fell lightly on the floor. Carton\ntook it up, and there was a folded paper in it. \"We should look\nat this!\" he said. Mr. Lorry nodded his consent. He opened it, and\nexclaimed, \"Thank _God!_\"\n\n\"What is it?\" asked Mr. Lorry, eagerly.\n\n\"A moment! Let me speak of it in its place. First,\" he put his hand in\nhis coat, and took another paper from it, \"that is the certificate which\nenables me to pass out of this city. Look at it. You see--Sydney Carton,\nan Englishman?\"\n\nMr. Lorry held it open in his hand, gazing in his earnest face.\n\n\"Keep it for me until to-morrow. I shall see him to-morrow, you\nremember, and I had better not take it into the prison.\"\n\n\"Why not?\"\n\n\"I don't know; I prefer not to do so. Now, take this paper that Doctor\nManette has carried about him. It is a similar certificate, enabling him\nand his daughter and her child, at any time, to pass the barrier and the\nfrontier! You see?\"\n\n\"Yes!\"\n\n\"Perhaps he obtained it as his last and utmost precaution against evil,\nyesterday. When is it dated? But no matter; don't stay to look; put it\nup carefully with mine and your own. Now, observe! I never doubted until\nwithin this hour or two, that he had, or could have such a paper. It is\ngood, until recalled. But it may be soon recalled, and, I have reason to\nthink, will be.\"\n\n\"They are not in danger?\"\n\n\"They are in great danger. They are in danger of denunciation by Madame\nDefarge. I know it from her own lips. I have overheard words of that\nwoman's, to-night, which have presented their danger to me in strong\ncolours. I have lost no time, and since then, I have seen the spy. He\nconfirms me. He knows that a wood-sawyer, living by the prison wall,\nis under the control of the Defarges, and has been rehearsed by\nMadame Defarge as to his having seen Her\"--he never mentioned Lucie's\nname--\"making signs and signals to prisoners. It is easy to foresee that\nthe pretence will be the common one, a prison plot, and that it will\ninvolve her life--and perhaps her child's--and perhaps her father's--for\nboth have been seen with her at that place. Don't look so horrified. You\nwill save them all.\"\n\n\"Heaven grant I may, Carton! But how?\"\n\n\"I am going to tell you how. It will depend on you, and it could depend\non no better man. This new denunciation will certainly not take place\nuntil after to-morrow; probably not until two or three days afterwards;\nmore probably a week afterwards. You know it is a capital crime, to\nmourn for, or sympathise with, a victim of the Guillotine. She and her\nfather would unquestionably be guilty of this crime, and this woman (the\ninveteracy of whose pursuit cannot be described) would wait to add that\nstrength to her case, and make herself doubly sure. You follow me?\"\n\n\"So attentively, and with so much confidence in what you say, that for\nthe moment I lose sight,\" touching the back of the Doctor's chair, \"even\nof this distress.\"\n\n\"You have money, and can buy the means of travelling to the seacoast\nas quickly as the journey can be made. Your preparations have been\ncompleted for some days, to return to England. Early to-morrow have your\nhorses ready, so that they may be in starting trim at two o'clock in the\nafternoon.\"\n\n\"It shall be done!\"\n\nHis manner was so fervent and inspiring, that Mr. Lorry caught the\nflame, and was as quick as youth.\n\n\"You are a noble heart. Did I say we could depend upon no better man?\nTell her, to-night, what you know of her danger as involving her child\nand her father. Dwell upon that, for she would lay her own fair head\nbeside her husband's cheerfully.\" He faltered for an instant; then went\non as before. \"For the sake of her child and her father, press upon her\nthe necessity of leaving Paris, with them and you, at that hour. Tell\nher that it was her husband's last arrangement. Tell her that more\ndepends upon it than she dare believe, or hope. You think that her\nfather, even in this sad state, will submit himself to her; do you not?\"\n\n\"I am sure of it.\"\n\n\"I thought so. Quietly and steadily have all these arrangements made in\nthe courtyard here, even to the taking of your own seat in the carriage.\nThe moment I come to you, take me in, and drive away.\"\n\n\"I understand that I wait for you under all circumstances?\"\n\n\"You have my certificate in your hand with the rest, you know, and will\nreserve my place. Wait for nothing but to have my place occupied, and\nthen for England!\"\n\n\"Why, then,\" said Mr. Lorry, grasping his eager but so firm and steady\nhand, \"it does not all depend on one old man, but I shall have a young\nand ardent man at my side.\"\n\n\"By the help of Heaven you shall! Promise me solemnly that nothing will\ninfluence you to alter the course on which we now stand pledged to one\nanother.\"\n\n\"Nothing, Carton.\"\n\n\"Remember these words to-morrow: change the course, or delay in it--for\nany reason--and no life can possibly be saved, and many lives must\ninevitably be sacrificed.\"\n\n\"I will remember them. I hope to do my part faithfully.\"\n\n\"And I hope to do mine. Now, good bye!\"\n\nThough he said it with a grave smile of earnestness, and though he even\nput the old man's hand to his lips, he did not part from him then. He\nhelped him so far to arouse the rocking figure before the dying embers,\nas to get a cloak and hat put upon it, and to tempt it forth to find\nwhere the bench and work were hidden that it still moaningly besought\nto have. He walked on the other side of it and protected it to the\ncourtyard of the house where the afflicted heart--so happy in\nthe memorable time when he had revealed his own desolate heart to\nit--outwatched the awful night. He entered the courtyard and remained\nthere for a few moments alone, looking up at the light in the window of\nher room. Before he went away, he breathed a blessing towards it, and a\nFarewell.\n\n\n\n\nXIII. Fifty-two\n\n\nIn the black prison of the Conciergerie, the doomed of the day awaited\ntheir fate. They were in number as the weeks of the year. Fifty-two were\nto roll that afternoon on the life-tide of the city to the boundless\neverlasting sea. Before their cells were quit of them, new occupants\nwere appointed; before their blood ran into the blood spilled yesterday,\nthe blood that was to mingle with theirs to-morrow was already set\napart.\n\nTwo score and twelve were told off. From the farmer-general of seventy,\nwhose riches could not buy his life, to the seamstress of twenty, whose\npoverty and obscurity could not save her. Physical diseases, engendered\nin the vices and neglects of men, will seize on victims of all degrees;\nand the frightful moral disorder, born of unspeakable suffering,\nintolerable oppression, and heartless indifference, smote equally\nwithout distinction.\n\nCharles Darnay, alone in a cell, had sustained himself with no\nflattering delusion since he came to it from the Tribunal. In every line\nof the narrative he had heard, he had heard his condemnation. He had\nfully comprehended that no personal influence could possibly save him,\nthat he was virtually sentenced by the millions, and that units could\navail him nothing.\n\nNevertheless, it was not easy, with the face of his beloved wife fresh\nbefore him, to compose his mind to what it must bear. His hold on life\nwas strong, and it was very, very hard, to loosen; by gradual efforts\nand degrees unclosed a little here, it clenched the tighter there; and\nwhen he brought his strength to bear on that hand and it yielded,\nthis was closed again. There was a hurry, too, in all his thoughts,\na turbulent and heated working of his heart, that contended against\nresignation. If, for a moment, he did feel resigned, then his wife and\nchild who had to live after him, seemed to protest and to make it a\nselfish thing.\n\nBut, all this was at first. Before long, the consideration that there\nwas no disgrace in the fate he must meet, and that numbers went the same\nroad wrongfully, and trod it firmly every day, sprang up to stimulate\nhim. Next followed the thought that much of the future peace of mind\nenjoyable by the dear ones, depended on his quiet fortitude. So,\nby degrees he calmed into the better state, when he could raise his\nthoughts much higher, and draw comfort down.\n\nBefore it had set in dark on the night of his condemnation, he had\ntravelled thus far on his last way. Being allowed to purchase the means\nof writing, and a light, he sat down to write until such time as the\nprison lamps should be extinguished.\n\nHe wrote a long letter to Lucie, showing her that he had known nothing\nof her father's imprisonment, until he had heard of it from herself,\nand that he had been as ignorant as she of his father's and uncle's\nresponsibility for that misery, until the paper had been read. He had\nalready explained to her that his concealment from herself of the name\nhe had relinquished, was the one condition--fully intelligible now--that\nher father had attached to their betrothal, and was the one promise he\nhad still exacted on the morning of their marriage. He entreated her,\nfor her father's sake, never to seek to know whether her father had\nbecome oblivious of the existence of the paper, or had had it recalled\nto him (for the moment, or for good), by the story of the Tower, on\nthat old Sunday under the dear old plane-tree in the garden. If he had\npreserved any definite remembrance of it, there could be no doubt that\nhe had supposed it destroyed with the Bastille, when he had found no\nmention of it among the relics of prisoners which the populace had\ndiscovered there, and which had been described to all the world. He\nbesought her--though he added that he knew it was needless--to console\nher father, by impressing him through every tender means she could think\nof, with the truth that he had done nothing for which he could justly\nreproach himself, but had uniformly forgotten himself for their joint\nsakes. Next to her preservation of his own last grateful love and\nblessing, and her overcoming of her sorrow, to devote herself to their\ndear child, he adjured her, as they would meet in Heaven, to comfort her\nfather.\n\nTo her father himself, he wrote in the same strain; but, he told her\nfather that he expressly confided his wife and child to his care. And\nhe told him this, very strongly, with the hope of rousing him from any\ndespondency or dangerous retrospect towards which he foresaw he might be\ntending.\n\nTo Mr. Lorry, he commended them all, and explained his worldly affairs.\nThat done, with many added sentences of grateful friendship and warm\nattachment, all was done. He never thought of Carton. His mind was so\nfull of the others, that he never once thought of him.\n\nHe had time to finish these letters before the lights were put out. When\nhe lay down on his straw bed, he thought he had done with this world.\n\nBut, it beckoned him back in his sleep, and showed itself in shining\nforms. Free and happy, back in the old house in Soho (though it had\nnothing in it like the real house), unaccountably released and light of\nheart, he was with Lucie again, and she told him it was all a dream, and\nhe had never gone away. A pause of forgetfulness, and then he had even\nsuffered, and had come back to her, dead and at peace, and yet there\nwas no difference in him. Another pause of oblivion, and he awoke in the\nsombre morning, unconscious where he was or what had happened, until it\nflashed upon his mind, \"this is the day of my death!\"\n\nThus, had he come through the hours, to the day when the fifty-two heads\nwere to fall. And now, while he was composed, and hoped that he could\nmeet the end with quiet heroism, a new action began in his waking\nthoughts, which was very difficult to master.\n\nHe had never seen the instrument that was to terminate his life. How\nhigh it was from the ground, how many steps it had, where he would be\nstood, how he would be touched, whether the touching hands would be dyed\nred, which way his face would be turned, whether he would be the first,\nor might be the last: these and many similar questions, in nowise\ndirected by his will, obtruded themselves over and over again, countless\ntimes. Neither were they connected with fear: he was conscious of no\nfear. Rather, they originated in a strange besetting desire to know what\nto do when the time came; a desire gigantically disproportionate to the\nfew swift moments to which it referred; a wondering that was more like\nthe wondering of some other spirit within his, than his own.\n\nThe hours went on as he walked to and fro, and the clocks struck the\nnumbers he would never hear again. Nine gone for ever, ten gone for\never, eleven gone for ever, twelve coming on to pass away. After a hard\ncontest with that eccentric action of thought which had last perplexed\nhim, he had got the better of it. He walked up and down, softly\nrepeating their names to himself. The worst of the strife was over.\nHe could walk up and down, free from distracting fancies, praying for\nhimself and for them.\n\nTwelve gone for ever.\n\nHe had been apprised that the final hour was Three, and he knew he would\nbe summoned some time earlier, inasmuch as the tumbrils jolted heavily\nand slowly through the streets. Therefore, he resolved to keep Two\nbefore his mind, as the hour, and so to strengthen himself in the\ninterval that he might be able, after that time, to strengthen others.\n\nWalking regularly to and fro with his arms folded on his breast, a very\ndifferent man from the prisoner, who had walked to and fro at La Force,\nhe heard One struck away from him, without surprise. The hour had\nmeasured like most other hours. Devoutly thankful to Heaven for his\nrecovered self-possession, he thought, \"There is but another now,\" and\nturned to walk again.\n\nFootsteps in the stone passage outside the door. He stopped.\n\nThe key was put in the lock, and turned. Before the door was opened, or\nas it opened, a man said in a low voice, in English: \"He has never seen\nme here; I have kept out of his way. Go you in alone; I wait near. Lose\nno time!\"\n\nThe door was quickly opened and closed, and there stood before him\nface to face, quiet, intent upon him, with the light of a smile on his\nfeatures, and a cautionary finger on his lip, Sydney Carton.\n\nThere was something so bright and remarkable in his look, that, for the\nfirst moment, the prisoner misdoubted him to be an apparition of his own\nimagining. But, he spoke, and it was his voice; he took the prisoner's\nhand, and it was his real grasp.\n\n\"Of all the people upon earth, you least expected to see me?\" he said.\n\n\"I could not believe it to be you. I can scarcely believe it now. You\nare not\"--the apprehension came suddenly into his mind--\"a prisoner?\"\n\n\"No. I am accidentally possessed of a power over one of the keepers\nhere, and in virtue of it I stand before you. I come from her--your\nwife, dear Darnay.\"\n\nThe prisoner wrung his hand.\n\n\"I bring you a request from her.\"\n\n\"What is it?\"\n\n\"A most earnest, pressing, and emphatic entreaty, addressed to you\nin the most pathetic tones of the voice so dear to you, that you well\nremember.\"\n\nThe prisoner turned his face partly aside.\n\n\"You have no time to ask me why I bring it, or what it means; I have\nno time to tell you. You must comply with it--take off those boots you\nwear, and draw on these of mine.\"\n\nThere was a chair against the wall of the cell, behind the prisoner.\nCarton, pressing forward, had already, with the speed of lightning, got\nhim down into it, and stood over him, barefoot.\n\n\"Draw on these boots of mine. Put your hands to them; put your will to\nthem. Quick!\"\n\n\"Carton, there is no escaping from this place; it never can be done. You\nwill only die with me. It is madness.\"\n\n\"It would be madness if I asked you to escape; but do I? When I ask you\nto pass out at that door, tell me it is madness and remain here. Change\nthat cravat for this of mine, that coat for this of mine. While you do\nit, let me take this ribbon from your hair, and shake out your hair like\nthis of mine!\"\n\nWith wonderful quickness, and with a strength both of will and action,\nthat appeared quite supernatural, he forced all these changes upon him.\nThe prisoner was like a young child in his hands.\n\n\"Carton! Dear Carton! It is madness. It cannot be accomplished, it never\ncan be done, it has been attempted, and has always failed. I implore you\nnot to add your death to the bitterness of mine.\"\n\n\"Do I ask you, my dear Darnay, to pass the door? When I ask that,\nrefuse. There are pen and ink and paper on this table. Is your hand\nsteady enough to write?\"\n\n\"It was when you came in.\"\n\n\"Steady it again, and write what I shall dictate. Quick, friend, quick!\"\n\nPressing his hand to his bewildered head, Darnay sat down at the table.\nCarton, with his right hand in his breast, stood close beside him.\n\n\"Write exactly as I speak.\"\n\n\"To whom do I address it?\"\n\n\"To no one.\" Carton still had his hand in his breast.\n\n\"Do I date it?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\nThe prisoner looked up, at each question. Carton, standing over him with\nhis hand in his breast, looked down.\n\n\"'If you remember,'\" said Carton, dictating, \"'the words that passed\nbetween us, long ago, you will readily comprehend this when you see it.\nYou do remember them, I know. It is not in your nature to forget them.'\"\n\nHe was drawing his hand from his breast; the prisoner chancing to look\nup in his hurried wonder as he wrote, the hand stopped, closing upon\nsomething.\n\n\"Have you written 'forget them'?\" Carton asked.\n\n\"I have. Is that a weapon in your hand?\"\n\n\"No; I am not armed.\"\n\n\"What is it in your hand?\"\n\n\"You shall know directly. Write on; there are but a few words more.\" He\ndictated again. \"'I am thankful that the time has come, when I can prove\nthem. That I do so is no subject for regret or grief.'\" As he said these\nwords with his eyes fixed on the writer, his hand slowly and softly\nmoved down close to the writer's face.\n\nThe pen dropped from Darnay's fingers on the table, and he looked about\nhim vacantly.\n\n\"What vapour is that?\" he asked.\n\n\"Vapour?\"\n\n\"Something that crossed me?\"\n\n\"I am conscious of nothing; there can be nothing here. Take up the pen\nand finish. Hurry, hurry!\"\n\nAs if his memory were impaired, or his faculties disordered, the\nprisoner made an effort to rally his attention. As he looked at Carton\nwith clouded eyes and with an altered manner of breathing, Carton--his\nhand again in his breast--looked steadily at him.\n\n\"Hurry, hurry!\"\n\nThe prisoner bent over the paper, once more.\n\n\"'If it had been otherwise;'\" Carton's hand was again watchfully and\nsoftly stealing down; \"'I never should have used the longer opportunity.\nIf it had been otherwise;'\" the hand was at the prisoner's face; \"'I\nshould but have had so much the more to answer for. If it had been\notherwise--'\" Carton looked at the pen and saw it was trailing off into\nunintelligible signs.\n\nCarton's hand moved back to his breast no more. The prisoner sprang up\nwith a reproachful look, but Carton's hand was close and firm at his\nnostrils, and Carton's left arm caught him round the waist. For a few\nseconds he faintly struggled with the man who had come to lay down his\nlife for him; but, within a minute or so, he was stretched insensible on\nthe ground.\n\nQuickly, but with hands as true to the purpose as his heart was, Carton\ndressed himself in the clothes the prisoner had laid aside, combed back\nhis hair, and tied it with the ribbon the prisoner had worn. Then, he\nsoftly called, \"Enter there! Come in!\" and the Spy presented himself.\n\n\"You see?\" said Carton, looking up, as he kneeled on one knee beside the\ninsensible figure, putting the paper in the breast: \"is your hazard very\ngreat?\"\n\n\"Mr. Carton,\" the Spy answered, with a timid snap of his fingers, \"my\nhazard is not _that_, in the thick of business here, if you are true to\nthe whole of your bargain.\"\n\n\"Don't fear me. I will be true to the death.\"\n\n\"You must be, Mr. Carton, if the tale of fifty-two is to be right. Being\nmade right by you in that dress, I shall have no fear.\"\n\n\"Have no fear! I shall soon be out of the way of harming you, and the\nrest will soon be far from here, please God! Now, get assistance and\ntake me to the coach.\"\n\n\"You?\" said the Spy nervously.\n\n\"Him, man, with whom I have exchanged. You go out at the gate by which\nyou brought me in?\"\n\n\"Of course.\"\n\n\"I was weak and faint when you brought me in, and I am fainter now you\ntake me out. The parting interview has overpowered me. Such a thing has\nhappened here, often, and too often. Your life is in your own hands.\nQuick! Call assistance!\"\n\n\"You swear not to betray me?\" said the trembling Spy, as he paused for a\nlast moment.\n\n\"Man, man!\" returned Carton, stamping his foot; \"have I sworn by no\nsolemn vow already, to go through with this, that you waste the precious\nmoments now? Take him yourself to the courtyard you know of, place\nhim yourself in the carriage, show him yourself to Mr. Lorry, tell him\nyourself to give him no restorative but air, and to remember my words of\nlast night, and his promise of last night, and drive away!\"\n\nThe Spy withdrew, and Carton seated himself at the table, resting his\nforehead on his hands. The Spy returned immediately, with two men.\n\n\"How, then?\" said one of them, contemplating the fallen figure. \"So\nafflicted to find that his friend has drawn a prize in the lottery of\nSainte Guillotine?\"\n\n\"A good patriot,\" said the other, \"could hardly have been more afflicted\nif the Aristocrat had drawn a blank.\"\n\nThey raised the unconscious figure, placed it on a litter they had\nbrought to the door, and bent to carry it away.\n\n\"The time is short, Evremonde,\" said the Spy, in a warning voice.\n\n\"I know it well,\" answered Carton. \"Be careful of my friend, I entreat\nyou, and leave me.\"\n\n\"Come, then, my children,\" said Barsad. \"Lift him, and come away!\"\n\nThe door closed, and Carton was left alone. Straining his powers of\nlistening to the utmost, he listened for any sound that might denote\nsuspicion or alarm. There was none. Keys turned, doors clashed,\nfootsteps passed along distant passages: no cry was raised, or hurry\nmade, that seemed unusual. Breathing more freely in a little while, he\nsat down at the table, and listened again until the clock struck Two.\n\nSounds that he was not afraid of, for he divined their meaning, then\nbegan to be audible. Several doors were opened in succession, and\nfinally his own. A gaoler, with a list in his hand, looked in, merely\nsaying, \"Follow me, Evremonde!\" and he followed into a large dark room,\nat a distance. It was a dark winter day, and what with the shadows\nwithin, and what with the shadows without, he could but dimly discern\nthe others who were brought there to have their arms bound. Some were\nstanding; some seated. Some were lamenting, and in restless motion;\nbut, these were few. The great majority were silent and still, looking\nfixedly at the ground.\n\nAs he stood by the wall in a dim corner, while some of the fifty-two\nwere brought in after him, one man stopped in passing, to embrace him,\nas having a knowledge of him. It thrilled him with a great dread of\ndiscovery; but the man went on. A very few moments after that, a young\nwoman, with a slight girlish form, a sweet spare face in which there was\nno vestige of colour, and large widely opened patient eyes, rose from\nthe seat where he had observed her sitting, and came to speak to him.\n\n\"Citizen Evremonde,\" she said, touching him with her cold hand. \"I am a\npoor little seamstress, who was with you in La Force.\"\n\nHe murmured for answer: \"True. I forget what you were accused of?\"\n\n\"Plots. Though the just Heaven knows that I am innocent of any. Is it\nlikely? Who would think of plotting with a poor little weak creature\nlike me?\"\n\nThe forlorn smile with which she said it, so touched him, that tears\nstarted from his eyes.\n\n\"I am not afraid to die, Citizen Evremonde, but I have done nothing. I\nam not unwilling to die, if the Republic which is to do so much good\nto us poor, will profit by my death; but I do not know how that can be,\nCitizen Evremonde. Such a poor weak little creature!\"\n\nAs the last thing on earth that his heart was to warm and soften to, it\nwarmed and softened to this pitiable girl.\n\n\"I heard you were released, Citizen Evremonde. I hoped it was true?\"\n\n\"It was. But, I was again taken and condemned.\"\n\n\"If I may ride with you, Citizen Evremonde, will you let me hold your\nhand? I am not afraid, but I am little and weak, and it will give me\nmore courage.\"\n\nAs the patient eyes were lifted to his face, he saw a sudden doubt in\nthem, and then astonishment. He pressed the work-worn, hunger-worn young\nfingers, and touched his lips.\n\n\"Are you dying for him?\" she whispered.\n\n\"And his wife and child. Hush! Yes.\"\n\n\"O you will let me hold your brave hand, stranger?\"\n\n\"Hush! Yes, my poor sister; to the last.\"\n\n        *****\n\nThe same shadows that are falling on the prison, are falling, in that\nsame hour of the early afternoon, on the Barrier with the crowd about\nit, when a coach going out of Paris drives up to be examined.\n\n\"Who goes here? Whom have we within? Papers!\"\n\nThe papers are handed out, and read.\n\n\"Alexandre Manette. Physician. French. Which is he?\"\n\nThis is he; this helpless, inarticulately murmuring, wandering old man\npointed out.\n\n\"Apparently the Citizen-Doctor is not in his right mind? The\nRevolution-fever will have been too much for him?\"\n\nGreatly too much for him.\n\n\"Hah! Many suffer with it. Lucie. His daughter. French. Which is she?\"\n\nThis is she.\n\n\"Apparently it must be. Lucie, the wife of Evremonde; is it not?\"\n\nIt is.\n\n\"Hah! Evremonde has an assignation elsewhere. Lucie, her child. English.\nThis is she?\"\n\nShe and no other.\n\n\"Kiss me, child of Evremonde. Now, thou hast kissed a good Republican;\nsomething new in thy family; remember it! Sydney Carton. Advocate.\nEnglish. Which is he?\"\n\nHe lies here, in this corner of the carriage. He, too, is pointed out.\n\n\"Apparently the English advocate is in a swoon?\"\n\nIt is hoped he will recover in the fresher air. It is represented that\nhe is not in strong health, and has separated sadly from a friend who is\nunder the displeasure of the Republic.\n\n\"Is that all? It is not a great deal, that! Many are under the\ndispleasure of the Republic, and must look out at the little window.\nJarvis Lorry. Banker. English. Which is he?\"\n\n\"I am he. Necessarily, being the last.\"\n\nIt is Jarvis Lorry who has replied to all the previous questions. It\nis Jarvis Lorry who has alighted and stands with his hand on the coach\ndoor, replying to a group of officials. They leisurely walk round the\ncarriage and leisurely mount the box, to look at what little luggage it\ncarries on the roof; the country-people hanging about, press nearer to\nthe coach doors and greedily stare in; a little child, carried by its\nmother, has its short arm held out for it, that it may touch the wife of\nan aristocrat who has gone to the Guillotine.\n\n\"Behold your papers, Jarvis Lorry, countersigned.\"\n\n\"One can depart, citizen?\"\n\n\"One can depart. Forward, my postilions! A good journey!\"\n\n\"I salute you, citizens.--And the first danger passed!\"\n\nThese are again the words of Jarvis Lorry, as he clasps his hands, and\nlooks upward. There is terror in the carriage, there is weeping, there\nis the heavy breathing of the insensible traveller.\n\n\"Are we not going too slowly? Can they not be induced to go faster?\"\nasks Lucie, clinging to the old man.\n\n\"It would seem like flight, my darling. I must not urge them too much;\nit would rouse suspicion.\"\n\n\"Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued!\"\n\n\"The road is clear, my dearest. So far, we are not pursued.\"\n\nHouses in twos and threes pass by us, solitary farms, ruinous buildings,\ndye-works, tanneries, and the like, open country, avenues of leafless\ntrees. The hard uneven pavement is under us, the soft deep mud is on\neither side. Sometimes, we strike into the skirting mud, to avoid the\nstones that clatter us and shake us; sometimes, we stick in ruts and\nsloughs there. The agony of our impatience is then so great, that in our\nwild alarm and hurry we are for getting out and running--hiding--doing\nanything but stopping.\n\nOut of the open country, in again among ruinous buildings, solitary\nfarms, dye-works, tanneries, and the like, cottages in twos and threes,\navenues of leafless trees. Have these men deceived us, and taken us back\nby another road? Is not this the same place twice over? Thank Heaven,\nno. A village. Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued! Hush!\nthe posting-house.\n\nLeisurely, our four horses are taken out; leisurely, the coach stands in\nthe little street, bereft of horses, and with no likelihood upon it\nof ever moving again; leisurely, the new horses come into visible\nexistence, one by one; leisurely, the new postilions follow, sucking and\nplaiting the lashes of their whips; leisurely, the old postilions count\ntheir money, make wrong additions, and arrive at dissatisfied results.\nAll the time, our overfraught hearts are beating at a rate that would\nfar outstrip the fastest gallop of the fastest horses ever foaled.\n\nAt length the new postilions are in their saddles, and the old are left\nbehind. We are through the village, up the hill, and down the hill, and\non the low watery grounds. Suddenly, the postilions exchange speech with\nanimated gesticulation, and the horses are pulled up, almost on their\nhaunches. We are pursued?\n\n\"Ho! Within the carriage there. Speak then!\"\n\n\"What is it?\" asks Mr. Lorry, looking out at window.\n\n\"How many did they say?\"\n\n\"I do not understand you.\"\n\n\"--At the last post. How many to the Guillotine to-day?\"\n\n\"Fifty-two.\"\n\n\"I said so! A brave number! My fellow-citizen here would have it\nforty-two; ten more heads are worth having. The Guillotine goes\nhandsomely. I love it. Hi forward. Whoop!\"\n\nThe night comes on dark. He moves more; he is beginning to revive, and\nto speak intelligibly; he thinks they are still together; he asks him,\nby his name, what he has in his hand. O pity us, kind Heaven, and help\nus! Look out, look out, and see if we are pursued.\n\nThe wind is rushing after us, and the clouds are flying after us, and\nthe moon is plunging after us, and the whole wild night is in pursuit of\nus; but, so far, we are pursued by nothing else.\n\n\n\n\nXIV. The Knitting Done\n\n\nIn that same juncture of time when the Fifty-Two awaited their fate\nMadame Defarge held darkly ominous council with The Vengeance and\nJacques Three of the Revolutionary Jury. Not in the wine-shop did Madame\nDefarge confer with these ministers, but in the shed of the wood-sawyer,\nerst a mender of roads. The sawyer himself did not participate in the\nconference, but abided at a little distance, like an outer satellite who\nwas not to speak until required, or to offer an opinion until invited.\n\n\"But our Defarge,\" said Jacques Three, \"is undoubtedly a good\nRepublican? Eh?\"\n\n\"There is no better,\" the voluble Vengeance protested in her shrill\nnotes, \"in France.\"\n\n\"Peace, little Vengeance,\" said Madame Defarge, laying her hand with\na slight frown on her lieutenant's lips, \"hear me speak. My husband,\nfellow-citizen, is a good Republican and a bold man; he has deserved\nwell of the Republic, and possesses its confidence. But my husband has\nhis weaknesses, and he is so weak as to relent towards this Doctor.\"\n\n\"It is a great pity,\" croaked Jacques Three, dubiously shaking his head,\nwith his cruel fingers at his hungry mouth; \"it is not quite like a good\ncitizen; it is a thing to regret.\"\n\n\"See you,\" said madame, \"I care nothing for this Doctor, I. He may wear\nhis head or lose it, for any interest I have in him; it is all one to\nme. But, the Evremonde people are to be exterminated, and the wife and\nchild must follow the husband and father.\"\n\n\"She has a fine head for it,\" croaked Jacques Three. \"I have seen blue\neyes and golden hair there, and they looked charming when Samson held\nthem up.\" Ogre that he was, he spoke like an epicure.\n\nMadame Defarge cast down her eyes, and reflected a little.\n\n\"The child also,\" observed Jacques Three, with a meditative enjoyment\nof his words, \"has golden hair and blue eyes. And we seldom have a child\nthere. It is a pretty sight!\"\n\n\"In a word,\" said Madame Defarge, coming out of her short abstraction,\n\"I cannot trust my husband in this matter. Not only do I feel, since\nlast night, that I dare not confide to him the details of my projects;\nbut also I feel that if I delay, there is danger of his giving warning,\nand then they might escape.\"\n\n\"That must never be,\" croaked Jacques Three; \"no one must escape. We\nhave not half enough as it is. We ought to have six score a day.\"\n\n\"In a word,\" Madame Defarge went on, \"my husband has not my reason for\npursuing this family to annihilation, and I have not his reason for\nregarding this Doctor with any sensibility. I must act for myself,\ntherefore. Come hither, little citizen.\"\n\nThe wood-sawyer, who held her in the respect, and himself in the\nsubmission, of mortal fear, advanced with his hand to his red cap.\n\n\"Touching those signals, little citizen,\" said Madame Defarge, sternly,\n\"that she made to the prisoners; you are ready to bear witness to them\nthis very day?\"\n\n\"Ay, ay, why not!\" cried the sawyer. \"Every day, in all weathers, from\ntwo to four, always signalling, sometimes with the little one, sometimes\nwithout. I know what I know. I have seen with my eyes.\"\n\nHe made all manner of gestures while he spoke, as if in incidental\nimitation of some few of the great diversity of signals that he had\nnever seen.\n\n\"Clearly plots,\" said Jacques Three. \"Transparently!\"\n\n\"There is no doubt of the Jury?\" inquired Madame Defarge, letting her\neyes turn to him with a gloomy smile.\n\n\"Rely upon the patriotic Jury, dear citizeness. I answer for my\nfellow-Jurymen.\"\n\n\"Now, let me see,\" said Madame Defarge, pondering again. \"Yet once more!\nCan I spare this Doctor to my husband? I have no feeling either way. Can\nI spare him?\"\n\n\"He would count as one head,\" observed Jacques Three, in a low voice.\n\"We really have not heads enough; it would be a pity, I think.\"\n\n\"He was signalling with her when I saw her,\" argued Madame Defarge; \"I\ncannot speak of one without the other; and I must not be silent, and\ntrust the case wholly to him, this little citizen here. For, I am not a\nbad witness.\"\n\nThe Vengeance and Jacques Three vied with each other in their fervent\nprotestations that she was the most admirable and marvellous of\nwitnesses. The little citizen, not to be outdone, declared her to be a\ncelestial witness.\n\n\"He must take his chance,\" said Madame Defarge. \"No, I cannot spare\nhim! You are engaged at three o'clock; you are going to see the batch of\nto-day executed.--You?\"\n\nThe question was addressed to the wood-sawyer, who hurriedly replied in\nthe affirmative: seizing the occasion to add that he was the most ardent\nof Republicans, and that he would be in effect the most desolate of\nRepublicans, if anything prevented him from enjoying the pleasure of\nsmoking his afternoon pipe in the contemplation of the droll national\nbarber. He was so very demonstrative herein, that he might have been\nsuspected (perhaps was, by the dark eyes that looked contemptuously at\nhim out of Madame Defarge's head) of having his small individual fears\nfor his own personal safety, every hour in the day.\n\n\"I,\" said madame, \"am equally engaged at the same place. After it is\nover--say at eight to-night--come you to me, in Saint Antoine, and we\nwill give information against these people at my Section.\"\n\nThe wood-sawyer said he would be proud and flattered to attend the\ncitizeness. The citizeness looking at him, he became embarrassed, evaded\nher glance as a small dog would have done, retreated among his wood, and\nhid his confusion over the handle of his saw.\n\nMadame Defarge beckoned the Juryman and The Vengeance a little nearer to\nthe door, and there expounded her further views to them thus:\n\n\"She will now be at home, awaiting the moment of his death. She will\nbe mourning and grieving. She will be in a state of mind to impeach the\njustice of the Republic. She will be full of sympathy with its enemies.\nI will go to her.\"\n\n\"What an admirable woman; what an adorable woman!\" exclaimed Jacques\nThree, rapturously. \"Ah, my cherished!\" cried The Vengeance; and\nembraced her.\n\n\"Take you my knitting,\" said Madame Defarge, placing it in her\nlieutenant's hands, \"and have it ready for me in my usual seat. Keep\nme my usual chair. Go you there, straight, for there will probably be a\ngreater concourse than usual, to-day.\"\n\n\"I willingly obey the orders of my Chief,\" said The Vengeance with\nalacrity, and kissing her cheek. \"You will not be late?\"\n\n\"I shall be there before the commencement.\"\n\n\"And before the tumbrils arrive. Be sure you are there, my soul,\" said\nThe Vengeance, calling after her, for she had already turned into the\nstreet, \"before the tumbrils arrive!\"\n\nMadame Defarge slightly waved her hand, to imply that she heard, and\nmight be relied upon to arrive in good time, and so went through the\nmud, and round the corner of the prison wall. The Vengeance and the\nJuryman, looking after her as she walked away, were highly appreciative\nof her fine figure, and her superb moral endowments.\n\nThere were many women at that time, upon whom the time laid a dreadfully\ndisfiguring hand; but, there was not one among them more to be dreaded\nthan this ruthless woman, now taking her way along the streets. Of a\nstrong and fearless character, of shrewd sense and readiness, of great\ndetermination, of that kind of beauty which not only seems to impart\nto its possessor firmness and animosity, but to strike into others an\ninstinctive recognition of those qualities; the troubled time would have\nheaved her up, under any circumstances. But, imbued from her childhood\nwith a brooding sense of wrong, and an inveterate hatred of a class,\nopportunity had developed her into a tigress. She was absolutely without\npity. If she had ever had the virtue in her, it had quite gone out of\nher.\n\nIt was nothing to her, that an innocent man was to die for the sins of\nhis forefathers; she saw, not him, but them. It was nothing to her, that\nhis wife was to be made a widow and his daughter an orphan; that was\ninsufficient punishment, because they were her natural enemies and\nher prey, and as such had no right to live. To appeal to her, was made\nhopeless by her having no sense of pity, even for herself. If she had\nbeen laid low in the streets, in any of the many encounters in which\nshe had been engaged, she would not have pitied herself; nor, if she had\nbeen ordered to the axe to-morrow, would she have gone to it with any\nsofter feeling than a fierce desire to change places with the man who\nsent her there.\n\nSuch a heart Madame Defarge carried under her rough robe. Carelessly\nworn, it was a becoming robe enough, in a certain weird way, and her\ndark hair looked rich under her coarse red cap. Lying hidden in her\nbosom, was a loaded pistol. Lying hidden at her waist, was a sharpened\ndagger. Thus accoutred, and walking with the confident tread of such\na character, and with the supple freedom of a woman who had habitually\nwalked in her girlhood, bare-foot and bare-legged, on the brown\nsea-sand, Madame Defarge took her way along the streets.\n\nNow, when the journey of the travelling coach, at that very moment\nwaiting for the completion of its load, had been planned out last night,\nthe difficulty of taking Miss Pross in it had much engaged Mr. Lorry's\nattention. It was not merely desirable to avoid overloading the coach,\nbut it was of the highest importance that the time occupied in examining\nit and its passengers, should be reduced to the utmost; since their\nescape might depend on the saving of only a few seconds here and there.\nFinally, he had proposed, after anxious consideration, that Miss Pross\nand Jerry, who were at liberty to leave the city, should leave it at\nthree o'clock in the lightest-wheeled conveyance known to that period.\nUnencumbered with luggage, they would soon overtake the coach, and,\npassing it and preceding it on the road, would order its horses in\nadvance, and greatly facilitate its progress during the precious hours\nof the night, when delay was the most to be dreaded.\n\nSeeing in this arrangement the hope of rendering real service in that\npressing emergency, Miss Pross hailed it with joy. She and Jerry had\nbeheld the coach start, had known who it was that Solomon brought, had\npassed some ten minutes in tortures of suspense, and were now concluding\ntheir arrangements to follow the coach, even as Madame Defarge,\ntaking her way through the streets, now drew nearer and nearer to the\nelse-deserted lodging in which they held their consultation.\n\n\"Now what do you think, Mr. Cruncher,\" said Miss Pross, whose agitation\nwas so great that she could hardly speak, or stand, or move, or live:\n\"what do you think of our not starting from this courtyard? Another\ncarriage having already gone from here to-day, it might awaken\nsuspicion.\"\n\n\"My opinion, miss,\" returned Mr. Cruncher, \"is as you're right. Likewise\nwot I'll stand by you, right or wrong.\"\n\n\"I am so distracted with fear and hope for our precious creatures,\" said\nMiss Pross, wildly crying, \"that I am incapable of forming any plan. Are\n_you_ capable of forming any plan, my dear good Mr. Cruncher?\"\n\n\"Respectin' a future spear o' life, miss,\" returned Mr. Cruncher, \"I\nhope so. Respectin' any present use o' this here blessed old head o'\nmine, I think not. Would you do me the favour, miss, to take notice o'\ntwo promises and wows wot it is my wishes fur to record in this here\ncrisis?\"\n\n\"Oh, for gracious sake!\" cried Miss Pross, still wildly crying, \"record\nthem at once, and get them out of the way, like an excellent man.\"\n\n\"First,\" said Mr. Cruncher, who was all in a tremble, and who spoke with\nan ashy and solemn visage, \"them poor things well out o' this, never no\nmore will I do it, never no more!\"\n\n\"I am quite sure, Mr. Cruncher,\" returned Miss Pross, \"that you\nnever will do it again, whatever it is, and I beg you not to think it\nnecessary to mention more particularly what it is.\"\n\n\"No, miss,\" returned Jerry, \"it shall not be named to you. Second: them\npoor things well out o' this, and never no more will I interfere with\nMrs. Cruncher's flopping, never no more!\"\n\n\"Whatever housekeeping arrangement that may be,\" said Miss Pross,\nstriving to dry her eyes and compose herself, \"I have no doubt it\nis best that Mrs. Cruncher should have it entirely under her own\nsuperintendence.--O my poor darlings!\"\n\n\"I go so far as to say, miss, moreover,\" proceeded Mr. Cruncher, with a\nmost alarming tendency to hold forth as from a pulpit--\"and let my words\nbe took down and took to Mrs. Cruncher through yourself--that wot my\nopinions respectin' flopping has undergone a change, and that wot I only\nhope with all my heart as Mrs. Cruncher may be a flopping at the present\ntime.\"\n\n\"There, there, there! I hope she is, my dear man,\" cried the distracted\nMiss Pross, \"and I hope she finds it answering her expectations.\"\n\n\"Forbid it,\" proceeded Mr. Cruncher, with additional solemnity,\nadditional slowness, and additional tendency to hold forth and hold\nout, \"as anything wot I have ever said or done should be wisited on my\nearnest wishes for them poor creeturs now! Forbid it as we shouldn't all\nflop (if it was anyways conwenient) to get 'em out o' this here dismal\nrisk! Forbid it, miss! Wot I say, for-_bid_ it!\" This was Mr. Cruncher's\nconclusion after a protracted but vain endeavour to find a better one.\n\nAnd still Madame Defarge, pursuing her way along the streets, came\nnearer and nearer.\n\n\"If we ever get back to our native land,\" said Miss Pross, \"you may rely\nupon my telling Mrs. Cruncher as much as I may be able to remember and\nunderstand of what you have so impressively said; and at all events\nyou may be sure that I shall bear witness to your being thoroughly in\nearnest at this dreadful time. Now, pray let us think! My esteemed Mr.\nCruncher, let us think!\"\n\nStill, Madame Defarge, pursuing her way along the streets, came nearer\nand nearer.\n\n\"If you were to go before,\" said Miss Pross, \"and stop the vehicle and\nhorses from coming here, and were to wait somewhere for me; wouldn't\nthat be best?\"\n\nMr. Cruncher thought it might be best.\n\n\"Where could you wait for me?\" asked Miss Pross.\n\nMr. Cruncher was so bewildered that he could think of no locality but\nTemple Bar. Alas! Temple Bar was hundreds of miles away, and Madame\nDefarge was drawing very near indeed.\n\n\"By the cathedral door,\" said Miss Pross. \"Would it be much out of\nthe way, to take me in, near the great cathedral door between the two\ntowers?\"\n\n\"No, miss,\" answered Mr. Cruncher.\n\n\"Then, like the best of men,\" said Miss Pross, \"go to the posting-house\nstraight, and make that change.\"\n\n\"I am doubtful,\" said Mr. Cruncher, hesitating and shaking his head,\n\"about leaving of you, you see. We don't know what may happen.\"\n\n\"Heaven knows we don't,\" returned Miss Pross, \"but have no fear for me.\nTake me in at the cathedral, at Three o'Clock, or as near it as you can,\nand I am sure it will be better than our going from here. I feel certain\nof it. There! Bless you, Mr. Cruncher! Think-not of me, but of the lives\nthat may depend on both of us!\"\n\nThis exordium, and Miss Pross's two hands in quite agonised entreaty\nclasping his, decided Mr. Cruncher. With an encouraging nod or two, he\nimmediately went out to alter the arrangements, and left her by herself\nto follow as she had proposed.\n\nThe having originated a precaution which was already in course of\nexecution, was a great relief to Miss Pross. The necessity of composing\nher appearance so that it should attract no special notice in the\nstreets, was another relief. She looked at her watch, and it was twenty\nminutes past two. She had no time to lose, but must get ready at once.\n\nAfraid, in her extreme perturbation, of the loneliness of the deserted\nrooms, and of half-imagined faces peeping from behind every open door\nin them, Miss Pross got a basin of cold water and began laving her eyes,\nwhich were swollen and red. Haunted by her feverish apprehensions, she\ncould not bear to have her sight obscured for a minute at a time by the\ndripping water, but constantly paused and looked round to see that there\nwas no one watching her. In one of those pauses she recoiled and cried\nout, for she saw a figure standing in the room.\n\nThe basin fell to the ground broken, and the water flowed to the feet of\nMadame Defarge. By strange stern ways, and through much staining blood,\nthose feet had come to meet that water.\n\nMadame Defarge looked coldly at her, and said, \"The wife of Evremonde;\nwhere is she?\"\n\nIt flashed upon Miss Pross's mind that the doors were all standing open,\nand would suggest the flight. Her first act was to shut them. There were\nfour in the room, and she shut them all. She then placed herself before\nthe door of the chamber which Lucie had occupied.\n\nMadame Defarge's dark eyes followed her through this rapid movement,\nand rested on her when it was finished. Miss Pross had nothing beautiful\nabout her; years had not tamed the wildness, or softened the grimness,\nof her appearance; but, she too was a determined woman in her different\nway, and she measured Madame Defarge with her eyes, every inch.\n\n\"You might, from your appearance, be the wife of Lucifer,\" said Miss\nPross, in her breathing. \"Nevertheless, you shall not get the better of\nme. I am an Englishwoman.\"\n\nMadame Defarge looked at her scornfully, but still with something of\nMiss Pross's own perception that they two were at bay. She saw a tight,\nhard, wiry woman before her, as Mr. Lorry had seen in the same figure a\nwoman with a strong hand, in the years gone by. She knew full well that\nMiss Pross was the family's devoted friend; Miss Pross knew full well\nthat Madame Defarge was the family's malevolent enemy.\n\n\"On my way yonder,\" said Madame Defarge, with a slight movement of\nher hand towards the fatal spot, \"where they reserve my chair and my\nknitting for me, I am come to make my compliments to her in passing. I\nwish to see her.\"\n\n\"I know that your intentions are evil,\" said Miss Pross, \"and you may\ndepend upon it, I'll hold my own against them.\"\n\nEach spoke in her own language; neither understood the other's words;\nboth were very watchful, and intent to deduce from look and manner, what\nthe unintelligible words meant.\n\n\"It will do her no good to keep herself concealed from me at this\nmoment,\" said Madame Defarge. \"Good patriots will know what that means.\nLet me see her. Go tell her that I wish to see her. Do you hear?\"\n\n\"If those eyes of yours were bed-winches,\" returned Miss Pross, \"and I\nwas an English four-poster, they shouldn't loose a splinter of me. No,\nyou wicked foreign woman; I am your match.\"\n\nMadame Defarge was not likely to follow these idiomatic remarks in\ndetail; but, she so far understood them as to perceive that she was set\nat naught.\n\n\"Woman imbecile and pig-like!\" said Madame Defarge, frowning. \"I take no\nanswer from you. I demand to see her. Either tell her that I demand\nto see her, or stand out of the way of the door and let me go to her!\"\nThis, with an angry explanatory wave of her right arm.\n\n\"I little thought,\" said Miss Pross, \"that I should ever want to\nunderstand your nonsensical language; but I would give all I have,\nexcept the clothes I wear, to know whether you suspect the truth, or any\npart of it.\"\n\nNeither of them for a single moment released the other's eyes. Madame\nDefarge had not moved from the spot where she stood when Miss Pross\nfirst became aware of her; but, she now advanced one step.\n\n\"I am a Briton,\" said Miss Pross, \"I am desperate. I don't care an\nEnglish Twopence for myself. I know that the longer I keep you here, the\ngreater hope there is for my Ladybird. I'll not leave a handful of that\ndark hair upon your head, if you lay a finger on me!\"\n\nThus Miss Pross, with a shake of her head and a flash of her eyes\nbetween every rapid sentence, and every rapid sentence a whole breath.\nThus Miss Pross, who had never struck a blow in her life.\n\nBut, her courage was of that emotional nature that it brought the\nirrepressible tears into her eyes. This was a courage that Madame\nDefarge so little comprehended as to mistake for weakness. \"Ha, ha!\" she\nlaughed, \"you poor wretch! What are you worth! I address myself to that\nDoctor.\" Then she raised her voice and called out, \"Citizen Doctor! Wife\nof Evremonde! Child of Evremonde! Any person but this miserable fool,\nanswer the Citizeness Defarge!\"\n\nPerhaps the following silence, perhaps some latent disclosure in the\nexpression of Miss Pross's face, perhaps a sudden misgiving apart from\neither suggestion, whispered to Madame Defarge that they were gone.\nThree of the doors she opened swiftly, and looked in.\n\n\"Those rooms are all in disorder, there has been hurried packing, there\nare odds and ends upon the ground. There is no one in that room behind\nyou! Let me look.\"\n\n\"Never!\" said Miss Pross, who understood the request as perfectly as\nMadame Defarge understood the answer.\n\n\"If they are not in that room, they are gone, and can be pursued and\nbrought back,\" said Madame Defarge to herself.\n\n\"As long as you don't know whether they are in that room or not, you are\nuncertain what to do,\" said Miss Pross to herself; \"and you shall not\nknow that, if I can prevent your knowing it; and know that, or not know\nthat, you shall not leave here while I can hold you.\"\n\n\"I have been in the streets from the first, nothing has stopped me,\nI will tear you to pieces, but I will have you from that door,\" said\nMadame Defarge.\n\n\"We are alone at the top of a high house in a solitary courtyard, we are\nnot likely to be heard, and I pray for bodily strength to keep you here,\nwhile every minute you are here is worth a hundred thousand guineas to\nmy darling,\" said Miss Pross.\n\nMadame Defarge made at the door. Miss Pross, on the instinct of the\nmoment, seized her round the waist in both her arms, and held her tight.\nIt was in vain for Madame Defarge to struggle and to strike; Miss Pross,\nwith the vigorous tenacity of love, always so much stronger than hate,\nclasped her tight, and even lifted her from the floor in the struggle\nthat they had. The two hands of Madame Defarge buffeted and tore her\nface; but, Miss Pross, with her head down, held her round the waist, and\nclung to her with more than the hold of a drowning woman.\n\nSoon, Madame Defarge's hands ceased to strike, and felt at her encircled\nwaist. \"It is under my arm,\" said Miss Pross, in smothered tones, \"you\nshall not draw it. I am stronger than you, I bless Heaven for it. I hold\nyou till one or other of us faints or dies!\"\n\nMadame Defarge's hands were at her bosom. Miss Pross looked up, saw\nwhat it was, struck at it, struck out a flash and a crash, and stood\nalone--blinded with smoke.\n\nAll this was in a second. As the smoke cleared, leaving an awful\nstillness, it passed out on the air, like the soul of the furious woman\nwhose body lay lifeless on the ground.\n\nIn the first fright and horror of her situation, Miss Pross passed the\nbody as far from it as she could, and ran down the stairs to call for\nfruitless help. Happily, she bethought herself of the consequences of\nwhat she did, in time to check herself and go back. It was dreadful to\ngo in at the door again; but, she did go in, and even went near it, to\nget the bonnet and other things that she must wear. These she put on,\nout on the staircase, first shutting and locking the door and taking\naway the key. She then sat down on the stairs a few moments to breathe\nand to cry, and then got up and hurried away.\n\nBy good fortune she had a veil on her bonnet, or she could hardly have\ngone along the streets without being stopped. By good fortune, too, she\nwas naturally so peculiar in appearance as not to show disfigurement\nlike any other woman. She needed both advantages, for the marks of\ngripping fingers were deep in her face, and her hair was torn, and her\ndress (hastily composed with unsteady hands) was clutched and dragged a\nhundred ways.\n\nIn crossing the bridge, she dropped the door key in the river. Arriving\nat the cathedral some few minutes before her escort, and waiting there,\nshe thought, what if the key were already taken in a net, what if\nit were identified, what if the door were opened and the remains\ndiscovered, what if she were stopped at the gate, sent to prison, and\ncharged with murder! In the midst of these fluttering thoughts, the\nescort appeared, took her in, and took her away.\n\n\"Is there any noise in the streets?\" she asked him.\n\n\"The usual noises,\" Mr. Cruncher replied; and looked surprised by the\nquestion and by her aspect.\n\n\"I don't hear you,\" said Miss Pross. \"What do you say?\"\n\nIt was in vain for Mr. Cruncher to repeat what he said; Miss Pross could\nnot hear him. \"So I'll nod my head,\" thought Mr. Cruncher, amazed, \"at\nall events she'll see that.\" And she did.\n\n\"Is there any noise in the streets now?\" asked Miss Pross again,\npresently.\n\nAgain Mr. Cruncher nodded his head.\n\n\"I don't hear it.\"\n\n\"Gone deaf in an hour?\" said Mr. Cruncher, ruminating, with his mind\nmuch disturbed; \"wot's come to her?\"\n\n\"I feel,\" said Miss Pross, \"as if there had been a flash and a crash,\nand that crash was the last thing I should ever hear in this life.\"\n\n\"Blest if she ain't in a queer condition!\" said Mr. Cruncher, more and\nmore disturbed. \"Wot can she have been a takin', to keep her courage up?\nHark! There's the roll of them dreadful carts! You can hear that, miss?\"\n\n\"I can hear,\" said Miss Pross, seeing that he spoke to her, \"nothing. O,\nmy good man, there was first a great crash, and then a great stillness,\nand that stillness seems to be fixed and unchangeable, never to be\nbroken any more as long as my life lasts.\"\n\n\"If she don't hear the roll of those dreadful carts, now very nigh their\njourney's end,\" said Mr. Cruncher, glancing over his shoulder, \"it's my\nopinion that indeed she never will hear anything else in this world.\"\n\nAnd indeed she never did.\n\n\n\n\nXV. The Footsteps Die Out For Ever\n\n\nAlong the Paris streets, the death-carts rumble, hollow and harsh. Six\ntumbrils carry the day's wine to La Guillotine. All the devouring and\ninsatiate Monsters imagined since imagination could record itself,\nare fused in the one realisation, Guillotine. And yet there is not in\nFrance, with its rich variety of soil and climate, a blade, a leaf,\na root, a sprig, a peppercorn, which will grow to maturity under\nconditions more certain than those that have produced this horror. Crush\nhumanity out of shape once more, under similar hammers, and it will\ntwist itself into the same tortured forms. Sow the same seed of\nrapacious license and oppression over again, and it will surely yield\nthe same fruit according to its kind.\n\nSix tumbrils roll along the streets. Change these back again to what\nthey were, thou powerful enchanter, Time, and they shall be seen to be\nthe carriages of absolute monarchs, the equipages of feudal nobles, the\ntoilettes of flaring Jezebels, the churches that are not my father's\nhouse but dens of thieves, the huts of millions of starving peasants!\nNo; the great magician who majestically works out the appointed order\nof the Creator, never reverses his transformations. \"If thou be changed\ninto this shape by the will of God,\" say the seers to the enchanted, in\nthe wise Arabian stories, \"then remain so! But, if thou wear this\nform through mere passing conjuration, then resume thy former aspect!\"\nChangeless and hopeless, the tumbrils roll along.\n\nAs the sombre wheels of the six carts go round, they seem to plough up\na long crooked furrow among the populace in the streets. Ridges of faces\nare thrown to this side and to that, and the ploughs go steadily onward.\nSo used are the regular inhabitants of the houses to the spectacle, that\nin many windows there are no people, and in some the occupation of the\nhands is not so much as suspended, while the eyes survey the faces in\nthe tumbrils. Here and there, the inmate has visitors to see the sight;\nthen he points his finger, with something of the complacency of a\ncurator or authorised exponent, to this cart and to this, and seems to\ntell who sat here yesterday, and who there the day before.\n\nOf the riders in the tumbrils, some observe these things, and all\nthings on their last roadside, with an impassive stare; others, with\na lingering interest in the ways of life and men. Some, seated with\ndrooping heads, are sunk in silent despair; again, there are some so\nheedful of their looks that they cast upon the multitude such glances as\nthey have seen in theatres, and in pictures. Several close their eyes,\nand think, or try to get their straying thoughts together. Only one, and\nhe a miserable creature, of a crazed aspect, is so shattered and made\ndrunk by horror, that he sings, and tries to dance. Not one of the whole\nnumber appeals by look or gesture, to the pity of the people.\n\nThere is a guard of sundry horsemen riding abreast of the tumbrils,\nand faces are often turned up to some of them, and they are asked some\nquestion. It would seem to be always the same question, for, it is\nalways followed by a press of people towards the third cart. The\nhorsemen abreast of that cart, frequently point out one man in it with\ntheir swords. The leading curiosity is, to know which is he; he stands\nat the back of the tumbril with his head bent down, to converse with a\nmere girl who sits on the side of the cart, and holds his hand. He has\nno curiosity or care for the scene about him, and always speaks to the\ngirl. Here and there in the long street of St. Honore, cries are raised\nagainst him. If they move him at all, it is only to a quiet smile, as he\nshakes his hair a little more loosely about his face. He cannot easily\ntouch his face, his arms being bound.\n\nOn the steps of a church, awaiting the coming-up of the tumbrils, stands\nthe Spy and prison-sheep. He looks into the first of them: not there.\nHe looks into the second: not there. He already asks himself, \"Has he\nsacrificed me?\" when his face clears, as he looks into the third.\n\n\"Which is Evremonde?\" says a man behind him.\n\n\"That. At the back there.\"\n\n\"With his hand in the girl's?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nThe man cries, \"Down, Evremonde! To the Guillotine all aristocrats!\nDown, Evremonde!\"\n\n\"Hush, hush!\" the Spy entreats him, timidly.\n\n\"And why not, citizen?\"\n\n\"He is going to pay the forfeit: it will be paid in five minutes more.\nLet him be at peace.\"\n\nBut the man continuing to exclaim, \"Down, Evremonde!\" the face of\nEvremonde is for a moment turned towards him. Evremonde then sees the\nSpy, and looks attentively at him, and goes his way.\n\nThe clocks are on the stroke of three, and the furrow ploughed among the\npopulace is turning round, to come on into the place of execution, and\nend. The ridges thrown to this side and to that, now crumble in and\nclose behind the last plough as it passes on, for all are following\nto the Guillotine. In front of it, seated in chairs, as in a garden of\npublic diversion, are a number of women, busily knitting. On one of the\nfore-most chairs, stands The Vengeance, looking about for her friend.\n\n\"Therese!\" she cries, in her shrill tones. \"Who has seen her? Therese\nDefarge!\"\n\n\"She never missed before,\" says a knitting-woman of the sisterhood.\n\n\"No; nor will she miss now,\" cries The Vengeance, petulantly. \"Therese.\"\n\n\"Louder,\" the woman recommends.\n\nAy! Louder, Vengeance, much louder, and still she will scarcely hear\nthee. Louder yet, Vengeance, with a little oath or so added, and yet\nit will hardly bring her. Send other women up and down to seek her,\nlingering somewhere; and yet, although the messengers have done dread\ndeeds, it is questionable whether of their own wills they will go far\nenough to find her!\n\n\"Bad Fortune!\" cries The Vengeance, stamping her foot in the chair, \"and\nhere are the tumbrils! And Evremonde will be despatched in a wink, and\nshe not here! See her knitting in my hand, and her empty chair ready for\nher. I cry with vexation and disappointment!\"\n\nAs The Vengeance descends from her elevation to do it, the tumbrils\nbegin to discharge their loads. The ministers of Sainte Guillotine are\nrobed and ready. Crash!--A head is held up, and the knitting-women who\nscarcely lifted their eyes to look at it a moment ago when it could\nthink and speak, count One.\n\nThe second tumbril empties and moves on; the third comes up. Crash!--And\nthe knitting-women, never faltering or pausing in their Work, count Two.\n\nThe supposed Evremonde descends, and the seamstress is lifted out next\nafter him. He has not relinquished her patient hand in getting out, but\nstill holds it as he promised. He gently places her with her back to the\ncrashing engine that constantly whirrs up and falls, and she looks into\nhis face and thanks him.\n\n\"But for you, dear stranger, I should not be so composed, for I am\nnaturally a poor little thing, faint of heart; nor should I have been\nable to raise my thoughts to Him who was put to death, that we might\nhave hope and comfort here to-day. I think you were sent to me by\nHeaven.\"\n\n\"Or you to me,\" says Sydney Carton. \"Keep your eyes upon me, dear child,\nand mind no other object.\"\n\n\"I mind nothing while I hold your hand. I shall mind nothing when I let\nit go, if they are rapid.\"\n\n\"They will be rapid. Fear not!\"\n\nThe two stand in the fast-thinning throng of victims, but they speak as\nif they were alone. Eye to eye, voice to voice, hand to hand, heart to\nheart, these two children of the Universal Mother, else so wide apart\nand differing, have come together on the dark highway, to repair home\ntogether, and to rest in her bosom.\n\n\"Brave and generous friend, will you let me ask you one last question? I\nam very ignorant, and it troubles me--just a little.\"\n\n\"Tell me what it is.\"\n\n\"I have a cousin, an only relative and an orphan, like myself, whom I\nlove very dearly. She is five years younger than I, and she lives in a\nfarmer's house in the south country. Poverty parted us, and she knows\nnothing of my fate--for I cannot write--and if I could, how should I\ntell her! It is better as it is.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes: better as it is.\"\n\n\"What I have been thinking as we came along, and what I am still\nthinking now, as I look into your kind strong face which gives me so\nmuch support, is this:--If the Republic really does good to the poor,\nand they come to be less hungry, and in all ways to suffer less, she may\nlive a long time: she may even live to be old.\"\n\n\"What then, my gentle sister?\"\n\n\"Do you think:\" the uncomplaining eyes in which there is so much\nendurance, fill with tears, and the lips part a little more and tremble:\n\"that it will seem long to me, while I wait for her in the better land\nwhere I trust both you and I will be mercifully sheltered?\"\n\n\"It cannot be, my child; there is no Time there, and no trouble there.\"\n\n\"You comfort me so much! I am so ignorant. Am I to kiss you now? Is the\nmoment come?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\nShe kisses his lips; he kisses hers; they solemnly bless each other.\nThe spare hand does not tremble as he releases it; nothing worse than\na sweet, bright constancy is in the patient face. She goes next before\nhim--is gone; the knitting-women count Twenty-Two.\n\n\"I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord: he that believeth\nin me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and\nbelieveth in me shall never die.\"\n\nThe murmuring of many voices, the upturning of many faces, the pressing\non of many footsteps in the outskirts of the crowd, so that it swells\nforward in a mass, like one great heave of water, all flashes away.\nTwenty-Three.\n\n        *****\n\nThey said of him, about the city that night, that it was the\npeacefullest man's face ever beheld there. Many added that he looked\nsublime and prophetic.\n\nOne of the most remarkable sufferers by the same axe--a woman--had asked\nat the foot of the same scaffold, not long before, to be allowed to\nwrite down the thoughts that were inspiring her. If he had given any\nutterance to his, and they were prophetic, they would have been these:\n\n\"I see Barsad, and Cly, Defarge, The Vengeance, the Juryman, the Judge,\nlong ranks of the new oppressors who have risen on the destruction of\nthe old, perishing by this retributive instrument, before it shall cease\nout of its present use. I see a beautiful city and a brilliant people\nrising from this abyss, and, in their struggles to be truly free, in\ntheir triumphs and defeats, through long years to come, I see the evil\nof this time and of the previous time of which this is the natural\nbirth, gradually making expiation for itself and wearing out.\n\n\"I see the lives for which I lay down my life, peaceful, useful,\nprosperous and happy, in that England which I shall see no more. I see\nHer with a child upon her bosom, who bears my name. I see her father,\naged and bent, but otherwise restored, and faithful to all men in his\nhealing office, and at peace. I see the good old man, so long their\nfriend, in ten years' time enriching them with all he has, and passing\ntranquilly to his reward.\n\n\"I see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the hearts of\ntheir descendants, generations hence. I see her, an old woman, weeping\nfor me on the anniversary of this day. I see her and her husband, their\ncourse done, lying side by side in their last earthly bed, and I know\nthat each was not more honoured and held sacred in the other's soul,\nthan I was in the souls of both.\n\n\"I see that child who lay upon her bosom and who bore my name, a man\nwinning his way up in that path of life which once was mine. I see him\nwinning it so well, that my name is made illustrious there by the\nlight of his. I see the blots I threw upon it, faded away. I see him,\nfore-most of just judges and honoured men, bringing a boy of my name,\nwith a forehead that I know and golden hair, to this place--then fair to\nlook upon, with not a trace of this day's disfigurement--and I hear him\ntell the child my story, with a tender and a faltering voice.\n\n\"It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a\nfar, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.\""