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<title>The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens</title>
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    <div style='margin-top:2em;margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A TALE OF TWO CITIES ***</div>

    <h1>
      A TALE OF TWO CITIES
    </h1>
    <h3>
      A STORY OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h2 class="no-break">
      By Charles Dickens
    </h2>

<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/0403m.jpg" style="width:100%;"  alt="0403m " /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0403.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>

<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/0404m.jpg" style="width:100%;"  alt="0404m " /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0404.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>

    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />

<h2>Contents</h2>

<table summary="" style="">

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0001"><b>Book the First&mdash;Recalled to Life</b></a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0002">CHAPTER I.&nbsp;&nbsp;The Period</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0003">CHAPTER II.&nbsp;&nbsp;The Mail</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0004">CHAPTER III.&nbsp;&nbsp;The Night Shadows</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0005">CHAPTER IV.&nbsp;&nbsp;The Preparation</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0006">CHAPTER V.&nbsp;&nbsp;The Wine-shop</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0007">CHAPTER VI.&nbsp;&nbsp;The Shoemaker</a><br /><br /></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0008"><b>Book the Second&mdash;the Golden Thread</b></a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0009">CHAPTER I.&nbsp;&nbsp;Five Years Later</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0010">CHAPTER II.&nbsp;&nbsp;A Sight</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0011">CHAPTER III.&nbsp;&nbsp;A Disappointment</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0012">CHAPTER IV.&nbsp;&nbsp;Congratulatory</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0013">CHAPTER V.&nbsp;&nbsp;The Jackal</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0014">CHAPTER VI.&nbsp;&nbsp;Hundreds of People</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0015">CHAPTER VII.&nbsp;&nbsp;Monseigneur in Town</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0016">CHAPTER VIII.&nbsp;&nbsp;Monseigneur in the Country</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0017">CHAPTER IX.&nbsp;&nbsp;The Gorgon&rsquo;s Head</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0018">CHAPTER X.&nbsp;&nbsp;Two Promises</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0019">CHAPTER XI.&nbsp;&nbsp;A Companion Picture</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0020">CHAPTER XII.&nbsp;&nbsp;The Fellow of Delicacy</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0021">CHAPTER XIII.&nbsp;&nbsp;The Fellow of No Delicacy</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0022">CHAPTER XIV.&nbsp;&nbsp;The Honest Tradesman</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0023">CHAPTER XV.&nbsp;&nbsp;Knitting</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0024">CHAPTER XVI.&nbsp;&nbsp;Still Knitting</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0025">CHAPTER XVII.&nbsp;&nbsp;One Night</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0026">CHAPTER XVIII.&nbsp;&nbsp;Nine Days</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0027">CHAPTER XIX.&nbsp;&nbsp;An Opinion</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0028">CHAPTER XX.&nbsp;&nbsp;A Plea</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0029">CHAPTER XXI.&nbsp;&nbsp;Echoing Footsteps</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0030">CHAPTER XXII.&nbsp;&nbsp;The Sea Still Rises</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0031">CHAPTER XXIII.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Fire Rises</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0032">CHAPTER XXIV.&nbsp;&nbsp;Drawn to the Loadstone Rock</a><br /><br /></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0033"><b>Book the Third&mdash;the Track of a Storm</b></a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0034">CHAPTER I.&nbsp;&nbsp;In Secret</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0035">CHAPTER II.&nbsp;&nbsp;The Grindstone</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0036">CHAPTER III.&nbsp;&nbsp;The Shadow</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0037">CHAPTER IV.&nbsp;&nbsp;Calm in Storm</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0038">CHAPTER V.&nbsp;&nbsp;The Wood-Sawyer</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0039">CHAPTER VI.&nbsp;&nbsp;Triumph</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0040">CHAPTER VII.&nbsp;&nbsp;A Knock at the Door</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0041">CHAPTER VIII.&nbsp;&nbsp;A Hand at Cards</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0042">CHAPTER IX.&nbsp;&nbsp;The Game Made</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0043">CHAPTER X.&nbsp;&nbsp;The Substance of the Shadow</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0044">CHAPTER XI.&nbsp;&nbsp;Dusk</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0045">CHAPTER XII.&nbsp;&nbsp;Darkness</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0046">CHAPTER XIII.&nbsp;&nbsp;Fifty-two</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0047">CHAPTER XIV.&nbsp;&nbsp;The Knitting Done</a></td>
</tr>

<tr>
<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0048">CHAPTER XV.&nbsp;&nbsp;The Footsteps Die Out For Ever</a></td>
</tr>

</table>

    <hr />

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"></a>
      Book the First&mdash;Recalled to Life
    </h2>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"></a>
      CHAPTER I.<br />The Period
    </h2>
      <p>
      It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of
      wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was
      the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season
      of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we
      had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going
      direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way&mdash;in short,
      the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest
      authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the
      superlative degree of comparison only.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a plain face, on the
      throne of England; there were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a
      fair face, on the throne of France. In both countries it was clearer than
      crystal to the lords of the State preserves of loaves and fishes, that
      things in general were settled for ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was the year of Our Lord one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five.
      Spiritual revelations were conceded to England at that favoured period, as
      at this. Mrs. Southcott had recently attained her five-and-twentieth
      blessed birthday, of whom a prophetic private in the Life Guards had
      heralded the sublime appearance by announcing that arrangements were made
      for the swallowing up of London and Westminster. Even the Cock-lane ghost
      had been laid only a round dozen of years, after rapping out its messages,
      as the spirits of this very year last past (supernaturally deficient in
      originality) rapped out theirs. Mere messages in the earthly order of
      events had lately come to the English Crown and People, from a congress of
      British subjects in America: which, strange to relate, have proved more
      important to the human race than any communications yet received through
      any of the chickens of the Cock-lane brood.
    </p>
    <p>
      France, less favoured on the whole as to matters spiritual than her sister
      of the shield and trident, rolled with exceeding smoothness down hill,
      making paper money and spending it. Under the guidance of her Christian
      pastors, she entertained herself, besides, with such humane achievements
      as sentencing a youth to have his hands cut off, his tongue torn out with
      pincers, and his body burned alive, because he had not kneeled down in the
      rain to do honour to a dirty procession of monks which passed within his
      view, at a distance of some fifty or sixty yards. It is likely enough
      that, rooted in the woods of France and Norway, there were growing trees,
      when that sufferer was put to death, already marked by the Woodman, Fate,
      to come down and be sawn into boards, to make a certain movable framework
      with a sack and a knife in it, terrible in history. It is likely enough
      that in the rough outhouses of some tillers of the heavy lands adjacent to
      Paris, there were sheltered from the weather that very day, rude carts,
      bespattered with rustic mire, snuffed about by pigs, and roosted in by
      poultry, which the Farmer, Death, had already set apart to be his tumbrils
      of the Revolution. But that Woodman and that Farmer, though they work
      unceasingly, work silently, and no one heard them as they went about with
      muffled tread: the rather, forasmuch as to entertain any suspicion that
      they were awake, was to be atheistical and traitorous.
    </p>
    <p>
      In England, there was scarcely an amount of order and protection to
      justify much national boasting. Daring burglaries by armed men, and
      highway robberies, took place in the capital itself every night; families
      were publicly cautioned not to go out of town without removing their
      furniture to upholsterers&rsquo; warehouses for security; the highwayman in the
      dark was a City tradesman in the light, and, being recognised and
      challenged by his fellow-tradesman whom he stopped in his character of
      &ldquo;the Captain,&rdquo; gallantly shot him through the head and rode away; the mail
      was waylaid by seven robbers, and the guard shot three dead, and then got
      shot dead himself by the other four, &ldquo;in consequence of the failure of his
      ammunition:&rdquo; after which the mail was robbed in peace; that magnificent
      potentate, the Lord Mayor of London, was made to stand and deliver on
      Turnham Green, by one highwayman, who despoiled the illustrious creature
      in sight of all his retinue; prisoners in London gaols fought battles with
      their turnkeys, and the majesty of the law fired blunderbusses in among
      them, loaded with rounds of shot and ball; thieves snipped off diamond
      crosses from the necks of noble lords at Court drawing-rooms; musketeers
      went into St. Giles&rsquo;s, to search for contraband goods, and the mob fired
      on the musketeers, and the musketeers fired on the mob, and nobody thought
      any of these occurrences much out of the common way. In the midst of them,
      the hangman, ever busy and ever worse than useless, was in constant
      requisition; now, stringing up long rows of miscellaneous criminals; now,
      hanging a housebreaker on Saturday who had been taken on Tuesday; now,
      burning people in the hand at Newgate by the dozen, and now burning
      pamphlets at the door of Westminster Hall; to-day, taking the life of an
      atrocious murderer, and to-morrow of a wretched pilferer who had robbed a
      farmer&rsquo;s boy of sixpence.
    </p>
    <p>
      All these things, and a thousand like them, came to pass in and close upon
      the dear old year one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five. Environed
      by them, while the Woodman and the Farmer worked unheeded, those two of
      the large jaws, and those other two of the plain and the fair faces, trod
      with stir enough, and carried their divine rights with a high hand. Thus
      did the year one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five conduct their
      Greatnesses, and myriads of small creatures&mdash;the creatures of this
      chronicle among the rest&mdash;along the roads that lay before them.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"></a>
      CHAPTER II.<br />The Mail
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was the Dover road that lay, on a Friday night late in November, before
      the first of the persons with whom this history has business. The Dover
      road lay, as to him, beyond the Dover mail, as it lumbered up Shooter&rsquo;s
      Hill. He walked up hill in the mire by the side of the mail, as the rest
      of the passengers did; not because they had the least relish for walking
      exercise, under the circumstances, but because the hill, and the harness,
      and the mud, and the mail, were all so heavy, that the horses had three
      times already come to a stop, besides once drawing the coach across the
      road, with the mutinous intent of taking it back to Blackheath. Reins and
      whip and coachman and guard, however, in combination, had read that
      article of war which forbade a purpose otherwise strongly in favour of the
      argument, that some brute animals are endued with Reason; and the team had
      capitulated and returned to their duty.
    </p>
    <p>
      With drooping heads and tremulous tails, they mashed their way through the
      thick mud, floundering and stumbling between whiles, as if they were
      falling to pieces at the larger joints. As often as the driver rested them
      and brought them to a stand, with a wary &ldquo;Wo-ho! so-ho-then!&rdquo; the near
      leader violently shook his head and everything upon it&mdash;like an
      unusually emphatic horse, denying that the coach could be got up the hill.
      Whenever the leader made this rattle, the passenger started, as a nervous
      passenger might, and was disturbed in mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a steaming mist in all the hollows, and it had roamed in its
      forlornness up the hill, like an evil spirit, seeking rest and finding
      none. A clammy and intensely cold mist, it made its slow way through the
      air in ripples that visibly followed and overspread one another, as the
      waves of an unwholesome sea might do. It was dense enough to shut out
      everything from the light of the coach-lamps but these its own workings,
      and a few yards of road; and the reek of the labouring horses steamed into
      it, as if they had made it all.
    </p>
    <p>
      Two other passengers, besides the one, were plodding up the hill by the
      side of the mail. All three were wrapped to the cheekbones and over the
      ears, and wore jack-boots. Not one of the three could have said, from
      anything he saw, what either of the other two was like; and each was
      hidden under almost as many wrappers from the eyes of the mind, as from
      the eyes of the body, of his two companions. In those days, travellers
      were very shy of being confidential on a short notice, for anybody on the
      road might be a robber or in league with robbers. As to the latter, when
      every posting-house and ale-house could produce somebody in &ldquo;the
      Captain&rsquo;s&rdquo; pay, ranging from the landlord to the lowest stable
      non-descript, it was the likeliest thing upon the cards. So the guard of
      the Dover mail thought to himself, that Friday night in November, one
      thousand seven hundred and seventy-five, lumbering up Shooter&rsquo;s Hill, as
      he stood on his own particular perch behind the mail, beating his feet,
      and keeping an eye and a hand on the arm-chest before him, where a loaded
      blunderbuss lay at the top of six or eight loaded horse-pistols, deposited
      on a substratum of cutlass.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Dover mail was in its usual genial position that the guard suspected
      the passengers, the passengers suspected one another and the guard, they
      all suspected everybody else, and the coachman was sure of nothing but the
      horses; as to which cattle he could with a clear conscience have taken his
      oath on the two Testaments that they were not fit for the journey.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wo-ho!&rdquo; said the coachman. &ldquo;So, then! One more pull and you&rsquo;re at the top
      and be damned to you, for I have had trouble enough to get you to it!&mdash;Joe!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Halloa!&rdquo; the guard replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What o&rsquo;clock do you make it, Joe?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ten minutes, good, past eleven.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My blood!&rdquo; ejaculated the vexed coachman, &ldquo;and not atop of Shooter&rsquo;s yet!
      Tst! Yah! Get on with you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The emphatic horse, cut short by the whip in a most decided negative, made
      a decided scramble for it, and the three other horses followed suit. Once
      more, the Dover mail struggled on, with the jack-boots of its passengers
      squashing along by its side. They had stopped when the coach stopped, and
      they kept close company with it. If any one of the three had had the
      hardihood to propose to another to walk on a little ahead into the mist
      and darkness, he would have put himself in a fair way of getting shot
      instantly as a highwayman.
    </p>
    <p>
      The last burst carried the mail to the summit of the hill. The horses
      stopped to breathe again, and the guard got down to skid the wheel for the
      descent, and open the coach-door to let the passengers in.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tst! Joe!&rdquo; cried the coachman in a warning voice, looking down from his
      box.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you say, Tom?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They both listened.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say a horse at a canter coming up, Joe.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>I</i> say a horse at a gallop, Tom,&rdquo; returned the guard, leaving his
      hold of the door, and mounting nimbly to his place. &ldquo;Gentlemen! In the
      king&rsquo;s name, all of you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With this hurried adjuration, he cocked his blunderbuss, and stood on the
      offensive.
    </p>
    <p>
      The passenger booked by this history, was on the coach-step, getting in;
      the two other passengers were close behind him, and about to follow. He
      remained on the step, half in the coach and half out of; they remained in
      the road below him. They all looked from the coachman to the guard, and
      from the guard to the coachman, and listened. The coachman looked back and
      the guard looked back, and even the emphatic leader pricked up his ears
      and looked back, without contradicting.
    </p>
    <p>
      The stillness consequent on the cessation of the rumbling and labouring of
      the coach, added to the stillness of the night, made it very quiet indeed.
      The panting of the horses communicated a tremulous motion to the coach, as
      if it were in a state of agitation. The hearts of the passengers beat loud
      enough perhaps to be heard; but at any rate, the quiet pause was audibly
      expressive of people out of breath, and holding the breath, and having the
      pulses quickened by expectation.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sound of a horse at a gallop came fast and furiously up the hill.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So-ho!&rdquo; the guard sang out, as loud as he could roar. &ldquo;Yo there! Stand! I
      shall fire!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The pace was suddenly checked, and, with much splashing and floundering, a
      man&rsquo;s voice called from the mist, &ldquo;Is that the Dover mail?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never you mind what it is!&rdquo; the guard retorted. &ldquo;What are you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Is</i> that the Dover mail?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why do you want to know?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want a passenger, if it is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What passenger?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Jarvis Lorry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Our booked passenger showed in a moment that it was his name. The guard,
      the coachman, and the two other passengers eyed him distrustfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Keep where you are,&rdquo; the guard called to the voice in the mist, &ldquo;because,
      if I should make a mistake, it could never be set right in your lifetime.
      Gentleman of the name of Lorry answer straight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is the matter?&rdquo; asked the passenger, then, with mildly quavering
      speech. &ldquo;Who wants me? Is it Jerry?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      (&ldquo;I don&rsquo;t like Jerry&rsquo;s voice, if it is Jerry,&rdquo; growled the guard to
      himself. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s hoarser than suits me, is Jerry.&rdquo;)
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Mr. Lorry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is the matter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A despatch sent after you from over yonder. T. and Co.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know this messenger, guard,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, getting down into the road&mdash;assisted
      from behind more swiftly than politely by the other two passengers, who
      immediately scrambled into the coach, shut the door, and pulled up the
      window. &ldquo;He may come close; there&rsquo;s nothing wrong.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope there ain&rsquo;t, but I can&rsquo;t make so &rsquo;Nation sure of that,&rdquo; said the
      guard, in gruff soliloquy. &ldquo;Hallo you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well! And hallo you!&rdquo; said Jerry, more hoarsely than before.
    </p>

<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/0414m.jpg" style="width:100%;"  alt="0414m " /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0414.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>

    <p>
      &ldquo;Come on at a footpace! d&rsquo;ye mind me? And if you&rsquo;ve got holsters to that
      saddle o&rsquo; yourn, don&rsquo;t let me see your hand go nigh &rsquo;em. For I&rsquo;m a devil
      at a quick mistake, and when I make one it takes the form of Lead. So now
      let&rsquo;s look at you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The figures of a horse and rider came slowly through the eddying mist, and
      came to the side of the mail, where the passenger stood. The rider
      stooped, and, casting up his eyes at the guard, handed the passenger a
      small folded paper. The rider&rsquo;s horse was blown, and both horse and rider
      were covered with mud, from the hoofs of the horse to the hat of the man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Guard!&rdquo; said the passenger, in a tone of quiet business confidence.
    </p>
    <p>
      The watchful guard, with his right hand at the stock of his raised
      blunderbuss, his left at the barrel, and his eye on the horseman, answered
      curtly, &ldquo;Sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is nothing to apprehend. I belong to Tellson&rsquo;s Bank. You must know
      Tellson&rsquo;s Bank in London. I am going to Paris on business. A crown to
      drink. I may read this?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If so be as you&rsquo;re quick, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He opened it in the light of the coach-lamp on that side, and read&mdash;first
      to himself and then aloud: &ldquo;&lsquo;Wait at Dover for Mam&rsquo;selle.&rsquo; It&rsquo;s not long,
      you see, guard. Jerry, say that my answer was, <i>Recalled to life</i>.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jerry started in his saddle. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s a Blazing strange answer, too,&rdquo; said
      he, at his hoarsest.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take that message back, and they will know that I received this, as well
      as if I wrote. Make the best of your way. Good night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With those words the passenger opened the coach-door and got in; not at
      all assisted by his fellow-passengers, who had expeditiously secreted
      their watches and purses in their boots, and were now making a general
      pretence of being asleep. With no more definite purpose than to escape the
      hazard of originating any other kind of action.
    </p>
    <p>
      The coach lumbered on again, with heavier wreaths of mist closing round it
      as it began the descent. The guard soon replaced his blunderbuss in his
      arm-chest, and, having looked to the rest of its contents, and having
      looked to the supplementary pistols that he wore in his belt, looked to a
      smaller chest beneath his seat, in which there were a few smith&rsquo;s tools, a
      couple of torches, and a tinder-box. For he was furnished with that
      completeness that if the coach-lamps had been blown and stormed out, which
      did occasionally happen, he had only to shut himself up inside, keep the
      flint and steel sparks well off the straw, and get a light with tolerable
      safety and ease (if he were lucky) in five minutes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tom!&rdquo; softly over the coach roof.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hallo, Joe.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you hear the message?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did, Joe.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did you make of it, Tom?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing at all, Joe.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s a coincidence, too,&rdquo; the guard mused, &ldquo;for I made the same of it
      myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jerry, left alone in the mist and darkness, dismounted meanwhile, not only
      to ease his spent horse, but to wipe the mud from his face, and shake the
      wet out of his hat-brim, which might be capable of holding about half a
      gallon. After standing with the bridle over his heavily-splashed arm,
      until the wheels of the mail were no longer within hearing and the night
      was quite still again, he turned to walk down the hill.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;After that there gallop from Temple Bar, old lady, I won&rsquo;t trust your
      fore-legs till I get you on the level,&rdquo; said this hoarse messenger,
      glancing at his mare. &ldquo;&lsquo;Recalled to life.&rsquo; That&rsquo;s a Blazing strange
      message. Much of that wouldn&rsquo;t do for you, Jerry! I say, Jerry! You&rsquo;d be
      in a Blazing bad way, if recalling to life was to come into fashion,
      Jerry!&rdquo;
     </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"></a>
      CHAPTER III.<br />The Night Shadows
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span> wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted
      to be that profound secret and mystery to every other. A solemn
      consideration, when I enter a great city by night, that every one of those
      darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every room in every
      one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating heart in the
      hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of its imaginings, a
      secret to the heart nearest it! Something of the awfulness, even of Death
      itself, is referable to this. No more can I turn the leaves of this dear
      book that I loved, and vainly hope in time to read it all. No more can I
      look into the depths of this unfathomable water, wherein, as momentary
      lights glanced into it, I have had glimpses of buried treasure and other
      things submerged. It was appointed that the book should shut with a
      spring, for ever and for ever, when I had read but a page. It was
      appointed that the water should be locked in an eternal frost, when the
      light was playing on its surface, and I stood in ignorance on the shore.
      My friend is dead, my neighbour is dead, my love, the darling of my soul,
      is dead; it is the inexorable consolidation and perpetuation of the secret
      that was always in that individuality, and which I shall carry in mine to
      my life&rsquo;s end. In any of the burial-places of this city through which I
      pass, is there a sleeper more inscrutable than its busy inhabitants are,
      in their innermost personality, to me, or than I am to them?
    </p>
    <p>
      As to this, his natural and not to be alienated inheritance, the messenger
      on horseback had exactly the same possessions as the King, the first
      Minister of State, or the richest merchant in London. So with the three
      passengers shut up in the narrow compass of one lumbering old mail coach;
      they were mysteries to one another, as complete as if each had been in his
      own coach and six, or his own coach and sixty, with the breadth of a
      county between him and the next.
    </p>
    <p>
      The messenger rode back at an easy trot, stopping pretty often at
      ale-houses by the way to drink, but evincing a tendency to keep his own
      counsel, and to keep his hat cocked over his eyes. He had eyes that
      assorted very well with that decoration, being of a surface black, with no
      depth in the colour or form, and much too near together&mdash;as if they
      were afraid of being found out in something, singly, if they kept too far
      apart. They had a sinister expression, under an old cocked-hat like a
      three-cornered spittoon, and over a great muffler for the chin and throat,
      which descended nearly to the wearer&rsquo;s knees. When he stopped for drink,
      he moved this muffler with his left hand, only while he poured his liquor
      in with his right; as soon as that was done, he muffled again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Jerry, no!&rdquo; said the messenger, harping on one theme as he rode. &ldquo;It
      wouldn&rsquo;t do for you, Jerry. Jerry, you honest tradesman, it wouldn&rsquo;t suit
      <i>your</i> line of business! Recalled&mdash;! Bust me if I don&rsquo;t think
      he&rsquo;d been a drinking!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His message perplexed his mind to that degree that he was fain, several
      times, to take off his hat to scratch his head. Except on the crown, which
      was raggedly bald, he had stiff, black hair, standing jaggedly all over
      it, and growing down hill almost to his broad, blunt nose. It was so like
      Smith&rsquo;s work, so much more like the top of a strongly spiked wall than a
      head of hair, that the best of players at leap-frog might have declined
      him, as the most dangerous man in the world to go over.
    </p>
    <p>
      While he trotted back with the message he was to deliver to the night
      watchman in his box at the door of Tellson&rsquo;s Bank, by Temple Bar, who was
      to deliver it to greater authorities within, the shadows of the night took
      such shapes to him as arose out of the message, and took such shapes to
      the mare as arose out of <i>her</i> private topics of uneasiness. They
      seemed to be numerous, for she shied at every shadow on the road.
    </p>
    <p>
      What time, the mail-coach lumbered, jolted, rattled, and bumped upon its
      tedious way, with its three fellow-inscrutables inside. To whom, likewise,
      the shadows of the night revealed themselves, in the forms their dozing
      eyes and wandering thoughts suggested.
    </p>
    <p>
      Tellson&rsquo;s Bank had a run upon it in the mail. As the bank passenger&mdash;with
      an arm drawn through the leathern strap, which did what lay in it to keep
      him from pounding against the next passenger, and driving him into his
      corner, whenever the coach got a special jolt&mdash;nodded in his place,
      with half-shut eyes, the little coach-windows, and the coach-lamp dimly
      gleaming through them, and the bulky bundle of opposite passenger, became
      the bank, and did a great stroke of business. The rattle of the harness
      was the chink of money, and more drafts were honoured in five minutes than
      even Tellson&rsquo;s, with all its foreign and home connection, ever paid in
      thrice the time. Then the strong-rooms underground, at Tellson&rsquo;s, with
      such of their valuable stores and secrets as were known to the passenger
      (and it was not a little that he knew about them), opened before him, and
      he went in among them with the great keys and the feebly-burning candle,
      and found them safe, and strong, and sound, and still, just as he had last
      seen them.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, though the bank was almost always with him, and though the coach (in
      a confused way, like the presence of pain under an opiate) was always with
      him, there was another current of impression that never ceased to run, all
      through the night. He was on his way to dig some one out of a grave.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, which of the multitude of faces that showed themselves before him was
      the true face of the buried person, the shadows of the night did not
      indicate; but they were all the faces of a man of five-and-forty by years,
      and they differed principally in the passions they expressed, and in the
      ghastliness of their worn and wasted state. Pride, contempt, defiance,
      stubbornness, submission, lamentation, succeeded one another; so did
      varieties of sunken cheek, cadaverous colour, emaciated hands and figures.
      But the face was in the main one face, and every head was prematurely
      white. A hundred times the dozing passenger inquired of this spectre:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Buried how long?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The answer was always the same: &ldquo;Almost eighteen years.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Long ago.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know that you are recalled to life?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They tell me so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope you care to live?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shall I show her to you? Will you come and see her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The answers to this question were various and contradictory. Sometimes the
      broken reply was, &ldquo;Wait! It would kill me if I saw her too soon.&rdquo;
       Sometimes, it was given in a tender rain of tears, and then it was, &ldquo;Take
      me to her.&rdquo; Sometimes it was staring and bewildered, and then it was, &ldquo;I
      don&rsquo;t know her. I don&rsquo;t understand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After such imaginary discourse, the passenger in his fancy would dig, and
      dig, dig&mdash;now with a spade, now with a great key, now with his hands&mdash;to
      dig this wretched creature out. Got out at last, with earth hanging about
      his face and hair, he would suddenly fan away to dust. The passenger would
      then start to himself, and lower the window, to get the reality of mist
      and rain on his cheek.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet even when his eyes were opened on the mist and rain, on the moving
      patch of light from the lamps, and the hedge at the roadside retreating by
      jerks, the night shadows outside the coach would fall into the train of
      the night shadows within. The real Banking-house by Temple Bar, the real
      business of the past day, the real strong rooms, the real express sent
      after him, and the real message returned, would all be there. Out of the
      midst of them, the ghostly face would rise, and he would accost it again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Buried how long?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Almost eighteen years.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope you care to live?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Dig&mdash;dig&mdash;dig&mdash;until an impatient movement from one of the
      two passengers would admonish him to pull up the window, draw his arm
      securely through the leathern strap, and speculate upon the two slumbering
      forms, until his mind lost its hold of them, and they again slid away into
      the bank and the grave.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Buried how long?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Almost eighteen years.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Long ago.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The words were still in his hearing as just spoken&mdash;distinctly in his
      hearing as ever spoken words had been in his life&mdash;when the weary
      passenger started to the consciousness of daylight, and found that the
      shadows of the night were gone.
    </p>
    <p>
      He lowered the window, and looked out at the rising sun. There was a ridge
      of ploughed land, with a plough upon it where it had been left last night
      when the horses were unyoked; beyond, a quiet coppice-wood, in which many
      leaves of burning red and golden yellow still remained upon the trees.
      Though the earth was cold and wet, the sky was clear, and the sun rose
      bright, placid, and beautiful.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eighteen years!&rdquo; said the passenger, looking at the sun. &ldquo;Gracious
      Creator of day! To be buried alive for eighteen years!&rdquo;
     </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"></a>
      CHAPTER IV.<br />The Preparation
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hen the mail got successfully to Dover, in the course of the forenoon,
      the head drawer at the Royal George Hotel opened the coach-door as his
      custom was. He did it with some flourish of ceremony, for a mail journey
      from London in winter was an achievement to congratulate an adventurous
      traveller upon.
    </p>
    <p>
      By that time, there was only one adventurous traveller left be
      congratulated: for the two others had been set down at their respective
      roadside destinations. The mildewy inside of the coach, with its damp and
      dirty straw, its disagreeable smell, and its obscurity, was rather like a
      larger dog-kennel. Mr. Lorry, the passenger, shaking himself out of it in
      chains of straw, a tangle of shaggy wrapper, flapping hat, and muddy legs,
      was rather like a larger sort of dog.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There will be a packet to Calais, tomorrow, drawer?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir, if the weather holds and the wind sets tolerable fair. The tide
      will serve pretty nicely at about two in the afternoon, sir. Bed, sir?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall not go to bed till night; but I want a bedroom, and a barber.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And then breakfast, sir? Yes, sir. That way, sir, if you please. Show
      Concord! Gentleman&rsquo;s valise and hot water to Concord. Pull off gentleman&rsquo;s
      boots in Concord. (You will find a fine sea-coal fire, sir.) Fetch barber
      to Concord. Stir about there, now, for Concord!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Concord bed-chamber being always assigned to a passenger by the mail,
      and passengers by the mail being always heavily wrapped up from head to
      foot, the room had the odd interest for the establishment of the Royal
      George, that although but one kind of man was seen to go into it, all
      kinds and varieties of men came out of it. Consequently, another drawer,
      and two porters, and several maids and the landlady, were all loitering by
      accident at various points of the road between the Concord and the
      coffee-room, when a gentleman of sixty, formally dressed in a brown suit
      of clothes, pretty well worn, but very well kept, with large square cuffs
      and large flaps to the pockets, passed along on his way to his breakfast.
    </p>
    <p>
      The coffee-room had no other occupant, that forenoon, than the gentleman
      in brown. His breakfast-table was drawn before the fire, and as he sat,
      with its light shining on him, waiting for the meal, he sat so still, that
      he might have been sitting for his portrait.
    </p>
    <p>
      Very orderly and methodical he looked, with a hand on each knee, and a
      loud watch ticking a sonorous sermon under his flapped waist-coat, as
      though it pitted its gravity and longevity against the levity and
      evanescence of the brisk fire. He had a good leg, and was a little vain of
      it, for his brown stockings fitted sleek and close, and were of a fine
      texture; his shoes and buckles, too, though plain, were trim. He wore an
      odd little sleek crisp flaxen wig, setting very close to his head: which
      wig, it is to be presumed, was made of hair, but which looked far more as
      though it were spun from filaments of silk or glass. His linen, though not
      of a fineness in accordance with his stockings, was as white as the tops
      of the waves that broke upon the neighbouring beach, or the specks of sail
      that glinted in the sunlight far at sea. A face habitually suppressed and
      quieted, was still lighted up under the quaint wig by a pair of moist
      bright eyes that it must have cost their owner, in years gone by, some
      pains to drill to the composed and reserved expression of Tellson&rsquo;s Bank.
      He had a healthy colour in his cheeks, and his face, though lined, bore
      few traces of anxiety. But, perhaps the confidential bachelor clerks in
      Tellson&rsquo;s Bank were principally occupied with the cares of other people;
      and perhaps second-hand cares, like second-hand clothes, come easily off
      and on.
    </p>
    <p>
      Completing his resemblance to a man who was sitting for his portrait, Mr.
      Lorry dropped off to sleep. The arrival of his breakfast roused him, and
      he said to the drawer, as he moved his chair to it:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish accommodation prepared for a young lady who may come here at any
      time to-day. She may ask for Mr. Jarvis Lorry, or she may only ask for a
      gentleman from Tellson&rsquo;s Bank. Please to let me know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir. Tellson&rsquo;s Bank in London, sir?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir. We have oftentimes the honour to entertain your gentlemen in
      their travelling backwards and forwards betwixt London and Paris, sir. A
      vast deal of travelling, sir, in Tellson and Company&rsquo;s House.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. We are quite a French House, as well as an English one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir. Not much in the habit of such travelling yourself, I think,
      sir?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not of late years. It is fifteen years since we&mdash;since I&mdash;came
      last from France.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, sir? That was before my time here, sir. Before our people&rsquo;s time
      here, sir. The George was in other hands at that time, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I would hold a pretty wager, sir, that a House like Tellson and
      Company was flourishing, a matter of fifty, not to speak of fifteen years
      ago?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You might treble that, and say a hundred and fifty, yet not be far from
      the truth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, sir!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Rounding his mouth and both his eyes, as he stepped backward from the
      table, the waiter shifted his napkin from his right arm to his left,
      dropped into a comfortable attitude, and stood surveying the guest while
      he ate and drank, as from an observatory or watchtower. According to the
      immemorial usage of waiters in all ages.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Mr. Lorry had finished his breakfast, he went out for a stroll on the
      beach. The little narrow, crooked town of Dover hid itself away from the
      beach, and ran its head into the chalk cliffs, like a marine ostrich. The
      beach was a desert of heaps of sea and stones tumbling wildly about, and
      the sea did what it liked, and what it liked was destruction. It thundered
      at the town, and thundered at the cliffs, and brought the coast down,
      madly. The air among the houses was of so strong a piscatory flavour that
      one might have supposed sick fish went up to be dipped in it, as sick
      people went down to be dipped in the sea. A little fishing was done in the
      port, and a quantity of strolling about by night, and looking seaward:
      particularly at those times when the tide made, and was near flood. Small
      tradesmen, who did no business whatever, sometimes unaccountably realised
      large fortunes, and it was remarkable that nobody in the neighbourhood
      could endure a lamplighter.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the day declined into the afternoon, and the air, which had been at
      intervals clear enough to allow the French coast to be seen, became again
      charged with mist and vapour, Mr. Lorry&rsquo;s thoughts seemed to cloud too.
      When it was dark, and he sat before the coffee-room fire, awaiting his
      dinner as he had awaited his breakfast, his mind was busily digging,
      digging, digging, in the live red coals.
    </p>
    <p>
      A bottle of good claret after dinner does a digger in the red coals no
      harm, otherwise than as it has a tendency to throw him out of work. Mr.
      Lorry had been idle a long time, and had just poured out his last glassful
      of wine with as complete an appearance of satisfaction as is ever to be
      found in an elderly gentleman of a fresh complexion who has got to the end
      of a bottle, when a rattling of wheels came up the narrow street, and
      rumbled into the inn-yard.
    </p>
    <p>
      He set down his glass untouched. &ldquo;This is Mam&rsquo;selle!&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a very few minutes the waiter came in to announce that Miss Manette had
      arrived from London, and would be happy to see the gentleman from
      Tellson&rsquo;s.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So soon?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Manette had taken some refreshment on the road, and required none
      then, and was extremely anxious to see the gentleman from Tellson&rsquo;s
      immediately, if it suited his pleasure and convenience.
    </p>
    <p>
      The gentleman from Tellson&rsquo;s had nothing left for it but to empty his
      glass with an air of stolid desperation, settle his odd little flaxen wig
      at the ears, and follow the waiter to Miss Manette&rsquo;s apartment. It was a
      large, dark room, furnished in a funereal manner with black horsehair, and
      loaded with heavy dark tables. These had been oiled and oiled, until the
      two tall candles on the table in the middle of the room were gloomily
      reflected on every leaf; as if <i>they</i> were buried, in deep graves of
      black mahogany, and no light to speak of could be expected from them until
      they were dug out.
    </p>
    <p>
      The obscurity was so difficult to penetrate that Mr. Lorry, picking his
      way over the well-worn Turkey carpet, supposed Miss Manette to be, for the
      moment, in some adjacent room, until, having got past the two tall
      candles, he saw standing to receive him by the table between them and the
      fire, a young lady of not more than seventeen, in a riding-cloak, and
      still holding her straw travelling-hat by its ribbon in her hand. As his
      eyes rested on a short, slight, pretty figure, a quantity of golden hair,
      a pair of blue eyes that met his own with an inquiring look, and a
      forehead with a singular capacity (remembering how young and smooth it
      was), of rifting and knitting itself into an expression that was not quite
      one of perplexity, or wonder, or alarm, or merely of a bright fixed
      attention, though it included all the four expressions&mdash;as his eyes
      rested on these things, a sudden vivid likeness passed before him, of a
      child whom he had held in his arms on the passage across that very
      Channel, one cold time, when the hail drifted heavily and the sea ran
      high. The likeness passed away, like a breath along the surface of the
      gaunt pier-glass behind her, on the frame of which, a hospital procession
      of negro cupids, several headless and all cripples, were offering black
      baskets of Dead Sea fruit to black divinities of the feminine gender&mdash;and
      he made his formal bow to Miss Manette.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pray take a seat, sir.&rdquo; In a very clear and pleasant young voice; a
      little foreign in its accent, but a very little indeed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I kiss your hand, miss,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, with the manners of an earlier
      date, as he made his formal bow again, and took his seat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I received a letter from the Bank, sir, yesterday, informing me that some
      intelligence&mdash;or discovery&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The word is not material, miss; either word will do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&mdash;respecting the small property of my poor father, whom I never saw&mdash;so
      long dead&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Lorry moved in his chair, and cast a troubled look towards the
      hospital procession of negro cupids. As if <i>they</i> had any help for
      anybody in their absurd baskets!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&mdash;rendered it necessary that I should go to Paris, there to
      communicate with a gentleman of the Bank, so good as to be despatched to
      Paris for the purpose.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As I was prepared to hear, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She curtseyed to him (young ladies made curtseys in those days), with a
      pretty desire to convey to him that she felt how much older and wiser he
      was than she. He made her another bow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I replied to the Bank, sir, that as it was considered necessary, by those
      who know, and who are so kind as to advise me, that I should go to France,
      and that as I am an orphan and have no friend who could go with me, I
      should esteem it highly if I might be permitted to place myself, during
      the journey, under that worthy gentleman&rsquo;s protection. The gentleman had
      left London, but I think a messenger was sent after him to beg the favour
      of his waiting for me here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was happy,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, &ldquo;to be entrusted with the charge. I shall
      be more happy to execute it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir, I thank you indeed. I thank you very gratefully. It was told me by
      the Bank that the gentleman would explain to me the details of the
      business, and that I must prepare myself to find them of a surprising
      nature. I have done my best to prepare myself, and I naturally have a
      strong and eager interest to know what they are.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Naturally,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry. &ldquo;Yes&mdash;I&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After a pause, he added, again settling the crisp flaxen wig at the ears,
      &ldquo;It is very difficult to begin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He did not begin, but, in his indecision, met her glance. The young
      forehead lifted itself into that singular expression&mdash;but it was
      pretty and characteristic, besides being singular&mdash;and she raised her
      hand, as if with an involuntary action she caught at, or stayed some
      passing shadow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you quite a stranger to me, sir?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Am I not?&rdquo; Mr. Lorry opened his hands, and extended them outwards with an
      argumentative smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      Between the eyebrows and just over the little feminine nose, the line of
      which was as delicate and fine as it was possible to be, the expression
      deepened itself as she took her seat thoughtfully in the chair by which
      she had hitherto remained standing. He watched her as she mused, and the
      moment she raised her eyes again, went on:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In your adopted country, I presume, I cannot do better than address you
      as a young English lady, Miss Manette?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you please, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Manette, I am a man of business. I have a business charge to acquit
      myself of. In your reception of it, don&rsquo;t heed me any more than if I was a
      speaking machine&mdash;truly, I am not much else. I will, with your leave,
      relate to you, miss, the story of one of our customers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Story!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He seemed wilfully to mistake the word she had repeated, when he added, in
      a hurry, &ldquo;Yes, customers; in the banking business we usually call our
      connection our customers. He was a French gentleman; a scientific
      gentleman; a man of great acquirements&mdash;a Doctor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not of Beauvais?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, yes, of Beauvais. Like Monsieur Manette, your father, the gentleman
      was of Beauvais. Like Monsieur Manette, your father, the gentleman was of
      repute in Paris. I had the honour of knowing him there. Our relations were
      business relations, but confidential. I was at that time in our French
      House, and had been&mdash;oh! twenty years.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At that time&mdash;I may ask, at what time, sir?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I speak, miss, of twenty years ago. He married&mdash;an English lady&mdash;and
      I was one of the trustees. His affairs, like the affairs of many other
      French gentlemen and French families, were entirely in Tellson&rsquo;s hands. In
      a similar way I am, or I have been, trustee of one kind or other for
      scores of our customers. These are mere business relations, miss; there is
      no friendship in them, no particular interest, nothing like sentiment. I
      have passed from one to another, in the course of my business life, just
      as I pass from one of our customers to another in the course of my
      business day; in short, I have no feelings; I am a mere machine. To go on&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But this is my father&rsquo;s story, sir; and I begin to think&rdquo;&mdash;the
      curiously roughened forehead was very intent upon him&mdash;&ldquo;that when I
      was left an orphan through my mother&rsquo;s surviving my father only two years,
      it was you who brought me to England. I am almost sure it was you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Lorry took the hesitating little hand that confidingly advanced to
      take his, and he put it with some ceremony to his lips. He then conducted
      the young lady straightway to her chair again, and, holding the chair-back
      with his left hand, and using his right by turns to rub his chin, pull his
      wig at the ears, or point what he said, stood looking down into her face
      while she sat looking up into his.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Manette, it <i>was</i> I. And you will see how truly I spoke of
      myself just now, in saying I had no feelings, and that all the relations I
      hold with my fellow-creatures are mere business relations, when you
      reflect that I have never seen you since. No; you have been the ward of
      Tellson&rsquo;s House since, and I have been busy with the other business of
      Tellson&rsquo;s House since. Feelings! I have no time for them, no chance of
      them. I pass my whole life, miss, in turning an immense pecuniary Mangle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After this odd description of his daily routine of employment, Mr. Lorry
      flattened his flaxen wig upon his head with both hands (which was most
      unnecessary, for nothing could be flatter than its shining surface was
      before), and resumed his former attitude.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So far, miss (as you have remarked), this is the story of your regretted
      father. Now comes the difference. If your father had not died when he did&mdash;Don&rsquo;t
      be frightened! How you start!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She did, indeed, start. And she caught his wrist with both her hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pray,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, in a soothing tone, bringing his left hand from
      the back of the chair to lay it on the supplicatory fingers that clasped
      him in so violent a tremble: &ldquo;pray control your agitation&mdash;a matter
      of business. As I was saying&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her look so discomposed him that he stopped, wandered, and began anew:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As I was saying; if Monsieur Manette had not died; if he had suddenly and
      silently disappeared; if he had been spirited away; if it had not been
      difficult to guess to what dreadful place, though no art could trace him;
      if he had an enemy in some compatriot who could exercise a privilege that
      I in my own time have known the boldest people afraid to speak of in a
      whisper, across the water there; for instance, the privilege of filling up
      blank forms for the consignment of any one to the oblivion of a prison for
      any length of time; if his wife had implored the king, the queen, the
      court, the clergy, for any tidings of him, and all quite in vain;&mdash;then
      the history of your father would have been the history of this unfortunate
      gentleman, the Doctor of Beauvais.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I entreat you to tell me more, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will. I am going to. You can bear it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can bear anything but the uncertainty you leave me in at this moment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You speak collectedly, and you&mdash;<i>are</i> collected. That&rsquo;s good!&rdquo;
       (Though his manner was less satisfied than his words.) &ldquo;A matter of
      business. Regard it as a matter of business&mdash;business that must be
      done. Now if this doctor&rsquo;s wife, though a lady of great courage and
      spirit, had suffered so intensely from this cause before her little child
      was born&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The little child was a daughter, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A daughter. A-a-matter of business&mdash;don&rsquo;t be distressed. Miss, if
      the poor lady had suffered so intensely before her little child was born,
      that she came to the determination of sparing the poor child the
      inheritance of any part of the agony she had known the pains of, by
      rearing her in the belief that her father was dead&mdash;No, don&rsquo;t kneel!
      In Heaven&rsquo;s name why should you kneel to me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For the truth. O dear, good, compassionate sir, for the truth!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A&mdash;a matter of business. You confuse me, and how can I transact
      business if I am confused? Let us be clear-headed. If you could kindly
      mention now, for instance, what nine times ninepence are, or how many
      shillings in twenty guineas, it would be so encouraging. I should be so
      much more at my ease about your state of mind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Without directly answering to this appeal, she sat so still when he had
      very gently raised her, and the hands that had not ceased to clasp his
      wrists were so much more steady than they had been, that she communicated
      some reassurance to Mr. Jarvis Lorry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s right, that&rsquo;s right. Courage! Business! You have business before
      you; useful business. Miss Manette, your mother took this course with you.
      And when she died&mdash;I believe broken-hearted&mdash;having never
      slackened her unavailing search for your father, she left you, at two
      years old, to grow to be blooming, beautiful, and happy, without the dark
      cloud upon you of living in uncertainty whether your father soon wore his
      heart out in prison, or wasted there through many lingering years.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As he said the words he looked down, with an admiring pity, on the flowing
      golden hair; as if he pictured to himself that it might have been already
      tinged with grey.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know that your parents had no great possession, and that what they
      had was secured to your mother and to you. There has been no new
      discovery, of money, or of any other property; but&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He felt his wrist held closer, and he stopped. The expression in the
      forehead, which had so particularly attracted his notice, and which was
      now immovable, had deepened into one of pain and horror.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But he has been&mdash;been found. He is alive. Greatly changed, it is too
      probable; almost a wreck, it is possible; though we will hope the best.
      Still, alive. Your father has been taken to the house of an old servant in
      Paris, and we are going there: I, to identify him if I can: you, to
      restore him to life, love, duty, rest, comfort.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A shiver ran through her frame, and from it through his. She said, in a
      low, distinct, awe-stricken voice, as if she were saying it in a dream,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am going to see his Ghost! It will be his Ghost&mdash;not him!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Lorry quietly chafed the hands that held his arm. &ldquo;There, there,
      there! See now, see now! The best and the worst are known to you, now. You
      are well on your way to the poor wronged gentleman, and, with a fair sea
      voyage, and a fair land journey, you will be soon at his dear side.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She repeated in the same tone, sunk to a whisper, &ldquo;I have been free, I
      have been happy, yet his Ghost has never haunted me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only one thing more,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, laying stress upon it as a
      wholesome means of enforcing her attention: &ldquo;he has been found under
      another name; his own, long forgotten or long concealed. It would be worse
      than useless now to inquire which; worse than useless to seek to know
      whether he has been for years overlooked, or always designedly held
      prisoner. It would be worse than useless now to make any inquiries,
      because it would be dangerous. Better not to mention the subject, anywhere
      or in any way, and to remove him&mdash;for a while at all events&mdash;out
      of France. Even I, safe as an Englishman, and even Tellson&rsquo;s, important as
      they are to French credit, avoid all naming of the matter. I carry about
      me, not a scrap of writing openly referring to it. This is a secret
      service altogether. My credentials, entries, and memoranda, are all
      comprehended in the one line, &lsquo;Recalled to Life;&rsquo; which may mean anything.
      But what is the matter! She doesn&rsquo;t notice a word! Miss Manette!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Perfectly still and silent, and not even fallen back in her chair, she sat
      under his hand, utterly insensible; with her eyes open and fixed upon him,
      and with that last expression looking as if it were carved or branded into
      her forehead. So close was her hold upon his arm, that he feared to detach
      himself lest he should hurt her; therefore he called out loudly for
      assistance without moving.
    </p>
    <p>
      A wild-looking woman, whom even in his agitation, Mr. Lorry observed to be
      all of a red colour, and to have red hair, and to be dressed in some
      extraordinary tight-fitting fashion, and to have on her head a most
      wonderful bonnet like a Grenadier wooden measure, and good measure too, or
      a great Stilton cheese, came running into the room in advance of the inn
      servants, and soon settled the question of his detachment from the poor
      young lady, by laying a brawny hand upon his chest, and sending him flying
      back against the nearest wall.
    </p>
    <p>
      (&ldquo;I really think this must be a man!&rdquo; was Mr. Lorry&rsquo;s breathless
      reflection, simultaneously with his coming against the wall.)
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, look at you all!&rdquo; bawled this figure, addressing the inn servants.
      &ldquo;Why don&rsquo;t you go and fetch things, instead of standing there staring at
      me? I am not so much to look at, am I? Why don&rsquo;t you go and fetch things?
      I&rsquo;ll let you know, if you don&rsquo;t bring smelling-salts, cold water, and
      vinegar, quick, I will.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was an immediate dispersal for these restoratives, and she softly
      laid the patient on a sofa, and tended her with great skill and
      gentleness: calling her &ldquo;my precious!&rdquo; and &ldquo;my bird!&rdquo; and spreading her
      golden hair aside over her shoulders with great pride and care.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you in brown!&rdquo; she said, indignantly turning to Mr. Lorry; &ldquo;couldn&rsquo;t
      you tell her what you had to tell her, without frightening her to death?
      Look at her, with her pretty pale face and her cold hands. Do you call <i>that</i>
      being a Banker?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Lorry was so exceedingly disconcerted by a question so hard to answer,
      that he could only look on, at a distance, with much feebler sympathy and
      humility, while the strong woman, having banished the inn servants under
      the mysterious penalty of &ldquo;letting them know&rdquo; something not mentioned if
      they stayed there, staring, recovered her charge by a regular series of
      gradations, and coaxed her to lay her drooping head upon her shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope she will do well now,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No thanks to you in brown, if she does. My darling pretty!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, after another pause of feeble sympathy and
      humility, &ldquo;that you accompany Miss Manette to France?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A likely thing, too!&rdquo; replied the strong woman. &ldquo;If it was ever intended
      that I should go across salt water, do you suppose Providence would have
      cast my lot in an island?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This being another question hard to answer, Mr. Jarvis Lorry withdrew to
      consider it.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"></a>
      CHAPTER V.<br />The Wine-shop
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span> large cask of wine had been dropped and broken, in the street. The
      accident had happened in getting it out of a cart; the cask had tumbled
      out with a run, the hoops had burst, and it lay on the stones just outside
      the door of the wine-shop, shattered like a walnut-shell.
    </p>
    <p>
      All the people within reach had suspended their business, or their
      idleness, to run to the spot and drink the wine. The rough, irregular
      stones of the street, pointing every way, and designed, one might have
      thought, expressly to lame all living creatures that approached them, had
      dammed it into little pools; these were surrounded, each by its own
      jostling group or crowd, according to its size. Some men kneeled down,
      made scoops of their two hands joined, and sipped, or tried to help women,
      who bent over their shoulders, to sip, before the wine had all run out
      between their fingers. Others, men and women, dipped in the puddles with
      little mugs of mutilated earthenware, or even with handkerchiefs from
      women&rsquo;s heads, which were squeezed dry into infants&rsquo; mouths; others made
      small mud-embankments, to stem the wine as it ran; others, directed by
      lookers-on up at high windows, darted here and there, to cut off little
      streams of wine that started away in new directions; others devoted
      themselves to the sodden and lee-dyed pieces of the cask, licking, and
      even champing the moister wine-rotted fragments with eager relish. There
      was no drainage to carry off the wine, and not only did it all get taken
      up, but so much mud got taken up along with it, that there might have been
      a scavenger in the street, if anybody acquainted with it could have
      believed in such a miraculous presence.
    </p>
    <p>
      A shrill sound of laughter and of amused voices&mdash;voices of men,
      women, and children&mdash;resounded in the street while this wine game
      lasted. There was little roughness in the sport, and much playfulness.
      There was a special companionship in it, an observable inclination on the
      part of every one to join some other one, which led, especially among the
      luckier or lighter-hearted, to frolicsome embraces, drinking of healths,
      shaking of hands, and even joining of hands and dancing, a dozen together.
      When the wine was gone, and the places where it had been most abundant
      were raked into a gridiron-pattern by fingers, these demonstrations
      ceased, as suddenly as they had broken out. The man who had left his saw
      sticking in the firewood he was cutting, set it in motion again; the women
      who had left on a door-step the little pot of hot ashes, at which she had
      been trying to soften the pain in her own starved fingers and toes, or in
      those of her child, returned to it; men with bare arms, matted locks, and
      cadaverous faces, who had emerged into the winter light from cellars,
      moved away, to descend again; and a gloom gathered on the scene that
      appeared more natural to it than sunshine.
    </p>
    <p>
      The wine was red wine, and had stained the ground of the narrow street in
      the suburb of Saint Antoine, in Paris, where it was spilled. It had
      stained many hands, too, and many faces, and many naked feet, and many
      wooden shoes. The hands of the man who sawed the wood, left red marks on
      the billets; and the forehead of the woman who nursed her baby, was
      stained with the stain of the old rag she wound about her head again.
      Those who had been greedy with the staves of the cask, had acquired a
      tigerish smear about the mouth; and one tall joker so besmirched, his head
      more out of a long squalid bag of a nightcap than in it, scrawled upon a
      wall with his finger dipped in muddy wine-lees&mdash;<i>blood</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      The time was to come, when that wine too would be spilled on the
      street-stones, and when the stain of it would be red upon many there.
    </p>
    <p>
      And now that the cloud settled on Saint Antoine, which a momentary gleam
      had driven from his sacred countenance, the darkness of it was heavy&mdash;cold,
      dirt, sickness, ignorance, and want, were the lords in waiting on the
      saintly presence&mdash;nobles of great power all of them; but, most
      especially the last. Samples of a people that had undergone a terrible
      grinding and regrinding in the mill, and certainly not in the fabulous
      mill which ground old people young, shivered at every corner, passed in
      and out at every doorway, looked from every window, fluttered in every
      vestige of a garment that the wind shook. The mill which had worked them
      down, was the mill that grinds young people old; the children had ancient
      faces and grave voices; and upon them, and upon the grown faces, and
      ploughed into every furrow of age and coming up afresh, was the sigh,
      Hunger. It was prevalent everywhere. Hunger was pushed out of the tall
      houses, in the wretched clothing that hung upon poles and lines; Hunger
      was patched into them with straw and rag and wood and paper; Hunger was
      repeated in every fragment of the small modicum of firewood that the man
      sawed off; Hunger stared down from the smokeless chimneys, and started up
      from the filthy street that had no offal, among its refuse, of anything to
      eat. Hunger was the inscription on the baker&rsquo;s shelves, written in every
      small loaf of his scanty stock of bad bread; at the sausage-shop, in every
      dead-dog preparation that was offered for sale. Hunger rattled its dry
      bones among the roasting chestnuts in the turned cylinder; Hunger was
      shred into atomics in every farthing porringer of husky chips of potato,
      fried with some reluctant drops of oil.
    </p>
    <p>
      Its abiding place was in all things fitted to it. A narrow winding street,
      full of offence and stench, with other narrow winding streets diverging,
      all peopled by rags and nightcaps, and all smelling of rags and nightcaps,
      and all visible things with a brooding look upon them that looked ill. In
      the hunted air of the people there was yet some wild-beast thought of the
      possibility of turning at bay. Depressed and slinking though they were,
      eyes of fire were not wanting among them; nor compressed lips, white with
      what they suppressed; nor foreheads knitted into the likeness of the
      gallows-rope they mused about enduring, or inflicting. The trade signs
      (and they were almost as many as the shops) were, all, grim illustrations
      of Want. The butcher and the porkman painted up, only the leanest scrags
      of meat; the baker, the coarsest of meagre loaves. The people rudely
      pictured as drinking in the wine-shops, croaked over their scanty measures
      of thin wine and beer, and were gloweringly confidential together. Nothing
      was represented in a flourishing condition, save tools and weapons; but,
      the cutler&rsquo;s knives and axes were sharp and bright, the smith&rsquo;s hammers
      were heavy, and the gunmaker&rsquo;s stock was murderous. The crippling stones
      of the pavement, with their many little reservoirs of mud and water, had
      no footways, but broke off abruptly at the doors. The kennel, to make
      amends, ran down the middle of the street&mdash;when it ran at all: which
      was only after heavy rains, and then it ran, by many eccentric fits, into
      the houses. Across the streets, at wide intervals, one clumsy lamp was
      slung by a rope and pulley; at night, when the lamplighter had let these
      down, and lighted, and hoisted them again, a feeble grove of dim wicks
      swung in a sickly manner overhead, as if they were at sea. Indeed they
      were at sea, and the ship and crew were in peril of tempest.
    </p>
    <p>
      For, the time was to come, when the gaunt scarecrows of that region should
      have watched the lamplighter, in their idleness and hunger, so long, as to
      conceive the idea of improving on his method, and hauling up men by those
      ropes and pulleys, to flare upon the darkness of their condition. But, the
      time was not come yet; and every wind that blew over France shook the rags
      of the scarecrows in vain, for the birds, fine of song and feather, took
      no warning.
    </p>
    <p>
      The wine-shop was a corner shop, better than most others in its appearance
      and degree, and the master of the wine-shop had stood outside it, in a
      yellow waistcoat and green breeches, looking on at the struggle for the
      lost wine. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s not my affair,&rdquo; said he, with a final shrug of the
      shoulders. &ldquo;The people from the market did it. Let them bring another.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There, his eyes happening to catch the tall joker writing up his joke, he
      called to him across the way:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say, then, my Gaspard, what do you do there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The fellow pointed to his joke with immense significance, as is often the
      way with his tribe. It missed its mark, and completely failed, as is often
      the way with his tribe too.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What now? Are you a subject for the mad hospital?&rdquo; said the wine-shop
      keeper, crossing the road, and obliterating the jest with a handful of
      mud, picked up for the purpose, and smeared over it. &ldquo;Why do you write in
      the public streets? Is there&mdash;tell me thou&mdash;is there no other
      place to write such words in?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In his expostulation he dropped his cleaner hand (perhaps accidentally,
      perhaps not) upon the joker&rsquo;s heart. The joker rapped it with his own,
      took a nimble spring upward, and came down in a fantastic dancing
      attitude, with one of his stained shoes jerked off his foot into his hand,
      and held out. A joker of an extremely, not to say wolfishly practical
      character, he looked, under those circumstances.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Put it on, put it on,&rdquo; said the other. &ldquo;Call wine, wine; and finish
      there.&rdquo; With that advice, he wiped his soiled hand upon the joker&rsquo;s dress,
      such as it was&mdash;quite deliberately, as having dirtied the hand on his
      account; and then recrossed the road and entered the wine-shop.
    </p>
    <p>
      This wine-shop keeper was a bull-necked, martial-looking man of thirty,
      and he should have been of a hot temperament, for, although it was a
      bitter day, he wore no coat, but carried one slung over his shoulder. His
      shirt-sleeves were rolled up, too, and his brown arms were bare to the
      elbows. Neither did he wear anything more on his head than his own
      crisply-curling short dark hair. He was a dark man altogether, with good
      eyes and a good bold breadth between them. Good-humoured looking on the
      whole, but implacable-looking, too; evidently a man of a strong resolution
      and a set purpose; a man not desirable to be met, rushing down a narrow
      pass with a gulf on either side, for nothing would turn the man.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame Defarge, his wife, sat in the shop behind the counter as he came
      in. Madame Defarge was a stout woman of about his own age, with a watchful
      eye that seldom seemed to look at anything, a large hand heavily ringed, a
      steady face, strong features, and great composure of manner. There was a
      character about Madame Defarge, from which one might have predicated that
      she did not often make mistakes against herself in any of the reckonings
      over which she presided. Madame Defarge being sensitive to cold, was
      wrapped in fur, and had a quantity of bright shawl twined about her head,
      though not to the concealment of her large earrings. Her knitting was
      before her, but she had laid it down to pick her teeth with a toothpick.
      Thus engaged, with her right elbow supported by her left hand, Madame
      Defarge said nothing when her lord came in, but coughed just one grain of
      cough. This, in combination with the lifting of her darkly defined
      eyebrows over her toothpick by the breadth of a line, suggested to her
      husband that he would do well to look round the shop among the customers,
      for any new customer who had dropped in while he stepped over the way.
    </p>
    <p>
      The wine-shop keeper accordingly rolled his eyes about, until they rested
      upon an elderly gentleman and a young lady, who were seated in a corner.
      Other company were there: two playing cards, two playing dominoes, three
      standing by the counter lengthening out a short supply of wine. As he
      passed behind the counter, he took notice that the elderly gentleman said
      in a look to the young lady, &ldquo;This is our man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What the devil do <i>you</i> do in that galley there?&rdquo; said Monsieur
      Defarge to himself; &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But, he feigned not to notice the two strangers, and fell into discourse
      with the triumvirate of customers who were drinking at the counter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How goes it, Jacques?&rdquo; said one of these three to Monsieur Defarge. &ldquo;Is
      all the spilt wine swallowed?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Every drop, Jacques,&rdquo; answered Monsieur Defarge.
    </p>
    <p>
      When this interchange of Christian name was effected, Madame Defarge,
      picking her teeth with her toothpick, coughed another grain of cough, and
      raised her eyebrows by the breadth of another line.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not often,&rdquo; said the second of the three, addressing Monsieur
      Defarge, &ldquo;that many of these miserable beasts know the taste of wine, or
      of anything but black bread and death. Is it not so, Jacques?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is so, Jacques,&rdquo; Monsieur Defarge returned.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this second interchange of the Christian name, Madame Defarge, still
      using her toothpick with profound composure, coughed another grain of
      cough, and raised her eyebrows by the breadth of another line.
    </p>
    <p>
      The last of the three now said his say, as he put down his empty drinking
      vessel and smacked his lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! So much the worse! A bitter taste it is that such poor cattle always
      have in their mouths, and hard lives they live, Jacques. Am I right,
      Jacques?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are right, Jacques,&rdquo; was the response of Monsieur Defarge.
    </p>
    <p>
      This third interchange of the Christian name was completed at the moment
      when Madame Defarge put her toothpick by, kept her eyebrows up, and
      slightly rustled in her seat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hold then! True!&rdquo; muttered her husband. &ldquo;Gentlemen&mdash;my wife!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The three customers pulled off their hats to Madame Defarge, with three
      flourishes. She acknowledged their homage by bending her head, and giving
      them a quick look. Then she glanced in a casual manner round the
      wine-shop, took up her knitting with great apparent calmness and repose of
      spirit, and became absorbed in it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gentlemen,&rdquo; said her husband, who had kept his bright eye observantly
      upon her, &ldquo;good day. The chamber, furnished bachelor-fashion, that you
      wished to see, and were inquiring for when I stepped out, is on the fifth
      floor. The doorway of the staircase gives on the little courtyard close to
      the left here,&rdquo; pointing with his hand, &ldquo;near to the window of my
      establishment. But, now that I remember, one of you has already been
      there, and can show the way. Gentlemen, adieu!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They paid for their wine, and left the place. The eyes of Monsieur Defarge
      were studying his wife at her knitting when the elderly gentleman advanced
      from his corner, and begged the favour of a word.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Willingly, sir,&rdquo; said Monsieur Defarge, and quietly stepped with him to
      the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      Their conference was very short, but very decided. Almost at the first
      word, Monsieur Defarge started and became deeply attentive. It had not
      lasted a minute, when he nodded and went out. The gentleman then beckoned
      to the young lady, and they, too, went out. Madame Defarge knitted with
      nimble fingers and steady eyebrows, and saw nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Jarvis Lorry and Miss Manette, emerging from the wine-shop thus,
      joined Monsieur Defarge in the doorway to which he had directed his own
      company just before. It opened from a stinking little black courtyard, and
      was the general public entrance to a great pile of houses, inhabited by a
      great number of people. In the gloomy tile-paved entry to the gloomy
      tile-paved staircase, Monsieur Defarge bent down on one knee to the child
      of his old master, and put her hand to his lips. It was a gentle action,
      but not at all gently done; a very remarkable transformation had come over
      him in a few seconds. He had no good-humour in his face, nor any openness
      of aspect left, but had become a secret, angry, dangerous man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is very high; it is a little difficult. Better to begin slowly.&rdquo; Thus,
      Monsieur Defarge, in a stern voice, to Mr. Lorry, as they began ascending
      the stairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is he alone?&rdquo; the latter whispered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alone! God help him, who should be with him!&rdquo; said the other, in the same
      low voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is he always alone, then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of his own desire?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of his own necessity. As he was, when I first saw him after they found me
      and demanded to know if I would take him, and, at my peril be discreet&mdash;as
      he was then, so he is now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is greatly changed?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Changed!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The keeper of the wine-shop stopped to strike the wall with his hand, and
      mutter a tremendous curse. No direct answer could have been half so
      forcible. Mr. Lorry&rsquo;s spirits grew heavier and heavier, as he and his two
      companions ascended higher and higher.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such a staircase, with its accessories, in the older and more crowded
      parts of Paris, would be bad enough now; but, at that time, it was vile
      indeed to unaccustomed and unhardened senses. Every little habitation
      within the great foul nest of one high building&mdash;that is to say, the
      room or rooms within every door that opened on the general staircase&mdash;left
      its own heap of refuse on its own landing, besides flinging other refuse
      from its own windows. The uncontrollable and hopeless mass of
      decomposition so engendered, would have polluted the air, even if poverty
      and deprivation had not loaded it with their intangible impurities; the
      two bad sources combined made it almost insupportable. Through such an
      atmosphere, by a steep dark shaft of dirt and poison, the way lay.
      Yielding to his own disturbance of mind, and to his young companion&rsquo;s
      agitation, which became greater every instant, Mr. Jarvis Lorry twice
      stopped to rest. Each of these stoppages was made at a doleful grating, by
      which any languishing good airs that were left uncorrupted, seemed to
      escape, and all spoilt and sickly vapours seemed to crawl in. Through the
      rusted bars, tastes, rather than glimpses, were caught of the jumbled
      neighbourhood; and nothing within range, nearer or lower than the summits
      of the two great towers of Notre-Dame, had any promise on it of healthy
      life or wholesome aspirations.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last, the top of the staircase was gained, and they stopped for the
      third time. There was yet an upper staircase, of a steeper inclination and
      of contracted dimensions, to be ascended, before the garret story was
      reached. The keeper of the wine-shop, always going a little in advance,
      and always going on the side which Mr. Lorry took, as though he dreaded to
      be asked any question by the young lady, turned himself about here, and,
      carefully feeling in the pockets of the coat he carried over his shoulder,
      took out a key.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The door is locked then, my friend?&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, surprised.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay. Yes,&rdquo; was the grim reply of Monsieur Defarge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You think it necessary to keep the unfortunate gentleman so retired?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think it necessary to turn the key.&rdquo; Monsieur Defarge whispered it
      closer in his ear, and frowned heavily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why! Because he has lived so long, locked up, that he would be frightened&mdash;rave&mdash;tear
      himself to pieces&mdash;die&mdash;come to I know not what harm&mdash;if
      his door was left open.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it possible!&rdquo; exclaimed Mr. Lorry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it possible!&rdquo; repeated Defarge, bitterly. &ldquo;Yes. And a beautiful world
      we live in, when it <i>is</i> possible, and when many other such things
      are possible, and not only possible, but done&mdash;done, see you!&mdash;under
      that sky there, every day. Long live the Devil. Let us go on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This dialogue had been held in so very low a whisper, that not a word of
      it had reached the young lady&rsquo;s ears. But, by this time she trembled under
      such strong emotion, and her face expressed such deep anxiety, and, above
      all, such dread and terror, that Mr. Lorry felt it incumbent on him to
      speak a word or two of reassurance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Courage, dear miss! Courage! Business! The worst will be over in a
      moment; it is but passing the room-door, and the worst is over. Then, all
      the good you bring to him, all the relief, all the happiness you bring to
      him, begin. Let our good friend here, assist you on that side. That&rsquo;s
      well, friend Defarge. Come, now. Business, business!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They went up slowly and softly. The staircase was short, and they were
      soon at the top. There, as it had an abrupt turn in it, they came all at
      once in sight of three men, whose heads were bent down close together at
      the side of a door, and who were intently looking into the room to which
      the door belonged, through some chinks or holes in the wall. On hearing
      footsteps close at hand, these three turned, and rose, and showed
      themselves to be the three of one name who had been drinking in the
      wine-shop.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I forgot them in the surprise of your visit,&rdquo; explained Monsieur Defarge.
      &ldquo;Leave us, good boys; we have business here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The three glided by, and went silently down.
    </p>
    <p>
      There appearing to be no other door on that floor, and the keeper of the
      wine-shop going straight to this one when they were left alone, Mr. Lorry
      asked him in a whisper, with a little anger:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you make a show of Monsieur Manette?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I show him, in the way you have seen, to a chosen few.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that well?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>I</i> think it is well.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who are the few? How do you choose them?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I choose them as real men, of my name&mdash;Jacques is my name&mdash;to
      whom the sight is likely to do good. Enough; you are English; that is
      another thing. Stay there, if you please, a little moment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With an admonitory gesture to keep them back, he stooped, and looked in
      through the crevice in the wall. Soon raising his head again, he struck
      twice or thrice upon the door&mdash;evidently with no other object than to
      make a noise there. With the same intention, he drew the key across it,
      three or four times, before he put it clumsily into the lock, and turned
      it as heavily as he could.
    </p>
    <p>
      The door slowly opened inward under his hand, and he looked into the room
      and said something. A faint voice answered something. Little more than a
      single syllable could have been spoken on either side.
    </p>
    <p>
      He looked back over his shoulder, and beckoned them to enter. Mr. Lorry
      got his arm securely round the daughter&rsquo;s waist, and held her; for he felt
      that she was sinking.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A-a-a-business, business!&rdquo; he urged, with a moisture that was not of
      business shining on his cheek. &ldquo;Come in, come in!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am afraid of it,&rdquo; she answered, shuddering.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of it? What?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mean of him. Of my father.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Rendered in a manner desperate, by her state and by the beckoning of their
      conductor, he drew over his neck the arm that shook upon his shoulder,
      lifted her a little, and hurried her into the room. He sat her down just
      within the door, and held her, clinging to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Defarge drew out the key, closed the door, locked it on the inside, took
      out the key again, and held it in his hand. All this he did, methodically,
      and with as loud and harsh an accompaniment of noise as he could make.
      Finally, he walked across the room with a measured tread to where the
      window was. He stopped there, and faced round.
    </p>
    <p>
      The garret, built to be a depository for firewood and the like, was dim
      and dark: for, the window of dormer shape, was in truth a door in the
      roof, with a little crane over it for the hoisting up of stores from the
      street: unglazed, and closing up the middle in two pieces, like any other
      door of French construction. To exclude the cold, one half of this door
      was fast closed, and the other was opened but a very little way. Such a
      scanty portion of light was admitted through these means, that it was
      difficult, on first coming in, to see anything; and long habit alone could
      have slowly formed in any one, the ability to do any work requiring nicety
      in such obscurity. Yet, work of that kind was being done in the garret;
      for, with his back towards the door, and his face towards the window where
      the keeper of the wine-shop stood looking at him, a white-haired man sat
      on a low bench, stooping forward and very busy, making shoes.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"></a>
      CHAPTER VI.<br />The Shoemaker
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">G</span>ood day!&rdquo; said Monsieur Defarge, looking down at the white head that
      bent low over the shoemaking.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was raised for a moment, and a very faint voice responded to the
      salutation, as if it were at a distance:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good day!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are still hard at work, I see?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After a long silence, the head was lifted for another moment, and the
      voice replied, &ldquo;Yes&mdash;I am working.&rdquo; This time, a pair of haggard eyes
      had looked at the questioner, before the face had dropped again.
    </p>
    <p>
      The faintness of the voice was pitiable and dreadful. It was not the
      faintness of physical weakness, though confinement and hard fare no doubt
      had their part in it. Its deplorable peculiarity was, that it was the
      faintness of solitude and disuse. It was like the last feeble echo of a
      sound made long and long ago. So entirely had it lost the life and
      resonance of the human voice, that it affected the senses like a once
      beautiful colour faded away into a poor weak stain. So sunken and
      suppressed it was, that it was like a voice underground. So expressive it
      was, of a hopeless and lost creature, that a famished traveller, wearied
      out by lonely wandering in a wilderness, would have remembered home and
      friends in such a tone before lying down to die.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some minutes of silent work had passed: and the haggard eyes had looked up
      again: not with any interest or curiosity, but with a dull mechanical
      perception, beforehand, that the spot where the only visitor they were
      aware of had stood, was not yet empty.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want,&rdquo; said Defarge, who had not removed his gaze from the shoemaker,
      &ldquo;to let in a little more light here. You can bear a little more?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The shoemaker stopped his work; looked with a vacant air of listening, at
      the floor on one side of him; then similarly, at the floor on the other
      side of him; then, upward at the speaker.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did you say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You can bear a little more light?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must bear it, if you let it in.&rdquo; (Laying the palest shadow of a stress
      upon the second word.)
    </p>
    <p>
      The opened half-door was opened a little further, and secured at that
      angle for the time. A broad ray of light fell into the garret, and showed
      the workman with an unfinished shoe upon his lap, pausing in his labour.
      His few common tools and various scraps of leather were at his feet and on
      his bench. He had a white beard, raggedly cut, but not very long, a hollow
      face, and exceedingly bright eyes. The hollowness and thinness of his face
      would have caused them to look large, under his yet dark eyebrows and his
      confused white hair, though they had been really otherwise; but, they were
      naturally large, and looked unnaturally so. His yellow rags of shirt lay
      open at the throat, and showed his body to be withered and worn. He, and
      his old canvas frock, and his loose stockings, and all his poor tatters of
      clothes, had, in a long seclusion from direct light and air, faded down to
      such a dull uniformity of parchment-yellow, that it would have been hard
      to say which was which.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had put up a hand between his eyes and the light, and the very bones of
      it seemed transparent. So he sat, with a steadfastly vacant gaze, pausing
      in his work. He never looked at the figure before him, without first
      looking down on this side of himself, then on that, as if he had lost the
      habit of associating place with sound; he never spoke, without first
      wandering in this manner, and forgetting to speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you going to finish that pair of shoes to-day?&rdquo; asked Defarge,
      motioning to Mr. Lorry to come forward.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did you say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you mean to finish that pair of shoes to-day?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t say that I mean to. I suppose so. I don&rsquo;t know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But, the question reminded him of his work, and he bent over it again.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Lorry came silently forward, leaving the daughter by the door. When he
      had stood, for a minute or two, by the side of Defarge, the shoemaker
      looked up. He showed no surprise at seeing another figure, but the
      unsteady fingers of one of his hands strayed to his lips as he looked at
      it (his lips and his nails were of the same pale lead-colour), and then
      the hand dropped to his work, and he once more bent over the shoe. The
      look and the action had occupied but an instant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have a visitor, you see,&rdquo; said Monsieur Defarge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did you say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here is a visitor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The shoemaker looked up as before, but without removing a hand from his
      work.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come!&rdquo; said Defarge. &ldquo;Here is monsieur, who knows a well-made shoe when
      he sees one. Show him that shoe you are working at. Take it, monsieur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Lorry took it in his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell monsieur what kind of shoe it is, and the maker&rsquo;s name.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was a longer pause than usual, before the shoemaker replied:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I forget what it was you asked me. What did you say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I said, couldn&rsquo;t you describe the kind of shoe, for monsieur&rsquo;s
      information?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a lady&rsquo;s shoe. It is a young lady&rsquo;s walking-shoe. It is in the
      present mode. I never saw the mode. I have had a pattern in my hand.&rdquo; He
      glanced at the shoe with some little passing touch of pride.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And the maker&rsquo;s name?&rdquo; said Defarge.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now that he had no work to hold, he laid the knuckles of the right hand in
      the hollow of the left, and then the knuckles of the left hand in the
      hollow of the right, and then passed a hand across his bearded chin, and
      so on in regular changes, without a moment&rsquo;s intermission. The task of
      recalling him from the vagrancy into which he always sank when he had
      spoken, was like recalling some very weak person from a swoon, or
      endeavouring, in the hope of some disclosure, to stay the spirit of a
      fast-dying man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you ask me for my name?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Assuredly I did.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One Hundred and Five, North Tower.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that all?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One Hundred and Five, North Tower.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With a weary sound that was not a sigh, nor a groan, he bent to work
      again, until the silence was again broken.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are not a shoemaker by trade?&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, looking steadfastly at
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      His haggard eyes turned to Defarge as if he would have transferred the
      question to him: but as no help came from that quarter, they turned back
      on the questioner when they had sought the ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not a shoemaker by trade? No, I was not a shoemaker by trade. I-I
      learnt it here. I taught myself. I asked leave to&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He lapsed away, even for minutes, ringing those measured changes on his
      hands the whole time. His eyes came slowly back, at last, to the face from
      which they had wandered; when they rested on it, he started, and resumed,
      in the manner of a sleeper that moment awake, reverting to a subject of
      last night.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I asked leave to teach myself, and I got it with much difficulty after a
      long while, and I have made shoes ever since.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As he held out his hand for the shoe that had been taken from him, Mr.
      Lorry said, still looking steadfastly in his face:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur Manette, do you remember nothing of me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The shoe dropped to the ground, and he sat looking fixedly at the
      questioner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur Manette&rdquo;; Mr. Lorry laid his hand upon Defarge&rsquo;s arm; &ldquo;do you
      remember nothing of this man? Look at him. Look at me. Is there no old
      banker, no old business, no old servant, no old time, rising in your mind,
      Monsieur Manette?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As the captive of many years sat looking fixedly, by turns, at Mr. Lorry
      and at Defarge, some long obliterated marks of an actively intent
      intelligence in the middle of the forehead, gradually forced themselves
      through the black mist that had fallen on him. They were overclouded
      again, they were fainter, they were gone; but they had been there. And so
      exactly was the expression repeated on the fair young face of her who had
      crept along the wall to a point where she could see him, and where she now
      stood looking at him, with hands which at first had been only raised in
      frightened compassion, if not even to keep him off and shut out the sight
      of him, but which were now extending towards him, trembling with eagerness
      to lay the spectral face upon her warm young breast, and love it back to
      life and hope&mdash;so exactly was the expression repeated (though in
      stronger characters) on her fair young face, that it looked as though it
      had passed like a moving light, from him to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Darkness had fallen on him in its place. He looked at the two, less and
      less attentively, and his eyes in gloomy abstraction sought the ground and
      looked about him in the old way. Finally, with a deep long sigh, he took
      the shoe up, and resumed his work.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you recognised him, monsieur?&rdquo; asked Defarge in a whisper.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; for a moment. At first I thought it quite hopeless, but I have
      unquestionably seen, for a single moment, the face that I once knew so
      well. Hush! Let us draw further back. Hush!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She had moved from the wall of the garret, very near to the bench on which
      he sat. There was something awful in his unconsciousness of the figure
      that could have put out its hand and touched him as he stooped over his
      labour.
    </p>
    <p>
      Not a word was spoken, not a sound was made. She stood, like a spirit,
      beside him, and he bent over his work.
    </p>
    <p>
      It happened, at length, that he had occasion to change the instrument in
      his hand, for his shoemaker&rsquo;s knife. It lay on that side of him which was
      not the side on which she stood. He had taken it up, and was stooping to
      work again, when his eyes caught the skirt of her dress. He raised them,
      and saw her face. The two spectators started forward, but she stayed them
      with a motion of her hand. She had no fear of his striking at her with the
      knife, though they had.
    </p>
    <p>
      He stared at her with a fearful look, and after a while his lips began to
      form some words, though no sound proceeded from them. By degrees, in the
      pauses of his quick and laboured breathing, he was heard to say:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is this?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With the tears streaming down her face, she put her two hands to her lips,
      and kissed them to him; then clasped them on her breast, as if she laid
      his ruined head there.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are not the gaoler&rsquo;s daughter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She sighed &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who are you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Not yet trusting the tones of her voice, she sat down on the bench beside
      him. He recoiled, but she laid her hand upon his arm. A strange thrill
      struck him when she did so, and visibly passed over his frame; he laid the
      knife down softly, as he sat staring at her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her golden hair, which she wore in long curls, had been hurriedly pushed
      aside, and fell down over her neck. Advancing his hand by little and
      little, he took it up and looked at it. In the midst of the action he went
      astray, and, with another deep sigh, fell to work at his shoemaking.
    </p>

<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/0442m.jpg" style="width:100%;"  alt="0442m " /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0442.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>

    <p>
      But not for long. Releasing his arm, she laid her hand upon his shoulder.
      After looking doubtfully at it, two or three times, as if to be sure that
      it was really there, he laid down his work, put his hand to his neck, and
      took off a blackened string with a scrap of folded rag attached to it. He
      opened this, carefully, on his knee, and it contained a very little
      quantity of hair: not more than one or two long golden hairs, which he
      had, in some old day, wound off upon his finger.
    </p>
    <p>
      He took her hair into his hand again, and looked closely at it. &ldquo;It is the
      same. How can it be! When was it! How was it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As the concentrated expression returned to his forehead, he seemed to
      become conscious that it was in hers too. He turned her full to the light,
      and looked at her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She had laid her head upon my shoulder, that night when I was summoned
      out&mdash;she had a fear of my going, though I had none&mdash;and when I
      was brought to the North Tower they found these upon my sleeve. &lsquo;You will
      leave me them? They can never help me to escape in the body, though they
      may in the spirit.&rsquo; Those were the words I said. I remember them very
      well.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He formed this speech with his lips many times before he could utter it.
      But when he did find spoken words for it, they came to him coherently,
      though slowly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How was this?&mdash;<i>Was it you</i>?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Once more, the two spectators started, as he turned upon her with a
      frightful suddenness. But she sat perfectly still in his grasp, and only
      said, in a low voice, &ldquo;I entreat you, good gentlemen, do not come near us,
      do not speak, do not move!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hark!&rdquo; he exclaimed. &ldquo;Whose voice was that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His hands released her as he uttered this cry, and went up to his white
      hair, which they tore in a frenzy. It died out, as everything but his
      shoemaking did die out of him, and he refolded his little packet and tried
      to secure it in his breast; but he still looked at her, and gloomily shook
      his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, no; you are too young, too blooming. It can&rsquo;t be. See what the
      prisoner is. These are not the hands she knew, this is not the face she
      knew, this is not a voice she ever heard. No, no. She was&mdash;and He was&mdash;before
      the slow years of the North Tower&mdash;ages ago. What is your name, my
      gentle angel?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Hailing his softened tone and manner, his daughter fell upon her knees
      before him, with her appealing hands upon his breast.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, sir, at another time you shall know my name, and who my mother was,
      and who my father, and how I never knew their hard, hard history. But I
      cannot tell you at this time, and I cannot tell you here. All that I may
      tell you, here and now, is, that I pray to you to touch me and to bless
      me. Kiss me, kiss me! O my dear, my dear!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His cold white head mingled with her radiant hair, which warmed and
      lighted it as though it were the light of Freedom shining on him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you hear in my voice&mdash;I don&rsquo;t know that it is so, but I hope it
      is&mdash;if you hear in my voice any resemblance to a voice that once was
      sweet music in your ears, weep for it, weep for it! If you touch, in
      touching my hair, anything that recalls a beloved head that lay on your
      breast when you were young and free, weep for it, weep for it! If, when I
      hint to you of a Home that is before us, where I will be true to you with
      all my duty and with all my faithful service, I bring back the remembrance
      of a Home long desolate, while your poor heart pined away, weep for it,
      weep for it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She held him closer round the neck, and rocked him on her breast like a
      child.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If, when I tell you, dearest dear, that your agony is over, and that I
      have come here to take you from it, and that we go to England to be at
      peace and at rest, I cause you to think of your useful life laid waste,
      and of our native France so wicked to you, weep for it, weep for it! And
      if, when I shall tell you of my name, and of my father who is living, and
      of my mother who is dead, you learn that I have to kneel to my honoured
      father, and implore his pardon for having never for his sake striven all
      day and lain awake and wept all night, because the love of my poor mother
      hid his torture from me, weep for it, weep for it! Weep for her, then, and
      for me! Good gentlemen, thank God! I feel his sacred tears upon my face,
      and his sobs strike against my heart. O, see! Thank God for us, thank
      God!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had sunk in her arms, and his face dropped on her breast: a sight so
      touching, yet so terrible in the tremendous wrong and suffering which had
      gone before it, that the two beholders covered their faces.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the quiet of the garret had been long undisturbed, and his heaving
      breast and shaken form had long yielded to the calm that must follow all
      storms&mdash;emblem to humanity, of the rest and silence into which the
      storm called Life must hush at last&mdash;they came forward to raise the
      father and daughter from the ground. He had gradually dropped to the
      floor, and lay there in a lethargy, worn out. She had nestled down with
      him, that his head might lie upon her arm; and her hair drooping over him
      curtained him from the light.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If, without disturbing him,&rdquo; she said, raising her hand to Mr. Lorry as
      he stooped over them, after repeated blowings of his nose, &ldquo;all could be
      arranged for our leaving Paris at once, so that, from the very door, he
      could be taken away&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, consider. Is he fit for the journey?&rdquo; asked Mr. Lorry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;More fit for that, I think, than to remain in this city, so dreadful to
      him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is true,&rdquo; said Defarge, who was kneeling to look on and hear. &ldquo;More
      than that; Monsieur Manette is, for all reasons, best out of France. Say,
      shall I hire a carriage and post-horses?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s business,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, resuming on the shortest notice his
      methodical manners; &ldquo;and if business is to be done, I had better do it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then be so kind,&rdquo; urged Miss Manette, &ldquo;as to leave us here. You see how
      composed he has become, and you cannot be afraid to leave him with me now.
      Why should you be? If you will lock the door to secure us from
      interruption, I do not doubt that you will find him, when you come back,
      as quiet as you leave him. In any case, I will take care of him until you
      return, and then we will remove him straight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Both Mr. Lorry and Defarge were rather disinclined to this course, and in
      favour of one of them remaining. But, as there were not only carriage and
      horses to be seen to, but travelling papers; and as time pressed, for the
      day was drawing to an end, it came at last to their hastily dividing the
      business that was necessary to be done, and hurrying away to do it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, as the darkness closed in, the daughter laid her head down on the
      hard ground close at the father&rsquo;s side, and watched him. The darkness
      deepened and deepened, and they both lay quiet, until a light gleamed
      through the chinks in the wall.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Lorry and Monsieur Defarge had made all ready for the journey, and had
      brought with them, besides travelling cloaks and wrappers, bread and meat,
      wine, and hot coffee. Monsieur Defarge put this provender, and the lamp he
      carried, on the shoemaker&rsquo;s bench (there was nothing else in the garret
      but a pallet bed), and he and Mr. Lorry roused the captive, and assisted
      him to his feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      No human intelligence could have read the mysteries of his mind, in the
      scared blank wonder of his face. Whether he knew what had happened,
      whether he recollected what they had said to him, whether he knew that he
      was free, were questions which no sagacity could have solved. They tried
      speaking to him; but, he was so confused, and so very slow to answer, that
      they took fright at his bewilderment, and agreed for the time to tamper
      with him no more. He had a wild, lost manner of occasionally clasping his
      head in his hands, that had not been seen in him before; yet, he had some
      pleasure in the mere sound of his daughter&rsquo;s voice, and invariably turned
      to it when she spoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the submissive way of one long accustomed to obey under coercion, he
      ate and drank what they gave him to eat and drink, and put on the cloak
      and other wrappings, that they gave him to wear. He readily responded to
      his daughter&rsquo;s drawing her arm through his, and took&mdash;and kept&mdash;her
      hand in both his own.
    </p>
    <p>
      They began to descend; Monsieur Defarge going first with the lamp, Mr.
      Lorry closing the little procession. They had not traversed many steps of
      the long main staircase when he stopped, and stared at the roof and round
      at the walls.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You remember the place, my father? You remember coming up here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did you say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But, before she could repeat the question, he murmured an answer as if she
      had repeated it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Remember? No, I don&rsquo;t remember. It was so very long ago.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      That he had no recollection whatever of his having been brought from his
      prison to that house, was apparent to them. They heard him mutter, &ldquo;One
      Hundred and Five, North Tower;&rdquo; and when he looked about him, it evidently
      was for the strong fortress-walls which had long encompassed him. On their
      reaching the courtyard he instinctively altered his tread, as being in
      expectation of a drawbridge; and when there was no drawbridge, and he saw
      the carriage waiting in the open street, he dropped his daughter&rsquo;s hand
      and clasped his head again.
    </p>
    <p>
      No crowd was about the door; no people were discernible at any of the many
      windows; not even a chance passerby was in the street. An unnatural
      silence and desertion reigned there. Only one soul was to be seen, and
      that was Madame Defarge&mdash;who leaned against the door-post, knitting,
      and saw nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      The prisoner had got into a coach, and his daughter had followed him, when
      Mr. Lorry&rsquo;s feet were arrested on the step by his asking, miserably, for
      his shoemaking tools and the unfinished shoes. Madame Defarge immediately
      called to her husband that she would get them, and went, knitting, out of
      the lamplight, through the courtyard. She quickly brought them down and
      handed them in;&mdash;and immediately afterwards leaned against the
      door-post, knitting, and saw nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      Defarge got upon the box, and gave the word &ldquo;To the Barrier!&rdquo; The
      postilion cracked his whip, and they clattered away under the feeble
      over-swinging lamps.
    </p>
    <p>
      Under the over-swinging lamps&mdash;swinging ever brighter in the better
      streets, and ever dimmer in the worse&mdash;and by lighted shops, gay
      crowds, illuminated coffee-houses, and theatre-doors, to one of the city
      gates. Soldiers with lanterns, at the guard-house there. &ldquo;Your papers,
      travellers!&rdquo; &ldquo;See here then, Monsieur the Officer,&rdquo; said Defarge, getting
      down, and taking him gravely apart, &ldquo;these are the papers of monsieur
      inside, with the white head. They were consigned to me, with him, at the&mdash;&rdquo;
       He dropped his voice, there was a flutter among the military lanterns, and
      one of them being handed into the coach by an arm in uniform, the eyes
      connected with the arm looked, not an every day or an every night look, at
      monsieur with the white head. &ldquo;It is well. Forward!&rdquo; from the uniform.
      &ldquo;Adieu!&rdquo; from Defarge. And so, under a short grove of feebler and feebler
      over-swinging lamps, out under the great grove of stars.
    </p>
    <p>
      Beneath that arch of unmoved and eternal lights; some, so remote from this
      little earth that the learned tell us it is doubtful whether their rays
      have even yet discovered it, as a point in space where anything is
      suffered or done: the shadows of the night were broad and black. All
      through the cold and restless interval, until dawn, they once more
      whispered in the ears of Mr. Jarvis Lorry&mdash;sitting opposite the
      buried man who had been dug out, and wondering what subtle powers were for
      ever lost to him, and what were capable of restoration&mdash;the old
      inquiry:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope you care to be recalled to life?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And the old answer:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The end of the first book.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"></a>
      Book the Second&mdash;the Golden Thread
    </h2>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"></a>
      CHAPTER I.<br />Five Years Later
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>ellson&rsquo;s Bank by Temple Bar was an old-fashioned place, even in the year
      one thousand seven hundred and eighty. It was very small, very dark, very
      ugly, very incommodious. It was an old-fashioned place, moreover, in the
      moral attribute that the partners in the House were proud of its
      smallness, proud of its darkness, proud of its ugliness, proud of its
      incommodiousness. They were even boastful of its eminence in those
      particulars, and were fired by an express conviction that, if it were less
      objectionable, it would be less respectable. This was no passive belief,
      but an active weapon which they flashed at more convenient places of
      business. Tellson&rsquo;s (they said) wanted no elbow-room, Tellson&rsquo;s wanted no
      light, Tellson&rsquo;s wanted no embellishment. Noakes and Co.&rsquo;s might, or
      Snooks Brothers&rsquo; might; but Tellson&rsquo;s, thank Heaven&mdash;!
    </p>
    <p>
      Any one of these partners would have disinherited his son on the question
      of rebuilding Tellson&rsquo;s. In this respect the House was much on a par with
      the Country; which did very often disinherit its sons for suggesting
      improvements in laws and customs that had long been highly objectionable,
      but were only the more respectable.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus it had come to pass, that Tellson&rsquo;s was the triumphant perfection of
      inconvenience. After bursting open a door of idiotic obstinacy with a weak
      rattle in its throat, you fell into Tellson&rsquo;s down two steps, and came to
      your senses in a miserable little shop, with two little counters, where
      the oldest of men made your cheque shake as if the wind rustled it, while
      they examined the signature by the dingiest of windows, which were always
      under a shower-bath of mud from Fleet-street, and which were made the
      dingier by their own iron bars proper, and the heavy shadow of Temple Bar.
      If your business necessitated your seeing &ldquo;the House,&rdquo; you were put into a
      species of Condemned Hold at the back, where you meditated on a misspent
      life, until the House came with its hands in its pockets, and you could
      hardly blink at it in the dismal twilight. Your money came out of, or went
      into, wormy old wooden drawers, particles of which flew up your nose and
      down your throat when they were opened and shut. Your bank-notes had a
      musty odour, as if they were fast decomposing into rags again. Your plate
      was stowed away among the neighbouring cesspools, and evil communications
      corrupted its good polish in a day or two. Your deeds got into
      extemporised strong-rooms made of kitchens and sculleries, and fretted all
      the fat out of their parchments into the banking-house air. Your lighter
      boxes of family papers went up-stairs into a Barmecide room, that always
      had a great dining-table in it and never had a dinner, and where, even in
      the year one thousand seven hundred and eighty, the first letters written
      to you by your old love, or by your little children, were but newly
      released from the horror of being ogled through the windows, by the heads
      exposed on Temple Bar with an insensate brutality and ferocity worthy of
      Abyssinia or Ashantee.
    </p>
    <p>
      But indeed, at that time, putting to death was a recipe much in vogue with
      all trades and professions, and not least of all with Tellson&rsquo;s. Death is
      Nature&rsquo;s remedy for all things, and why not Legislation&rsquo;s? Accordingly,
      the forger was put to Death; the utterer of a bad note was put to Death;
      the unlawful opener of a letter was put to Death; the purloiner of forty
      shillings and sixpence was put to Death; the holder of a horse at
      Tellson&rsquo;s door, who made off with it, was put to Death; the coiner of a
      bad shilling was put to Death; the sounders of three-fourths of the notes
      in the whole gamut of Crime, were put to Death. Not that it did the least
      good in the way of prevention&mdash;it might almost have been worth
      remarking that the fact was exactly the reverse&mdash;but, it cleared off
      (as to this world) the trouble of each particular case, and left nothing
      else connected with it to be looked after. Thus, Tellson&rsquo;s, in its day,
      like greater places of business, its contemporaries, had taken so many
      lives, that, if the heads laid low before it had been ranged on Temple Bar
      instead of being privately disposed of, they would probably have excluded
      what little light the ground floor had, in a rather significant manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      Cramped in all kinds of dim cupboards and hutches at Tellson&rsquo;s, the oldest
      of men carried on the business gravely. When they took a young man into
      Tellson&rsquo;s London house, they hid him somewhere till he was old. They kept
      him in a dark place, like a cheese, until he had the full Tellson flavour
      and blue-mould upon him. Then only was he permitted to be seen,
      spectacularly poring over large books, and casting his breeches and
      gaiters into the general weight of the establishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      Outside Tellson&rsquo;s&mdash;never by any means in it, unless called in&mdash;was
      an odd-job-man, an occasional porter and messenger, who served as the live
      sign of the house. He was never absent during business hours, unless upon
      an errand, and then he was represented by his son: a grisly urchin of
      twelve, who was his express image. People understood that Tellson&rsquo;s, in a
      stately way, tolerated the odd-job-man. The house had always tolerated
      some person in that capacity, and time and tide had drifted this person to
      the post. His surname was Cruncher, and on the youthful occasion of his
      renouncing by proxy the works of darkness, in the easterly parish church
      of Hounsditch, he had received the added appellation of Jerry.
    </p>
    <p>
      The scene was Mr. Cruncher&rsquo;s private lodging in Hanging-sword-alley,
      Whitefriars: the time, half-past seven of the clock on a windy March
      morning, Anno Domini seventeen hundred and eighty. (Mr. Cruncher himself
      always spoke of the year of our Lord as Anna Dominoes: apparently under
      the impression that the Christian era dated from the invention of a
      popular game, by a lady who had bestowed her name upon it.)
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Cruncher&rsquo;s apartments were not in a savoury neighbourhood, and were
      but two in number, even if a closet with a single pane of glass in it
      might be counted as one. But they were very decently kept. Early as it
      was, on the windy March morning, the room in which he lay abed was already
      scrubbed throughout; and between the cups and saucers arranged for
      breakfast, and the lumbering deal table, a very clean white cloth was
      spread.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Cruncher reposed under a patchwork counterpane, like a Harlequin at
      home. At first, he slept heavily, but, by degrees, began to roll and surge
      in bed, until he rose above the surface, with his spiky hair looking as if
      it must tear the sheets to ribbons. At which juncture, he exclaimed, in a
      voice of dire exasperation:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bust me, if she ain&rsquo;t at it agin!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A woman of orderly and industrious appearance rose from her knees in a
      corner, with sufficient haste and trepidation to show that she was the
      person referred to.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What!&rdquo; said Mr. Cruncher, looking out of bed for a boot. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re at it
      agin, are you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After hailing the morn with this second salutation, he threw a boot at the
      woman as a third. It was a very muddy boot, and may introduce the odd
      circumstance connected with Mr. Cruncher&rsquo;s domestic economy, that, whereas
      he often came home after banking hours with clean boots, he often got up
      next morning to find the same boots covered with clay.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What,&rdquo; said Mr. Cruncher, varying his apostrophe after missing his mark&mdash;&ldquo;what
      are you up to, Aggerawayter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was only saying my prayers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Saying your prayers! You&rsquo;re a nice woman! What do you mean by flopping
      yourself down and praying agin me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was not praying against you; I was praying for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You weren&rsquo;t. And if you were, I won&rsquo;t be took the liberty with. Here!
      your mother&rsquo;s a nice woman, young Jerry, going a praying agin your
      father&rsquo;s prosperity. You&rsquo;ve got a dutiful mother, you have, my son. You&rsquo;ve
      got a religious mother, you have, my boy: going and flopping herself down,
      and praying that the bread-and-butter may be snatched out of the mouth of
      her only child.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Master Cruncher (who was in his shirt) took this very ill, and, turning to
      his mother, strongly deprecated any praying away of his personal board.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what do you suppose, you conceited female,&rdquo; said Mr. Cruncher, with
      unconscious inconsistency, &ldquo;that the worth of <i>your</i> prayers may be?
      Name the price that you put <i>your</i> prayers at!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They only come from the heart, Jerry. They are worth no more than that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Worth no more than that,&rdquo; repeated Mr. Cruncher. &ldquo;They ain&rsquo;t worth much,
      then. Whether or no, I won&rsquo;t be prayed agin, I tell you. I can&rsquo;t afford
      it. I&rsquo;m not a going to be made unlucky by <i>your</i> sneaking. If you
      must go flopping yourself down, flop in favour of your husband and child,
      and not in opposition to &rsquo;em. If I had had any but a unnat&rsquo;ral wife, and
      this poor boy had had any but a unnat&rsquo;ral mother, I might have made some
      money last week instead of being counter-prayed and countermined and
      religiously circumwented into the worst of luck. B-u-u-ust me!&rdquo; said Mr.
      Cruncher, who all this time had been putting on his clothes, &ldquo;if I ain&rsquo;t,
      what with piety and one blowed thing and another, been choused this last
      week into as bad luck as ever a poor devil of a honest tradesman met with!
      Young Jerry, dress yourself, my boy, and while I clean my boots keep a eye
      upon your mother now and then, and if you see any signs of more flopping,
      give me a call. For, I tell you,&rdquo; here he addressed his wife once more, &ldquo;I
      won&rsquo;t be gone agin, in this manner. I am as rickety as a hackney-coach,
      I&rsquo;m as sleepy as laudanum, my lines is strained to that degree that I
      shouldn&rsquo;t know, if it wasn&rsquo;t for the pain in &rsquo;em, which was me and which
      somebody else, yet I&rsquo;m none the better for it in pocket; and it&rsquo;s my
      suspicion that you&rsquo;ve been at it from morning to night to prevent me from
      being the better for it in pocket, and I won&rsquo;t put up with it,
      Aggerawayter, and what do you say now!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Growling, in addition, such phrases as &ldquo;Ah! yes! You&rsquo;re religious, too.
      You wouldn&rsquo;t put yourself in opposition to the interests of your husband
      and child, would you? Not you!&rdquo; and throwing off other sarcastic sparks
      from the whirling grindstone of his indignation, Mr. Cruncher betook
      himself to his boot-cleaning and his general preparation for business. In
      the meantime, his son, whose head was garnished with tenderer spikes, and
      whose young eyes stood close by one another, as his father&rsquo;s did, kept the
      required watch upon his mother. He greatly disturbed that poor woman at
      intervals, by darting out of his sleeping closet, where he made his
      toilet, with a suppressed cry of &ldquo;You are going to flop, mother. &mdash;Halloa,
      father!&rdquo; and, after raising this fictitious alarm, darting in again with
      an undutiful grin.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Cruncher&rsquo;s temper was not at all improved when he came to his
      breakfast. He resented Mrs. Cruncher&rsquo;s saying grace with particular
      animosity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, Aggerawayter! What are you up to? At it again?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His wife explained that she had merely &ldquo;asked a blessing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t do it!&rdquo; said Mr. Crunches looking about, as if he rather expected
      to see the loaf disappear under the efficacy of his wife&rsquo;s petitions. &ldquo;I
      ain&rsquo;t a going to be blest out of house and home. I won&rsquo;t have my wittles
      blest off my table. Keep still!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Exceedingly red-eyed and grim, as if he had been up all night at a party
      which had taken anything but a convivial turn, Jerry Cruncher worried his
      breakfast rather than ate it, growling over it like any four-footed inmate
      of a menagerie. Towards nine o&rsquo;clock he smoothed his ruffled aspect, and,
      presenting as respectable and business-like an exterior as he could
      overlay his natural self with, issued forth to the occupation of the day.
    </p>
    <p>
      It could scarcely be called a trade, in spite of his favourite description
      of himself as &ldquo;a honest tradesman.&rdquo; His stock consisted of a wooden stool,
      made out of a broken-backed chair cut down, which stool, young Jerry,
      walking at his father&rsquo;s side, carried every morning to beneath the
      banking-house window that was nearest Temple Bar: where, with the addition
      of the first handful of straw that could be gleaned from any passing
      vehicle to keep the cold and wet from the odd-job-man&rsquo;s feet, it formed
      the encampment for the day. On this post of his, Mr. Cruncher was as well
      known to Fleet-street and the Temple, as the Bar itself,&mdash;and was
      almost as in-looking.
    </p>
    <p>
      Encamped at a quarter before nine, in good time to touch his
      three-cornered hat to the oldest of men as they passed in to Tellson&rsquo;s,
      Jerry took up his station on this windy March morning, with young Jerry
      standing by him, when not engaged in making forays through the Bar, to
      inflict bodily and mental injuries of an acute description on passing boys
      who were small enough for his amiable purpose. Father and son, extremely
      like each other, looking silently on at the morning traffic in
      Fleet-street, with their two heads as near to one another as the two eyes
      of each were, bore a considerable resemblance to a pair of monkeys. The
      resemblance was not lessened by the accidental circumstance, that the
      mature Jerry bit and spat out straw, while the twinkling eyes of the
      youthful Jerry were as restlessly watchful of him as of everything else in
      Fleet-street.
    </p>
    <p>
      The head of one of the regular indoor messengers attached to Tellson&rsquo;s
      establishment was put through the door, and the word was given:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Porter wanted!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hooray, father! Here&rsquo;s an early job to begin with!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Having thus given his parent God speed, young Jerry seated himself on the
      stool, entered on his reversionary interest in the straw his father had
      been chewing, and cogitated.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Al-ways rusty! His fingers is al-ways rusty!&rdquo; muttered young Jerry.
      &ldquo;Where does my father get all that iron rust from? He don&rsquo;t get no iron
      rust here!&rdquo;
     </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"></a>
      CHAPTER II.<br />A Sight
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">Y</span>ou know the Old Bailey well, no doubt?&rdquo; said one of the oldest of clerks
      to Jerry the messenger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ye-es, sir,&rdquo; returned Jerry, in something of a dogged manner. &ldquo;I <i>do</i>
      know the Bailey.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just so. And you know Mr. Lorry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know Mr. Lorry, sir, much better than I know the Bailey. Much better,&rdquo;
       said Jerry, not unlike a reluctant witness at the establishment in
      question, &ldquo;than I, as a honest tradesman, wish to know the Bailey.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well. Find the door where the witnesses go in, and show the
      door-keeper this note for Mr. Lorry. He will then let you in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Into the court, sir?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Into the court.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Cruncher&rsquo;s eyes seemed to get a little closer to one another, and to
      interchange the inquiry, &ldquo;What do you think of this?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Am I to wait in the court, sir?&rdquo; he asked, as the result of that
      conference.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am going to tell you. The door-keeper will pass the note to Mr. Lorry,
      and do you make any gesture that will attract Mr. Lorry&rsquo;s attention, and
      show him where you stand. Then what you have to do, is, to remain there
      until he wants you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that all, sir?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s all. He wishes to have a messenger at hand. This is to tell him
      you are there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As the ancient clerk deliberately folded and superscribed the note, Mr.
      Cruncher, after surveying him in silence until he came to the
      blotting-paper stage, remarked:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suppose they&rsquo;ll be trying Forgeries this morning?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Treason!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s quartering,&rdquo; said Jerry. &ldquo;Barbarous!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is the law,&rdquo; remarked the ancient clerk, turning his surprised
      spectacles upon him. &ldquo;It is the law.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s hard in the law to spile a man, I think. It&rsquo;s hard enough to kill
      him, but it&rsquo;s wery hard to spile him, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not at all,&rdquo; retained the ancient clerk. &ldquo;Speak well of the law. Take
      care of your chest and voice, my good friend, and leave the law to take
      care of itself. I give you that advice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s the damp, sir, what settles on my chest and voice,&rdquo; said Jerry. &ldquo;I
      leave you to judge what a damp way of earning a living mine is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, well,&rdquo; said the old clerk; &ldquo;we all have our various ways of gaining
      a livelihood. Some of us have damp ways, and some of us have dry ways.
      Here is the letter. Go along.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jerry took the letter, and, remarking to himself with less internal
      deference than he made an outward show of, &ldquo;You are a lean old one, too,&rdquo;
       made his bow, informed his son, in passing, of his destination, and went
      his way.
    </p>
    <p>
      They hanged at Tyburn, in those days, so the street outside Newgate had
      not obtained one infamous notoriety that has since attached to it. But,
      the gaol was a vile place, in which most kinds of debauchery and villainy
      were practised, and where dire diseases were bred, that came into court
      with the prisoners, and sometimes rushed straight from the dock at my Lord
      Chief Justice himself, and pulled him off the bench. It had more than once
      happened, that the Judge in the black cap pronounced his own doom as
      certainly as the prisoner&rsquo;s, and even died before him. For the rest, the
      Old Bailey was famous as a kind of deadly inn-yard, from which pale
      travellers set out continually, in carts and coaches, on a violent passage
      into the other world: traversing some two miles and a half of public
      street and road, and shaming few good citizens, if any. So powerful is
      use, and so desirable to be good use in the beginning. It was famous, too,
      for the pillory, a wise old institution, that inflicted a punishment of
      which no one could foresee the extent; also, for the whipping-post,
      another dear old institution, very humanising and softening to behold in
      action; also, for extensive transactions in blood-money, another fragment
      of ancestral wisdom, systematically leading to the most frightful
      mercenary crimes that could be committed under Heaven. Altogether, the Old
      Bailey, at that date, was a choice illustration of the precept, that
      &ldquo;Whatever is is right;&rdquo; an aphorism that would be as final as it is lazy,
      did it not include the troublesome consequence, that nothing that ever
      was, was wrong.
    </p>
    <p>
      Making his way through the tainted crowd, dispersed up and down this
      hideous scene of action, with the skill of a man accustomed to make his
      way quietly, the messenger found out the door he sought, and handed in his
      letter through a trap in it. For, people then paid to see the play at the
      Old Bailey, just as they paid to see the play in Bedlam&mdash;only the
      former entertainment was much the dearer. Therefore, all the Old Bailey
      doors were well guarded&mdash;except, indeed, the social doors by which
      the criminals got there, and those were always left wide open.
    </p>
    <p>
      After some delay and demur, the door grudgingly turned on its hinges a
      very little way, and allowed Mr. Jerry Cruncher to squeeze himself into
      court.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s on?&rdquo; he asked, in a whisper, of the man he found himself next to.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s coming on?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Treason case.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The quartering one, eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; returned the man, with a relish; &ldquo;he&rsquo;ll be drawn on a hurdle to be
      half hanged, and then he&rsquo;ll be taken down and sliced before his own face,
      and then his inside will be taken out and burnt while he looks on, and
      then his head will be chopped off, and he&rsquo;ll be cut into quarters. That&rsquo;s
      the sentence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If he&rsquo;s found Guilty, you mean to say?&rdquo; Jerry added, by way of proviso.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! they&rsquo;ll find him guilty,&rdquo; said the other. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you be afraid of
      that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Cruncher&rsquo;s attention was here diverted to the door-keeper, whom he saw
      making his way to Mr. Lorry, with the note in his hand. Mr. Lorry sat at a
      table, among the gentlemen in wigs: not far from a wigged gentleman, the
      prisoner&rsquo;s counsel, who had a great bundle of papers before him: and
      nearly opposite another wigged gentleman with his hands in his pockets,
      whose whole attention, when Mr. Cruncher looked at him then or afterwards,
      seemed to be concentrated on the ceiling of the court. After some gruff
      coughing and rubbing of his chin and signing with his hand, Jerry
      attracted the notice of Mr. Lorry, who had stood up to look for him, and
      who quietly nodded and sat down again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s <i>he</i> got to do with the case?&rdquo; asked the man he had spoken
      with.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Blest if I know,&rdquo; said Jerry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What have <i>you</i> got to do with it, then, if a person may inquire?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Blest if I know that either,&rdquo; said Jerry.
    </p>
    <p>
      The entrance of the Judge, and a consequent great stir and settling down
      in the court, stopped the dialogue. Presently, the dock became the central
      point of interest. Two gaolers, who had been standing there, went out, and
      the prisoner was brought in, and put to the bar.
    </p>
    <p>
      Everybody present, except the one wigged gentleman who looked at the
      ceiling, stared at him. All the human breath in the place, rolled at him,
      like a sea, or a wind, or a fire. Eager faces strained round pillars and
      corners, to get a sight of him; spectators in back rows stood up, not to
      miss a hair of him; people on the floor of the court, laid their hands on
      the shoulders of the people before them, to help themselves, at anybody&rsquo;s
      cost, to a view of him&mdash;stood a-tiptoe, got upon ledges, stood upon
      next to nothing, to see every inch of him. Conspicuous among these latter,
      like an animated bit of the spiked wall of Newgate, Jerry stood: aiming at
      the prisoner the beery breath of a whet he had taken as he came along, and
      discharging it to mingle with the waves of other beer, and gin, and tea,
      and coffee, and what not, that flowed at him, and already broke upon the
      great windows behind him in an impure mist and rain.
    </p>
    <p>
      The object of all this staring and blaring, was a young man of about
      five-and-twenty, well-grown and well-looking, with a sunburnt cheek and a
      dark eye. His condition was that of a young gentleman. He was plainly
      dressed in black, or very dark grey, and his hair, which was long and
      dark, was gathered in a ribbon at the back of his neck; more to be out of
      his way than for ornament. As an emotion of the mind will express itself
      through any covering of the body, so the paleness which his situation
      engendered came through the brown upon his cheek, showing the soul to be
      stronger than the sun. He was otherwise quite self-possessed, bowed to the
      Judge, and stood quiet.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sort of interest with which this man was stared and breathed at, was
      not a sort that elevated humanity. Had he stood in peril of a less
      horrible sentence&mdash;had there been a chance of any one of its savage
      details being spared&mdash;by just so much would he have lost in his
      fascination. The form that was to be doomed to be so shamefully mangled,
      was the sight; the immortal creature that was to be so butchered and torn
      asunder, yielded the sensation. Whatever gloss the various spectators put
      upon the interest, according to their several arts and powers of
      self-deceit, the interest was, at the root of it, Ogreish.
    </p>
    <p>
      Silence in the court! Charles Darnay had yesterday pleaded Not Guilty to
      an indictment denouncing him (with infinite jingle and jangle) for that he
      was a false traitor to our serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth,
      prince, our Lord the King, by reason of his having, on divers occasions,
      and by divers means and ways, assisted Lewis, the French King, in his wars
      against our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth; that was to
      say, by coming and going, between the dominions of our said serene,
      illustrious, excellent, and so forth, and those of the said French Lewis,
      and wickedly, falsely, traitorously, and otherwise evil-adverbiously,
      revealing to the said French Lewis what forces our said serene,
      illustrious, excellent, and so forth, had in preparation to send to Canada
      and North America. This much, Jerry, with his head becoming more and more
      spiky as the law terms bristled it, made out with huge satisfaction, and
      so arrived circuitously at the understanding that the aforesaid, and over
      and over again aforesaid, Charles Darnay, stood there before him upon his
      trial; that the jury were swearing in; and that Mr. Attorney-General was
      making ready to speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      The accused, who was (and who knew he was) being mentally hanged,
      beheaded, and quartered, by everybody there, neither flinched from the
      situation, nor assumed any theatrical air in it. He was quiet and
      attentive; watched the opening proceedings with a grave interest; and
      stood with his hands resting on the slab of wood before him, so
      composedly, that they had not displaced a leaf of the herbs with which it
      was strewn. The court was all bestrewn with herbs and sprinkled with
      vinegar, as a precaution against gaol air and gaol fever.
    </p>
    <p>
      Over the prisoner&rsquo;s head there was a mirror, to throw the light down upon
      him. Crowds of the wicked and the wretched had been reflected in it, and
      had passed from its surface and this earth&rsquo;s together. Haunted in a most
      ghastly manner that abominable place would have been, if the glass could
      ever have rendered back its reflections, as the ocean is one day to give
      up its dead. Some passing thought of the infamy and disgrace for which it
      had been reserved, may have struck the prisoner&rsquo;s mind. Be that as it may,
      a change in his position making him conscious of a bar of light across his
      face, he looked up; and when he saw the glass his face flushed, and his
      right hand pushed the herbs away.
    </p>
    <p>
      It happened, that the action turned his face to that side of the court
      which was on his left. About on a level with his eyes, there sat, in that
      corner of the Judge&rsquo;s bench, two persons upon whom his look immediately
      rested; so immediately, and so much to the changing of his aspect, that
      all the eyes that were turned upon him, turned to them.
    </p>
    <p>
      The spectators saw in the two figures, a young lady of little more than
      twenty, and a gentleman who was evidently her father; a man of a very
      remarkable appearance in respect of the absolute whiteness of his hair,
      and a certain indescribable intensity of face: not of an active kind, but
      pondering and self-communing. When this expression was upon him, he looked
      as if he were old; but when it was stirred and broken up&mdash;as it was
      now, in a moment, on his speaking to his daughter&mdash;he became a
      handsome man, not past the prime of life.
    </p>
    <p>
      His daughter had one of her hands drawn through his arm, as she sat by
      him, and the other pressed upon it. She had drawn close to him, in her
      dread of the scene, and in her pity for the prisoner. Her forehead had
      been strikingly expressive of an engrossing terror and compassion that saw
      nothing but the peril of the accused. This had been so very noticeable, so
      very powerfully and naturally shown, that starers who had had no pity for
      him were touched by her; and the whisper went about, &ldquo;Who are they?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jerry, the messenger, who had made his own observations, in his own
      manner, and who had been sucking the rust off his fingers in his
      absorption, stretched his neck to hear who they were. The crowd about him
      had pressed and passed the inquiry on to the nearest attendant, and from
      him it had been more slowly pressed and passed back; at last it got to
      Jerry:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Witnesses.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For which side?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Against.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Against what side?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The prisoner&rsquo;s.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Judge, whose eyes had gone in the general direction, recalled them,
      leaned back in his seat, and looked steadily at the man whose life was in
      his hand, as Mr. Attorney-General rose to spin the rope, grind the axe,
      and hammer the nails into the scaffold.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"></a>
      CHAPTER III.<br />A Disappointment
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>r. Attorney-General had to inform the jury, that the prisoner before
      them, though young in years, was old in the treasonable practices which
      claimed the forfeit of his life. That this correspondence with the public
      enemy was not a correspondence of to-day, or of yesterday, or even of last
      year, or of the year before. That, it was certain the prisoner had, for
      longer than that, been in the habit of passing and repassing between
      France and England, on secret business of which he could give no honest
      account. That, if it were in the nature of traitorous ways to thrive
      (which happily it never was), the real wickedness and guilt of his
      business might have remained undiscovered. That Providence, however, had
      put it into the heart of a person who was beyond fear and beyond reproach,
      to ferret out the nature of the prisoner&rsquo;s schemes, and, struck with
      horror, to disclose them to his Majesty&rsquo;s Chief Secretary of State and
      most honourable Privy Council. That, this patriot would be produced before
      them. That, his position and attitude were, on the whole, sublime. That,
      he had been the prisoner&rsquo;s friend, but, at once in an auspicious and an
      evil hour detecting his infamy, had resolved to immolate the traitor he
      could no longer cherish in his bosom, on the sacred altar of his country.
      That, if statues were decreed in Britain, as in ancient Greece and Rome,
      to public benefactors, this shining citizen would assuredly have had one.
      That, as they were not so decreed, he probably would not have one. That,
      Virtue, as had been observed by the poets (in many passages which he well
      knew the jury would have, word for word, at the tips of their tongues;
      whereat the jury&rsquo;s countenances displayed a guilty consciousness that they
      knew nothing about the passages), was in a manner contagious; more
      especially the bright virtue known as patriotism, or love of country.
      That, the lofty example of this immaculate and unimpeachable witness for
      the Crown, to refer to whom however unworthily was an honour, had
      communicated itself to the prisoner&rsquo;s servant, and had engendered in him a
      holy determination to examine his master&rsquo;s table-drawers and pockets, and
      secrete his papers. That, he (Mr. Attorney-General) was prepared to hear
      some disparagement attempted of this admirable servant; but that, in a
      general way, he preferred him to his (Mr. Attorney-General&rsquo;s) brothers and
      sisters, and honoured him more than his (Mr. Attorney-General&rsquo;s) father
      and mother. That, he called with confidence on the jury to come and do
      likewise. That, the evidence of these two witnesses, coupled with the
      documents of their discovering that would be produced, would show the
      prisoner to have been furnished with lists of his Majesty&rsquo;s forces, and of
      their disposition and preparation, both by sea and land, and would leave
      no doubt that he had habitually conveyed such information to a hostile
      power. That, these lists could not be proved to be in the prisoner&rsquo;s
      handwriting; but that it was all the same; that, indeed, it was rather the
      better for the prosecution, as showing the prisoner to be artful in his
      precautions. That, the proof would go back five years, and would show the
      prisoner already engaged in these pernicious missions, within a few weeks
      before the date of the very first action fought between the British troops
      and the Americans. That, for these reasons, the jury, being a loyal jury
      (as he knew they were), and being a responsible jury (as <i>they</i> knew
      they were), must positively find the prisoner Guilty, and make an end of
      him, whether they liked it or not. That, they never could lay their heads
      upon their pillows; that, they never could tolerate the idea of their
      wives laying their heads upon their pillows; that, they never could endure
      the notion of their children laying their heads upon their pillows; in
      short, that there never more could be, for them or theirs, any laying of
      heads upon pillows at all, unless the prisoner&rsquo;s head was taken off. That
      head Mr. Attorney-General concluded by demanding of them, in the name of
      everything he could think of with a round turn in it, and on the faith of
      his solemn asseveration that he already considered the prisoner as good as
      dead and gone.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the Attorney-General ceased, a buzz arose in the court as if a cloud
      of great blue-flies were swarming about the prisoner, in anticipation of
      what he was soon to become. When toned down again, the unimpeachable
      patriot appeared in the witness-box.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Solicitor-General then, following his leader&rsquo;s lead, examined the
      patriot: John Barsad, gentleman, by name. The story of his pure soul was
      exactly what Mr. Attorney-General had described it to be&mdash;perhaps, if
      it had a fault, a little too exactly. Having released his noble bosom of
      its burden, he would have modestly withdrawn himself, but that the wigged
      gentleman with the papers before him, sitting not far from Mr. Lorry,
      begged to ask him a few questions. The wigged gentleman sitting opposite,
      still looking at the ceiling of the court.
    </p>
    <p>
      Had he ever been a spy himself? No, he scorned the base insinuation. What
      did he live upon? His property. Where was his property? He didn&rsquo;t
      precisely remember where it was. What was it? No business of anybody&rsquo;s.
      Had he inherited it? Yes, he had. From whom? Distant relation. Very
      distant? Rather. Ever been in prison? Certainly not. Never in a debtors&rsquo;
      prison? Didn&rsquo;t see what that had to do with it. Never in a debtors&rsquo;
      prison?&mdash;Come, once again. Never? Yes. How many times? Two or three
      times. Not five or six? Perhaps. Of what profession? Gentleman. Ever been
      kicked? Might have been. Frequently? No. Ever kicked downstairs? Decidedly
      not; once received a kick on the top of a staircase, and fell downstairs
      of his own accord. Kicked on that occasion for cheating at dice? Something
      to that effect was said by the intoxicated liar who committed the assault,
      but it was not true. Swear it was not true? Positively. Ever live by
      cheating at play? Never. Ever live by play? Not more than other gentlemen
      do. Ever borrow money of the prisoner? Yes. Ever pay him? No. Was not this
      intimacy with the prisoner, in reality a very slight one, forced upon the
      prisoner in coaches, inns, and packets? No. Sure he saw the prisoner with
      these lists? Certain. Knew no more about the lists? No. Had not procured
      them himself, for instance? No. Expect to get anything by this evidence?
      No. Not in regular government pay and employment, to lay traps? Oh dear
      no. Or to do anything? Oh dear no. Swear that? Over and over again. No
      motives but motives of sheer patriotism? None whatever.
    </p>
    <p>
      The virtuous servant, Roger Cly, swore his way through the case at a great
      rate. He had taken service with the prisoner, in good faith and
      simplicity, four years ago. He had asked the prisoner, aboard the Calais
      packet, if he wanted a handy fellow, and the prisoner had engaged him. He
      had not asked the prisoner to take the handy fellow as an act of charity&mdash;never
      thought of such a thing. He began to have suspicions of the prisoner, and
      to keep an eye upon him, soon afterwards. In arranging his clothes, while
      travelling, he had seen similar lists to these in the prisoner&rsquo;s pockets,
      over and over again. He had taken these lists from the drawer of the
      prisoner&rsquo;s desk. He had not put them there first. He had seen the prisoner
      show these identical lists to French gentlemen at Calais, and similar
      lists to French gentlemen, both at Calais and Boulogne. He loved his
      country, and couldn&rsquo;t bear it, and had given information. He had never
      been suspected of stealing a silver tea-pot; he had been maligned
      respecting a mustard-pot, but it turned out to be only a plated one. He
      had known the last witness seven or eight years; that was merely a
      coincidence. He didn&rsquo;t call it a particularly curious coincidence; most
      coincidences were curious. Neither did he call it a curious coincidence
      that true patriotism was <i>his</i> only motive too. He was a true Briton,
      and hoped there were many like him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The blue-flies buzzed again, and Mr. Attorney-General called Mr. Jarvis
      Lorry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Jarvis Lorry, are you a clerk in Tellson&rsquo;s bank?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On a certain Friday night in November one thousand seven hundred and
      seventy-five, did business occasion you to travel between London and Dover
      by the mail?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It did.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Were there any other passengers in the mail?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Two.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did they alight on the road in the course of the night?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They did.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Lorry, look upon the prisoner. Was he one of those two passengers?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cannot undertake to say that he was.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does he resemble either of these two passengers?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Both were so wrapped up, and the night was so dark, and we were all so
      reserved, that I cannot undertake to say even that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Lorry, look again upon the prisoner. Supposing him wrapped up as
      those two passengers were, is there anything in his bulk and stature to
      render it unlikely that he was one of them?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will not swear, Mr. Lorry, that he was not one of them?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So at least you say he may have been one of them?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. Except that I remember them both to have been&mdash;like myself&mdash;timorous
      of highwaymen, and the prisoner has not a timorous air.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you ever see a counterfeit of timidity, Mr. Lorry?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I certainly have seen that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Lorry, look once more upon the prisoner. Have you seen him, to your
      certain knowledge, before?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was returning from France a few days afterwards, and, at Calais, the
      prisoner came on board the packet-ship in which I returned, and made the
      voyage with me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At what hour did he come on board?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At a little after midnight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the dead of the night. Was he the only passenger who came on board at
      that untimely hour?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He happened to be the only one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind about &lsquo;happening,&rsquo; Mr. Lorry. He was the only passenger who
      came on board in the dead of the night?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He was.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Were you travelling alone, Mr. Lorry, or with any companion?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With two companions. A gentleman and lady. They are here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are here. Had you any conversation with the prisoner?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hardly any. The weather was stormy, and the passage long and rough, and I
      lay on a sofa, almost from shore to shore.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Manette!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The young lady, to whom all eyes had been turned before, and were now
      turned again, stood up where she had sat. Her father rose with her, and
      kept her hand drawn through his arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Manette, look upon the prisoner.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      To be confronted with such pity, and such earnest youth and beauty, was
      far more trying to the accused than to be confronted with all the crowd.
      Standing, as it were, apart with her on the edge of his grave, not all the
      staring curiosity that looked on, could, for the moment, nerve him to
      remain quite still. His hurried right hand parcelled out the herbs before
      him into imaginary beds of flowers in a garden; and his efforts to control
      and steady his breathing shook the lips from which the colour rushed to
      his heart. The buzz of the great flies was loud again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Manette, have you seen the prisoner before?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On board of the packet-ship just now referred to, sir, and on the same
      occasion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are the young lady just now referred to?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O! most unhappily, I am!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The plaintive tone of her compassion merged into the less musical voice of
      the Judge, as he said something fiercely: &ldquo;Answer the questions put to
      you, and make no remark upon them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Manette, had you any conversation with the prisoner on that passage
      across the Channel?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Recall it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In the midst of a profound stillness, she faintly began: &ldquo;When the
      gentleman came on board&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you mean the prisoner?&rdquo; inquired the Judge, knitting his brows.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, my Lord.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then say the prisoner.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When the prisoner came on board, he noticed that my father,&rdquo; turning her
      eyes lovingly to him as he stood beside her, &ldquo;was much fatigued and in a
      very weak state of health. My father was so reduced that I was afraid to
      take him out of the air, and I had made a bed for him on the deck near the
      cabin steps, and I sat on the deck at his side to take care of him. There
      were no other passengers that night, but we four. The prisoner was so good
      as to beg permission to advise me how I could shelter my father from the
      wind and weather, better than I had done. I had not known how to do it
      well, not understanding how the wind would set when we were out of the
      harbour. He did it for me. He expressed great gentleness and kindness for
      my father&rsquo;s state, and I am sure he felt it. That was the manner of our
      beginning to speak together.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me interrupt you for a moment. Had he come on board alone?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How many were with him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Two French gentlemen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Had they conferred together?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They had conferred together until the last moment, when it was necessary
      for the French gentlemen to be landed in their boat.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Had any papers been handed about among them, similar to these lists?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Some papers had been handed about among them, but I don&rsquo;t know what
      papers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Like these in shape and size?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Possibly, but indeed I don&rsquo;t know, although they stood whispering very
      near to me: because they stood at the top of the cabin steps to have the
      light of the lamp that was hanging there; it was a dull lamp, and they
      spoke very low, and I did not hear what they said, and saw only that they
      looked at papers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, to the prisoner&rsquo;s conversation, Miss Manette.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The prisoner was as open in his confidence with me&mdash;which arose out
      of my helpless situation&mdash;as he was kind, and good, and useful to my
      father. I hope,&rdquo; bursting into tears, &ldquo;I may not repay him by doing him
      harm to-day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Buzzing from the blue-flies.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Manette, if the prisoner does not perfectly understand that you give
      the evidence which it is your duty to give&mdash;which you must give&mdash;and
      which you cannot escape from giving&mdash;with great unwillingness, he is
      the only person present in that condition. Please to go on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He told me that he was travelling on business of a delicate and difficult
      nature, which might get people into trouble, and that he was therefore
      travelling under an assumed name. He said that this business had, within a
      few days, taken him to France, and might, at intervals, take him backwards
      and forwards between France and England for a long time to come.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did he say anything about America, Miss Manette? Be particular.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He tried to explain to me how that quarrel had arisen, and he said that,
      so far as he could judge, it was a wrong and foolish one on England&rsquo;s
      part. He added, in a jesting way, that perhaps George Washington might
      gain almost as great a name in history as George the Third. But there was
      no harm in his way of saying this: it was said laughingly, and to beguile
      the time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Any strongly marked expression of face on the part of a chief actor in a
      scene of great interest to whom many eyes are directed, will be
      unconsciously imitated by the spectators. Her forehead was painfully
      anxious and intent as she gave this evidence, and, in the pauses when she
      stopped for the Judge to write it down, watched its effect upon the
      counsel for and against. Among the lookers-on there was the same
      expression in all quarters of the court; insomuch, that a great majority
      of the foreheads there, might have been mirrors reflecting the witness,
      when the Judge looked up from his notes to glare at that tremendous heresy
      about George Washington.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Attorney-General now signified to my Lord, that he deemed it
      necessary, as a matter of precaution and form, to call the young lady&rsquo;s
      father, Doctor Manette. Who was called accordingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Doctor Manette, look upon the prisoner. Have you ever seen him before?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Once. When he called at my lodgings in London. Some three years, or three
      years and a half ago.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can you identify him as your fellow-passenger on board the packet, or
      speak to his conversation with your daughter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir, I can do neither.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is there any particular and special reason for your being unable to do
      either?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He answered, in a low voice, &ldquo;There is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Has it been your misfortune to undergo a long imprisonment, without
      trial, or even accusation, in your native country, Doctor Manette?&rdquo;
     </p>

<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/0465m.jpg" style="width:100%;"  alt="0465m " /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0465.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>

    <p>
      He answered, in a tone that went to every heart, &ldquo;A long imprisonment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Were you newly released on the occasion in question?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They tell me so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you no remembrance of the occasion?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;None. My mind is a blank, from some time&mdash;I cannot even say what
      time&mdash;when I employed myself, in my captivity, in making shoes, to
      the time when I found myself living in London with my dear daughter here.
      She had become familiar to me, when a gracious God restored my faculties;
      but, I am quite unable even to say how she had become familiar. I have no
      remembrance of the process.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Attorney-General sat down, and the father and daughter sat down
      together.
    </p>
    <p>
      A singular circumstance then arose in the case. The object in hand being
      to show that the prisoner went down, with some fellow-plotter untracked,
      in the Dover mail on that Friday night in November five years ago, and got
      out of the mail in the night, as a blind, at a place where he did not
      remain, but from which he travelled back some dozen miles or more, to a
      garrison and dockyard, and there collected information; a witness was
      called to identify him as having been at the precise time required, in the
      coffee-room of an hotel in that garrison-and-dockyard town, waiting for
      another person. The prisoner&rsquo;s counsel was cross-examining this witness
      with no result, except that he had never seen the prisoner on any other
      occasion, when the wigged gentleman who had all this time been looking at
      the ceiling of the court, wrote a word or two on a little piece of paper,
      screwed it up, and tossed it to him. Opening this piece of paper in the
      next pause, the counsel looked with great attention and curiosity at the
      prisoner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You say again you are quite sure that it was the prisoner?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The witness was quite sure.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you ever see anybody very like the prisoner?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Not so like (the witness said) as that he could be mistaken.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look well upon that gentleman, my learned friend there,&rdquo; pointing to him
      who had tossed the paper over, &ldquo;and then look well upon the prisoner. How
      say you? Are they very like each other?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Allowing for my learned friend&rsquo;s appearance being careless and slovenly if
      not debauched, they were sufficiently like each other to surprise, not
      only the witness, but everybody present, when they were thus brought into
      comparison. My Lord being prayed to bid my learned friend lay aside his
      wig, and giving no very gracious consent, the likeness became much more
      remarkable. My Lord inquired of Mr. Stryver (the prisoner&rsquo;s counsel),
      whether they were next to try Mr. Carton (name of my learned friend) for
      treason? But, Mr. Stryver replied to my Lord, no; but he would ask the
      witness to tell him whether what happened once, might happen twice;
      whether he would have been so confident if he had seen this illustration
      of his rashness sooner, whether he would be so confident, having seen it;
      and more. The upshot of which, was, to smash this witness like a crockery
      vessel, and shiver his part of the case to useless lumber.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Cruncher had by this time taken quite a lunch of rust off his fingers
      in his following of the evidence. He had now to attend while Mr. Stryver
      fitted the prisoner&rsquo;s case on the jury, like a compact suit of clothes;
      showing them how the patriot, Barsad, was a hired spy and traitor, an
      unblushing trafficker in blood, and one of the greatest scoundrels upon
      earth since accursed Judas&mdash;which he certainly did look rather like.
      How the virtuous servant, Cly, was his friend and partner, and was worthy
      to be; how the watchful eyes of those forgers and false swearers had
      rested on the prisoner as a victim, because some family affairs in France,
      he being of French extraction, did require his making those passages
      across the Channel&mdash;though what those affairs were, a consideration
      for others who were near and dear to him, forbade him, even for his life,
      to disclose. How the evidence that had been warped and wrested from the
      young lady, whose anguish in giving it they had witnessed, came to
      nothing, involving the mere little innocent gallantries and politenesses
      likely to pass between any young gentleman and young lady so thrown
      together;&mdash;with the exception of that reference to George Washington,
      which was altogether too extravagant and impossible to be regarded in any
      other light than as a monstrous joke. How it would be a weakness in the
      government to break down in this attempt to practise for popularity on the
      lowest national antipathies and fears, and therefore Mr. Attorney-General
      had made the most of it; how, nevertheless, it rested upon nothing, save
      that vile and infamous character of evidence too often disfiguring such
      cases, and of which the State Trials of this country were full. But, there
      my Lord interposed (with as grave a face as if it had not been true),
      saying that he could not sit upon that Bench and suffer those allusions.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Stryver then called his few witnesses, and Mr. Cruncher had next to
      attend while Mr. Attorney-General turned the whole suit of clothes Mr.
      Stryver had fitted on the jury, inside out; showing how Barsad and Cly
      were even a hundred times better than he had thought them, and the
      prisoner a hundred times worse. Lastly, came my Lord himself, turning the
      suit of clothes, now inside out, now outside in, but on the whole
      decidedly trimming and shaping them into grave-clothes for the prisoner.
    </p>
    <p>
      And now, the jury turned to consider, and the great flies swarmed again.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Carton, who had so long sat looking at the ceiling of the court,
      changed neither his place nor his attitude, even in this excitement. While
      his learned friend, Mr. Stryver, massing his papers before him, whispered
      with those who sat near, and from time to time glanced anxiously at the
      jury; while all the spectators moved more or less, and grouped themselves
      anew; while even my Lord himself arose from his seat, and slowly paced up
      and down his platform, not unattended by a suspicion in the minds of the
      audience that his state was feverish; this one man sat leaning back, with
      his torn gown half off him, his untidy wig put on just as it had happened
      to light on his head after its removal, his hands in his pockets, and his
      eyes on the ceiling as they had been all day. Something especially
      reckless in his demeanour, not only gave him a disreputable look, but so
      diminished the strong resemblance he undoubtedly bore to the prisoner
      (which his momentary earnestness, when they were compared together, had
      strengthened), that many of the lookers-on, taking note of him now, said
      to one another they would hardly have thought the two were so alike. Mr.
      Cruncher made the observation to his next neighbour, and added, &ldquo;I&rsquo;d hold
      half a guinea that <i>he</i> don&rsquo;t get no law-work to do. Don&rsquo;t look like
      the sort of one to get any, do he?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Yet, this Mr. Carton took in more of the details of the scene than he
      appeared to take in; for now, when Miss Manette&rsquo;s head dropped upon her
      father&rsquo;s breast, he was the first to see it, and to say audibly: &ldquo;Officer!
      look to that young lady. Help the gentleman to take her out. Don&rsquo;t you see
      she will fall!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was much commiseration for her as she was removed, and much sympathy
      with her father. It had evidently been a great distress to him, to have
      the days of his imprisonment recalled. He had shown strong internal
      agitation when he was questioned, and that pondering or brooding look
      which made him old, had been upon him, like a heavy cloud, ever since. As
      he passed out, the jury, who had turned back and paused a moment, spoke,
      through their foreman.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were not agreed, and wished to retire. My Lord (perhaps with George
      Washington on his mind) showed some surprise that they were not agreed,
      but signified his pleasure that they should retire under watch and ward,
      and retired himself. The trial had lasted all day, and the lamps in the
      court were now being lighted. It began to be rumoured that the jury would
      be out a long while. The spectators dropped off to get refreshment, and
      the prisoner withdrew to the back of the dock, and sat down.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Lorry, who had gone out when the young lady and her father went out,
      now reappeared, and beckoned to Jerry: who, in the slackened interest,
      could easily get near him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jerry, if you wish to take something to eat, you can. But, keep in the
      way. You will be sure to hear when the jury come in. Don&rsquo;t be a moment
      behind them, for I want you to take the verdict back to the bank. You are
      the quickest messenger I know, and will get to Temple Bar long before I
      can.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jerry had just enough forehead to knuckle, and he knuckled it in
      acknowledgment of this communication and a shilling. Mr. Carton came up at
      the moment, and touched Mr. Lorry on the arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How is the young lady?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is greatly distressed; but her father is comforting her, and she
      feels the better for being out of court.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll tell the prisoner so. It won&rsquo;t do for a respectable bank gentleman
      like you, to be seen speaking to him publicly, you know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Lorry reddened as if he were conscious of having debated the point in
      his mind, and Mr. Carton made his way to the outside of the bar. The way
      out of court lay in that direction, and Jerry followed him, all eyes,
      ears, and spikes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Darnay!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The prisoner came forward directly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will naturally be anxious to hear of the witness, Miss Manette. She
      will do very well. You have seen the worst of her agitation.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am deeply sorry to have been the cause of it. Could you tell her so for
      me, with my fervent acknowledgments?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I could. I will, if you ask it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Carton&rsquo;s manner was so careless as to be almost insolent. He stood,
      half turned from the prisoner, lounging with his elbow against the bar.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do ask it. Accept my cordial thanks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What,&rdquo; said Carton, still only half turned towards him, &ldquo;do you expect,
      Mr. Darnay?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The worst.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s the wisest thing to expect, and the likeliest. But I think their
      withdrawing is in your favour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Loitering on the way out of court not being allowed, Jerry heard no more:
      but left them&mdash;so like each other in feature, so unlike each other in
      manner&mdash;standing side by side, both reflected in the glass above
      them.
    </p>
    <p>
      An hour and a half limped heavily away in the thief-and-rascal crowded
      passages below, even though assisted off with mutton pies and ale. The
      hoarse messenger, uncomfortably seated on a form after taking that
      refection, had dropped into a doze, when a loud murmur and a rapid tide of
      people setting up the stairs that led to the court, carried him along with
      them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jerry! Jerry!&rdquo; Mr. Lorry was already calling at the door when he got
      there.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here, sir! It&rsquo;s a fight to get back again. Here I am, sir!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Lorry handed him a paper through the throng. &ldquo;Quick! Have you got it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Hastily written on the paper was the word &ldquo;<i>Acquitted</i>.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you had sent the message, &lsquo;Recalled to Life,&rsquo; again,&rdquo; muttered Jerry,
      as he turned, &ldquo;I should have known what you meant, this time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had no opportunity of saying, or so much as thinking, anything else,
      until he was clear of the Old Bailey; for, the crowd came pouring out with
      a vehemence that nearly took him off his legs, and a loud buzz swept into
      the street as if the baffled blue-flies were dispersing in search of other
      carrion.
    </p>

<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/0471m.jpg" style="width:100%;"  alt="0471m " /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0471.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"></a>
      CHAPTER IV.<br />Congratulatory
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span>rom the dimly-lighted passages of the court, the last sediment of the
      human stew that had been boiling there all day, was straining off, when
      Doctor Manette, Lucie Manette, his daughter, Mr. Lorry, the solicitor for
      the defence, and its counsel, Mr. Stryver, stood gathered round Mr.
      Charles Darnay&mdash;just released&mdash;congratulating him on his escape
      from death.
    </p>
    <p>
      It would have been difficult by a far brighter light, to recognise in
      Doctor Manette, intellectual of face and upright of bearing, the shoemaker
      of the garret in Paris. Yet, no one could have looked at him twice,
      without looking again: even though the opportunity of observation had not
      extended to the mournful cadence of his low grave voice, and to the
      abstraction that overclouded him fitfully, without any apparent reason.
      While one external cause, and that a reference to his long lingering
      agony, would always&mdash;as on the trial&mdash;evoke this condition from
      the depths of his soul, it was also in its nature to arise of itself, and
      to draw a gloom over him, as incomprehensible to those unacquainted with
      his story as if they had seen the shadow of the actual Bastille thrown
      upon him by a summer sun, when the substance was three hundred miles away.
    </p>
    <p>
      Only his daughter had the power of charming this black brooding from his
      mind. She was the golden thread that united him to a Past beyond his
      misery, and to a Present beyond his misery: and the sound of her voice,
      the light of her face, the touch of her hand, had a strong beneficial
      influence with him almost always. Not absolutely always, for she could
      recall some occasions on which her power had failed; but they were few and
      slight, and she believed them over.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Darnay had kissed her hand fervently and gratefully, and had turned to
      Mr. Stryver, whom he warmly thanked. Mr. Stryver, a man of little more
      than thirty, but looking twenty years older than he was, stout, loud, red,
      bluff, and free from any drawback of delicacy, had a pushing way of
      shouldering himself (morally and physically) into companies and
      conversations, that argued well for his shouldering his way up in life.
    </p>
    <p>
      He still had his wig and gown on, and he said, squaring himself at his
      late client to that degree that he squeezed the innocent Mr. Lorry clean
      out of the group: &ldquo;I am glad to have brought you off with honour, Mr.
      Darnay. It was an infamous prosecution, grossly infamous; but not the less
      likely to succeed on that account.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have laid me under an obligation to you for life&mdash;in two
      senses,&rdquo; said his late client, taking his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have done my best for you, Mr. Darnay; and my best is as good as
      another man&rsquo;s, I believe.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It clearly being incumbent on some one to say, &ldquo;Much better,&rdquo; Mr. Lorry
      said it; perhaps not quite disinterestedly, but with the interested object
      of squeezing himself back again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You think so?&rdquo; said Mr. Stryver. &ldquo;Well! you have been present all day,
      and you ought to know. You are a man of business, too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And as such,&rdquo; quoth Mr. Lorry, whom the counsel learned in the law had
      now shouldered back into the group, just as he had previously shouldered
      him out of it&mdash;&ldquo;as such I will appeal to Doctor Manette, to break up
      this conference and order us all to our homes. Miss Lucie looks ill, Mr.
      Darnay has had a terrible day, we are worn out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Speak for yourself, Mr. Lorry,&rdquo; said Stryver; &ldquo;I have a night&rsquo;s work to
      do yet. Speak for yourself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I speak for myself,&rdquo; answered Mr. Lorry, &ldquo;and for Mr. Darnay, and for
      Miss Lucie, and&mdash;Miss Lucie, do you not think I may speak for us
      all?&rdquo; He asked her the question pointedly, and with a glance at her
      father.
    </p>
    <p>
      His face had become frozen, as it were, in a very curious look at Darnay:
      an intent look, deepening into a frown of dislike and distrust, not even
      unmixed with fear. With this strange expression on him his thoughts had
      wandered away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My father,&rdquo; said Lucie, softly laying her hand on his.
    </p>
    <p>
      He slowly shook the shadow off, and turned to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shall we go home, my father?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With a long breath, he answered &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The friends of the acquitted prisoner had dispersed, under the impression&mdash;which
      he himself had originated&mdash;that he would not be released that night.
      The lights were nearly all extinguished in the passages, the iron gates
      were being closed with a jar and a rattle, and the dismal place was
      deserted until to-morrow morning&rsquo;s interest of gallows, pillory,
      whipping-post, and branding-iron, should repeople it. Walking between her
      father and Mr. Darnay, Lucie Manette passed into the open air. A
      hackney-coach was called, and the father and daughter departed in it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Stryver had left them in the passages, to shoulder his way back to the
      robing-room. Another person, who had not joined the group, or interchanged
      a word with any one of them, but who had been leaning against the wall
      where its shadow was darkest, had silently strolled out after the rest,
      and had looked on until the coach drove away. He now stepped up to where
      Mr. Lorry and Mr. Darnay stood upon the pavement.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So, Mr. Lorry! Men of business may speak to Mr. Darnay now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Nobody had made any acknowledgment of Mr. Carton&rsquo;s part in the day&rsquo;s
      proceedings; nobody had known of it. He was unrobed, and was none the
      better for it in appearance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you knew what a conflict goes on in the business mind, when the
      business mind is divided between good-natured impulse and business
      appearances, you would be amused, Mr. Darnay.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Lorry reddened, and said, warmly, &ldquo;You have mentioned that before,
      sir. We men of business, who serve a House, are not our own masters. We
      have to think of the House more than ourselves.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>I</i> know, <i>I</i> know,&rdquo; rejoined Mr. Carton, carelessly. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be
      nettled, Mr. Lorry. You are as good as another, I have no doubt: better, I
      dare say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And indeed, sir,&rdquo; pursued Mr. Lorry, not minding him, &ldquo;I really don&rsquo;t
      know what you have to do with the matter. If you&rsquo;ll excuse me, as very
      much your elder, for saying so, I really don&rsquo;t know that it is your
      business.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Business! Bless you, <i>I</i> have no business,&rdquo; said Mr. Carton.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a pity you have not, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think so, too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you had,&rdquo; pursued Mr. Lorry, &ldquo;perhaps you would attend to it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lord love you, no!&mdash;I shouldn&rsquo;t,&rdquo; said Mr. Carton.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, sir!&rdquo; cried Mr. Lorry, thoroughly heated by his indifference,
      &ldquo;business is a very good thing, and a very respectable thing. And, sir, if
      business imposes its restraints and its silences and impediments, Mr.
      Darnay as a young gentleman of generosity knows how to make allowance for
      that circumstance. Mr. Darnay, good night, God bless you, sir! I hope you
      have been this day preserved for a prosperous and happy life.&mdash;Chair
      there!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Perhaps a little angry with himself, as well as with the barrister, Mr.
      Lorry bustled into the chair, and was carried off to Tellson&rsquo;s. Carton,
      who smelt of port wine, and did not appear to be quite sober, laughed
      then, and turned to Darnay:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is a strange chance that throws you and me together. This must be a
      strange night to you, standing alone here with your counterpart on these
      street stones?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hardly seem yet,&rdquo; returned Charles Darnay, &ldquo;to belong to this world
      again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t wonder at it; it&rsquo;s not so long since you were pretty far advanced
      on your way to another. You speak faintly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I begin to think I <i>am</i> faint.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then why the devil don&rsquo;t you dine? I dined, myself, while those numskulls
      were deliberating which world you should belong to&mdash;this, or some
      other. Let me show you the nearest tavern to dine well at.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Drawing his arm through his own, he took him down Ludgate-hill to
      Fleet-street, and so, up a covered way, into a tavern. Here, they were
      shown into a little room, where Charles Darnay was soon recruiting his
      strength with a good plain dinner and good wine: while Carton sat opposite
      to him at the same table, with his separate bottle of port before him, and
      his fully half-insolent manner upon him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you feel, yet, that you belong to this terrestrial scheme again, Mr.
      Darnay?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am frightfully confused regarding time and place; but I am so far
      mended as to feel that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It must be an immense satisfaction!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He said it bitterly, and filled up his glass again: which was a large one.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As to me, the greatest desire I have, is to forget that I belong to it.
      It has no good in it for me&mdash;except wine like this&mdash;nor I for
      it. So we are not much alike in that particular. Indeed, I begin to think
      we are not much alike in any particular, you and I.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Confused by the emotion of the day, and feeling his being there with this
      Double of coarse deportment, to be like a dream, Charles Darnay was at a
      loss how to answer; finally, answered not at all.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now your dinner is done,&rdquo; Carton presently said, &ldquo;why don&rsquo;t you call a
      health, Mr. Darnay; why don&rsquo;t you give your toast?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What health? What toast?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, it&rsquo;s on the tip of your tongue. It ought to be, it must be, I&rsquo;ll
      swear it&rsquo;s there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Manette, then!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Manette, then!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Looking his companion full in the face while he drank the toast, Carton
      flung his glass over his shoulder against the wall, where it shivered to
      pieces; then, rang the bell, and ordered in another.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s a fair young lady to hand to a coach in the dark, Mr. Darnay!&rdquo; he
      said, filling his new goblet.
    </p>
    <p>
      A slight frown and a laconic &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; were the answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s a fair young lady to be pitied by and wept for by! How does it
      feel? Is it worth being tried for one&rsquo;s life, to be the object of such
      sympathy and compassion, Mr. Darnay?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Again Darnay answered not a word.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She was mightily pleased to have your message, when I gave it her. Not
      that she showed she was pleased, but I suppose she was.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The allusion served as a timely reminder to Darnay that this disagreeable
      companion had, of his own free will, assisted him in the strait of the
      day. He turned the dialogue to that point, and thanked him for it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I neither want any thanks, nor merit any,&rdquo; was the careless rejoinder.
      &ldquo;It was nothing to do, in the first place; and I don&rsquo;t know why I did it,
      in the second. Mr. Darnay, let me ask you a question.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Willingly, and a small return for your good offices.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you think I particularly like you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really, Mr. Carton,&rdquo; returned the other, oddly disconcerted, &ldquo;I have not
      asked myself the question.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But ask yourself the question now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have acted as if you do; but I don&rsquo;t think you do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>I</i> don&rsquo;t think I do,&rdquo; said Carton. &ldquo;I begin to have a very good
      opinion of your understanding.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nevertheless,&rdquo; pursued Darnay, rising to ring the bell, &ldquo;there is nothing
      in that, I hope, to prevent my calling the reckoning, and our parting
      without ill-blood on either side.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carton rejoining, &ldquo;Nothing in life!&rdquo; Darnay rang. &ldquo;Do you call the whole
      reckoning?&rdquo; said Carton. On his answering in the affirmative, &ldquo;Then bring
      me another pint of this same wine, drawer, and come and wake me at ten.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The bill being paid, Charles Darnay rose and wished him good night.
      Without returning the wish, Carton rose too, with something of a threat of
      defiance in his manner, and said, &ldquo;A last word, Mr. Darnay: you think I am
      drunk?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think you have been drinking, Mr. Carton.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Think? You know I have been drinking.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Since I must say so, I know it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you shall likewise know why. I am a disappointed drudge, sir. I care
      for no man on earth, and no man on earth cares for me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Much to be regretted. You might have used your talents better.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;May be so, Mr. Darnay; may be not. Don&rsquo;t let your sober face elate you,
      however; you don&rsquo;t know what it may come to. Good night!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When he was left alone, this strange being took up a candle, went to a
      glass that hung against the wall, and surveyed himself minutely in it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you particularly like the man?&rdquo; he muttered, at his own image; &ldquo;why
      should you particularly like a man who resembles you? There is nothing in
      you to like; you know that. Ah, confound you! What a change you have made
      in yourself! A good reason for taking to a man, that he shows you what you
      have fallen away from, and what you might have been! Change places with
      him, and would you have been looked at by those blue eyes as he was, and
      commiserated by that agitated face as he was? Come on, and have it out in
      plain words! You hate the fellow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He resorted to his pint of wine for consolation, drank it all in a few
      minutes, and fell asleep on his arms, with his hair straggling over the
      table, and a long winding-sheet in the candle dripping down upon him.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"></a>
      CHAPTER V.<br />The Jackal
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>hose were drinking days, and most men drank hard. So very great is the
      improvement Time has brought about in such habits, that a moderate
      statement of the quantity of wine and punch which one man would swallow in
      the course of a night, without any detriment to his reputation as a
      perfect gentleman, would seem, in these days, a ridiculous exaggeration.
      The learned profession of the law was certainly not behind any other
      learned profession in its Bacchanalian propensities; neither was Mr.
      Stryver, already fast shouldering his way to a large and lucrative
      practice, behind his compeers in this particular, any more than in the
      drier parts of the legal race.
    </p>
    <p>
      A favourite at the Old Bailey, and eke at the Sessions, Mr. Stryver had
      begun cautiously to hew away the lower staves of the ladder on which he
      mounted. Sessions and Old Bailey had now to summon their favourite,
      specially, to their longing arms; and shouldering itself towards the
      visage of the Lord Chief Justice in the Court of King&rsquo;s Bench, the florid
      countenance of Mr. Stryver might be daily seen, bursting out of the bed of
      wigs, like a great sunflower pushing its way at the sun from among a rank
      garden-full of flaring companions.
    </p>
    <p>
      It had once been noted at the Bar, that while Mr. Stryver was a glib man,
      and an unscrupulous, and a ready, and a bold, he had not that faculty of
      extracting the essence from a heap of statements, which is among the most
      striking and necessary of the advocate&rsquo;s accomplishments. But, a
      remarkable improvement came upon him as to this. The more business he got,
      the greater his power seemed to grow of getting at its pith and marrow;
      and however late at night he sat carousing with Sydney Carton, he always
      had his points at his fingers&rsquo; ends in the morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sydney Carton, idlest and most unpromising of men, was Stryver&rsquo;s great
      ally. What the two drank together, between Hilary Term and Michaelmas,
      might have floated a king&rsquo;s ship. Stryver never had a case in hand,
      anywhere, but Carton was there, with his hands in his pockets, staring at
      the ceiling of the court; they went the same Circuit, and even there they
      prolonged their usual orgies late into the night, and Carton was rumoured
      to be seen at broad day, going home stealthily and unsteadily to his
      lodgings, like a dissipated cat. At last, it began to get about, among
      such as were interested in the matter, that although Sydney Carton would
      never be a lion, he was an amazingly good jackal, and that he rendered
      suit and service to Stryver in that humble capacity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ten o&rsquo;clock, sir,&rdquo; said the man at the tavern, whom he had charged to
      wake him&mdash;&ldquo;ten o&rsquo;clock, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>What&rsquo;s</i> the matter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ten o&rsquo;clock, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean? Ten o&rsquo;clock at night?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir. Your honour told me to call you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! I remember. Very well, very well.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After a few dull efforts to get to sleep again, which the man dexterously
      combated by stirring the fire continuously for five minutes, he got up,
      tossed his hat on, and walked out. He turned into the Temple, and, having
      revived himself by twice pacing the pavements of King&rsquo;s Bench-walk and
      Paper-buildings, turned into the Stryver chambers.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Stryver clerk, who never assisted at these conferences, had gone home,
      and the Stryver principal opened the door. He had his slippers on, and a
      loose bed-gown, and his throat was bare for his greater ease. He had that
      rather wild, strained, seared marking about the eyes, which may be
      observed in all free livers of his class, from the portrait of Jeffries
      downward, and which can be traced, under various disguises of Art, through
      the portraits of every Drinking Age.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are a little late, Memory,&rdquo; said Stryver.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;About the usual time; it may be a quarter of an hour later.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They went into a dingy room lined with books and littered with papers,
      where there was a blazing fire. A kettle steamed upon the hob, and in the
      midst of the wreck of papers a table shone, with plenty of wine upon it,
      and brandy, and rum, and sugar, and lemons.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have had your bottle, I perceive, Sydney.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Two to-night, I think. I have been dining with the day&rsquo;s client; or
      seeing him dine&mdash;it&rsquo;s all one!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That was a rare point, Sydney, that you brought to bear upon the
      identification. How did you come by it? When did it strike you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought he was rather a handsome fellow, and I thought I should have
      been much the same sort of fellow, if I had had any luck.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Stryver laughed till he shook his precocious paunch.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You and your luck, Sydney! Get to work, get to work.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sullenly enough, the jackal loosened his dress, went into an adjoining
      room, and came back with a large jug of cold water, a basin, and a towel
      or two. Steeping the towels in the water, and partially wringing them out,
      he folded them on his head in a manner hideous to behold, sat down at the
      table, and said, &ldquo;Now I am ready!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not much boiling down to be done to-night, Memory,&rdquo; said Mr. Stryver,
      gaily, as he looked among his papers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How much?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only two sets of them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give me the worst first.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There they are, Sydney. Fire away!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The lion then composed himself on his back on a sofa on one side of the
      drinking-table, while the jackal sat at his own paper-bestrewn table
      proper, on the other side of it, with the bottles and glasses ready to his
      hand. Both resorted to the drinking-table without stint, but each in a
      different way; the lion for the most part reclining with his hands in his
      waistband, looking at the fire, or occasionally flirting with some lighter
      document; the jackal, with knitted brows and intent face, so deep in his
      task, that his eyes did not even follow the hand he stretched out for his
      glass&mdash;which often groped about, for a minute or more, before it
      found the glass for his lips. Two or three times, the matter in hand
      became so knotty, that the jackal found it imperative on him to get up,
      and steep his towels anew. From these pilgrimages to the jug and basin, he
      returned with such eccentricities of damp headgear as no words can
      describe; which were made the more ludicrous by his anxious gravity.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length the jackal had got together a compact repast for the lion, and
      proceeded to offer it to him. The lion took it with care and caution, made
      his selections from it, and his remarks upon it, and the jackal assisted
      both. When the repast was fully discussed, the lion put his hands in his
      waistband again, and lay down to meditate. The jackal then invigorated
      himself with a bumper for his throttle, and a fresh application to his
      head, and applied himself to the collection of a second meal; this was
      administered to the lion in the same manner, and was not disposed of until
      the clocks struck three in the morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And now we have done, Sydney, fill a bumper of punch,&rdquo; said Mr. Stryver.
    </p>
    <p>
      The jackal removed the towels from his head, which had been steaming
      again, shook himself, yawned, shivered, and complied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You were very sound, Sydney, in the matter of those crown witnesses
      to-day. Every question told.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I always am sound; am I not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t gainsay it. What has roughened your temper? Put some punch to it
      and smooth it again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With a deprecatory grunt, the jackal again complied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The old Sydney Carton of old Shrewsbury School,&rdquo; said Stryver, nodding
      his head over him as he reviewed him in the present and the past, &ldquo;the old
      seesaw Sydney. Up one minute and down the next; now in spirits and now in
      despondency!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; returned the other, sighing: &ldquo;yes! The same Sydney, with the same
      luck. Even then, I did exercises for other boys, and seldom did my own.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And why not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God knows. It was my way, I suppose.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He sat, with his hands in his pockets and his legs stretched out before
      him, looking at the fire.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Carton,&rdquo; said his friend, squaring himself at him with a bullying air, as
      if the fire-grate had been the furnace in which sustained endeavour was
      forged, and the one delicate thing to be done for the old Sydney Carton of
      old Shrewsbury School was to shoulder him into it, &ldquo;your way is, and
      always was, a lame way. You summon no energy and purpose. Look at me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, botheration!&rdquo; returned Sydney, with a lighter and more good-humoured
      laugh, &ldquo;don&rsquo;t <i>you</i> be moral!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How have I done what I have done?&rdquo; said Stryver; &ldquo;how do I do what I do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Partly through paying me to help you, I suppose. But it&rsquo;s not worth your
      while to apostrophise me, or the air, about it; what you want to do, you
      do. You were always in the front rank, and I was always behind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had to get into the front rank; I was not born there, was I?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was not present at the ceremony; but my opinion is you were,&rdquo; said
      Carton. At this, he laughed again, and they both laughed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Before Shrewsbury, and at Shrewsbury, and ever since Shrewsbury,&rdquo; pursued
      Carton, &ldquo;you have fallen into your rank, and I have fallen into mine. Even
      when we were fellow-students in the Student-Quarter of Paris, picking up
      French, and French law, and other French crumbs that we didn&rsquo;t get much
      good of, you were always somewhere, and I was always nowhere.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And whose fault was that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Upon my soul, I am not sure that it was not yours. You were always
      driving and riving and shouldering and passing, to that restless degree
      that I had no chance for my life but in rust and repose. It&rsquo;s a gloomy
      thing, however, to talk about one&rsquo;s own past, with the day breaking. Turn
      me in some other direction before I go.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well then! Pledge me to the pretty witness,&rdquo; said Stryver, holding up his
      glass. &ldquo;Are you turned in a pleasant direction?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Apparently not, for he became gloomy again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pretty witness,&rdquo; he muttered, looking down into his glass. &ldquo;I have had
      enough of witnesses to-day and to-night; who&rsquo;s your pretty witness?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The picturesque doctor&rsquo;s daughter, Miss Manette.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>She</i> pretty?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is she not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, man alive, she was the admiration of the whole Court!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rot the admiration of the whole Court! Who made the Old Bailey a judge of
      beauty? She was a golden-haired doll!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know, Sydney,&rdquo; said Mr. Stryver, looking at him with sharp eyes,
      and slowly drawing a hand across his florid face: &ldquo;do you know, I rather
      thought, at the time, that you sympathised with the golden-haired doll,
      and were quick to see what happened to the golden-haired doll?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quick to see what happened! If a girl, doll or no doll, swoons within a
      yard or two of a man&rsquo;s nose, he can see it without a perspective-glass. I
      pledge you, but I deny the beauty. And now I&rsquo;ll have no more drink; I&rsquo;ll
      get to bed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When his host followed him out on the staircase with a candle, to light
      him down the stairs, the day was coldly looking in through its grimy
      windows. When he got out of the house, the air was cold and sad, the dull
      sky overcast, the river dark and dim, the whole scene like a lifeless
      desert. And wreaths of dust were spinning round and round before the
      morning blast, as if the desert-sand had risen far away, and the first
      spray of it in its advance had begun to overwhelm the city.
    </p>
    <p>
      Waste forces within him, and a desert all around, this man stood still on
      his way across a silent terrace, and saw for a moment, lying in the
      wilderness before him, a mirage of honourable ambition, self-denial, and
      perseverance. In the fair city of this vision, there were airy galleries
      from which the loves and graces looked upon him, gardens in which the
      fruits of life hung ripening, waters of Hope that sparkled in his sight. A
      moment, and it was gone. Climbing to a high chamber in a well of houses,
      he threw himself down in his clothes on a neglected bed, and its pillow
      was wet with wasted tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sadly, sadly, the sun rose; it rose upon no sadder sight than the man of
      good abilities and good emotions, incapable of their directed exercise,
      incapable of his own help and his own happiness, sensible of the blight on
      him, and resigning himself to let it eat him away.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"></a>
      CHAPTER VI.<br />Hundreds of People
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he quiet lodgings of Doctor Manette were in a quiet street-corner not far
      from Soho-square. On the afternoon of a certain fine Sunday when the waves
      of four months had rolled over the trial for treason, and carried it, as
      to the public interest and memory, far out to sea, Mr. Jarvis Lorry walked
      along the sunny streets from Clerkenwell where he lived, on his way to
      dine with the Doctor. After several relapses into business-absorption, Mr.
      Lorry had become the Doctor&rsquo;s friend, and the quiet street-corner was the
      sunny part of his life.
    </p>
    <p>
      On this certain fine Sunday, Mr. Lorry walked towards Soho, early in the
      afternoon, for three reasons of habit. Firstly, because, on fine Sundays,
      he often walked out, before dinner, with the Doctor and Lucie; secondly,
      because, on unfavourable Sundays, he was accustomed to be with them as the
      family friend, talking, reading, looking out of window, and generally
      getting through the day; thirdly, because he happened to have his own
      little shrewd doubts to solve, and knew how the ways of the Doctor&rsquo;s
      household pointed to that time as a likely time for solving them.
    </p>
    <p>
      A quainter corner than the corner where the Doctor lived, was not to be
      found in London. There was no way through it, and the front windows of the
      Doctor&rsquo;s lodgings commanded a pleasant little vista of street that had a
      congenial air of retirement on it. There were few buildings then, north of
      the Oxford-road, and forest-trees flourished, and wild flowers grew, and
      the hawthorn blossomed, in the now vanished fields. As a consequence,
      country airs circulated in Soho with vigorous freedom, instead of
      languishing into the parish like stray paupers without a settlement; and
      there was many a good south wall, not far off, on which the peaches
      ripened in their season.
    </p>
    <p>
      The summer light struck into the corner brilliantly in the earlier part of
      the day; but, when the streets grew hot, the corner was in shadow, though
      not in shadow so remote but that you could see beyond it into a glare of
      brightness. It was a cool spot, staid but cheerful, a wonderful place for
      echoes, and a very harbour from the raging streets.
    </p>
    <p>
      There ought to have been a tranquil bark in such an anchorage, and there
      was. The Doctor occupied two floors of a large stiff house, where several
      callings purported to be pursued by day, but whereof little was audible
      any day, and which was shunned by all of them at night. In a building at
      the back, attainable by a courtyard where a plane-tree rustled its green
      leaves, church-organs claimed to be made, and silver to be chased, and
      likewise gold to be beaten by some mysterious giant who had a golden arm
      starting out of the wall of the front hall&mdash;as if he had beaten
      himself precious, and menaced a similar conversion of all visitors. Very
      little of these trades, or of a lonely lodger rumoured to live up-stairs,
      or of a dim coach-trimming maker asserted to have a counting-house below,
      was ever heard or seen. Occasionally, a stray workman putting his coat on,
      traversed the hall, or a stranger peered about there, or a distant clink
      was heard across the courtyard, or a thump from the golden giant. These,
      however, were only the exceptions required to prove the rule that the
      sparrows in the plane-tree behind the house, and the echoes in the corner
      before it, had their own way from Sunday morning unto Saturday night.
    </p>
    <p>
      Doctor Manette received such patients here as his old reputation, and its
      revival in the floating whispers of his story, brought him. His scientific
      knowledge, and his vigilance and skill in conducting ingenious
      experiments, brought him otherwise into moderate request, and he earned as
      much as he wanted.
    </p>
    <p>
      These things were within Mr. Jarvis Lorry&rsquo;s knowledge, thoughts, and
      notice, when he rang the door-bell of the tranquil house in the corner, on
      the fine Sunday afternoon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Doctor Manette at home?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Expected home.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Lucie at home?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Expected home.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Pross at home?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Possibly at home, but of a certainty impossible for handmaid to anticipate
      intentions of Miss Pross, as to admission or denial of the fact.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As I am at home myself,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll go upstairs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Although the Doctor&rsquo;s daughter had known nothing of the country of her
      birth, she appeared to have innately derived from it that ability to make
      much of little means, which is one of its most useful and most agreeable
      characteristics. Simple as the furniture was, it was set off by so many
      little adornments, of no value but for their taste and fancy, that its
      effect was delightful. The disposition of everything in the rooms, from
      the largest object to the least; the arrangement of colours, the elegant
      variety and contrast obtained by thrift in trifles, by delicate hands,
      clear eyes, and good sense; were at once so pleasant in themselves, and so
      expressive of their originator, that, as Mr. Lorry stood looking about
      him, the very chairs and tables seemed to ask him, with something of that
      peculiar expression which he knew so well by this time, whether he
      approved?
    </p>
    <p>
      There were three rooms on a floor, and, the doors by which they
      communicated being put open that the air might pass freely through them
      all, Mr. Lorry, smilingly observant of that fanciful resemblance which he
      detected all around him, walked from one to another. The first was the
      best room, and in it were Lucie&rsquo;s birds, and flowers, and books, and desk,
      and work-table, and box of water-colours; the second was the Doctor&rsquo;s
      consulting-room, used also as the dining-room; the third, changingly
      speckled by the rustle of the plane-tree in the yard, was the Doctor&rsquo;s
      bedroom, and there, in a corner, stood the disused shoemaker&rsquo;s bench and
      tray of tools, much as it had stood on the fifth floor of the dismal house
      by the wine-shop, in the suburb of Saint Antoine in Paris.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wonder,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, pausing in his looking about, &ldquo;that he keeps
      that reminder of his sufferings about him!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And why wonder at that?&rdquo; was the abrupt inquiry that made him start.
    </p>
    <p>
      It proceeded from Miss Pross, the wild red woman, strong of hand, whose
      acquaintance he had first made at the Royal George Hotel at Dover, and had
      since improved.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should have thought&mdash;&rdquo; Mr. Lorry began.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pooh! You&rsquo;d have thought!&rdquo; said Miss Pross; and Mr. Lorry left off.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How do you do?&rdquo; inquired that lady then&mdash;sharply, and yet as if to
      express that she bore him no malice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am pretty well, I thank you,&rdquo; answered Mr. Lorry, with meekness; &ldquo;how
      are you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing to boast of,&rdquo; said Miss Pross.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! indeed!&rdquo; said Miss Pross. &ldquo;I am very much put out about my Ladybird.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For gracious sake say something else besides &lsquo;indeed,&rsquo; or you&rsquo;ll fidget
      me to death,&rdquo; said Miss Pross: whose character (dissociated from stature)
      was shortness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really, then?&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, as an amendment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really, is bad enough,&rdquo; returned Miss Pross, &ldquo;but better. Yes, I am very
      much put out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;May I ask the cause?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want dozens of people who are not at all worthy of Ladybird, to
      come here looking after her,&rdquo; said Miss Pross.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Do</i> dozens come for that purpose?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hundreds,&rdquo; said Miss Pross.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was characteristic of this lady (as of some other people before her
      time and since) that whenever her original proposition was questioned, she
      exaggerated it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear me!&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, as the safest remark he could think of.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have lived with the darling&mdash;or the darling has lived with me, and
      paid me for it; which she certainly should never have done, you may take
      your affidavit, if I could have afforded to keep either myself or her for
      nothing&mdash;since she was ten years old. And it&rsquo;s really very hard,&rdquo;
       said Miss Pross.
    </p>
    <p>
      Not seeing with precision what was very hard, Mr. Lorry shook his head;
      using that important part of himself as a sort of fairy cloak that would
      fit anything.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All sorts of people who are not in the least degree worthy of the pet,
      are always turning up,&rdquo; said Miss Pross. &ldquo;When you began it&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>I</i> began it, Miss Pross?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Didn&rsquo;t you? Who brought her father to life?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! If <i>that</i> was beginning it&mdash;&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It wasn&rsquo;t ending it, I suppose? I say, when you began it, it was hard
      enough; not that I have any fault to find with Doctor Manette, except that
      he is not worthy of such a daughter, which is no imputation on him, for it
      was not to be expected that anybody should be, under any circumstances.
      But it really is doubly and trebly hard to have crowds and multitudes of
      people turning up after him (I could have forgiven him), to take
      Ladybird&rsquo;s affections away from me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Lorry knew Miss Pross to be very jealous, but he also knew her by this
      time to be, beneath the service of her eccentricity, one of those
      unselfish creatures&mdash;found only among women&mdash;who will, for pure
      love and admiration, bind themselves willing slaves, to youth when they
      have lost it, to beauty that they never had, to accomplishments that they
      were never fortunate enough to gain, to bright hopes that never shone upon
      their own sombre lives. He knew enough of the world to know that there is
      nothing in it better than the faithful service of the heart; so rendered
      and so free from any mercenary taint, he had such an exalted respect for
      it, that in the retributive arrangements made by his own mind&mdash;we all
      make such arrangements, more or less&mdash;he stationed Miss Pross much
      nearer to the lower Angels than many ladies immeasurably better got up
      both by Nature and Art, who had balances at Tellson&rsquo;s.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There never was, nor will be, but one man worthy of Ladybird,&rdquo; said Miss
      Pross; &ldquo;and that was my brother Solomon, if he hadn&rsquo;t made a mistake in
      life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here again: Mr. Lorry&rsquo;s inquiries into Miss Pross&rsquo;s personal history had
      established the fact that her brother Solomon was a heartless scoundrel
      who had stripped her of everything she possessed, as a stake to speculate
      with, and had abandoned her in her poverty for evermore, with no touch of
      compunction. Miss Pross&rsquo;s fidelity of belief in Solomon (deducting a mere
      trifle for this slight mistake) was quite a serious matter with Mr. Lorry,
      and had its weight in his good opinion of her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As we happen to be alone for the moment, and are both people of
      business,&rdquo; he said, when they had got back to the drawing-room and had sat
      down there in friendly relations, &ldquo;let me ask you&mdash;does the Doctor,
      in talking with Lucie, never refer to the shoemaking time, yet?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And yet keeps that bench and those tools beside him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; returned Miss Pross, shaking her head. &ldquo;But I don&rsquo;t say he don&rsquo;t
      refer to it within himself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you believe that he thinks of it much?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do,&rdquo; said Miss Pross.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you imagine&mdash;&rdquo; Mr. Lorry had begun, when Miss Pross took him up
      short with:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never imagine anything. Have no imagination at all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I stand corrected; do you suppose&mdash;you go so far as to suppose,
      sometimes?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now and then,&rdquo; said Miss Pross.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you suppose,&rdquo; Mr. Lorry went on, with a laughing twinkle in his bright
      eye, as it looked kindly at her, &ldquo;that Doctor Manette has any theory of
      his own, preserved through all those years, relative to the cause of his
      being so oppressed; perhaps, even to the name of his oppressor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t suppose anything about it but what Ladybird tells me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And that is&mdash;?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That she thinks he has.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now don&rsquo;t be angry at my asking all these questions; because I am a mere
      dull man of business, and you are a woman of business.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dull?&rdquo; Miss Pross inquired, with placidity.
    </p>
    <p>
      Rather wishing his modest adjective away, Mr. Lorry replied, &ldquo;No, no, no.
      Surely not. To return to business:&mdash;Is it not remarkable that Doctor
      Manette, unquestionably innocent of any crime as we are all well assured
      he is, should never touch upon that question? I will not say with me,
      though he had business relations with me many years ago, and we are now
      intimate; I will say with the fair daughter to whom he is so devotedly
      attached, and who is so devotedly attached to him? Believe me, Miss Pross,
      I don&rsquo;t approach the topic with you, out of curiosity, but out of zealous
      interest.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well! To the best of my understanding, and bad&rsquo;s the best, you&rsquo;ll tell
      me,&rdquo; said Miss Pross, softened by the tone of the apology, &ldquo;he is afraid
      of the whole subject.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Afraid?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s plain enough, I should think, why he may be. It&rsquo;s a dreadful
      remembrance. Besides that, his loss of himself grew out of it. Not knowing
      how he lost himself, or how he recovered himself, he may never feel
      certain of not losing himself again. That alone wouldn&rsquo;t make the subject
      pleasant, I should think.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was a profounder remark than Mr. Lorry had looked for. &ldquo;True,&rdquo; said he,
      &ldquo;and fearful to reflect upon. Yet, a doubt lurks in my mind, Miss Pross,
      whether it is good for Doctor Manette to have that suppression always shut
      up within him. Indeed, it is this doubt and the uneasiness it sometimes
      causes me that has led me to our present confidence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can&rsquo;t be helped,&rdquo; said Miss Pross, shaking her head. &ldquo;Touch that string,
      and he instantly changes for the worse. Better leave it alone. In short,
      must leave it alone, like or no like. Sometimes, he gets up in the dead of
      the night, and will be heard, by us overhead there, walking up and down,
      walking up and down, in his room. Ladybird has learnt to know then that
      his mind is walking up and down, walking up and down, in his old prison.
      She hurries to him, and they go on together, walking up and down, walking
      up and down, until he is composed. But he never says a word of the true
      reason of his restlessness, to her, and she finds it best not to hint at
      it to him. In silence they go walking up and down together, walking up and
      down together, till her love and company have brought him to himself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Notwithstanding Miss Pross&rsquo;s denial of her own imagination, there was a
      perception of the pain of being monotonously haunted by one sad idea, in
      her repetition of the phrase, walking up and down, which testified to her
      possessing such a thing.
    </p>
    <p>
      The corner has been mentioned as a wonderful corner for echoes; it had
      begun to echo so resoundingly to the tread of coming feet, that it seemed
      as though the very mention of that weary pacing to and fro had set it
      going.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here they are!&rdquo; said Miss Pross, rising to break up the conference; &ldquo;and
      now we shall have hundreds of people pretty soon!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was such a curious corner in its acoustical properties, such a peculiar
      Ear of a place, that as Mr. Lorry stood at the open window, looking for
      the father and daughter whose steps he heard, he fancied they would never
      approach. Not only would the echoes die away, as though the steps had
      gone; but, echoes of other steps that never came would be heard in their
      stead, and would die away for good when they seemed close at hand.
      However, father and daughter did at last appear, and Miss Pross was ready
      at the street door to receive them.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Pross was a pleasant sight, albeit wild, and red, and grim, taking
      off her darling&rsquo;s bonnet when she came up-stairs, and touching it up with
      the ends of her handkerchief, and blowing the dust off it, and folding her
      mantle ready for laying by, and smoothing her rich hair with as much pride
      as she could possibly have taken in her own hair if she had been the
      vainest and handsomest of women. Her darling was a pleasant sight too,
      embracing her and thanking her, and protesting against her taking so much
      trouble for her&mdash;which last she only dared to do playfully, or Miss
      Pross, sorely hurt, would have retired to her own chamber and cried. The
      Doctor was a pleasant sight too, looking on at them, and telling Miss
      Pross how she spoilt Lucie, in accents and with eyes that had as much
      spoiling in them as Miss Pross had, and would have had more if it were
      possible. Mr. Lorry was a pleasant sight too, beaming at all this in his
      little wig, and thanking his bachelor stars for having lighted him in his
      declining years to a Home. But, no Hundreds of people came to see the
      sights, and Mr. Lorry looked in vain for the fulfilment of Miss Pross&rsquo;s
      prediction.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dinner-time, and still no Hundreds of people. In the arrangements of the
      little household, Miss Pross took charge of the lower regions, and always
      acquitted herself marvellously. Her dinners, of a very modest quality,
      were so well cooked and so well served, and so neat in their contrivances,
      half English and half French, that nothing could be better. Miss Pross&rsquo;s
      friendship being of the thoroughly practical kind, she had ravaged Soho
      and the adjacent provinces, in search of impoverished French, who, tempted
      by shillings and half-crowns, would impart culinary mysteries to her. From
      these decayed sons and daughters of Gaul, she had acquired such wonderful
      arts, that the woman and girl who formed the staff of domestics regarded
      her as quite a Sorceress, or Cinderella&rsquo;s Godmother: who would send out
      for a fowl, a rabbit, a vegetable or two from the garden, and change them
      into anything she pleased.
    </p>
    <p>
      On Sundays, Miss Pross dined at the Doctor&rsquo;s table, but on other days
      persisted in taking her meals at unknown periods, either in the lower
      regions, or in her own room on the second floor&mdash;a blue chamber, to
      which no one but her Ladybird ever gained admittance. On this occasion,
      Miss Pross, responding to Ladybird&rsquo;s pleasant face and pleasant efforts to
      please her, unbent exceedingly; so the dinner was very pleasant, too.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was an oppressive day, and, after dinner, Lucie proposed that the wine
      should be carried out under the plane-tree, and they should sit there in
      the air. As everything turned upon her, and revolved about her, they went
      out under the plane-tree, and she carried the wine down for the special
      benefit of Mr. Lorry. She had installed herself, some time before, as Mr.
      Lorry&rsquo;s cup-bearer; and while they sat under the plane-tree, talking, she
      kept his glass replenished. Mysterious backs and ends of houses peeped at
      them as they talked, and the plane-tree whispered to them in its own way
      above their heads.
    </p>
    <p>
      Still, the Hundreds of people did not present themselves. Mr. Darnay
      presented himself while they were sitting under the plane-tree, but he was
      only One.
    </p>
    <p>
      Doctor Manette received him kindly, and so did Lucie. But, Miss Pross
      suddenly became afflicted with a twitching in the head and body, and
      retired into the house. She was not unfrequently the victim of this
      disorder, and she called it, in familiar conversation, &ldquo;a fit of the
      jerks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Doctor was in his best condition, and looked specially young. The
      resemblance between him and Lucie was very strong at such times, and as
      they sat side by side, she leaning on his shoulder, and he resting his arm
      on the back of her chair, it was very agreeable to trace the likeness.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had been talking all day, on many subjects, and with unusual vivacity.
      &ldquo;Pray, Doctor Manette,&rdquo; said Mr. Darnay, as they sat under the plane-tree&mdash;and
      he said it in the natural pursuit of the topic in hand, which happened to
      be the old buildings of London&mdash;&ldquo;have you seen much of the Tower?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lucie and I have been there; but only casually. We have seen enough of
      it, to know that it teems with interest; little more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>I</i> have been there, as you remember,&rdquo; said Darnay, with a smile,
      though reddening a little angrily, &ldquo;in another character, and not in a
      character that gives facilities for seeing much of it. They told me a
      curious thing when I was there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What was that?&rdquo; Lucie asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In making some alterations, the workmen came upon an old dungeon, which
      had been, for many years, built up and forgotten. Every stone of its inner
      wall was covered by inscriptions which had been carved by prisoners&mdash;dates,
      names, complaints, and prayers. Upon a corner stone in an angle of the
      wall, one prisoner, who seemed to have gone to execution, had cut as his
      last work, three letters. They were done with some very poor instrument,
      and hurriedly, with an unsteady hand. At first, they were read as D. I.
      C.; but, on being more carefully examined, the last letter was found to be
      G. There was no record or legend of any prisoner with those initials, and
      many fruitless guesses were made what the name could have been. At length,
      it was suggested that the letters were not initials, but the complete
      word, <i>DIG</i>. The floor was examined very carefully under the inscription,
      and, in the earth beneath a stone, or tile, or some fragment of paving,
      were found the ashes of a paper, mingled with the ashes of a small
      leathern case or bag. What the unknown prisoner had written will never be
      read, but he had written something, and hidden it away to keep it from the
      gaoler.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My father,&rdquo; exclaimed Lucie, &ldquo;you are ill!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had suddenly started up, with his hand to his head. His manner and his
      look quite terrified them all.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, my dear, not ill. There are large drops of rain falling, and they
      made me start. We had better go in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He recovered himself almost instantly. Rain was really falling in large
      drops, and he showed the back of his hand with rain-drops on it. But, he
      said not a single word in reference to the discovery that had been told
      of, and, as they went into the house, the business eye of Mr. Lorry either
      detected, or fancied it detected, on his face, as it turned towards
      Charles Darnay, the same singular look that had been upon it when it
      turned towards him in the passages of the Court House.
    </p>
    <p>
      He recovered himself so quickly, however, that Mr. Lorry had doubts of his
      business eye. The arm of the golden giant in the hall was not more steady
      than he was, when he stopped under it to remark to them that he was not
      yet proof against slight surprises (if he ever would be), and that the
      rain had startled him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Tea-time, and Miss Pross making tea, with another fit of the jerks upon
      her, and yet no Hundreds of people. Mr. Carton had lounged in, but he made
      only Two.
    </p>
    <p>
      The night was so very sultry, that although they sat with doors and
      windows open, they were overpowered by heat. When the tea-table was done
      with, they all moved to one of the windows, and looked out into the heavy
      twilight. Lucie sat by her father; Darnay sat beside her; Carton leaned
      against a window. The curtains were long and white, and some of the
      thunder-gusts that whirled into the corner, caught them up to the ceiling,
      and waved them like spectral wings.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The rain-drops are still falling, large, heavy, and few,&rdquo; said Doctor
      Manette. &ldquo;It comes slowly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It comes surely,&rdquo; said Carton.
    </p>
    <p>
      They spoke low, as people watching and waiting mostly do; as people in a
      dark room, watching and waiting for Lightning, always do.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a great hurry in the streets of people speeding away to get
      shelter before the storm broke; the wonderful corner for echoes resounded
      with the echoes of footsteps coming and going, yet not a footstep was
      there.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A multitude of people, and yet a solitude!&rdquo; said Darnay, when they had
      listened for a while.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it not impressive, Mr. Darnay?&rdquo; asked Lucie. &ldquo;Sometimes, I have sat
      here of an evening, until I have fancied&mdash;but even the shade of a
      foolish fancy makes me shudder to-night, when all is so black and solemn&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us shudder too. We may know what it is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It will seem nothing to you. Such whims are only impressive as we
      originate them, I think; they are not to be communicated. I have sometimes
      sat alone here of an evening, listening, until I have made the echoes out
      to be the echoes of all the footsteps that are coming by-and-bye into our
      lives.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is a great crowd coming one day into our lives, if that be so,&rdquo;
       Sydney Carton struck in, in his moody way.
    </p>
    <p>
      The footsteps were incessant, and the hurry of them became more and more
      rapid. The corner echoed and re-echoed with the tread of feet; some, as it
      seemed, under the windows; some, as it seemed, in the room; some coming,
      some going, some breaking off, some stopping altogether; all in the
      distant streets, and not one within sight.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are all these footsteps destined to come to all of us, Miss Manette, or
      are we to divide them among us?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know, Mr. Darnay; I told you it was a foolish fancy, but you
      asked for it. When I have yielded myself to it, I have been alone, and
      then I have imagined them the footsteps of the people who are to come into
      my life, and my father&rsquo;s.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I take them into mine!&rdquo; said Carton. &ldquo;<i>I</i> ask no questions and make
      no stipulations. There is a great crowd bearing down upon us, Miss
      Manette, and I see them&mdash;by the Lightning.&rdquo; He added the last words,
      after there had been a vivid flash which had shown him lounging in the
      window.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I hear them!&rdquo; he added again, after a peal of thunder. &ldquo;Here they
      come, fast, fierce, and furious!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was the rush and roar of rain that he typified, and it stopped him, for
      no voice could be heard in it. A memorable storm of thunder and lightning
      broke with that sweep of water, and there was not a moment&rsquo;s interval in
      crash, and fire, and rain, until after the moon rose at midnight.
    </p>
    <p>
      The great bell of Saint Paul&rsquo;s was striking one in the cleared air, when
      Mr. Lorry, escorted by Jerry, high-booted and bearing a lantern, set forth
      on his return-passage to Clerkenwell. There were solitary patches of road
      on the way between Soho and Clerkenwell, and Mr. Lorry, mindful of
      foot-pads, always retained Jerry for this service: though it was usually
      performed a good two hours earlier.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a night it has been! Almost a night, Jerry,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, &ldquo;to
      bring the dead out of their graves.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never see the night myself, master&mdash;nor yet I don&rsquo;t expect to&mdash;what
      would do that,&rdquo; answered Jerry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good night, Mr. Carton,&rdquo; said the man of business. &ldquo;Good night, Mr.
      Darnay. Shall we ever see such a night again, together!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Perhaps. Perhaps, see the great crowd of people with its rush and roar,
      bearing down upon them, too.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"></a>
      CHAPTER VII.<br />Monseigneur in Town
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>onseigneur, one of the great lords in power at the Court, held his
      fortnightly reception in his grand hotel in Paris. Monseigneur was in his
      inner room, his sanctuary of sanctuaries, the Holiest of Holiests to the
      crowd of worshippers in the suite of rooms without. Monseigneur was about
      to take his chocolate. Monseigneur could swallow a great many things with
      ease, and was by some few sullen minds supposed to be rather rapidly
      swallowing France; but, his morning&rsquo;s chocolate could not so much as get
      into the throat of Monseigneur, without the aid of four strong men besides
      the Cook.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yes. It took four men, all four ablaze with gorgeous decoration, and the
      Chief of them unable to exist with fewer than two gold watches in his
      pocket, emulative of the noble and chaste fashion set by Monseigneur, to
      conduct the happy chocolate to Monseigneur&rsquo;s lips. One lacquey carried the
      chocolate-pot into the sacred presence; a second, milled and frothed the
      chocolate with the little instrument he bore for that function; a third,
      presented the favoured napkin; a fourth (he of the two gold watches),
      poured the chocolate out. It was impossible for Monseigneur to dispense
      with one of these attendants on the chocolate and hold his high place
      under the admiring Heavens. Deep would have been the blot upon his
      escutcheon if his chocolate had been ignobly waited on by only three men;
      he must have died of two.
    </p>
    <p>
      Monseigneur had been out at a little supper last night, where the Comedy
      and the Grand Opera were charmingly represented. Monseigneur was out at a
      little supper most nights, with fascinating company. So polite and so
      impressible was Monseigneur, that the Comedy and the Grand Opera had far
      more influence with him in the tiresome articles of state affairs and
      state secrets, than the needs of all France. A happy circumstance for
      France, as the like always is for all countries similarly favoured!&mdash;always
      was for England (by way of example), in the regretted days of the merry
      Stuart who sold it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Monseigneur had one truly noble idea of general public business, which
      was, to let everything go on in its own way; of particular public
      business, Monseigneur had the other truly noble idea that it must all go
      his way&mdash;tend to his own power and pocket. Of his pleasures, general
      and particular, Monseigneur had the other truly noble idea, that the world
      was made for them. The text of his order (altered from the original by
      only a pronoun, which is not much) ran: &ldquo;The earth and the fulness thereof
      are mine, saith Monseigneur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Yet, Monseigneur had slowly found that vulgar embarrassments crept into
      his affairs, both private and public; and he had, as to both classes of
      affairs, allied himself perforce with a Farmer-General. As to finances
      public, because Monseigneur could not make anything at all of them, and
      must consequently let them out to somebody who could; as to finances
      private, because Farmer-Generals were rich, and Monseigneur, after
      generations of great luxury and expense, was growing poor. Hence
      Monseigneur had taken his sister from a convent, while there was yet time
      to ward off the impending veil, the cheapest garment she could wear, and
      had bestowed her as a prize upon a very rich Farmer-General, poor in
      family. Which Farmer-General, carrying an appropriate cane with a golden
      apple on the top of it, was now among the company in the outer rooms, much
      prostrated before by mankind&mdash;always excepting superior mankind of
      the blood of Monseigneur, who, his own wife included, looked down upon him
      with the loftiest contempt.
    </p>
    <p>
      A sumptuous man was the Farmer-General. Thirty horses stood in his
      stables, twenty-four male domestics sat in his halls, six body-women
      waited on his wife. As one who pretended to do nothing but plunder and
      forage where he could, the Farmer-General&mdash;howsoever his matrimonial
      relations conduced to social morality&mdash;was at least the greatest
      reality among the personages who attended at the hotel of Monseigneur that
      day.
    </p>
    <p>
      For, the rooms, though a beautiful scene to look at, and adorned with
      every device of decoration that the taste and skill of the time could
      achieve, were, in truth, not a sound business; considered with any
      reference to the scarecrows in the rags and nightcaps elsewhere (and not
      so far off, either, but that the watching towers of Notre Dame, almost
      equidistant from the two extremes, could see them both), they would have
      been an exceedingly uncomfortable business&mdash;if that could have been
      anybody&rsquo;s business, at the house of Monseigneur. Military officers
      destitute of military knowledge; naval officers with no idea of a ship;
      civil officers without a notion of affairs; brazen ecclesiastics, of the
      worst world worldly, with sensual eyes, loose tongues, and looser lives;
      all totally unfit for their several callings, all lying horribly in
      pretending to belong to them, but all nearly or remotely of the order of
      Monseigneur, and therefore foisted on all public employments from which
      anything was to be got; these were to be told off by the score and the
      score. People not immediately connected with Monseigneur or the State, yet
      equally unconnected with anything that was real, or with lives passed in
      travelling by any straight road to any true earthly end, were no less
      abundant. Doctors who made great fortunes out of dainty remedies for
      imaginary disorders that never existed, smiled upon their courtly patients
      in the ante-chambers of Monseigneur. Projectors who had discovered every
      kind of remedy for the little evils with which the State was touched,
      except the remedy of setting to work in earnest to root out a single sin,
      poured their distracting babble into any ears they could lay hold of, at
      the reception of Monseigneur. Unbelieving Philosophers who were
      remodelling the world with words, and making card-towers of Babel to scale
      the skies with, talked with Unbelieving Chemists who had an eye on the
      transmutation of metals, at this wonderful gathering accumulated by
      Monseigneur. Exquisite gentlemen of the finest breeding, which was at that
      remarkable time&mdash;and has been since&mdash;to be known by its fruits
      of indifference to every natural subject of human interest, were in the
      most exemplary state of exhaustion, at the hotel of Monseigneur. Such
      homes had these various notabilities left behind them in the fine world of
      Paris, that the spies among the assembled devotees of Monseigneur&mdash;forming
      a goodly half of the polite company&mdash;would have found it hard to
      discover among the angels of that sphere one solitary wife, who, in her
      manners and appearance, owned to being a Mother. Indeed, except for the
      mere act of bringing a troublesome creature into this world&mdash;which
      does not go far towards the realisation of the name of mother&mdash;there
      was no such thing known to the fashion. Peasant women kept the
      unfashionable babies close, and brought them up, and charming grandmammas
      of sixty dressed and supped as at twenty.
    </p>
    <p>
      The leprosy of unreality disfigured every human creature in attendance
      upon Monseigneur. In the outermost room were half a dozen exceptional
      people who had had, for a few years, some vague misgiving in them that
      things in general were going rather wrong. As a promising way of setting
      them right, half of the half-dozen had become members of a fantastic sect
      of Convulsionists, and were even then considering within themselves
      whether they should foam, rage, roar, and turn cataleptic on the spot&mdash;thereby
      setting up a highly intelligible finger-post to the Future, for
      Monseigneur&rsquo;s guidance. Besides these Dervishes, were other three who had
      rushed into another sect, which mended matters with a jargon about &ldquo;the
      Centre of Truth:&rdquo; holding that Man had got out of the Centre of Truth&mdash;which
      did not need much demonstration&mdash;but had not got out of the
      Circumference, and that he was to be kept from flying out of the
      Circumference, and was even to be shoved back into the Centre, by fasting
      and seeing of spirits. Among these, accordingly, much discoursing with
      spirits went on&mdash;and it did a world of good which never became
      manifest.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, the comfort was, that all the company at the grand hotel of
      Monseigneur were perfectly dressed. If the Day of Judgment had only been
      ascertained to be a dress day, everybody there would have been eternally
      correct. Such frizzling and powdering and sticking up of hair, such
      delicate complexions artificially preserved and mended, such gallant
      swords to look at, and such delicate honour to the sense of smell, would
      surely keep anything going, for ever and ever. The exquisite gentlemen of
      the finest breeding wore little pendent trinkets that chinked as they
      languidly moved; these golden fetters rang like precious little bells; and
      what with that ringing, and with the rustle of silk and brocade and fine
      linen, there was a flutter in the air that fanned Saint Antoine and his
      devouring hunger far away.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dress was the one unfailing talisman and charm used for keeping all things
      in their places. Everybody was dressed for a Fancy Ball that was never to
      leave off. From the Palace of the Tuileries, through Monseigneur and the
      whole Court, through the Chambers, the Tribunals of Justice, and all
      society (except the scarecrows), the Fancy Ball descended to the Common
      Executioner: who, in pursuance of the charm, was required to officiate
      &ldquo;frizzled, powdered, in a gold-laced coat, pumps, and white silk
      stockings.&rdquo; At the gallows and the wheel&mdash;the axe was a rarity&mdash;Monsieur
      Paris, as it was the episcopal mode among his brother Professors of the
      provinces, Monsieur Orleans, and the rest, to call him, presided in this
      dainty dress. And who among the company at Monseigneur&rsquo;s reception in that
      seventeen hundred and eightieth year of our Lord, could possibly doubt,
      that a system rooted in a frizzled hangman, powdered, gold-laced, pumped,
      and white-silk stockinged, would see the very stars out!
    </p>
    <p>
      Monseigneur having eased his four men of their burdens and taken his
      chocolate, caused the doors of the Holiest of Holiests to be thrown open,
      and issued forth. Then, what submission, what cringing and fawning, what
      servility, what abject humiliation! As to bowing down in body and spirit,
      nothing in that way was left for Heaven&mdash;which may have been one
      among other reasons why the worshippers of Monseigneur never troubled it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bestowing a word of promise here and a smile there, a whisper on one happy
      slave and a wave of the hand on another, Monseigneur affably passed
      through his rooms to the remote region of the Circumference of Truth.
      There, Monseigneur turned, and came back again, and so in due course of
      time got himself shut up in his sanctuary by the chocolate sprites, and
      was seen no more.
    </p>
    <p>
      The show being over, the flutter in the air became quite a little storm,
      and the precious little bells went ringing downstairs. There was soon but
      one person left of all the crowd, and he, with his hat under his arm and
      his snuff-box in his hand, slowly passed among the mirrors on his way out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I devote you,&rdquo; said this person, stopping at the last door on his way,
      and turning in the direction of the sanctuary, &ldquo;to the Devil!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With that, he shook the snuff from his fingers as if he had shaken the
      dust from his feet, and quietly walked downstairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was a man of about sixty, handsomely dressed, haughty in manner, and
      with a face like a fine mask. A face of a transparent paleness; every
      feature in it clearly defined; one set expression on it. The nose,
      beautifully formed otherwise, was very slightly pinched at the top of each
      nostril. In those two compressions, or dints, the only little change that
      the face ever showed, resided. They persisted in changing colour
      sometimes, and they would be occasionally dilated and contracted by
      something like a faint pulsation; then, they gave a look of treachery, and
      cruelty, to the whole countenance. Examined with attention, its capacity
      of helping such a look was to be found in the line of the mouth, and the
      lines of the orbits of the eyes, being much too horizontal and thin;
      still, in the effect of the face made, it was a handsome face, and a
      remarkable one.
    </p>
    <p>
      Its owner went downstairs into the courtyard, got into his carriage, and
      drove away. Not many people had talked with him at the reception; he had
      stood in a little space apart, and Monseigneur might have been warmer in
      his manner. It appeared, under the circumstances, rather agreeable to him
      to see the common people dispersed before his horses, and often barely
      escaping from being run down. His man drove as if he were charging an
      enemy, and the furious recklessness of the man brought no check into the
      face, or to the lips, of the master. The complaint had sometimes made
      itself audible, even in that deaf city and dumb age, that, in the narrow
      streets without footways, the fierce patrician custom of hard driving
      endangered and maimed the mere vulgar in a barbarous manner. But, few
      cared enough for that to think of it a second time, and, in this matter,
      as in all others, the common wretches were left to get out of their
      difficulties as they could.
    </p>
    <p>
      With a wild rattle and clatter, and an inhuman abandonment of
      consideration not easy to be understood in these days, the carriage dashed
      through streets and swept round corners, with women screaming before it,
      and men clutching each other and clutching children out of its way. At
      last, swooping at a street corner by a fountain, one of its wheels came to
      a sickening little jolt, and there was a loud cry from a number of voices,
      and the horses reared and plunged.
    </p>

<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/0496m.jpg" style="width:100%;"  alt="0496m " /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0496.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>

    <p>
      But for the latter inconvenience, the carriage probably would not have
      stopped; carriages were often known to drive on, and leave their wounded
      behind, and why not? But the frightened valet had got down in a hurry, and
      there were twenty hands at the horses&rsquo; bridles.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What has gone wrong?&rdquo; said Monsieur, calmly looking out.
    </p>
    <p>
      A tall man in a nightcap had caught up a bundle from among the feet of the
      horses, and had laid it on the basement of the fountain, and was down in
      the mud and wet, howling over it like a wild animal.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pardon, Monsieur the Marquis!&rdquo; said a ragged and submissive man, &ldquo;it is a
      child.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why does he make that abominable noise? Is it his child?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse me, Monsieur the Marquis&mdash;it is a pity&mdash;yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The fountain was a little removed; for the street opened, where it was,
      into a space some ten or twelve yards square. As the tall man suddenly got
      up from the ground, and came running at the carriage, Monsieur the Marquis
      clapped his hand for an instant on his sword-hilt.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Killed!&rdquo; shrieked the man, in wild desperation, extending both arms at
      their length above his head, and staring at him. &ldquo;Dead!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The people closed round, and looked at Monsieur the Marquis. There was
      nothing revealed by the many eyes that looked at him but watchfulness and
      eagerness; there was no visible menacing or anger. Neither did the people
      say anything; after the first cry, they had been silent, and they remained
      so. The voice of the submissive man who had spoken, was flat and tame in
      its extreme submission. Monsieur the Marquis ran his eyes over them all,
      as if they had been mere rats come out of their holes.
    </p>
    <p>
      He took out his purse.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is extraordinary to me,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;that you people cannot take care of
      yourselves and your children. One or the other of you is for ever in the
      way. How do I know what injury you have done my horses. See! Give him
      that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He threw out a gold coin for the valet to pick up, and all the heads
      craned forward that all the eyes might look down at it as it fell. The
      tall man called out again with a most unearthly cry, &ldquo;Dead!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was arrested by the quick arrival of another man, for whom the rest
      made way. On seeing him, the miserable creature fell upon his shoulder,
      sobbing and crying, and pointing to the fountain, where some women were
      stooping over the motionless bundle, and moving gently about it. They were
      as silent, however, as the men.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know all, I know all,&rdquo; said the last comer. &ldquo;Be a brave man, my
      Gaspard! It is better for the poor little plaything to die so, than to
      live. It has died in a moment without pain. Could it have lived an hour as
      happily?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are a philosopher, you there,&rdquo; said the Marquis, smiling. &ldquo;How do
      they call you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They call me Defarge.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of what trade?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur the Marquis, vendor of wine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pick up that, philosopher and vendor of wine,&rdquo; said the Marquis, throwing
      him another gold coin, &ldquo;and spend it as you will. The horses there; are
      they right?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Without deigning to look at the assemblage a second time, Monsieur the
      Marquis leaned back in his seat, and was just being driven away with the
      air of a gentleman who had accidentally broke some common thing, and had
      paid for it, and could afford to pay for it; when his ease was suddenly
      disturbed by a coin flying into his carriage, and ringing on its floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hold!&rdquo; said Monsieur the Marquis. &ldquo;Hold the horses! Who threw that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He looked to the spot where Defarge the vendor of wine had stood, a moment
      before; but the wretched father was grovelling on his face on the pavement
      in that spot, and the figure that stood beside him was the figure of a
      dark stout woman, knitting.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You dogs!&rdquo; said the Marquis, but smoothly, and with an unchanged front,
      except as to the spots on his nose: &ldquo;I would ride over any of you very
      willingly, and exterminate you from the earth. If I knew which rascal
      threw at the carriage, and if that brigand were sufficiently near it, he
      should be crushed under the wheels.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So cowed was their condition, and so long and hard their experience of
      what such a man could do to them, within the law and beyond it, that not a
      voice, or a hand, or even an eye was raised. Among the men, not one. But
      the woman who stood knitting looked up steadily, and looked the Marquis in
      the face. It was not for his dignity to notice it; his contemptuous eyes
      passed over her, and over all the other rats; and he leaned back in his
      seat again, and gave the word &ldquo;Go on!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was driven on, and other carriages came whirling by in quick
      succession; the Minister, the State-Projector, the Farmer-General, the
      Doctor, the Lawyer, the Ecclesiastic, the Grand Opera, the Comedy, the
      whole Fancy Ball in a bright continuous flow, came whirling by. The rats
      had crept out of their holes to look on, and they remained looking on for
      hours; soldiers and police often passing between them and the spectacle,
      and making a barrier behind which they slunk, and through which they
      peeped. The father had long ago taken up his bundle and bidden himself
      away with it, when the women who had tended the bundle while it lay on the
      base of the fountain, sat there watching the running of the water and the
      rolling of the Fancy Ball&mdash;when the one woman who had stood
      conspicuous, knitting, still knitted on with the steadfastness of Fate.
      The water of the fountain ran, the swift river ran, the day ran into
      evening, so much life in the city ran into death according to rule, time
      and tide waited for no man, the rats were sleeping close together in their
      dark holes again, the Fancy Ball was lighted up at supper, all things ran
      their course.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"></a>
      CHAPTER VIII.<br />Monseigneur in the Country
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span> beautiful landscape, with the corn bright in it, but not abundant.
      Patches of poor rye where corn should have been, patches of poor peas and
      beans, patches of most coarse vegetable substitutes for wheat. On
      inanimate nature, as on the men and women who cultivated it, a prevalent
      tendency towards an appearance of vegetating unwillingly&mdash;a dejected
      disposition to give up, and wither away.
    </p>
    <p>
      Monsieur the Marquis in his travelling carriage (which might have been
      lighter), conducted by four post-horses and two postilions, fagged up a
      steep hill. A blush on the countenance of Monsieur the Marquis was no
      impeachment of his high breeding; it was not from within; it was
      occasioned by an external circumstance beyond his control&mdash;the
      setting sun.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sunset struck so brilliantly into the travelling carriage when it
      gained the hill-top, that its occupant was steeped in crimson. &ldquo;It will
      die out,&rdquo; said Monsieur the Marquis, glancing at his hands, &ldquo;directly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In effect, the sun was so low that it dipped at the moment. When the heavy
      drag had been adjusted to the wheel, and the carriage slid down hill, with
      a cinderous smell, in a cloud of dust, the red glow departed quickly; the
      sun and the Marquis going down together, there was no glow left when the
      drag was taken off.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, there remained a broken country, bold and open, a little village at
      the bottom of the hill, a broad sweep and rise beyond it, a church-tower,
      a windmill, a forest for the chase, and a crag with a fortress on it used
      as a prison. Round upon all these darkening objects as the night drew on,
      the Marquis looked, with the air of one who was coming near home.
    </p>
    <p>
      The village had its one poor street, with its poor brewery, poor tannery,
      poor tavern, poor stable-yard for relays of post-horses, poor fountain,
      all usual poor appointments. It had its poor people too. All its people
      were poor, and many of them were sitting at their doors, shredding spare
      onions and the like for supper, while many were at the fountain, washing
      leaves, and grasses, and any such small yieldings of the earth that could
      be eaten. Expressive signs of what made them poor, were not wanting; the
      tax for the state, the tax for the church, the tax for the lord, tax local
      and tax general, were to be paid here and to be paid there, according to
      solemn inscription in the little village, until the wonder was, that there
      was any village left unswallowed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Few children were to be seen, and no dogs. As to the men and women, their
      choice on earth was stated in the prospect&mdash;Life on the lowest terms
      that could sustain it, down in the little village under the mill; or
      captivity and Death in the dominant prison on the crag.
    </p>
    <p>
      Heralded by a courier in advance, and by the cracking of his postilions&rsquo;
      whips, which twined snake-like about their heads in the evening air, as if
      he came attended by the Furies, Monsieur the Marquis drew up in his
      travelling carriage at the posting-house gate. It was hard by the
      fountain, and the peasants suspended their operations to look at him. He
      looked at them, and saw in them, without knowing it, the slow sure filing
      down of misery-worn face and figure, that was to make the meagreness of
      Frenchmen an English superstition which should survive the truth through
      the best part of a hundred years.
    </p>
    <p>
      Monsieur the Marquis cast his eyes over the submissive faces that drooped
      before him, as the like of himself had drooped before Monseigneur of the
      Court&mdash;only the difference was, that these faces drooped merely to
      suffer and not to propitiate&mdash;when a grizzled mender of the roads
      joined the group.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bring me hither that fellow!&rdquo; said the Marquis to the courier.
    </p>
    <p>
      The fellow was brought, cap in hand, and the other fellows closed round to
      look and listen, in the manner of the people at the Paris fountain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I passed you on the road?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monseigneur, it is true. I had the honour of being passed on the road.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Coming up the hill, and at the top of the hill, both?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monseigneur, it is true.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did you look at, so fixedly?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monseigneur, I looked at the man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He stooped a little, and with his tattered blue cap pointed under the
      carriage. All his fellows stooped to look under the carriage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What man, pig? And why look there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pardon, Monseigneur; he swung by the chain of the shoe&mdash;the drag.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who?&rdquo; demanded the traveller.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monseigneur, the man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;May the Devil carry away these idiots! How do you call the man? You know
      all the men of this part of the country. Who was he?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your clemency, Monseigneur! He was not of this part of the country. Of
      all the days of my life, I never saw him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Swinging by the chain? To be suffocated?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With your gracious permission, that was the wonder of it, Monseigneur.
      His head hanging over&mdash;like this!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He turned himself sideways to the carriage, and leaned back, with his face
      thrown up to the sky, and his head hanging down; then recovered himself,
      fumbled with his cap, and made a bow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What was he like?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monseigneur, he was whiter than the miller. All covered with dust, white
      as a spectre, tall as a spectre!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The picture produced an immense sensation in the little crowd; but all
      eyes, without comparing notes with other eyes, looked at Monsieur the
      Marquis. Perhaps, to observe whether he had any spectre on his conscience.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Truly, you did well,&rdquo; said the Marquis, felicitously sensible that such
      vermin were not to ruffle him, &ldquo;to see a thief accompanying my carriage,
      and not open that great mouth of yours. Bah! Put him aside, Monsieur
      Gabelle!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Monsieur Gabelle was the Postmaster, and some other taxing functionary
      united; he had come out with great obsequiousness to assist at this
      examination, and had held the examined by the drapery of his arm in an
      official manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bah! Go aside!&rdquo; said Monsieur Gabelle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lay hands on this stranger if he seeks to lodge in your village to-night,
      and be sure that his business is honest, Gabelle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monseigneur, I am flattered to devote myself to your orders.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did he run away, fellow?&mdash;where is that Accursed?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The accursed was already under the carriage with some half-dozen
      particular friends, pointing out the chain with his blue cap. Some
      half-dozen other particular friends promptly hauled him out, and presented
      him breathless to Monsieur the Marquis.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did the man run away, Dolt, when we stopped for the drag?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monseigneur, he precipitated himself over the hill-side, head first, as a
      person plunges into the river.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See to it, Gabelle. Go on!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The half-dozen who were peering at the chain were still among the wheels,
      like sheep; the wheels turned so suddenly that they were lucky to save
      their skins and bones; they had very little else to save, or they might
      not have been so fortunate.
    </p>
    <p>
      The burst with which the carriage started out of the village and up the
      rise beyond, was soon checked by the steepness of the hill. Gradually, it
      subsided to a foot pace, swinging and lumbering upward among the many
      sweet scents of a summer night. The postilions, with a thousand gossamer
      gnats circling about them in lieu of the Furies, quietly mended the points
      to the lashes of their whips; the valet walked by the horses; the courier
      was audible, trotting on ahead into the dull distance.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the steepest point of the hill there was a little burial-ground, with a
      Cross and a new large figure of Our Saviour on it; it was a poor figure in
      wood, done by some inexperienced rustic carver, but he had studied the
      figure from the life&mdash;his own life, maybe&mdash;for it was dreadfully
      spare and thin.
    </p>
    <p>
      To this distressful emblem of a great distress that had long been growing
      worse, and was not at its worst, a woman was kneeling. She turned her head
      as the carriage came up to her, rose quickly, and presented herself at the
      carriage-door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is you, Monseigneur! Monseigneur, a petition.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With an exclamation of impatience, but with his unchangeable face,
      Monseigneur looked out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How, then! What is it? Always petitions!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monseigneur. For the love of the great God! My husband, the forester.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What of your husband, the forester? Always the same with you people. He
      cannot pay something?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He has paid all, Monseigneur. He is dead.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well! He is quiet. Can I restore him to you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas, no, Monseigneur! But he lies yonder, under a little heap of poor
      grass.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monseigneur, there are so many little heaps of poor grass?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Again, well?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She looked an old woman, but was young. Her manner was one of passionate
      grief; by turns she clasped her veinous and knotted hands together with
      wild energy, and laid one of them on the carriage-door&mdash;tenderly,
      caressingly, as if it had been a human breast, and could be expected to
      feel the appealing touch.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monseigneur, hear me! Monseigneur, hear my petition! My husband died of
      want; so many die of want; so many more will die of want.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Again, well? Can I feed them?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monseigneur, the good God knows; but I don&rsquo;t ask it. My petition is, that
      a morsel of stone or wood, with my husband&rsquo;s name, may be placed over him
      to show where he lies. Otherwise, the place will be quickly forgotten, it
      will never be found when I am dead of the same malady, I shall be laid
      under some other heap of poor grass. Monseigneur, they are so many, they
      increase so fast, there is so much want. Monseigneur! Monseigneur!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The valet had put her away from the door, the carriage had broken into a
      brisk trot, the postilions had quickened the pace, she was left far
      behind, and Monseigneur, again escorted by the Furies, was rapidly
      diminishing the league or two of distance that remained between him and
      his chateau.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sweet scents of the summer night rose all around him, and rose, as the
      rain falls, impartially, on the dusty, ragged, and toil-worn group at the
      fountain not far away; to whom the mender of roads, with the aid of the
      blue cap without which he was nothing, still enlarged upon his man like a
      spectre, as long as they could bear it. By degrees, as they could bear no
      more, they dropped off one by one, and lights twinkled in little
      casements; which lights, as the casements darkened, and more stars came
      out, seemed to have shot up into the sky instead of having been
      extinguished.
    </p>
    <p>
      The shadow of a large high-roofed house, and of many over-hanging trees,
      was upon Monsieur the Marquis by that time; and the shadow was exchanged
      for the light of a flambeau, as his carriage stopped, and the great door
      of his chateau was opened to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur Charles, whom I expect; is he arrived from England?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monseigneur, not yet.&rdquo;
     </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"></a>
      CHAPTER IX.<br />The Gorgon&rsquo;s Head
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was a heavy mass of building, that chateau of Monsieur the Marquis,
      with a large stone courtyard before it, and two stone sweeps of staircase
      meeting in a stone terrace before the principal door. A stony business
      altogether, with heavy stone balustrades, and stone urns, and stone
      flowers, and stone faces of men, and stone heads of lions, in all
      directions. As if the Gorgon&rsquo;s head had surveyed it, when it was finished,
      two centuries ago.
    </p>
    <p>
      Up the broad flight of shallow steps, Monsieur the Marquis, flambeau
      preceded, went from his carriage, sufficiently disturbing the darkness to
      elicit loud remonstrance from an owl in the roof of the great pile of
      stable building away among the trees. All else was so quiet, that the
      flambeau carried up the steps, and the other flambeau held at the great
      door, burnt as if they were in a close room of state, instead of being in
      the open night-air. Other sound than the owl&rsquo;s voice there was none, save
      the falling of a fountain into its stone basin; for, it was one of those
      dark nights that hold their breath by the hour together, and then heave a
      long low sigh, and hold their breath again.
    </p>
    <p>
      The great door clanged behind him, and Monsieur the Marquis crossed a hall
      grim with certain old boar-spears, swords, and knives of the chase;
      grimmer with certain heavy riding-rods and riding-whips, of which many a
      peasant, gone to his benefactor Death, had felt the weight when his lord
      was angry.
    </p>
    <p>
      Avoiding the larger rooms, which were dark and made fast for the night,
      Monsieur the Marquis, with his flambeau-bearer going on before, went up
      the staircase to a door in a corridor. This thrown open, admitted him to
      his own private apartment of three rooms: his bed-chamber and two others.
      High vaulted rooms with cool uncarpeted floors, great dogs upon the
      hearths for the burning of wood in winter time, and all luxuries befitting
      the state of a marquis in a luxurious age and country. The fashion of the
      last Louis but one, of the line that was never to break&mdash;the
      fourteenth Louis&mdash;was conspicuous in their rich furniture; but, it
      was diversified by many objects that were illustrations of old pages in
      the history of France.
    </p>
    <p>
      A supper-table was laid for two, in the third of the rooms; a round room,
      in one of the chateau&rsquo;s four extinguisher-topped towers. A small lofty
      room, with its window wide open, and the wooden jalousie-blinds closed, so
      that the dark night only showed in slight horizontal lines of black,
      alternating with their broad lines of stone colour.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My nephew,&rdquo; said the Marquis, glancing at the supper preparation; &ldquo;they
      said he was not arrived.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Nor was he; but, he had been expected with Monseigneur.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! It is not probable he will arrive to-night; nevertheless, leave the
      table as it is. I shall be ready in a quarter of an hour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In a quarter of an hour Monseigneur was ready, and sat down alone to his
      sumptuous and choice supper. His chair was opposite to the window, and he
      had taken his soup, and was raising his glass of Bordeaux to his lips,
      when he put it down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is that?&rdquo; he calmly asked, looking with attention at the horizontal
      lines of black and stone colour.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monseigneur? That?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Outside the blinds. Open the blinds.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was done.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monseigneur, it is nothing. The trees and the night are all that are
      here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The servant who spoke, had thrown the blinds wide, had looked out into the
      vacant darkness, and stood with that blank behind him, looking round for
      instructions.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good,&rdquo; said the imperturbable master. &ldquo;Close them again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      That was done too, and the Marquis went on with his supper. He was half
      way through it, when he again stopped with his glass in his hand, hearing
      the sound of wheels. It came on briskly, and came up to the front of the
      chateau.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ask who is arrived.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was the nephew of Monseigneur. He had been some few leagues behind
      Monseigneur, early in the afternoon. He had diminished the distance
      rapidly, but not so rapidly as to come up with Monseigneur on the road. He
      had heard of Monseigneur, at the posting-houses, as being before him.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was to be told (said Monseigneur) that supper awaited him then and
      there, and that he was prayed to come to it. In a little while he came. He
      had been known in England as Charles Darnay.
    </p>
    <p>
      Monseigneur received him in a courtly manner, but they did not shake
      hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You left Paris yesterday, sir?&rdquo; he said to Monseigneur, as he took his
      seat at table.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yesterday. And you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I come direct.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From London?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have been a long time coming,&rdquo; said the Marquis, with a smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On the contrary; I come direct.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pardon me! I mean, not a long time on the journey; a long time intending
      the journey.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have been detained by&rdquo;&mdash;the nephew stopped a moment in his answer&mdash;&ldquo;various
      business.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Without doubt,&rdquo; said the polished uncle.
    </p>
    <p>
      So long as a servant was present, no other words passed between them. When
      coffee had been served and they were alone together, the nephew, looking
      at the uncle and meeting the eyes of the face that was like a fine mask,
      opened a conversation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have come back, sir, as you anticipate, pursuing the object that took
      me away. It carried me into great and unexpected peril; but it is a sacred
      object, and if it had carried me to death I hope it would have sustained
      me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not to death,&rdquo; said the uncle; &ldquo;it is not necessary to say, to death.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I doubt, sir,&rdquo; returned the nephew, &ldquo;whether, if it had carried me to the
      utmost brink of death, you would have cared to stop me there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The deepened marks in the nose, and the lengthening of the fine straight
      lines in the cruel face, looked ominous as to that; the uncle made a
      graceful gesture of protest, which was so clearly a slight form of good
      breeding that it was not reassuring.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, sir,&rdquo; pursued the nephew, &ldquo;for anything I know, you may have
      expressly worked to give a more suspicious appearance to the suspicious
      circumstances that surrounded me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, no,&rdquo; said the uncle, pleasantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, however that may be,&rdquo; resumed the nephew, glancing at him with deep
      distrust, &ldquo;I know that your diplomacy would stop me by any means, and
      would know no scruple as to means.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My friend, I told you so,&rdquo; said the uncle, with a fine pulsation in the
      two marks. &ldquo;Do me the favour to recall that I told you so, long ago.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I recall it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you,&rdquo; said the Marquis&mdash;very sweetly indeed.
    </p>
    <p>
      His tone lingered in the air, almost like the tone of a musical
      instrument.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In effect, sir,&rdquo; pursued the nephew, &ldquo;I believe it to be at once your bad
      fortune, and my good fortune, that has kept me out of a prison in France
      here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not quite understand,&rdquo; returned the uncle, sipping his coffee. &ldquo;Dare
      I ask you to explain?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe that if you were not in disgrace with the Court, and had not
      been overshadowed by that cloud for years past, a letter de cachet would
      have sent me to some fortress indefinitely.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is possible,&rdquo; said the uncle, with great calmness. &ldquo;For the honour of
      the family, I could even resolve to incommode you to that extent. Pray
      excuse me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I perceive that, happily for me, the Reception of the day before
      yesterday was, as usual, a cold one,&rdquo; observed the nephew.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would not say happily, my friend,&rdquo; returned the uncle, with refined
      politeness; &ldquo;I would not be sure of that. A good opportunity for
      consideration, surrounded by the advantages of solitude, might influence
      your destiny to far greater advantage than you influence it for yourself.
      But it is useless to discuss the question. I am, as you say, at a
      disadvantage. These little instruments of correction, these gentle aids to
      the power and honour of families, these slight favours that might so
      incommode you, are only to be obtained now by interest and importunity.
      They are sought by so many, and they are granted (comparatively) to so
      few! It used not to be so, but France in all such things is changed for
      the worse. Our not remote ancestors held the right of life and death over
      the surrounding vulgar. From this room, many such dogs have been taken out
      to be hanged; in the next room (my bedroom), one fellow, to our knowledge,
      was poniarded on the spot for professing some insolent delicacy respecting
      his daughter&mdash;<i>his</i> daughter? We have lost many privileges; a
      new philosophy has become the mode; and the assertion of our station, in
      these days, might (I do not go so far as to say would, but might) cause us
      real inconvenience. All very bad, very bad!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Marquis took a gentle little pinch of snuff, and shook his head; as
      elegantly despondent as he could becomingly be of a country still
      containing himself, that great means of regeneration.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We have so asserted our station, both in the old time and in the modern
      time also,&rdquo; said the nephew, gloomily, &ldquo;that I believe our name to be more
      detested than any name in France.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us hope so,&rdquo; said the uncle. &ldquo;Detestation of the high is the
      involuntary homage of the low.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is not,&rdquo; pursued the nephew, in his former tone, &ldquo;a face I can look
      at, in all this country round about us, which looks at me with any
      deference on it but the dark deference of fear and slavery.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A compliment,&rdquo; said the Marquis, &ldquo;to the grandeur of the family, merited
      by the manner in which the family has sustained its grandeur. Hah!&rdquo; And he
      took another gentle little pinch of snuff, and lightly crossed his legs.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, when his nephew, leaning an elbow on the table, covered his eyes
      thoughtfully and dejectedly with his hand, the fine mask looked at him
      sideways with a stronger concentration of keenness, closeness, and
      dislike, than was comportable with its wearer&rsquo;s assumption of
      indifference.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Repression is the only lasting philosophy. The dark deference of fear and
      slavery, my friend,&rdquo; observed the Marquis, &ldquo;will keep the dogs obedient to
      the whip, as long as this roof,&rdquo; looking up to it, &ldquo;shuts out the sky.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      That might not be so long as the Marquis supposed. If a picture of the
      chateau as it was to be a very few years hence, and of fifty like it as
      they too were to be a very few years hence, could have been shown to him
      that night, he might have been at a loss to claim his own from the
      ghastly, fire-charred, plunder-wrecked rains. As for the roof he vaunted,
      he might have found <i>that</i> shutting out the sky in a new way&mdash;to
      wit, for ever, from the eyes of the bodies into which its lead was fired,
      out of the barrels of a hundred thousand muskets.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Meanwhile,&rdquo; said the Marquis, &ldquo;I will preserve the honour and repose of
      the family, if you will not. But you must be fatigued. Shall we terminate
      our conference for the night?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A moment more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An hour, if you please.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; said the nephew, &ldquo;we have done wrong, and are reaping the fruits of
      wrong.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>We</i> have done wrong?&rdquo; repeated the Marquis, with an inquiring
      smile, and delicately pointing, first to his nephew, then to himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Our family; our honourable family, whose honour is of so much account to
      both of us, in such different ways. Even in my father&rsquo;s time, we did a
      world of wrong, injuring every human creature who came between us and our
      pleasure, whatever it was. Why need I speak of my father&rsquo;s time, when it
      is equally yours? Can I separate my father&rsquo;s twin-brother, joint
      inheritor, and next successor, from himself?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Death has done that!&rdquo; said the Marquis.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And has left me,&rdquo; answered the nephew, &ldquo;bound to a system that is
      frightful to me, responsible for it, but powerless in it; seeking to
      execute the last request of my dear mother&rsquo;s lips, and obey the last look
      of my dear mother&rsquo;s eyes, which implored me to have mercy and to redress;
      and tortured by seeking assistance and power in vain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Seeking them from me, my nephew,&rdquo; said the Marquis, touching him on the
      breast with his forefinger&mdash;they were now standing by the hearth&mdash;&ldquo;you
      will for ever seek them in vain, be assured.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Every fine straight line in the clear whiteness of his face, was cruelly,
      craftily, and closely compressed, while he stood looking quietly at his
      nephew, with his snuff-box in his hand. Once again he touched him on the
      breast, as though his finger were the fine point of a small sword, with
      which, in delicate finesse, he ran him through the body, and said,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My friend, I will die, perpetuating the system under which I have lived.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When he had said it, he took a culminating pinch of snuff, and put his box
      in his pocket.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Better to be a rational creature,&rdquo; he added then, after ringing a small
      bell on the table, &ldquo;and accept your natural destiny. But you are lost,
      Monsieur Charles, I see.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This property and France are lost to me,&rdquo; said the nephew, sadly; &ldquo;I
      renounce them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are they both yours to renounce? France may be, but is the property? It
      is scarcely worth mentioning; but, is it yet?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had no intention, in the words I used, to claim it yet. If it passed to
      me from you, to-morrow&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Which I have the vanity to hope is not probable.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&mdash;or twenty years hence&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You do me too much honour,&rdquo; said the Marquis; &ldquo;still, I prefer that
      supposition.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&mdash;I would abandon it, and live otherwise and elsewhere. It is little
      to relinquish. What is it but a wilderness of misery and ruin!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hah!&rdquo; said the Marquis, glancing round the luxurious room.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To the eye it is fair enough, here; but seen in its integrity, under the
      sky, and by the daylight, it is a crumbling tower of waste, mismanagement,
      extortion, debt, mortgage, oppression, hunger, nakedness, and suffering.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hah!&rdquo; said the Marquis again, in a well-satisfied manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If it ever becomes mine, it shall be put into some hands better qualified
      to free it slowly (if such a thing is possible) from the weight that drags
      it down, so that the miserable people who cannot leave it and who have
      been long wrung to the last point of endurance, may, in another
      generation, suffer less; but it is not for me. There is a curse on it, and
      on all this land.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you?&rdquo; said the uncle. &ldquo;Forgive my curiosity; do you, under your new
      philosophy, graciously intend to live?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must do, to live, what others of my countrymen, even with nobility at
      their backs, may have to do some day&mdash;work.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In England, for example?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. The family honour, sir, is safe from me in this country. The family
      name can suffer from me in no other, for I bear it in no other.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The ringing of the bell had caused the adjoining bed-chamber to be
      lighted. It now shone brightly, through the door of communication. The
      Marquis looked that way, and listened for the retreating step of his
      valet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;England is very attractive to you, seeing how indifferently you have
      prospered there,&rdquo; he observed then, turning his calm face to his nephew
      with a smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have already said, that for my prospering there, I am sensible I may be
      indebted to you, sir. For the rest, it is my Refuge.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They say, those boastful English, that it is the Refuge of many. You know
      a compatriot who has found a Refuge there? A Doctor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With a daughter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said the Marquis. &ldquo;You are fatigued. Good night!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As he bent his head in his most courtly manner, there was a secrecy in his
      smiling face, and he conveyed an air of mystery to those words, which
      struck the eyes and ears of his nephew forcibly. At the same time, the
      thin straight lines of the setting of the eyes, and the thin straight
      lips, and the markings in the nose, curved with a sarcasm that looked
      handsomely diabolic.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; repeated the Marquis. &ldquo;A Doctor with a daughter. Yes. So commences
      the new philosophy! You are fatigued. Good night!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It would have been of as much avail to interrogate any stone face outside
      the chateau as to interrogate that face of his. The nephew looked at him,
      in vain, in passing on to the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good night!&rdquo; said the uncle. &ldquo;I look to the pleasure of seeing you again
      in the morning. Good repose! Light Monsieur my nephew to his chamber
      there!&mdash;And burn Monsieur my nephew in his bed, if you will,&rdquo; he
      added to himself, before he rang his little bell again, and summoned his
      valet to his own bedroom.
    </p>
    <p>
      The valet come and gone, Monsieur the Marquis walked to and fro in his
      loose chamber-robe, to prepare himself gently for sleep, that hot still
      night. Rustling about the room, his softly-slippered feet making no noise
      on the floor, he moved like a refined tiger:&mdash;looked like some
      enchanted marquis of the impenitently wicked sort, in story, whose
      periodical change into tiger form was either just going off, or just
      coming on.
    </p>
    <p>
      He moved from end to end of his voluptuous bedroom, looking again at the
      scraps of the day&rsquo;s journey that came unbidden into his mind; the slow
      toil up the hill at sunset, the setting sun, the descent, the mill, the
      prison on the crag, the little village in the hollow, the peasants at the
      fountain, and the mender of roads with his blue cap pointing out the chain
      under the carriage. That fountain suggested the Paris fountain, the little
      bundle lying on the step, the women bending over it, and the tall man with
      his arms up, crying, &ldquo;Dead!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am cool now,&rdquo; said Monsieur the Marquis, &ldquo;and may go to bed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So, leaving only one light burning on the large hearth, he let his thin
      gauze curtains fall around him, and heard the night break its silence with
      a long sigh as he composed himself to sleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      The stone faces on the outer walls stared blindly at the black night for
      three heavy hours; for three heavy hours, the horses in the stables
      rattled at their racks, the dogs barked, and the owl made a noise with
      very little resemblance in it to the noise conventionally assigned to the
      owl by men-poets. But it is the obstinate custom of such creatures hardly
      ever to say what is set down for them.
    </p>
    <p>
      For three heavy hours, the stone faces of the chateau, lion and human,
      stared blindly at the night. Dead darkness lay on all the landscape, dead
      darkness added its own hush to the hushing dust on all the roads. The
      burial-place had got to the pass that its little heaps of poor grass were
      undistinguishable from one another; the figure on the Cross might have
      come down, for anything that could be seen of it. In the village, taxers
      and taxed were fast asleep. Dreaming, perhaps, of banquets, as the starved
      usually do, and of ease and rest, as the driven slave and the yoked ox
      may, its lean inhabitants slept soundly, and were fed and freed.
    </p>
    <p>
      The fountain in the village flowed unseen and unheard, and the fountain at
      the chateau dropped unseen and unheard&mdash;both melting away, like the
      minutes that were falling from the spring of Time&mdash;through three dark
      hours. Then, the grey water of both began to be ghostly in the light, and
      the eyes of the stone faces of the chateau were opened.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lighter and lighter, until at last the sun touched the tops of the still
      trees, and poured its radiance over the hill. In the glow, the water of
      the chateau fountain seemed to turn to blood, and the stone faces
      crimsoned. The carol of the birds was loud and high, and, on the
      weather-beaten sill of the great window of the bed-chamber of Monsieur the
      Marquis, one little bird sang its sweetest song with all its might. At
      this, the nearest stone face seemed to stare amazed, and, with open mouth
      and dropped under-jaw, looked awe-stricken.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, the sun was full up, and movement began in the village. Casement
      windows opened, crazy doors were unbarred, and people came forth shivering&mdash;chilled,
      as yet, by the new sweet air. Then began the rarely lightened toil of the
      day among the village population. Some, to the fountain; some, to the
      fields; men and women here, to dig and delve; men and women there, to see
      to the poor live stock, and lead the bony cows out, to such pasture as
      could be found by the roadside. In the church and at the Cross, a kneeling
      figure or two; attendant on the latter prayers, the led cow, trying for a
      breakfast among the weeds at its foot.
    </p>
    <p>
      The chateau awoke later, as became its quality, but awoke gradually and
      surely. First, the lonely boar-spears and knives of the chase had been
      reddened as of old; then, had gleamed trenchant in the morning sunshine;
      now, doors and windows were thrown open, horses in their stables looked
      round over their shoulders at the light and freshness pouring in at
      doorways, leaves sparkled and rustled at iron-grated windows, dogs pulled
      hard at their chains, and reared impatient to be loosed.
    </p>
    <p>
      All these trivial incidents belonged to the routine of life, and the
      return of morning. Surely, not so the ringing of the great bell of the
      chateau, nor the running up and down the stairs; nor the hurried figures
      on the terrace; nor the booting and tramping here and there and
      everywhere, nor the quick saddling of horses and riding away?
    </p>
    <p>
      What winds conveyed this hurry to the grizzled mender of roads, already at
      work on the hill-top beyond the village, with his day&rsquo;s dinner (not much
      to carry) lying in a bundle that it was worth no crow&rsquo;s while to peck at,
      on a heap of stones? Had the birds, carrying some grains of it to a
      distance, dropped one over him as they sow chance seeds? Whether or no,
      the mender of roads ran, on the sultry morning, as if for his life, down
      the hill, knee-high in dust, and never stopped till he got to the
      fountain.
    </p>
    <p>
      All the people of the village were at the fountain, standing about in
      their depressed manner, and whispering low, but showing no other emotions
      than grim curiosity and surprise. The led cows, hastily brought in and
      tethered to anything that would hold them, were looking stupidly on, or
      lying down chewing the cud of nothing particularly repaying their trouble,
      which they had picked up in their interrupted saunter. Some of the people
      of the chateau, and some of those of the posting-house, and all the taxing
      authorities, were armed more or less, and were crowded on the other side
      of the little street in a purposeless way, that was highly fraught with
      nothing. Already, the mender of roads had penetrated into the midst of a
      group of fifty particular friends, and was smiting himself in the breast
      with his blue cap. What did all this portend, and what portended the swift
      hoisting-up of Monsieur Gabelle behind a servant on horseback, and the
      conveying away of the said Gabelle (double-laden though the horse was), at
      a gallop, like a new version of the German ballad of Leonora?
    </p>
    <p>
      It portended that there was one stone face too many, up at the chateau.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Gorgon had surveyed the building again in the night, and had added the
      one stone face wanting; the stone face for which it had waited through
      about two hundred years.
    </p>
    <p>
      It lay back on the pillow of Monsieur the Marquis. It was like a fine
      mask, suddenly startled, made angry, and petrified. Driven home into the
      heart of the stone figure attached to it, was a knife. Round its hilt was
      a frill of paper, on which was scrawled:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Drive him fast to his tomb. This, from Jacques.&rdquo;
     </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"></a>
      CHAPTER X.<br />Two Promises
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>ore months, to the number of twelve, had come and gone, and Mr. Charles
      Darnay was established in England as a higher teacher of the French
      language who was conversant with French literature. In this age, he would
      have been a Professor; in that age, he was a Tutor. He read with young men
      who could find any leisure and interest for the study of a living tongue
      spoken all over the world, and he cultivated a taste for its stores of
      knowledge and fancy. He could write of them, besides, in sound English,
      and render them into sound English. Such masters were not at that time
      easily found; Princes that had been, and Kings that were to be, were not
      yet of the Teacher class, and no ruined nobility had dropped out of
      Tellson&rsquo;s ledgers, to turn cooks and carpenters. As a tutor, whose
      attainments made the student&rsquo;s way unusually pleasant and profitable, and
      as an elegant translator who brought something to his work besides mere
      dictionary knowledge, young Mr. Darnay soon became known and encouraged.
      He was well acquainted, more-over, with the circumstances of his country,
      and those were of ever-growing interest. So, with great perseverance and
      untiring industry, he prospered.
    </p>
    <p>
      In London, he had expected neither to walk on pavements of gold, nor to
      lie on beds of roses; if he had had any such exalted expectation, he would
      not have prospered. He had expected labour, and he found it, and did it
      and made the best of it. In this, his prosperity consisted.
    </p>
    <p>
      A certain portion of his time was passed at Cambridge, where he read with
      undergraduates as a sort of tolerated smuggler who drove a contraband
      trade in European languages, instead of conveying Greek and Latin through
      the Custom-house. The rest of his time he passed in London.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, from the days when it was always summer in Eden, to these days when
      it is mostly winter in fallen latitudes, the world of a man has invariably
      gone one way&mdash;Charles Darnay&rsquo;s way&mdash;the way of the love of a
      woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had loved Lucie Manette from the hour of his danger. He had never heard
      a sound so sweet and dear as the sound of her compassionate voice; he had
      never seen a face so tenderly beautiful, as hers when it was confronted
      with his own on the edge of the grave that had been dug for him. But, he
      had not yet spoken to her on the subject; the assassination at the
      deserted chateau far away beyond the heaving water and the long, long,
      dusty roads&mdash;the solid stone chateau which had itself become the mere
      mist of a dream&mdash;had been done a year, and he had never yet, by so
      much as a single spoken word, disclosed to her the state of his heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      That he had his reasons for this, he knew full well. It was again a summer
      day when, lately arrived in London from his college occupation, he turned
      into the quiet corner in Soho, bent on seeking an opportunity of opening
      his mind to Doctor Manette. It was the close of the summer day, and he
      knew Lucie to be out with Miss Pross.
    </p>
    <p>
      He found the Doctor reading in his arm-chair at a window. The energy which
      had at once supported him under his old sufferings and aggravated their
      sharpness, had been gradually restored to him. He was now a very energetic
      man indeed, with great firmness of purpose, strength of resolution, and
      vigour of action. In his recovered energy he was sometimes a little fitful
      and sudden, as he had at first been in the exercise of his other recovered
      faculties; but, this had never been frequently observable, and had grown
      more and more rare.
    </p>
    <p>
      He studied much, slept little, sustained a great deal of fatigue with
      ease, and was equably cheerful. To him, now entered Charles Darnay, at
      sight of whom he laid aside his book and held out his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Charles Darnay! I rejoice to see you. We have been counting on your
      return these three or four days past. Mr. Stryver and Sydney Carton were
      both here yesterday, and both made you out to be more than due.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am obliged to them for their interest in the matter,&rdquo; he answered, a
      little coldly as to them, though very warmly as to the Doctor. &ldquo;Miss
      Manette&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is well,&rdquo; said the Doctor, as he stopped short, &ldquo;and your return will
      delight us all. She has gone out on some household matters, but will soon
      be home.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Doctor Manette, I knew she was from home. I took the opportunity of her
      being from home, to beg to speak to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was a blank silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes?&rdquo; said the Doctor, with evident constraint. &ldquo;Bring your chair here,
      and speak on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He complied as to the chair, but appeared to find the speaking on less
      easy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have had the happiness, Doctor Manette, of being so intimate here,&rdquo; so
      he at length began, &ldquo;for some year and a half, that I hope the topic on
      which I am about to touch may not&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was stayed by the Doctor&rsquo;s putting out his hand to stop him. When he
      had kept it so a little while, he said, drawing it back:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is Lucie the topic?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is hard for me to speak of her at any time. It is very hard for me to
      hear her spoken of in that tone of yours, Charles Darnay.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a tone of fervent admiration, true homage, and deep love, Doctor
      Manette!&rdquo; he said deferentially.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was another blank silence before her father rejoined:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe it. I do you justice; I believe it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His constraint was so manifest, and it was so manifest, too, that it
      originated in an unwillingness to approach the subject, that Charles
      Darnay hesitated.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shall I go on, sir?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Another blank.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, go on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You anticipate what I would say, though you cannot know how earnestly I
      say it, how earnestly I feel it, without knowing my secret heart, and the
      hopes and fears and anxieties with which it has long been laden. Dear
      Doctor Manette, I love your daughter fondly, dearly, disinterestedly,
      devotedly. If ever there were love in the world, I love her. You have
      loved yourself; let your old love speak for me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Doctor sat with his face turned away, and his eyes bent on the ground.
      At the last words, he stretched out his hand again, hurriedly, and cried:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not that, sir! Let that be! I adjure you, do not recall that!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His cry was so like a cry of actual pain, that it rang in Charles Darnay&rsquo;s
      ears long after he had ceased. He motioned with the hand he had extended,
      and it seemed to be an appeal to Darnay to pause. The latter so received
      it, and remained silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I ask your pardon,&rdquo; said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, after some
      moments. &ldquo;I do not doubt your loving Lucie; you may be satisfied of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He turned towards him in his chair, but did not look at him, or raise his
      eyes. His chin dropped upon his hand, and his white hair overshadowed his
      face:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you spoken to Lucie?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nor written?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would be ungenerous to affect not to know that your self-denial is to
      be referred to your consideration for her father. Her father thanks you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He offered his hand; but his eyes did not go with it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know,&rdquo; said Darnay, respectfully, &ldquo;how can I fail to know, Doctor
      Manette, I who have seen you together from day to day, that between you
      and Miss Manette there is an affection so unusual, so touching, so
      belonging to the circumstances in which it has been nurtured, that it can
      have few parallels, even in the tenderness between a father and child. I
      know, Doctor Manette&mdash;how can I fail to know&mdash;that, mingled with
      the affection and duty of a daughter who has become a woman, there is, in
      her heart, towards you, all the love and reliance of infancy itself. I
      know that, as in her childhood she had no parent, so she is now devoted to
      you with all the constancy and fervour of her present years and character,
      united to the trustfulness and attachment of the early days in which you
      were lost to her. I know perfectly well that if you had been restored to
      her from the world beyond this life, you could hardly be invested, in her
      sight, with a more sacred character than that in which you are always with
      her. I know that when she is clinging to you, the hands of baby, girl, and
      woman, all in one, are round your neck. I know that in loving you she sees
      and loves her mother at her own age, sees and loves you at my age, loves
      her mother broken-hearted, loves you through your dreadful trial and in
      your blessed restoration. I have known this, night and day, since I have
      known you in your home.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her father sat silent, with his face bent down. His breathing was a little
      quickened; but he repressed all other signs of agitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear Doctor Manette, always knowing this, always seeing her and you with
      this hallowed light about you, I have forborne, and forborne, as long as
      it was in the nature of man to do it. I have felt, and do even now feel,
      that to bring my love&mdash;even mine&mdash;between you, is to touch your
      history with something not quite so good as itself. But I love her. Heaven
      is my witness that I love her!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe it,&rdquo; answered her father, mournfully. &ldquo;I have thought so before
      now. I believe it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, do not believe,&rdquo; said Darnay, upon whose ear the mournful voice
      struck with a reproachful sound, &ldquo;that if my fortune were so cast as that,
      being one day so happy as to make her my wife, I must at any time put any
      separation between her and you, I could or would breathe a word of what I
      now say. Besides that I should know it to be hopeless, I should know it to
      be a baseness. If I had any such possibility, even at a remote distance of
      years, harboured in my thoughts, and hidden in my heart&mdash;if it ever
      had been there&mdash;if it ever could be there&mdash;I could not now touch
      this honoured hand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He laid his own upon it as he spoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, dear Doctor Manette. Like you, a voluntary exile from France; like
      you, driven from it by its distractions, oppressions, and miseries; like
      you, striving to live away from it by my own exertions, and trusting in a
      happier future; I look only to sharing your fortunes, sharing your life
      and home, and being faithful to you to the death. Not to divide with Lucie
      her privilege as your child, companion, and friend; but to come in aid of
      it, and bind her closer to you, if such a thing can be.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His touch still lingered on her father&rsquo;s hand. Answering the touch for a
      moment, but not coldly, her father rested his hands upon the arms of his
      chair, and looked up for the first time since the beginning of the
      conference. A struggle was evidently in his face; a struggle with that
      occasional look which had a tendency in it to dark doubt and dread.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You speak so feelingly and so manfully, Charles Darnay, that I thank you
      with all my heart, and will open all my heart&mdash;or nearly so. Have you
      any reason to believe that Lucie loves you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;None. As yet, none.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it the immediate object of this confidence, that you may at once
      ascertain that, with my knowledge?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not even so. I might not have the hopefulness to do it for weeks; I might
      (mistaken or not mistaken) have that hopefulness to-morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you seek any guidance from me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I ask none, sir. But I have thought it possible that you might have it in
      your power, if you should deem it right, to give me some.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you seek any promise from me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do seek that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I well understand that, without you, I could have no hope. I well
      understand that, even if Miss Manette held me at this moment in her
      innocent heart&mdash;do not think I have the presumption to assume so much&mdash;I
      could retain no place in it against her love for her father.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If that be so, do you see what, on the other hand, is involved in it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I understand equally well, that a word from her father in any suitor&rsquo;s
      favour, would outweigh herself and all the world. For which reason, Doctor
      Manette,&rdquo; said Darnay, modestly but firmly, &ldquo;I would not ask that word, to
      save my life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sure of it. Charles Darnay, mysteries arise out of close love, as
      well as out of wide division; in the former case, they are subtle and
      delicate, and difficult to penetrate. My daughter Lucie is, in this one
      respect, such a mystery to me; I can make no guess at the state of her
      heart.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;May I ask, sir, if you think she is&mdash;&rdquo; As he hesitated, her father
      supplied the rest.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is sought by any other suitor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is what I meant to say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her father considered a little before he answered:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have seen Mr. Carton here, yourself. Mr. Stryver is here too,
      occasionally. If it be at all, it can only be by one of these.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Or both,&rdquo; said Darnay.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had not thought of both; I should not think either, likely. You want a
      promise from me. Tell me what it is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is, that if Miss Manette should bring to you at any time, on her own
      part, such a confidence as I have ventured to lay before you, you will
      bear testimony to what I have said, and to your belief in it. I hope you
      may be able to think so well of me, as to urge no influence against me. I
      say nothing more of my stake in this; this is what I ask. The condition on
      which I ask it, and which you have an undoubted right to require, I will
      observe immediately.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I give the promise,&rdquo; said the Doctor, &ldquo;without any condition. I believe
      your object to be, purely and truthfully, as you have stated it. I believe
      your intention is to perpetuate, and not to weaken, the ties between me
      and my other and far dearer self. If she should ever tell me that you are
      essential to her perfect happiness, I will give her to you. If there were&mdash;Charles
      Darnay, if there were&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The young man had taken his hand gratefully; their hands were joined as
      the Doctor spoke:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&mdash;any fancies, any reasons, any apprehensions, anything whatsoever,
      new or old, against the man she really loved&mdash;the direct
      responsibility thereof not lying on his head&mdash;they should all be
      obliterated for her sake. She is everything to me; more to me than
      suffering, more to me than wrong, more to me&mdash;Well! This is idle
      talk.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So strange was the way in which he faded into silence, and so strange his
      fixed look when he had ceased to speak, that Darnay felt his own hand turn
      cold in the hand that slowly released and dropped it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You said something to me,&rdquo; said Doctor Manette, breaking into a smile.
      &ldquo;What was it you said to me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was at a loss how to answer, until he remembered having spoken of a
      condition. Relieved as his mind reverted to that, he answered:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your confidence in me ought to be returned with full confidence on my
      part. My present name, though but slightly changed from my mother&rsquo;s, is
      not, as you will remember, my own. I wish to tell you what that is, and
      why I am in England.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stop!&rdquo; said the Doctor of Beauvais.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish it, that I may the better deserve your confidence, and have no
      secret from you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stop!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For an instant, the Doctor even had his two hands at his ears; for another
      instant, even had his two hands laid on Darnay&rsquo;s lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell me when I ask you, not now. If your suit should prosper, if Lucie
      should love you, you shall tell me on your marriage morning. Do you
      promise?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Willingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give me your hand. She will be home directly, and it is better she should
      not see us together to-night. Go! God bless you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was dark when Charles Darnay left him, and it was an hour later and
      darker when Lucie came home; she hurried into the room alone&mdash;for
      Miss Pross had gone straight up-stairs&mdash;and was surprised to find his
      reading-chair empty.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My father!&rdquo; she called to him. &ldquo;Father dear!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Nothing was said in answer, but she heard a low hammering sound in his
      bedroom. Passing lightly across the intermediate room, she looked in at
      his door and came running back frightened, crying to herself, with her
      blood all chilled, &ldquo;What shall I do! What shall I do!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her uncertainty lasted but a moment; she hurried back, and tapped at his
      door, and softly called to him. The noise ceased at the sound of her
      voice, and he presently came out to her, and they walked up and down
      together for a long time.
    </p>
    <p>
      She came down from her bed, to look at him in his sleep that night. He
      slept heavily, and his tray of shoemaking tools, and his old unfinished
      work, were all as usual.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"></a>
      CHAPTER XI.<br />A Companion Picture
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>ydney,&rdquo; said Mr. Stryver, on that self-same night, or morning, to his
      jackal; &ldquo;mix another bowl of punch; I have something to say to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sydney had been working double tides that night, and the night before, and
      the night before that, and a good many nights in succession, making a
      grand clearance among Mr. Stryver&rsquo;s papers before the setting in of the
      long vacation. The clearance was effected at last; the Stryver arrears
      were handsomely fetched up; everything was got rid of until November
      should come with its fogs atmospheric, and fogs legal, and bring grist to
      the mill again.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sydney was none the livelier and none the soberer for so much application.
      It had taken a deal of extra wet-towelling to pull him through the night;
      a correspondingly extra quantity of wine had preceded the towelling; and
      he was in a very damaged condition, as he now pulled his turban off and
      threw it into the basin in which he had steeped it at intervals for the
      last six hours.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you mixing that other bowl of punch?&rdquo; said Stryver the portly, with
      his hands in his waistband, glancing round from the sofa where he lay on
      his back.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, look here! I am going to tell you something that will rather
      surprise you, and that perhaps will make you think me not quite as shrewd
      as you usually do think me. I intend to marry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>Do</i> you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. And not for money. What do you say now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t feel disposed to say much. Who is she?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Guess.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do I know her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Guess.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not going to guess, at five o&rsquo;clock in the morning, with my brains
      frying and sputtering in my head. If you want me to guess, you must ask me
      to dinner.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well then, I&rsquo;ll tell you,&rdquo; said Stryver, coming slowly into a sitting
      posture. &ldquo;Sydney, I rather despair of making myself intelligible to you,
      because you are such an insensible dog.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you,&rdquo; returned Sydney, busy concocting the punch, &ldquo;are such a
      sensitive and poetical spirit&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come!&rdquo; rejoined Stryver, laughing boastfully, &ldquo;though I don&rsquo;t prefer any
      claim to being the soul of Romance (for I hope I know better), still I am
      a tenderer sort of fellow than <i>you</i>.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are a luckier, if you mean that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t mean that. I mean I am a man of more&mdash;more&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say gallantry, while you are about it,&rdquo; suggested Carton.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well! I&rsquo;ll say gallantry. My meaning is that I am a man,&rdquo; said Stryver,
      inflating himself at his friend as he made the punch, &ldquo;who cares more to
      be agreeable, who takes more pains to be agreeable, who knows better how
      to be agreeable, in a woman&rsquo;s society, than you do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go on,&rdquo; said Sydney Carton.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; but before I go on,&rdquo; said Stryver, shaking his head in his bullying
      way, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll have this out with you. You&rsquo;ve been at Doctor Manette&rsquo;s house
      as much as I have, or more than I have. Why, I have been ashamed of your
      moroseness there! Your manners have been of that silent and sullen and
      hangdog kind, that, upon my life and soul, I have been ashamed of you,
      Sydney!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It should be very beneficial to a man in your practice at the bar, to be
      ashamed of anything,&rdquo; returned Sydney; &ldquo;you ought to be much obliged to
      me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You shall not get off in that way,&rdquo; rejoined Stryver, shouldering the
      rejoinder at him; &ldquo;no, Sydney, it&rsquo;s my duty to tell you&mdash;and I tell
      you to your face to do you good&mdash;that you are a devilish
      ill-conditioned fellow in that sort of society. You are a disagreeable
      fellow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sydney drank a bumper of the punch he had made, and laughed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look at me!&rdquo; said Stryver, squaring himself; &ldquo;I have less need to make
      myself agreeable than you have, being more independent in circumstances.
      Why do I do it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never saw you do it yet,&rdquo; muttered Carton.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do it because it&rsquo;s politic; I do it on principle. And look at me! I get
      on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t get on with your account of your matrimonial intentions,&rdquo;
       answered Carton, with a careless air; &ldquo;I wish you would keep to that. As
      to me&mdash;will you never understand that I am incorrigible?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He asked the question with some appearance of scorn.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have no business to be incorrigible,&rdquo; was his friend&rsquo;s answer,
      delivered in no very soothing tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have no business to be, at all, that I know of,&rdquo; said Sydney Carton.
      &ldquo;Who is the lady?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, don&rsquo;t let my announcement of the name make you uncomfortable,
      Sydney,&rdquo; said Mr. Stryver, preparing him with ostentatious friendliness
      for the disclosure he was about to make, &ldquo;because I know you don&rsquo;t mean
      half you say; and if you meant it all, it would be of no importance. I
      make this little preface, because you once mentioned the young lady to me
      in slighting terms.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly; and in these chambers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sydney Carton looked at his punch and looked at his complacent friend;
      drank his punch and looked at his complacent friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You made mention of the young lady as a golden-haired doll. The young
      lady is Miss Manette. If you had been a fellow of any sensitiveness or
      delicacy of feeling in that kind of way, Sydney, I might have been a
      little resentful of your employing such a designation; but you are not.
      You want that sense altogether; therefore I am no more annoyed when I
      think of the expression, than I should be annoyed by a man&rsquo;s opinion of a
      picture of mine, who had no eye for pictures: or of a piece of music of
      mine, who had no ear for music.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sydney Carton drank the punch at a great rate; drank it by bumpers,
      looking at his friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now you know all about it, Syd,&rdquo; said Mr. Stryver. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t care about
      fortune: she is a charming creature, and I have made up my mind to please
      myself: on the whole, I think I can afford to please myself. She will have
      in me a man already pretty well off, and a rapidly rising man, and a man
      of some distinction: it is a piece of good fortune for her, but she is
      worthy of good fortune. Are you astonished?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carton, still drinking the punch, rejoined, &ldquo;Why should I be astonished?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You approve?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carton, still drinking the punch, rejoined, &ldquo;Why should I not approve?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well!&rdquo; said his friend Stryver, &ldquo;you take it more easily than I fancied
      you would, and are less mercenary on my behalf than I thought you would
      be; though, to be sure, you know well enough by this time that your
      ancient chum is a man of a pretty strong will. Yes, Sydney, I have had
      enough of this style of life, with no other as a change from it; I feel
      that it is a pleasant thing for a man to have a home when he feels
      inclined to go to it (when he doesn&rsquo;t, he can stay away), and I feel that
      Miss Manette will tell well in any station, and will always do me credit.
      So I have made up my mind. And now, Sydney, old boy, I want to say a word
      to <i>you</i> about <i>your</i> prospects. You are in a bad way, you know;
      you really are in a bad way. You don&rsquo;t know the value of money, you live
      hard, you&rsquo;ll knock up one of these days, and be ill and poor; you really
      ought to think about a nurse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The prosperous patronage with which he said it, made him look twice as big
      as he was, and four times as offensive.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, let me recommend you,&rdquo; pursued Stryver, &ldquo;to look it in the face. I
      have looked it in the face, in my different way; look it in the face, you,
      in your different way. Marry. Provide somebody to take care of you. Never
      mind your having no enjoyment of women&rsquo;s society, nor understanding of it,
      nor tact for it. Find out somebody. Find out some respectable woman with a
      little property&mdash;somebody in the landlady way, or lodging-letting way&mdash;and
      marry her, against a rainy day. That&rsquo;s the kind of thing for <i>you</i>.
      Now think of it, Sydney.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll think of it,&rdquo; said Sydney.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"></a>
      CHAPTER XII.<br />The Fellow of Delicacy
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>r. Stryver having made up his mind to that magnanimous bestowal of good
      fortune on the Doctor&rsquo;s daughter, resolved to make her happiness known to
      her before he left town for the Long Vacation. After some mental debating
      of the point, he came to the conclusion that it would be as well to get
      all the preliminaries done with, and they could then arrange at their
      leisure whether he should give her his hand a week or two before
      Michaelmas Term, or in the little Christmas vacation between it and
      Hilary.
    </p>
    <p>
      As to the strength of his case, he had not a doubt about it, but clearly
      saw his way to the verdict. Argued with the jury on substantial worldly
      grounds&mdash;the only grounds ever worth taking into account&mdash;it was
      a plain case, and had not a weak spot in it. He called himself for the
      plaintiff, there was no getting over his evidence, the counsel for the
      defendant threw up his brief, and the jury did not even turn to consider.
      After trying it, Stryver, C. J., was satisfied that no plainer case could
      be.
    </p>
    <p>
      Accordingly, Mr. Stryver inaugurated the Long Vacation with a formal
      proposal to take Miss Manette to Vauxhall Gardens; that failing, to
      Ranelagh; that unaccountably failing too, it behoved him to present
      himself in Soho, and there declare his noble mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      Towards Soho, therefore, Mr. Stryver shouldered his way from the Temple,
      while the bloom of the Long Vacation&rsquo;s infancy was still upon it. Anybody
      who had seen him projecting himself into Soho while he was yet on Saint
      Dunstan&rsquo;s side of Temple Bar, bursting in his full-blown way along the
      pavement, to the jostlement of all weaker people, might have seen how safe
      and strong he was.
    </p>
    <p>
      His way taking him past Tellson&rsquo;s, and he both banking at Tellson&rsquo;s and
      knowing Mr. Lorry as the intimate friend of the Manettes, it entered Mr.
      Stryver&rsquo;s mind to enter the bank, and reveal to Mr. Lorry the brightness
      of the Soho horizon. So, he pushed open the door with the weak rattle in
      its throat, stumbled down the two steps, got past the two ancient
      cashiers, and shouldered himself into the musty back closet where Mr.
      Lorry sat at great books ruled for figures, with perpendicular iron bars
      to his window as if that were ruled for figures too, and everything under
      the clouds were a sum.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Halloa!&rdquo; said Mr. Stryver. &ldquo;How do you do? I hope you are well!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was Stryver&rsquo;s grand peculiarity that he always seemed too big for any
      place, or space. He was so much too big for Tellson&rsquo;s, that old clerks in
      distant corners looked up with looks of remonstrance, as though he
      squeezed them against the wall. The House itself, magnificently reading
      the paper quite in the far-off perspective, lowered displeased, as if the
      Stryver head had been butted into its responsible waistcoat.
    </p>
    <p>
      The discreet Mr. Lorry said, in a sample tone of the voice he would
      recommend under the circumstances, &ldquo;How do you do, Mr. Stryver? How do you
      do, sir?&rdquo; and shook hands. There was a peculiarity in his manner of
      shaking hands, always to be seen in any clerk at Tellson&rsquo;s who shook hands
      with a customer when the House pervaded the air. He shook in a
      self-abnegating way, as one who shook for Tellson and Co.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can I do anything for you, Mr. Stryver?&rdquo; asked Mr. Lorry, in his business
      character.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, no, thank you; this is a private visit to yourself, Mr. Lorry; I
      have come for a private word.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh indeed!&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, bending down his ear, while his eye strayed
      to the House afar off.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am going,&rdquo; said Mr. Stryver, leaning his arms confidentially on the
      desk: whereupon, although it was a large double one, there appeared to be
      not half desk enough for him: &ldquo;I am going to make an offer of myself in
      marriage to your agreeable little friend, Miss Manette, Mr. Lorry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh dear me!&rdquo; cried Mr. Lorry, rubbing his chin, and looking at his
      visitor dubiously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh dear me, sir?&rdquo; repeated Stryver, drawing back. &ldquo;Oh dear you, sir? What
      may your meaning be, Mr. Lorry?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My meaning,&rdquo; answered the man of business, &ldquo;is, of course, friendly and
      appreciative, and that it does you the greatest credit, and&mdash;in
      short, my meaning is everything you could desire. But&mdash;really, you
      know, Mr. Stryver&mdash;&rdquo; Mr. Lorry paused, and shook his head at him in
      the oddest manner, as if he were compelled against his will to add,
      internally, &ldquo;you know there really is so much too much of you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well!&rdquo; said Stryver, slapping the desk with his contentious hand, opening
      his eyes wider, and taking a long breath, &ldquo;if I understand you, Mr. Lorry,
      I&rsquo;ll be hanged!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Lorry adjusted his little wig at both ears as a means towards that
      end, and bit the feather of a pen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;D&mdash;n it all, sir!&rdquo; said Stryver, staring at him, &ldquo;am I not
      eligible?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh dear yes! Yes. Oh yes, you&rsquo;re eligible!&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry. &ldquo;If you say
      eligible, you are eligible.&rdquo;
     </p>

<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/0524m.jpg" style="width:100%;"  alt="0524m " /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0524.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>

    <p>
      &ldquo;Am I not prosperous?&rdquo; asked Stryver.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! if you come to prosperous, you are prosperous,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And advancing?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you come to advancing you know,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, delighted to be able
      to make another admission, &ldquo;nobody can doubt that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then what on earth is your meaning, Mr. Lorry?&rdquo; demanded Stryver,
      perceptibly crestfallen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well! I&mdash;Were you going there now?&rdquo; asked Mr. Lorry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Straight!&rdquo; said Stryver, with a plump of his fist on the desk.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I think I wouldn&rsquo;t, if I was you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why?&rdquo; said Stryver. &ldquo;Now, I&rsquo;ll put you in a corner,&rdquo; forensically shaking
      a forefinger at him. &ldquo;You are a man of business and bound to have a
      reason. State your reason. Why wouldn&rsquo;t you go?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, &ldquo;I wouldn&rsquo;t go on such an object without having
      some cause to believe that I should succeed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;D&mdash;n <i>me</i>!&rdquo; cried Stryver, &ldquo;but this beats everything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Lorry glanced at the distant House, and glanced at the angry Stryver.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here&rsquo;s a man of business&mdash;a man of years&mdash;a man of experience&mdash;<i>in</i>
      a Bank,&rdquo; said Stryver; &ldquo;and having summed up three leading reasons for
      complete success, he says there&rsquo;s no reason at all! Says it with his head
      on!&rdquo; Mr. Stryver remarked upon the peculiarity as if it would have been
      infinitely less remarkable if he had said it with his head off.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When I speak of success, I speak of success with the young lady; and when
      I speak of causes and reasons to make success probable, I speak of causes
      and reasons that will tell as such with the young lady. The young lady, my
      good sir,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, mildly tapping the Stryver arm, &ldquo;the young
      lady. The young lady goes before all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you mean to tell me, Mr. Lorry,&rdquo; said Stryver, squaring his elbows,
      &ldquo;that it is your deliberate opinion that the young lady at present in
      question is a mincing Fool?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not exactly so. I mean to tell you, Mr. Stryver,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry,
      reddening, &ldquo;that I will hear no disrespectful word of that young lady from
      any lips; and that if I knew any man&mdash;which I hope I do not&mdash;whose
      taste was so coarse, and whose temper was so overbearing, that he could
      not restrain himself from speaking disrespectfully of that young lady at
      this desk, not even Tellson&rsquo;s should prevent my giving him a piece of my
      mind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The necessity of being angry in a suppressed tone had put Mr. Stryver&rsquo;s
      blood-vessels into a dangerous state when it was his turn to be angry; Mr.
      Lorry&rsquo;s veins, methodical as their courses could usually be, were in no
      better state now it was his turn.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is what I mean to tell you, sir,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry. &ldquo;Pray let there be
      no mistake about it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Stryver sucked the end of a ruler for a little while, and then stood
      hitting a tune out of his teeth with it, which probably gave him the
      toothache. He broke the awkward silence by saying:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is something new to me, Mr. Lorry. You deliberately advise me not to
      go up to Soho and offer myself&mdash;<i>my</i>self, Stryver of the King&rsquo;s
      Bench bar?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you ask me for my advice, Mr. Stryver?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very good. Then I give it, and you have repeated it correctly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And all I can say of it is,&rdquo; laughed Stryver with a vexed laugh, &ldquo;that
      this&mdash;ha, ha!&mdash;beats everything past, present, and to come.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now understand me,&rdquo; pursued Mr. Lorry. &ldquo;As a man of business, I am not
      justified in saying anything about this matter, for, as a man of business,
      I know nothing of it. But, as an old fellow, who has carried Miss Manette
      in his arms, who is the trusted friend of Miss Manette and of her father
      too, and who has a great affection for them both, I have spoken. The
      confidence is not of my seeking, recollect. Now, you think I may not be
      right?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not I!&rdquo; said Stryver, whistling. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t undertake to find third parties
      in common sense; I can only find it for myself. I suppose sense in certain
      quarters; you suppose mincing bread-and-butter nonsense. It&rsquo;s new to me,
      but you are right, I dare say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What I suppose, Mr. Stryver, I claim to characterise for myself&mdash;And
      understand me, sir,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, quickly flushing again, &ldquo;I will not&mdash;not
      even at Tellson&rsquo;s&mdash;have it characterised for me by any gentleman
      breathing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There! I beg your pardon!&rdquo; said Stryver.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Granted. Thank you. Well, Mr. Stryver, I was about to say:&mdash;it might
      be painful to you to find yourself mistaken, it might be painful to Doctor
      Manette to have the task of being explicit with you, it might be very
      painful to Miss Manette to have the task of being explicit with you. You
      know the terms upon which I have the honour and happiness to stand with
      the family. If you please, committing you in no way, representing you in
      no way, I will undertake to correct my advice by the exercise of a little
      new observation and judgment expressly brought to bear upon it. If you
      should then be dissatisfied with it, you can but test its soundness for
      yourself; if, on the other hand, you should be satisfied with it, and it
      should be what it now is, it may spare all sides what is best spared. What
      do you say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How long would you keep me in town?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! It is only a question of a few hours. I could go to Soho in the
      evening, and come to your chambers afterwards.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I say yes,&rdquo; said Stryver: &ldquo;I won&rsquo;t go up there now, I am not so hot
      upon it as that comes to; I say yes, and I shall expect you to look in
      to-night. Good morning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then Mr. Stryver turned and burst out of the Bank, causing such a
      concussion of air on his passage through, that to stand up against it
      bowing behind the two counters, required the utmost remaining strength of
      the two ancient clerks. Those venerable and feeble persons were always
      seen by the public in the act of bowing, and were popularly believed, when
      they had bowed a customer out, still to keep on bowing in the empty office
      until they bowed another customer in.
    </p>
    <p>
      The barrister was keen enough to divine that the banker would not have
      gone so far in his expression of opinion on any less solid ground than
      moral certainty. Unprepared as he was for the large pill he had to
      swallow, he got it down. &ldquo;And now,&rdquo; said Mr. Stryver, shaking his forensic
      forefinger at the Temple in general, when it was down, &ldquo;my way out of
      this, is, to put you all in the wrong.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was a bit of the art of an Old Bailey tactician, in which he found
      great relief. &ldquo;You shall not put me in the wrong, young lady,&rdquo; said Mr.
      Stryver; &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll do that for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Accordingly, when Mr. Lorry called that night as late as ten o&rsquo;clock, Mr.
      Stryver, among a quantity of books and papers littered out for the
      purpose, seemed to have nothing less on his mind than the subject of the
      morning. He even showed surprise when he saw Mr. Lorry, and was altogether
      in an absent and preoccupied state.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well!&rdquo; said that good-natured emissary, after a full half-hour of
      bootless attempts to bring him round to the question. &ldquo;I have been to
      Soho.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To Soho?&rdquo; repeated Mr. Stryver, coldly. &ldquo;Oh, to be sure! What am I
      thinking of!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I have no doubt,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, &ldquo;that I was right in the
      conversation we had. My opinion is confirmed, and I reiterate my advice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I assure you,&rdquo; returned Mr. Stryver, in the friendliest way, &ldquo;that I am
      sorry for it on your account, and sorry for it on the poor father&rsquo;s
      account. I know this must always be a sore subject with the family; let us
      say no more about it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t understand you,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I dare say not,&rdquo; rejoined Stryver, nodding his head in a smoothing and
      final way; &ldquo;no matter, no matter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it does matter,&rdquo; Mr. Lorry urged.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No it doesn&rsquo;t; I assure you it doesn&rsquo;t. Having supposed that there was
      sense where there is no sense, and a laudable ambition where there is not
      a laudable ambition, I am well out of my mistake, and no harm is done.
      Young women have committed similar follies often before, and have repented
      them in poverty and obscurity often before. In an unselfish aspect, I am
      sorry that the thing is dropped, because it would have been a bad thing
      for me in a worldly point of view; in a selfish aspect, I am glad that the
      thing has dropped, because it would have been a bad thing for me in a
      worldly point of view&mdash;it is hardly necessary to say I could have
      gained nothing by it. There is no harm at all done. I have not proposed to
      the young lady, and, between ourselves, I am by no means certain, on
      reflection, that I ever should have committed myself to that extent. Mr.
      Lorry, you cannot control the mincing vanities and giddinesses of
      empty-headed girls; you must not expect to do it, or you will always be
      disappointed. Now, pray say no more about it. I tell you, I regret it on
      account of others, but I am satisfied on my own account. And I am really
      very much obliged to you for allowing me to sound you, and for giving me
      your advice; you know the young lady better than I do; you were right, it
      never would have done.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Lorry was so taken aback, that he looked quite stupidly at Mr. Stryver
      shouldering him towards the door, with an appearance of showering
      generosity, forbearance, and goodwill, on his erring head. &ldquo;Make the best
      of it, my dear sir,&rdquo; said Stryver; &ldquo;say no more about it; thank you again
      for allowing me to sound you; good night!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Lorry was out in the night, before he knew where he was. Mr. Stryver
      was lying back on his sofa, winking at his ceiling.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"></a>
      CHAPTER XIII.<br />The Fellow of No Delicacy
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>f Sydney Carton ever shone anywhere, he certainly never shone in the
      house of Doctor Manette. He had been there often, during a whole year, and
      had always been the same moody and morose lounger there. When he cared to
      talk, he talked well; but, the cloud of caring for nothing, which
      overshadowed him with such a fatal darkness, was very rarely pierced by
      the light within him.
    </p>
    <p>
      And yet he did care something for the streets that environed that house,
      and for the senseless stones that made their pavements. Many a night he
      vaguely and unhappily wandered there, when wine had brought no transitory
      gladness to him; many a dreary daybreak revealed his solitary figure
      lingering there, and still lingering there when the first beams of the sun
      brought into strong relief, removed beauties of architecture in spires of
      churches and lofty buildings, as perhaps the quiet time brought some sense
      of better things, else forgotten and unattainable, into his mind. Of late,
      the neglected bed in the Temple Court had known him more scantily than
      ever; and often when he had thrown himself upon it no longer than a few
      minutes, he had got up again, and haunted that neighbourhood.
    </p>
    <p>
      On a day in August, when Mr. Stryver (after notifying to his jackal that
      &ldquo;he had thought better of that marrying matter&rdquo;) had carried his delicacy
      into Devonshire, and when the sight and scent of flowers in the City
      streets had some waifs of goodness in them for the worst, of health for
      the sickliest, and of youth for the oldest, Sydney&rsquo;s feet still trod those
      stones. From being irresolute and purposeless, his feet became animated by
      an intention, and, in the working out of that intention, they took him to
      the Doctor&rsquo;s door.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was shown up-stairs, and found Lucie at her work, alone. She had never
      been quite at her ease with him, and received him with some little
      embarrassment as he seated himself near her table. But, looking up at his
      face in the interchange of the first few common-places, she observed a
      change in it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I fear you are not well, Mr. Carton!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. But the life I lead, Miss Manette, is not conducive to health. What
      is to be expected of, or by, such profligates?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it not&mdash;forgive me; I have begun the question on my lips&mdash;a
      pity to live no better life?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God knows it is a shame!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then why not change it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Looking gently at him again, she was surprised and saddened to see that
      there were tears in his eyes. There were tears in his voice too, as he
      answered:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is too late for that. I shall never be better than I am. I shall sink
      lower, and be worse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He leaned an elbow on her table, and covered his eyes with his hand. The
      table trembled in the silence that followed.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had never seen him softened, and was much distressed. He knew her to
      be so, without looking at her, and said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pray forgive me, Miss Manette. I break down before the knowledge of what
      I want to say to you. Will you hear me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If it will do you any good, Mr. Carton, if it would make you happier, it
      would make me very glad!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God bless you for your sweet compassion!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He unshaded his face after a little while, and spoke steadily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be afraid to hear me. Don&rsquo;t shrink from anything I say. I am like
      one who died young. All my life might have been.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Mr. Carton. I am sure that the best part of it might still be; I am
      sure that you might be much, much worthier of yourself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say of you, Miss Manette, and although I know better&mdash;although in
      the mystery of my own wretched heart I know better&mdash;I shall never
      forget it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She was pale and trembling. He came to her relief with a fixed despair of
      himself which made the interview unlike any other that could have been
      holden.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If it had been possible, Miss Manette, that you could have returned the
      love of the man you see before yourself&mdash;flung away, wasted, drunken,
      poor creature of misuse as you know him to be&mdash;he would have been
      conscious this day and hour, in spite of his happiness, that he would
      bring you to misery, bring you to sorrow and repentance, blight you,
      disgrace you, pull you down with him. I know very well that you can have
      no tenderness for me; I ask for none; I am even thankful that it cannot
      be.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Without it, can I not save you, Mr. Carton? Can I not recall you&mdash;forgive
      me again!&mdash;to a better course? Can I in no way repay your confidence?
      I know this is a confidence,&rdquo; she modestly said, after a little
      hesitation, and in earnest tears, &ldquo;I know you would say this to no one
      else. Can I turn it to no good account for yourself, Mr. Carton?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He shook his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To none. No, Miss Manette, to none. If you will hear me through a very
      little more, all you can ever do for me is done. I wish you to know that
      you have been the last dream of my soul. In my degradation I have not been
      so degraded but that the sight of you with your father, and of this home
      made such a home by you, has stirred old shadows that I thought had died
      out of me. Since I knew you, I have been troubled by a remorse that I
      thought would never reproach me again, and have heard whispers from old
      voices impelling me upward, that I thought were silent for ever. I have
      had unformed ideas of striving afresh, beginning anew, shaking off sloth
      and sensuality, and fighting out the abandoned fight. A dream, all a
      dream, that ends in nothing, and leaves the sleeper where he lay down, but
      I wish you to know that you inspired it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will nothing of it remain? O Mr. Carton, think again! Try again!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Miss Manette; all through it, I have known myself to be quite
      undeserving. And yet I have had the weakness, and have still the weakness,
      to wish you to know with what a sudden mastery you kindled me, heap of
      ashes that I am, into fire&mdash;a fire, however, inseparable in its
      nature from myself, quickening nothing, lighting nothing, doing no
      service, idly burning away.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Since it is my misfortune, Mr. Carton, to have made you more unhappy than
      you were before you knew me&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t say that, Miss Manette, for you would have reclaimed me, if
      anything could. You will not be the cause of my becoming worse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Since the state of your mind that you describe, is, at all events,
      attributable to some influence of mine&mdash;this is what I mean, if I can
      make it plain&mdash;can I use no influence to serve you? Have I no power
      for good, with you, at all?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The utmost good that I am capable of now, Miss Manette, I have come here
      to realise. Let me carry through the rest of my misdirected life, the
      remembrance that I opened my heart to you, last of all the world; and that
      there was something left in me at this time which you could deplore and
      pity.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Which I entreated you to believe, again and again, most fervently, with
      all my heart, was capable of better things, Mr. Carton!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Entreat me to believe it no more, Miss Manette. I have proved myself, and
      I know better. I distress you; I draw fast to an end. Will you let me
      believe, when I recall this day, that the last confidence of my life was
      reposed in your pure and innocent breast, and that it lies there alone,
      and will be shared by no one?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If that will be a consolation to you, yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not even by the dearest one ever to be known to you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Carton,&rdquo; she answered, after an agitated pause, &ldquo;the secret is yours,
      not mine; and I promise to respect it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you. And again, God bless you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He put her hand to his lips, and moved towards the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be under no apprehension, Miss Manette, of my ever resuming this
      conversation by so much as a passing word. I will never refer to it again.
      If I were dead, that could not be surer than it is henceforth. In the hour
      of my death, I shall hold sacred the one good remembrance&mdash;and shall
      thank and bless you for it&mdash;that my last avowal of myself was made to
      you, and that my name, and faults, and miseries were gently carried in
      your heart. May it otherwise be light and happy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was so unlike what he had ever shown himself to be, and it was so sad
      to think how much he had thrown away, and how much he every day kept down
      and perverted, that Lucie Manette wept mournfully for him as he stood
      looking back at her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be comforted!&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I am not worth such feeling, Miss Manette. An
      hour or two hence, and the low companions and low habits that I scorn but
      yield to, will render me less worth such tears as those, than any wretch
      who creeps along the streets. Be comforted! But, within myself, I shall
      always be, towards you, what I am now, though outwardly I shall be what
      you have heretofore seen me. The last supplication but one I make to you,
      is, that you will believe this of me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will, Mr. Carton.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My last supplication of all, is this; and with it, I will relieve you of
      a visitor with whom I well know you have nothing in unison, and between
      whom and you there is an impassable space. It is useless to say it, I
      know, but it rises out of my soul. For you, and for any dear to you, I
      would do anything. If my career were of that better kind that there was
      any opportunity or capacity of sacrifice in it, I would embrace any
      sacrifice for you and for those dear to you. Try to hold me in your mind,
      at some quiet times, as ardent and sincere in this one thing. The time
      will come, the time will not be long in coming, when new ties will be
      formed about you&mdash;ties that will bind you yet more tenderly and
      strongly to the home you so adorn&mdash;the dearest ties that will ever
      grace and gladden you. O Miss Manette, when the little picture of a happy
      father&rsquo;s face looks up in yours, when you see your own bright beauty
      springing up anew at your feet, think now and then that there is a man who
      would give his life, to keep a life you love beside you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He said, &ldquo;Farewell!&rdquo; said a last &ldquo;God bless you!&rdquo; and left her.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"></a>
      CHAPTER XIV.<br />The Honest Tradesman
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>o the eyes of Mr. Jeremiah Cruncher, sitting on his stool in Fleet-street
      with his grisly urchin beside him, a vast number and variety of objects in
      movement were every day presented. Who could sit upon anything in
      Fleet-street during the busy hours of the day, and not be dazed and
      deafened by two immense processions, one ever tending westward with the
      sun, the other ever tending eastward from the sun, both ever tending to
      the plains beyond the range of red and purple where the sun goes down!
    </p>
    <p>
      With his straw in his mouth, Mr. Cruncher sat watching the two streams,
      like the heathen rustic who has for several centuries been on duty
      watching one stream&mdash;saving that Jerry had no expectation of their
      ever running dry. Nor would it have been an expectation of a hopeful kind,
      since a small part of his income was derived from the pilotage of timid
      women (mostly of a full habit and past the middle term of life) from
      Tellson&rsquo;s side of the tides to the opposite shore. Brief as such
      companionship was in every separate instance, Mr. Cruncher never failed to
      become so interested in the lady as to express a strong desire to have the
      honour of drinking her very good health. And it was from the gifts
      bestowed upon him towards the execution of this benevolent purpose, that
      he recruited his finances, as just now observed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Time was, when a poet sat upon a stool in a public place, and mused in the
      sight of men. Mr. Cruncher, sitting on a stool in a public place, but not
      being a poet, mused as little as possible, and looked about him.
    </p>
    <p>
      It fell out that he was thus engaged in a season when crowds were few, and
      belated women few, and when his affairs in general were so unprosperous as
      to awaken a strong suspicion in his breast that Mrs. Cruncher must have
      been &ldquo;flopping&rdquo; in some pointed manner, when an unusual concourse pouring
      down Fleet-street westward, attracted his attention. Looking that way, Mr.
      Cruncher made out that some kind of funeral was coming along, and that
      there was popular objection to this funeral, which engendered uproar.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Young Jerry,&rdquo; said Mr. Cruncher, turning to his offspring, &ldquo;it&rsquo;s a
      buryin&rsquo;.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hooroar, father!&rdquo; cried Young Jerry.
    </p>
    <p>
      The young gentleman uttered this exultant sound with mysterious
      significance. The elder gentleman took the cry so ill, that he watched his
      opportunity, and smote the young gentleman on the ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What d&rsquo;ye mean? What are you hooroaring at? What do you want to conwey to
      your own father, you young Rip? This boy is a getting too many for <i>me</i>!&rdquo;
       said Mr. Cruncher, surveying him. &ldquo;Him and his hooroars! Don&rsquo;t let me hear
      no more of you, or you shall feel some more of me. D&rsquo;ye hear?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I warn&rsquo;t doing no harm,&rdquo; Young Jerry protested, rubbing his cheek.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Drop it then,&rdquo; said Mr. Cruncher; &ldquo;I won&rsquo;t have none of <i>your</i> no
      harms. Get a top of that there seat, and look at the crowd.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His son obeyed, and the crowd approached; they were bawling and hissing
      round a dingy hearse and dingy mourning coach, in which mourning coach
      there was only one mourner, dressed in the dingy trappings that were
      considered essential to the dignity of the position. The position appeared
      by no means to please him, however, with an increasing rabble surrounding
      the coach, deriding him, making grimaces at him, and incessantly groaning
      and calling out: &ldquo;Yah! Spies! Tst! Yaha! Spies!&rdquo; with many compliments too
      numerous and forcible to repeat.
    </p>
    <p>
      Funerals had at all times a remarkable attraction for Mr. Cruncher; he
      always pricked up his senses, and became excited, when a funeral passed
      Tellson&rsquo;s. Naturally, therefore, a funeral with this uncommon attendance
      excited him greatly, and he asked of the first man who ran against him:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it, brother? What&rsquo;s it about?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>I</i> don&rsquo;t know,&rdquo; said the man. &ldquo;Spies! Yaha! Tst! Spies!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He asked another man. &ldquo;Who is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>I</i> don&rsquo;t know,&rdquo; returned the man, clapping his hands to his mouth
      nevertheless, and vociferating in a surprising heat and with the greatest
      ardour, &ldquo;Spies! Yaha! Tst, tst! Spi&mdash;ies!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At length, a person better informed on the merits of the case, tumbled
      against him, and from this person he learned that the funeral was the
      funeral of one Roger Cly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was he a spy?&rdquo; asked Mr. Cruncher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Old Bailey spy,&rdquo; returned his informant. &ldquo;Yaha! Tst! Yah! Old Bailey Spi&mdash;i&mdash;ies!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, to be sure!&rdquo; exclaimed Jerry, recalling the Trial at which he had
      assisted. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve seen him. Dead, is he?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dead as mutton,&rdquo; returned the other, &ldquo;and can&rsquo;t be too dead. Have &rsquo;em
      out, there! Spies! Pull &rsquo;em out, there! Spies!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The idea was so acceptable in the prevalent absence of any idea, that the
      crowd caught it up with eagerness, and loudly repeating the suggestion to
      have &rsquo;em out, and to pull &rsquo;em out, mobbed the two vehicles so closely that
      they came to a stop. On the crowd&rsquo;s opening the coach doors, the one
      mourner scuffled out by himself and was in their hands for a moment; but
      he was so alert, and made such good use of his time, that in another
      moment he was scouring away up a bye-street, after shedding his cloak,
      hat, long hatband, white pocket-handkerchief, and other symbolical tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      These, the people tore to pieces and scattered far and wide with great
      enjoyment, while the tradesmen hurriedly shut up their shops; for a crowd
      in those times stopped at nothing, and was a monster much dreaded. They
      had already got the length of opening the hearse to take the coffin out,
      when some brighter genius proposed instead, its being escorted to its
      destination amidst general rejoicing. Practical suggestions being much
      needed, this suggestion, too, was received with acclamation, and the coach
      was immediately filled with eight inside and a dozen out, while as many
      people got on the roof of the hearse as could by any exercise of ingenuity
      stick upon it. Among the first of these volunteers was Jerry Cruncher
      himself, who modestly concealed his spiky head from the observation of
      Tellson&rsquo;s, in the further corner of the mourning coach.
    </p>
    <p>
      The officiating undertakers made some protest against these changes in the
      ceremonies; but, the river being alarmingly near, and several voices
      remarking on the efficacy of cold immersion in bringing refractory members
      of the profession to reason, the protest was faint and brief. The
      remodelled procession started, with a chimney-sweep driving the hearse&mdash;advised
      by the regular driver, who was perched beside him, under close inspection,
      for the purpose&mdash;and with a pieman, also attended by his cabinet
      minister, driving the mourning coach. A bear-leader, a popular street
      character of the time, was impressed as an additional ornament, before the
      cavalcade had gone far down the Strand; and his bear, who was black and
      very mangy, gave quite an Undertaking air to that part of the procession
      in which he walked.
    </p>

<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/0535m.jpg" style="width:100%;"  alt="0535m " /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0535.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>

    <p>
      Thus, with beer-drinking, pipe-smoking, song-roaring, and infinite
      caricaturing of woe, the disorderly procession went its way, recruiting at
      every step, and all the shops shutting up before it. Its destination was
      the old church of Saint Pancras, far off in the fields. It got there in
      course of time; insisted on pouring into the burial-ground; finally,
      accomplished the interment of the deceased Roger Cly in its own way, and
      highly to its own satisfaction.
    </p>
    <p>
      The dead man disposed of, and the crowd being under the necessity of
      providing some other entertainment for itself, another brighter genius (or
      perhaps the same) conceived the humour of impeaching casual passers-by, as
      Old Bailey spies, and wreaking vengeance on them. Chase was given to some
      scores of inoffensive persons who had never been near the Old Bailey in
      their lives, in the realisation of this fancy, and they were roughly
      hustled and maltreated. The transition to the sport of window-breaking,
      and thence to the plundering of public-houses, was easy and natural. At
      last, after several hours, when sundry summer-houses had been pulled down,
      and some area-railings had been torn up, to arm the more belligerent
      spirits, a rumour got about that the Guards were coming. Before this
      rumour, the crowd gradually melted away, and perhaps the Guards came, and
      perhaps they never came, and this was the usual progress of a mob.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Cruncher did not assist at the closing sports, but had remained behind
      in the churchyard, to confer and condole with the undertakers. The place
      had a soothing influence on him. He procured a pipe from a neighbouring
      public-house, and smoked it, looking in at the railings and maturely
      considering the spot.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jerry,&rdquo; said Mr. Cruncher, apostrophising himself in his usual way, &ldquo;you
      see that there Cly that day, and you see with your own eyes that he was a
      young &rsquo;un and a straight made &rsquo;un.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Having smoked his pipe out, and ruminated a little longer, he turned
      himself about, that he might appear, before the hour of closing, on his
      station at Tellson&rsquo;s. Whether his meditations on mortality had touched his
      liver, or whether his general health had been previously at all amiss, or
      whether he desired to show a little attention to an eminent man, is not so
      much to the purpose, as that he made a short call upon his medical adviser&mdash;a
      distinguished surgeon&mdash;on his way back.
    </p>
    <p>
      Young Jerry relieved his father with dutiful interest, and reported No job
      in his absence. The bank closed, the ancient clerks came out, the usual
      watch was set, and Mr. Cruncher and his son went home to tea.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, I tell you where it is!&rdquo; said Mr. Cruncher to his wife, on entering.
      &ldquo;If, as a honest tradesman, my wenturs goes wrong to-night, I shall make
      sure that you&rsquo;ve been praying again me, and I shall work you for it just
      the same as if I seen you do it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The dejected Mrs. Cruncher shook her head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, you&rsquo;re at it afore my face!&rdquo; said Mr. Cruncher, with signs of angry
      apprehension.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am saying nothing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then; don&rsquo;t meditate nothing. You might as well flop as meditate.
      You may as well go again me one way as another. Drop it altogether.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Jerry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Jerry,&rdquo; repeated Mr. Cruncher sitting down to tea. &ldquo;Ah! It <i>is</i>
      yes, Jerry. That&rsquo;s about it. You may say yes, Jerry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Cruncher had no particular meaning in these sulky corroborations, but
      made use of them, as people not unfrequently do, to express general
      ironical dissatisfaction.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You and your yes, Jerry,&rdquo; said Mr. Cruncher, taking a bite out of his
      bread-and-butter, and seeming to help it down with a large invisible
      oyster out of his saucer. &ldquo;Ah! I think so. I believe you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are going out to-night?&rdquo; asked his decent wife, when he took another
      bite.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I am.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;May I go with you, father?&rdquo; asked his son, briskly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, you mayn&rsquo;t. I&rsquo;m a going&mdash;as your mother knows&mdash;a fishing.
      That&rsquo;s where I&rsquo;m going to. Going a fishing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your fishing-rod gets rayther rusty; don&rsquo;t it, father?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never you mind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shall you bring any fish home, father?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I don&rsquo;t, you&rsquo;ll have short commons, to-morrow,&rdquo; returned that
      gentleman, shaking his head; &ldquo;that&rsquo;s questions enough for you; I ain&rsquo;t a
      going out, till you&rsquo;ve been long abed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He devoted himself during the remainder of the evening to keeping a most
      vigilant watch on Mrs. Cruncher, and sullenly holding her in conversation
      that she might be prevented from meditating any petitions to his
      disadvantage. With this view, he urged his son to hold her in conversation
      also, and led the unfortunate woman a hard life by dwelling on any causes
      of complaint he could bring against her, rather than he would leave her
      for a moment to her own reflections. The devoutest person could have
      rendered no greater homage to the efficacy of an honest prayer than he did
      in this distrust of his wife. It was as if a professed unbeliever in
      ghosts should be frightened by a ghost story.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And mind you!&rdquo; said Mr. Cruncher. &ldquo;No games to-morrow! If I, as a honest
      tradesman, succeed in providing a jinte of meat or two, none of your not
      touching of it, and sticking to bread. If I, as a honest tradesman, am
      able to provide a little beer, none of your declaring on water. When you
      go to Rome, do as Rome does. Rome will be a ugly customer to you, if you
      don&rsquo;t. <i>I</i>&rsquo;m your Rome, you know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then he began grumbling again:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With your flying into the face of your own wittles and drink! I don&rsquo;t
      know how scarce you mayn&rsquo;t make the wittles and drink here, by your
      flopping tricks and your unfeeling conduct. Look at your boy: he <i>is</i>
      your&rsquo;n, ain&rsquo;t he? He&rsquo;s as thin as a lath. Do you call yourself a mother,
      and not know that a mother&rsquo;s first duty is to blow her boy out?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This touched Young Jerry on a tender place; who adjured his mother to
      perform her first duty, and, whatever else she did or neglected, above all
      things to lay especial stress on the discharge of that maternal function
      so affectingly and delicately indicated by his other parent.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus the evening wore away with the Cruncher family, until Young Jerry was
      ordered to bed, and his mother, laid under similar injunctions, obeyed
      them. Mr. Cruncher beguiled the earlier watches of the night with solitary
      pipes, and did not start upon his excursion until nearly one o&rsquo;clock.
      Towards that small and ghostly hour, he rose up from his chair, took a key
      out of his pocket, opened a locked cupboard, and brought forth a sack, a
      crowbar of convenient size, a rope and chain, and other fishing tackle of
      that nature. Disposing these articles about him in skilful manner, he
      bestowed a parting defiance on Mrs. Cruncher, extinguished the light, and
      went out.
    </p>
    <p>
      Young Jerry, who had only made a feint of undressing when he went to bed,
      was not long after his father. Under cover of the darkness he followed out
      of the room, followed down the stairs, followed down the court, followed
      out into the streets. He was in no uneasiness concerning his getting into
      the house again, for it was full of lodgers, and the door stood ajar all
      night.
    </p>
    <p>
      Impelled by a laudable ambition to study the art and mystery of his
      father&rsquo;s honest calling, Young Jerry, keeping as close to house fronts,
      walls, and doorways, as his eyes were close to one another, held his
      honoured parent in view. The honoured parent steering Northward, had not
      gone far, when he was joined by another disciple of Izaak Walton, and the
      two trudged on together.
    </p>
    <p>
      Within half an hour from the first starting, they were beyond the winking
      lamps, and the more than winking watchmen, and were out upon a lonely
      road. Another fisherman was picked up here&mdash;and that so silently,
      that if Young Jerry had been superstitious, he might have supposed the
      second follower of the gentle craft to have, all of a sudden, split
      himself into two.
    </p>
    <p>
      The three went on, and Young Jerry went on, until the three stopped under
      a bank overhanging the road. Upon the top of the bank was a low brick
      wall, surmounted by an iron railing. In the shadow of bank and wall the
      three turned out of the road, and up a blind lane, of which the wall&mdash;there,
      risen to some eight or ten feet high&mdash;formed one side. Crouching down
      in a corner, peeping up the lane, the next object that Young Jerry saw,
      was the form of his honoured parent, pretty well defined against a watery
      and clouded moon, nimbly scaling an iron gate. He was soon over, and then
      the second fisherman got over, and then the third. They all dropped softly
      on the ground within the gate, and lay there a little&mdash;listening
      perhaps. Then, they moved away on their hands and knees.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was now Young Jerry&rsquo;s turn to approach the gate: which he did, holding
      his breath. Crouching down again in a corner there, and looking in, he
      made out the three fishermen creeping through some rank grass! and all the
      gravestones in the churchyard&mdash;it was a large churchyard that they
      were in&mdash;looking on like ghosts in white, while the church tower
      itself looked on like the ghost of a monstrous giant. They did not creep
      far, before they stopped and stood upright. And then they began to fish.
    </p>
    <p>
      They fished with a spade, at first. Presently the honoured parent appeared
      to be adjusting some instrument like a great corkscrew. Whatever tools
      they worked with, they worked hard, until the awful striking of the church
      clock so terrified Young Jerry, that he made off, with his hair as stiff
      as his father&rsquo;s.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, his long-cherished desire to know more about these matters, not only
      stopped him in his running away, but lured him back again. They were still
      fishing perseveringly, when he peeped in at the gate for the second time;
      but, now they seemed to have got a bite. There was a screwing and
      complaining sound down below, and their bent figures were strained, as if
      by a weight. By slow degrees the weight broke away the earth upon it, and
      came to the surface. Young Jerry very well knew what it would be; but,
      when he saw it, and saw his honoured parent about to wrench it open, he
      was so frightened, being new to the sight, that he made off again, and
      never stopped until he had run a mile or more.
    </p>
    <p>
      He would not have stopped then, for anything less necessary than breath,
      it being a spectral sort of race that he ran, and one highly desirable to
      get to the end of. He had a strong idea that the coffin he had seen was
      running after him; and, pictured as hopping on behind him, bolt upright,
      upon its narrow end, always on the point of overtaking him and hopping on
      at his side&mdash;perhaps taking his arm&mdash;it was a pursuer to shun.
      It was an inconsistent and ubiquitous fiend too, for, while it was making
      the whole night behind him dreadful, he darted out into the roadway to
      avoid dark alleys, fearful of its coming hopping out of them like a
      dropsical boy&rsquo;s kite without tail and wings. It hid in doorways too,
      rubbing its horrible shoulders against doors, and drawing them up to its
      ears, as if it were laughing. It got into shadows on the road, and lay
      cunningly on its back to trip him up. All this time it was incessantly
      hopping on behind and gaining on him, so that when the boy got to his own
      door he had reason for being half dead. And even then it would not leave
      him, but followed him upstairs with a bump on every stair, scrambled into
      bed with him, and bumped down, dead and heavy, on his breast when he fell
      asleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      From his oppressed slumber, Young Jerry in his closet was awakened after
      daybreak and before sunrise, by the presence of his father in the family
      room. Something had gone wrong with him; at least, so Young Jerry
      inferred, from the circumstance of his holding Mrs. Cruncher by the ears,
      and knocking the back of her head against the head-board of the bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I told you I would,&rdquo; said Mr. Cruncher, &ldquo;and I did.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jerry, Jerry, Jerry!&rdquo; his wife implored.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You oppose yourself to the profit of the business,&rdquo; said Jerry, &ldquo;and me
      and my partners suffer. You was to honour and obey; why the devil don&rsquo;t
      you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I try to be a good wife, Jerry,&rdquo; the poor woman protested, with tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it being a good wife to oppose your husband&rsquo;s business? Is it
      honouring your husband to dishonour his business? Is it obeying your
      husband to disobey him on the wital subject of his business?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You hadn&rsquo;t taken to the dreadful business then, Jerry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s enough for you,&rdquo; retorted Mr. Cruncher, &ldquo;to be the wife of a honest
      tradesman, and not to occupy your female mind with calculations when he
      took to his trade or when he didn&rsquo;t. A honouring and obeying wife would
      let his trade alone altogether. Call yourself a religious woman? If you&rsquo;re
      a religious woman, give me a irreligious one! You have no more nat&rsquo;ral
      sense of duty than the bed of this here Thames river has of a pile, and
      similarly it must be knocked into you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The altercation was conducted in a low tone of voice, and terminated in
      the honest tradesman&rsquo;s kicking off his clay-soiled boots, and lying down
      at his length on the floor. After taking a timid peep at him lying on his
      back, with his rusty hands under his head for a pillow, his son lay down
      too, and fell asleep again.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was no fish for breakfast, and not much of anything else. Mr.
      Cruncher was out of spirits, and out of temper, and kept an iron pot-lid
      by him as a projectile for the correction of Mrs. Cruncher, in case he
      should observe any symptoms of her saying Grace. He was brushed and washed
      at the usual hour, and set off with his son to pursue his ostensible
      calling.
    </p>
    <p>
      Young Jerry, walking with the stool under his arm at his father&rsquo;s side
      along sunny and crowded Fleet-street, was a very different Young Jerry
      from him of the previous night, running home through darkness and solitude
      from his grim pursuer. His cunning was fresh with the day, and his qualms
      were gone with the night&mdash;in which particulars it is not improbable
      that he had compeers in Fleet-street and the City of London, that fine
      morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Father,&rdquo; said Young Jerry, as they walked along: taking care to keep at
      arm&rsquo;s length and to have the stool well between them: &ldquo;what&rsquo;s a
      Resurrection-Man?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Cruncher came to a stop on the pavement before he answered, &ldquo;How
      should I know?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought you knowed everything, father,&rdquo; said the artless boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hem! Well,&rdquo; returned Mr. Cruncher, going on again, and lifting off his
      hat to give his spikes free play, &ldquo;he&rsquo;s a tradesman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s his goods, father?&rdquo; asked the brisk Young Jerry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His goods,&rdquo; said Mr. Cruncher, after turning it over in his mind, &ldquo;is a
      branch of Scientific goods.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Persons&rsquo; bodies, ain&rsquo;t it, father?&rdquo; asked the lively boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe it is something of that sort,&rdquo; said Mr. Cruncher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, father, I should so like to be a Resurrection-Man when I&rsquo;m quite
      growed up!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Cruncher was soothed, but shook his head in a dubious and moral way.
      &ldquo;It depends upon how you dewelop your talents. Be careful to dewelop your
      talents, and never to say no more than you can help to nobody, and there&rsquo;s
      no telling at the present time what you may not come to be fit for.&rdquo; As
      Young Jerry, thus encouraged, went on a few yards in advance, to plant the
      stool in the shadow of the Bar, Mr. Cruncher added to himself: &ldquo;Jerry, you
      honest tradesman, there&rsquo;s hopes wot that boy will yet be a blessing to
      you, and a recompense to you for his mother!&rdquo;
     </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"></a>
      CHAPTER XV.<br />Knitting
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>here had been earlier drinking than usual in the wine-shop of Monsieur
      Defarge. As early as six o&rsquo;clock in the morning, sallow faces peeping
      through its barred windows had descried other faces within, bending over
      measures of wine. Monsieur Defarge sold a very thin wine at the best of
      times, but it would seem to have been an unusually thin wine that he sold
      at this time. A sour wine, moreover, or a souring, for its influence on
      the mood of those who drank it was to make them gloomy. No vivacious
      Bacchanalian flame leaped out of the pressed grape of Monsieur Defarge:
      but, a smouldering fire that burnt in the dark, lay hidden in the dregs of
      it.
    </p>
    <p>
      This had been the third morning in succession, on which there had been
      early drinking at the wine-shop of Monsieur Defarge. It had begun on
      Monday, and here was Wednesday come. There had been more of early brooding
      than drinking; for, many men had listened and whispered and slunk about
      there from the time of the opening of the door, who could not have laid a
      piece of money on the counter to save their souls. These were to the full
      as interested in the place, however, as if they could have commanded whole
      barrels of wine; and they glided from seat to seat, and from corner to
      corner, swallowing talk in lieu of drink, with greedy looks.
    </p>
    <p>
      Notwithstanding an unusual flow of company, the master of the wine-shop
      was not visible. He was not missed; for, nobody who crossed the threshold
      looked for him, nobody asked for him, nobody wondered to see only Madame
      Defarge in her seat, presiding over the distribution of wine, with a bowl
      of battered small coins before her, as much defaced and beaten out of
      their original impress as the small coinage of humanity from whose ragged
      pockets they had come.
    </p>
    <p>
      A suspended interest and a prevalent absence of mind, were perhaps
      observed by the spies who looked in at the wine-shop, as they looked in at
      every place, high and low, from the king&rsquo;s palace to the criminal&rsquo;s gaol.
      Games at cards languished, players at dominoes musingly built towers with
      them, drinkers drew figures on the tables with spilt drops of wine, Madame
      Defarge herself picked out the pattern on her sleeve with her toothpick,
      and saw and heard something inaudible and invisible a long way off.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus, Saint Antoine in this vinous feature of his, until midday. It was
      high noontide, when two dusty men passed through his streets and under his
      swinging lamps: of whom, one was Monsieur Defarge: the other a mender of
      roads in a blue cap. All adust and athirst, the two entered the wine-shop.
      Their arrival had lighted a kind of fire in the breast of Saint Antoine,
      fast spreading as they came along, which stirred and flickered in flames
      of faces at most doors and windows. Yet, no one had followed them, and no
      man spoke when they entered the wine-shop, though the eyes of every man
      there were turned upon them.
    </p>

<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/0544m.jpg" style="width:100%;"  alt="0544m " /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0544.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>

    <p>
      &ldquo;Good day, gentlemen!&rdquo; said Monsieur Defarge.
    </p>
    <p>
      It may have been a signal for loosening the general tongue. It elicited an
      answering chorus of &ldquo;Good day!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is bad weather, gentlemen,&rdquo; said Defarge, shaking his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      Upon which, every man looked at his neighbour, and then all cast down
      their eyes and sat silent. Except one man, who got up and went out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My wife,&rdquo; said Defarge aloud, addressing Madame Defarge: &ldquo;I have
      travelled certain leagues with this good mender of roads, called Jacques.
      I met him&mdash;by accident&mdash;a day and half&rsquo;s journey out of Paris.
      He is a good child, this mender of roads, called Jacques. Give him to
      drink, my wife!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A second man got up and went out. Madame Defarge set wine before the
      mender of roads called Jacques, who doffed his blue cap to the company,
      and drank. In the breast of his blouse he carried some coarse dark bread;
      he ate of this between whiles, and sat munching and drinking near Madame
      Defarge&rsquo;s counter. A third man got up and went out.
    </p>
    <p>
      Defarge refreshed himself with a draught of wine&mdash;but, he took less
      than was given to the stranger, as being himself a man to whom it was no
      rarity&mdash;and stood waiting until the countryman had made his
      breakfast. He looked at no one present, and no one now looked at him; not
      even Madame Defarge, who had taken up her knitting, and was at work.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you finished your repast, friend?&rdquo; he asked, in due season.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, thank you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, then! You shall see the apartment that I told you you could occupy.
      It will suit you to a marvel.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Out of the wine-shop into the street, out of the street into a courtyard,
      out of the courtyard up a steep staircase, out of the staircase into a
      garret&mdash;formerly the garret where a white-haired man sat on a low
      bench, stooping forward and very busy, making shoes.
    </p>
    <p>
      No white-haired man was there now; but, the three men were there who had
      gone out of the wine-shop singly. And between them and the white-haired
      man afar off, was the one small link, that they had once looked in at him
      through the chinks in the wall.
    </p>
    <p>
      Defarge closed the door carefully, and spoke in a subdued voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jacques One, Jacques Two, Jacques Three! This is the witness encountered
      by appointment, by me, Jacques Four. He will tell you all. Speak, Jacques
      Five!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The mender of roads, blue cap in hand, wiped his swarthy forehead with it,
      and said, &ldquo;Where shall I commence, monsieur?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Commence,&rdquo; was Monsieur Defarge&rsquo;s not unreasonable reply, &ldquo;at the
      commencement.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I saw him then, messieurs,&rdquo; began the mender of roads, &ldquo;a year ago this
      running summer, underneath the carriage of the Marquis, hanging by the
      chain. Behold the manner of it. I leaving my work on the road, the sun
      going to bed, the carriage of the Marquis slowly ascending the hill, he
      hanging by the chain&mdash;like this.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Again the mender of roads went through the whole performance; in which he
      ought to have been perfect by that time, seeing that it had been the
      infallible resource and indispensable entertainment of his village during
      a whole year.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jacques One struck in, and asked if he had ever seen the man before?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never,&rdquo; answered the mender of roads, recovering his perpendicular.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jacques Three demanded how he afterwards recognised him then?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By his tall figure,&rdquo; said the mender of roads, softly, and with his
      finger at his nose. &ldquo;When Monsieur the Marquis demands that evening, &lsquo;Say,
      what is he like?&rsquo; I make response, &lsquo;Tall as a spectre.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You should have said, short as a dwarf,&rdquo; returned Jacques Two.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what did I know? The deed was not then accomplished, neither did he
      confide in me. Observe! Under those circumstances even, I do not offer my
      testimony. Monsieur the Marquis indicates me with his finger, standing
      near our little fountain, and says, &lsquo;To me! Bring that rascal!&rsquo; My faith,
      messieurs, I offer nothing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is right there, Jacques,&rdquo; murmured Defarge, to him who had
      interrupted. &ldquo;Go on!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good!&rdquo; said the mender of roads, with an air of mystery. &ldquo;The tall man is
      lost, and he is sought&mdash;how many months? Nine, ten, eleven?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No matter, the number,&rdquo; said Defarge. &ldquo;He is well hidden, but at last he
      is unluckily found. Go on!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am again at work upon the hill-side, and the sun is again about to go
      to bed. I am collecting my tools to descend to my cottage down in the
      village below, where it is already dark, when I raise my eyes, and see
      coming over the hill six soldiers. In the midst of them is a tall man with
      his arms bound&mdash;tied to his sides&mdash;like this!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With the aid of his indispensable cap, he represented a man with his
      elbows bound fast at his hips, with cords that were knotted behind him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I stand aside, messieurs, by my heap of stones, to see the soldiers and
      their prisoner pass (for it is a solitary road, that, where any spectacle
      is well worth looking at), and at first, as they approach, I see no more
      than that they are six soldiers with a tall man bound, and that they are
      almost black to my sight&mdash;except on the side of the sun going to bed,
      where they have a red edge, messieurs. Also, I see that their long shadows
      are on the hollow ridge on the opposite side of the road, and are on the
      hill above it, and are like the shadows of giants. Also, I see that they
      are covered with dust, and that the dust moves with them as they come,
      tramp, tramp! But when they advance quite near to me, I recognise the tall
      man, and he recognises me. Ah, but he would be well content to precipitate
      himself over the hill-side once again, as on the evening when he and I
      first encountered, close to the same spot!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He described it as if he were there, and it was evident that he saw it
      vividly; perhaps he had not seen much in his life.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not show the soldiers that I recognise the tall man; he does not
      show the soldiers that he recognises me; we do it, and we know it, with
      our eyes. &lsquo;Come on!&rsquo; says the chief of that company, pointing to the
      village, &lsquo;bring him fast to his tomb!&rsquo; and they bring him faster. I
      follow. His arms are swelled because of being bound so tight, his wooden
      shoes are large and clumsy, and he is lame. Because he is lame, and
      consequently slow, they drive him with their guns&mdash;like this!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He imitated the action of a man&rsquo;s being impelled forward by the butt-ends
      of muskets.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As they descend the hill like madmen running a race, he falls. They laugh
      and pick him up again. His face is bleeding and covered with dust, but he
      cannot touch it; thereupon they laugh again. They bring him into the
      village; all the village runs to look; they take him past the mill, and up
      to the prison; all the village sees the prison gate open in the darkness
      of the night, and swallow him&mdash;like this!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He opened his mouth as wide as he could, and shut it with a sounding snap
      of his teeth. Observant of his unwillingness to mar the effect by opening
      it again, Defarge said, &ldquo;Go on, Jacques.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All the village,&rdquo; pursued the mender of roads, on tiptoe and in a low
      voice, &ldquo;withdraws; all the village whispers by the fountain; all the
      village sleeps; all the village dreams of that unhappy one, within the
      locks and bars of the prison on the crag, and never to come out of it,
      except to perish. In the morning, with my tools upon my shoulder, eating
      my morsel of black bread as I go, I make a circuit by the prison, on my
      way to my work. There I see him, high up, behind the bars of a lofty iron
      cage, bloody and dusty as last night, looking through. He has no hand
      free, to wave to me; I dare not call to him; he regards me like a dead
      man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Defarge and the three glanced darkly at one another. The looks of all of
      them were dark, repressed, and revengeful, as they listened to the
      countryman&rsquo;s story; the manner of all of them, while it was secret, was
      authoritative too. They had the air of a rough tribunal; Jacques One and
      Two sitting on the old pallet-bed, each with his chin resting on his hand,
      and his eyes intent on the road-mender; Jacques Three, equally intent, on
      one knee behind them, with his agitated hand always gliding over the
      network of fine nerves about his mouth and nose; Defarge standing between
      them and the narrator, whom he had stationed in the light of the window,
      by turns looking from him to them, and from them to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go on, Jacques,&rdquo; said Defarge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He remains up there in his iron cage some days. The village looks at him
      by stealth, for it is afraid. But it always looks up, from a distance, at
      the prison on the crag; and in the evening, when the work of the day is
      achieved and it assembles to gossip at the fountain, all faces are turned
      towards the prison. Formerly, they were turned towards the posting-house;
      now, they are turned towards the prison. They whisper at the fountain,
      that although condemned to death he will not be executed; they say that
      petitions have been presented in Paris, showing that he was enraged and
      made mad by the death of his child; they say that a petition has been
      presented to the King himself. What do I know? It is possible. Perhaps
      yes, perhaps no.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen then, Jacques,&rdquo; Number One of that name sternly interposed. &ldquo;Know
      that a petition was presented to the King and Queen. All here, yourself
      excepted, saw the King take it, in his carriage in the street, sitting
      beside the Queen. It is Defarge whom you see here, who, at the hazard of
      his life, darted out before the horses, with the petition in his hand.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And once again listen, Jacques!&rdquo; said the kneeling Number Three: his
      fingers ever wandering over and over those fine nerves, with a strikingly
      greedy air, as if he hungered for something&mdash;that was neither food
      nor drink; &ldquo;the guard, horse and foot, surrounded the petitioner, and
      struck him blows. You hear?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hear, messieurs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go on then,&rdquo; said Defarge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Again; on the other hand, they whisper at the fountain,&rdquo; resumed the
      countryman, &ldquo;that he is brought down into our country to be executed on
      the spot, and that he will very certainly be executed. They even whisper
      that because he has slain Monseigneur, and because Monseigneur was the
      father of his tenants&mdash;serfs&mdash;what you will&mdash;he will be
      executed as a parricide. One old man says at the fountain, that his right
      hand, armed with the knife, will be burnt off before his face; that, into
      wounds which will be made in his arms, his breast, and his legs, there
      will be poured boiling oil, melted lead, hot resin, wax, and sulphur;
      finally, that he will be torn limb from limb by four strong horses. That
      old man says, all this was actually done to a prisoner who made an attempt
      on the life of the late King, Louis Fifteen. But how do I know if he lies?
      I am not a scholar.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen once again then, Jacques!&rdquo; said the man with the restless hand and
      the craving air. &ldquo;The name of that prisoner was Damiens, and it was all
      done in open day, in the open streets of this city of Paris; and nothing
      was more noticed in the vast concourse that saw it done, than the crowd of
      ladies of quality and fashion, who were full of eager attention to the
      last&mdash;to the last, Jacques, prolonged until nightfall, when he had
      lost two legs and an arm, and still breathed! And it was done&mdash;why,
      how old are you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thirty-five,&rdquo; said the mender of roads, who looked sixty.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was done when you were more than ten years old; you might have seen
      it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Enough!&rdquo; said Defarge, with grim impatience. &ldquo;Long live the Devil! Go
      on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well! Some whisper this, some whisper that; they speak of nothing else;
      even the fountain appears to fall to that tune. At length, on Sunday night
      when all the village is asleep, come soldiers, winding down from the
      prison, and their guns ring on the stones of the little street. Workmen
      dig, workmen hammer, soldiers laugh and sing; in the morning, by the
      fountain, there is raised a gallows forty feet high, poisoning the water.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The mender of roads looked <i>through</i> rather than <i>at</i> the low
      ceiling, and pointed as if he saw the gallows somewhere in the sky.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All work is stopped, all assemble there, nobody leads the cows out, the
      cows are there with the rest. At midday, the roll of drums. Soldiers have
      marched into the prison in the night, and he is in the midst of many
      soldiers. He is bound as before, and in his mouth there is a gag&mdash;tied
      so, with a tight string, making him look almost as if he laughed.&rdquo; He
      suggested it, by creasing his face with his two thumbs, from the corners
      of his mouth to his ears. &ldquo;On the top of the gallows is fixed the knife,
      blade upwards, with its point in the air. He is hanged there forty feet
      high&mdash;and is left hanging, poisoning the water.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They looked at one another, as he used his blue cap to wipe his face, on
      which the perspiration had started afresh while he recalled the spectacle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is frightful, messieurs. How can the women and the children draw
      water! Who can gossip of an evening, under that shadow! Under it, have I
      said? When I left the village, Monday evening as the sun was going to bed,
      and looked back from the hill, the shadow struck across the church, across
      the mill, across the prison&mdash;seemed to strike across the earth,
      messieurs, to where the sky rests upon it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The hungry man gnawed one of his fingers as he looked at the other three,
      and his finger quivered with the craving that was on him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s all, messieurs. I left at sunset (as I had been warned to do), and
      I walked on, that night and half next day, until I met (as I was warned I
      should) this comrade. With him, I came on, now riding and now walking,
      through the rest of yesterday and through last night. And here you see
      me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After a gloomy silence, the first Jacques said, &ldquo;Good! You have acted and
      recounted faithfully. Will you wait for us a little, outside the door?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very willingly,&rdquo; said the mender of roads. Whom Defarge escorted to the
      top of the stairs, and, leaving seated there, returned.
    </p>
    <p>
      The three had risen, and their heads were together when he came back to
      the garret.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How say you, Jacques?&rdquo; demanded Number One. &ldquo;To be registered?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To be registered, as doomed to destruction,&rdquo; returned Defarge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Magnificent!&rdquo; croaked the man with the craving.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The chateau, and all the race?&rdquo; inquired the first.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The chateau and all the race,&rdquo; returned Defarge. &ldquo;Extermination.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The hungry man repeated, in a rapturous croak, &ldquo;Magnificent!&rdquo; and began
      gnawing another finger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you sure,&rdquo; asked Jacques Two, of Defarge, &ldquo;that no embarrassment can
      arise from our manner of keeping the register? Without doubt it is safe,
      for no one beyond ourselves can decipher it; but shall we always be able
      to decipher it&mdash;or, I ought to say, will she?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jacques,&rdquo; returned Defarge, drawing himself up, &ldquo;if madame my wife
      undertook to keep the register in her memory alone, she would not lose a
      word of it&mdash;not a syllable of it. Knitted, in her own stitches and
      her own symbols, it will always be as plain to her as the sun. Confide in
      Madame Defarge. It would be easier for the weakest poltroon that lives, to
      erase himself from existence, than to erase one letter of his name or
      crimes from the knitted register of Madame Defarge.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was a murmur of confidence and approval, and then the man who
      hungered, asked: &ldquo;Is this rustic to be sent back soon? I hope so. He is
      very simple; is he not a little dangerous?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He knows nothing,&rdquo; said Defarge; &ldquo;at least nothing more than would easily
      elevate himself to a gallows of the same height. I charge myself with him;
      let him remain with me; I will take care of him, and set him on his road.
      He wishes to see the fine world&mdash;the King, the Queen, and Court; let
      him see them on Sunday.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What?&rdquo; exclaimed the hungry man, staring. &ldquo;Is it a good sign, that he
      wishes to see Royalty and Nobility?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jacques,&rdquo; said Defarge; &ldquo;judiciously show a cat milk, if you wish her to
      thirst for it. Judiciously show a dog his natural prey, if you wish him to
      bring it down one day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Nothing more was said, and the mender of roads, being found already dozing
      on the topmost stair, was advised to lay himself down on the pallet-bed
      and take some rest. He needed no persuasion, and was soon asleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      Worse quarters than Defarge&rsquo;s wine-shop, could easily have been found in
      Paris for a provincial slave of that degree. Saving for a mysterious dread
      of madame by which he was constantly haunted, his life was very new and
      agreeable. But, madame sat all day at her counter, so expressly
      unconscious of him, and so particularly determined not to perceive that
      his being there had any connection with anything below the surface, that
      he shook in his wooden shoes whenever his eye lighted on her. For, he
      contended with himself that it was impossible to foresee what that lady
      might pretend next; and he felt assured that if she should take it into
      her brightly ornamented head to pretend that she had seen him do a murder
      and afterwards flay the victim, she would infallibly go through with it
      until the play was played out.
    </p>
    <p>
      Therefore, when Sunday came, the mender of roads was not enchanted (though
      he said he was) to find that madame was to accompany monsieur and himself
      to Versailles. It was additionally disconcerting to have madame knitting
      all the way there, in a public conveyance; it was additionally
      disconcerting yet, to have madame in the crowd in the afternoon, still
      with her knitting in her hands as the crowd waited to see the carriage of
      the King and Queen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You work hard, madame,&rdquo; said a man near her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; answered Madame Defarge; &ldquo;I have a good deal to do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you make, madame?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Many things.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For instance&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For instance,&rdquo; returned Madame Defarge, composedly, &ldquo;shrouds.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The man moved a little further away, as soon as he could, and the mender
      of roads fanned himself with his blue cap: feeling it mightily close and
      oppressive. If he needed a King and Queen to restore him, he was fortunate
      in having his remedy at hand; for, soon the large-faced King and the
      fair-faced Queen came in their golden coach, attended by the shining
      Bull&rsquo;s Eye of their Court, a glittering multitude of laughing ladies and
      fine lords; and in jewels and silks and powder and splendour and elegantly
      spurning figures and handsomely disdainful faces of both sexes, the mender
      of roads bathed himself, so much to his temporary intoxication, that he
      cried Long live the King, Long live the Queen, Long live everybody and
      everything! as if he had never heard of ubiquitous Jacques in his time.
      Then, there were gardens, courtyards, terraces, fountains, green banks,
      more King and Queen, more Bull&rsquo;s Eye, more lords and ladies, more Long
      live they all! until he absolutely wept with sentiment. During the whole
      of this scene, which lasted some three hours, he had plenty of shouting
      and weeping and sentimental company, and throughout Defarge held him by
      the collar, as if to restrain him from flying at the objects of his brief
      devotion and tearing them to pieces.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bravo!&rdquo; said Defarge, clapping him on the back when it was over, like a
      patron; &ldquo;you are a good boy!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The mender of roads was now coming to himself, and was mistrustful of
      having made a mistake in his late demonstrations; but no.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are the fellow we want,&rdquo; said Defarge, in his ear; &ldquo;you make these
      fools believe that it will last for ever. Then, they are the more
      insolent, and it is the nearer ended.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hey!&rdquo; cried the mender of roads, reflectively; &ldquo;that&rsquo;s true.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;These fools know nothing. While they despise your breath, and would stop
      it for ever and ever, in you or in a hundred like you rather than in one
      of their own horses or dogs, they only know what your breath tells them.
      Let it deceive them, then, a little longer; it cannot deceive them too
      much.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame Defarge looked superciliously at the client, and nodded in
      confirmation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As to you,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;you would shout and shed tears for anything, if it
      made a show and a noise. Say! Would you not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Truly, madame, I think so. For the moment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you were shown a great heap of dolls, and were set upon them to pluck
      them to pieces and despoil them for your own advantage, you would pick out
      the richest and gayest. Say! Would you not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Truly yes, madame.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. And if you were shown a flock of birds, unable to fly, and were set
      upon them to strip them of their feathers for your own advantage, you
      would set upon the birds of the finest feathers; would you not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is true, madame.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have seen both dolls and birds to-day,&rdquo; said Madame Defarge, with a
      wave of her hand towards the place where they had last been apparent;
      &ldquo;now, go home!&rdquo;
     </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"></a>
      CHAPTER XVI.<br />Still Knitting
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>adame Defarge and monsieur her husband returned amicably to the bosom of
      Saint Antoine, while a speck in a blue cap toiled through the darkness,
      and through the dust, and down the weary miles of avenue by the wayside,
      slowly tending towards that point of the compass where the chateau of
      Monsieur the Marquis, now in his grave, listened to the whispering trees.
      Such ample leisure had the stone faces, now, for listening to the trees
      and to the fountain, that the few village scarecrows who, in their quest
      for herbs to eat and fragments of dead stick to burn, strayed within sight
      of the great stone courtyard and terrace staircase, had it borne in upon
      their starved fancy that the expression of the faces was altered. A rumour
      just lived in the village&mdash;had a faint and bare existence there, as
      its people had&mdash;that when the knife struck home, the faces changed,
      from faces of pride to faces of anger and pain; also, that when that
      dangling figure was hauled up forty feet above the fountain, they changed
      again, and bore a cruel look of being avenged, which they would henceforth
      bear for ever. In the stone face over the great window of the bed-chamber
      where the murder was done, two fine dints were pointed out in the
      sculptured nose, which everybody recognised, and which nobody had seen of
      old; and on the scarce occasions when two or three ragged peasants emerged
      from the crowd to take a hurried peep at Monsieur the Marquis petrified, a
      skinny finger would not have pointed to it for a minute, before they all
      started away among the moss and leaves, like the more fortunate hares who
      could find a living there.
    </p>
    <p>
      Chateau and hut, stone face and dangling figure, the red stain on the
      stone floor, and the pure water in the village well&mdash;thousands of
      acres of land&mdash;a whole province of France&mdash;all France itself&mdash;lay
      under the night sky, concentrated into a faint hair-breadth line. So does
      a whole world, with all its greatnesses and littlenesses, lie in a
      twinkling star. And as mere human knowledge can split a ray of light and
      analyse the manner of its composition, so, sublimer intelligences may read
      in the feeble shining of this earth of ours, every thought and act, every
      vice and virtue, of every responsible creature on it.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Defarges, husband and wife, came lumbering under the starlight, in
      their public vehicle, to that gate of Paris whereunto their journey
      naturally tended. There was the usual stoppage at the barrier guardhouse,
      and the usual lanterns came glancing forth for the usual examination and
      inquiry. Monsieur Defarge alighted; knowing one or two of the soldiery
      there, and one of the police. The latter he was intimate with, and
      affectionately embraced.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Saint Antoine had again enfolded the Defarges in his dusky wings, and
      they, having finally alighted near the Saint&rsquo;s boundaries, were picking
      their way on foot through the black mud and offal of his streets, Madame
      Defarge spoke to her husband:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say then, my friend; what did Jacques of the police tell thee?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very little to-night, but all he knows. There is another spy commissioned
      for our quarter. There may be many more, for all that he can say, but he
      knows of one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh well!&rdquo; said Madame Defarge, raising her eyebrows with a cool business
      air. &ldquo;It is necessary to register him. How do they call that man?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is English.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So much the better. His name?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Barsad,&rdquo; said Defarge, making it French by pronunciation. But, he had
      been so careful to get it accurately, that he then spelt it with perfect
      correctness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Barsad,&rdquo; repeated madame. &ldquo;Good. Christian name?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;John.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;John Barsad,&rdquo; repeated madame, after murmuring it once to herself. &ldquo;Good.
      His appearance; is it known?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Age, about forty years; height, about five feet nine; black hair;
      complexion dark; generally, rather handsome visage; eyes dark, face thin,
      long, and sallow; nose aquiline, but not straight, having a peculiar
      inclination towards the left cheek; expression, therefore, sinister.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh my faith. It is a portrait!&rdquo; said madame, laughing. &ldquo;He shall be
      registered to-morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They turned into the wine-shop, which was closed (for it was midnight),
      and where Madame Defarge immediately took her post at her desk, counted
      the small moneys that had been taken during her absence, examined the
      stock, went through the entries in the book, made other entries of her
      own, checked the serving man in every possible way, and finally dismissed
      him to bed. Then she turned out the contents of the bowl of money for the
      second time, and began knotting them up in her handkerchief, in a chain of
      separate knots, for safe keeping through the night. All this while,
      Defarge, with his pipe in his mouth, walked up and down, complacently
      admiring, but never interfering; in which condition, indeed, as to the
      business and his domestic affairs, he walked up and down through life.
    </p>
    <p>
      The night was hot, and the shop, close shut and surrounded by so foul a
      neighbourhood, was ill-smelling. Monsieur Defarge&rsquo;s olfactory sense was by
      no means delicate, but the stock of wine smelt much stronger than it ever
      tasted, and so did the stock of rum and brandy and aniseed. He whiffed the
      compound of scents away, as he put down his smoked-out pipe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are fatigued,&rdquo; said madame, raising her glance as she knotted the
      money. &ldquo;There are only the usual odours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am a little tired,&rdquo; her husband acknowledged.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are a little depressed, too,&rdquo; said madame, whose quick eyes had never
      been so intent on the accounts, but they had had a ray or two for him.
      &ldquo;Oh, the men, the men!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But my dear!&rdquo; began Defarge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But my dear!&rdquo; repeated madame, nodding firmly; &ldquo;but my dear! You are
      faint of heart to-night, my dear!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then,&rdquo; said Defarge, as if a thought were wrung out of his breast,
      &ldquo;it <i>is</i> a long time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a long time,&rdquo; repeated his wife; &ldquo;and when is it not a long time?
      Vengeance and retribution require a long time; it is the rule.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It does not take a long time to strike a man with Lightning,&rdquo; said
      Defarge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How long,&rdquo; demanded madame, composedly, &ldquo;does it take to make and store
      the lightning? Tell me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Defarge raised his head thoughtfully, as if there were something in that
      too.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It does not take a long time,&rdquo; said madame, &ldquo;for an earthquake to swallow
      a town. Eh well! Tell me how long it takes to prepare the earthquake?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A long time, I suppose,&rdquo; said Defarge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But when it is ready, it takes place, and grinds to pieces everything
      before it. In the meantime, it is always preparing, though it is not seen
      or heard. That is your consolation. Keep it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She tied a knot with flashing eyes, as if it throttled a foe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I tell thee,&rdquo; said madame, extending her right hand, for emphasis, &ldquo;that
      although it is a long time on the road, it is on the road and coming. I
      tell thee it never retreats, and never stops. I tell thee it is always
      advancing. Look around and consider the lives of all the world that we
      know, consider the faces of all the world that we know, consider the rage
      and discontent to which the Jacquerie addresses itself with more and more
      of certainty every hour. Can such things last? Bah! I mock you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My brave wife,&rdquo; returned Defarge, standing before her with his head a
      little bent, and his hands clasped at his back, like a docile and
      attentive pupil before his catechist, &ldquo;I do not question all this. But it
      has lasted a long time, and it is possible&mdash;you know well, my wife,
      it is possible&mdash;that it may not come, during our lives.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh well! How then?&rdquo; demanded madame, tying another knot, as if there were
      another enemy strangled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well!&rdquo; said Defarge, with a half complaining and half apologetic shrug.
      &ldquo;We shall not see the triumph.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We shall have helped it,&rdquo; returned madame, with her extended hand in
      strong action. &ldquo;Nothing that we do, is done in vain. I believe, with all
      my soul, that we shall see the triumph. But even if not, even if I knew
      certainly not, show me the neck of an aristocrat and tyrant, and still I
      would&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then madame, with her teeth set, tied a very terrible knot indeed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hold!&rdquo; cried Defarge, reddening a little as if he felt charged with
      cowardice; &ldquo;I too, my dear, will stop at nothing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes! But it is your weakness that you sometimes need to see your victim
      and your opportunity, to sustain you. Sustain yourself without that. When
      the time comes, let loose a tiger and a devil; but wait for the time with
      the tiger and the devil chained&mdash;not shown&mdash;yet always ready.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame enforced the conclusion of this piece of advice by striking her
      little counter with her chain of money as if she knocked its brains out,
      and then gathering the heavy handkerchief under her arm in a serene
      manner, and observing that it was time to go to bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Next noontide saw the admirable woman in her usual place in the wine-shop,
      knitting away assiduously. A rose lay beside her, and if she now and then
      glanced at the flower, it was with no infraction of her usual preoccupied
      air. There were a few customers, drinking or not drinking, standing or
      seated, sprinkled about. The day was very hot, and heaps of flies, who
      were extending their inquisitive and adventurous perquisitions into all
      the glutinous little glasses near madame, fell dead at the bottom. Their
      decease made no impression on the other flies out promenading, who looked
      at them in the coolest manner (as if they themselves were elephants, or
      something as far removed), until they met the same fate. Curious to
      consider how heedless flies are!&mdash;perhaps they thought as much at
      Court that sunny summer day.
    </p>
    <p>
      A figure entering at the door threw a shadow on Madame Defarge which she
      felt to be a new one. She laid down her knitting, and began to pin her
      rose in her head-dress, before she looked at the figure.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was curious. The moment Madame Defarge took up the rose, the customers
      ceased talking, and began gradually to drop out of the wine-shop.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good day, madame,&rdquo; said the new-comer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good day, monsieur.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She said it aloud, but added to herself, as she resumed her knitting:
      &ldquo;Hah! Good day, age about forty, height about five feet nine, black hair,
      generally rather handsome visage, complexion dark, eyes dark, thin, long
      and sallow face, aquiline nose but not straight, having a peculiar
      inclination towards the left cheek which imparts a sinister expression!
      Good day, one and all!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have the goodness to give me a little glass of old cognac, and a mouthful
      of cool fresh water, madame.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame complied with a polite air.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Marvellous cognac this, madame!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was the first time it had ever been so complimented, and Madame Defarge
      knew enough of its antecedents to know better. She said, however, that the
      cognac was flattered, and took up her knitting. The visitor watched her
      fingers for a few moments, and took the opportunity of observing the place
      in general.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You knit with great skill, madame.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am accustomed to it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A pretty pattern too!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>You</i> think so?&rdquo; said madame, looking at him with a smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Decidedly. May one ask what it is for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pastime,&rdquo; said madame, still looking at him with a smile while her
      fingers moved nimbly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not for use?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That depends. I may find a use for it one day. If I do&mdash;Well,&rdquo; said
      madame, drawing a breath and nodding her head with a stern kind of
      coquetry, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll use it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was remarkable; but, the taste of Saint Antoine seemed to be decidedly
      opposed to a rose on the head-dress of Madame Defarge. Two men had entered
      separately, and had been about to order drink, when, catching sight of
      that novelty, they faltered, made a pretence of looking about as if for
      some friend who was not there, and went away. Nor, of those who had been
      there when this visitor entered, was there one left. They had all dropped
      off. The spy had kept his eyes open, but had been able to detect no sign.
      They had lounged away in a poverty-stricken, purposeless, accidental
      manner, quite natural and unimpeachable.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>John</i>,&rdquo; thought madame, checking off her work as her fingers
      knitted, and her eyes looked at the stranger. &ldquo;Stay long enough, and I
      shall knit &lsquo;<i>barsad</i>&rsquo; before you go.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have a husband, madame?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Children?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No children.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Business seems bad?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Business is very bad; the people are so poor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, the unfortunate, miserable people! So oppressed, too&mdash;as you
      say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As <i>you</i> say,&rdquo; madame retorted, correcting him, and deftly knitting
      an extra something into his name that boded him no good.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pardon me; certainly it was I who said so, but you naturally think so. Of
      course.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;<i>I</i> think?&rdquo; returned madame, in a high voice. &ldquo;I and my husband have
      enough to do to keep this wine-shop open, without thinking. All we think,
      here, is how to live. That is the subject <i>we</i> think of, and it gives
      us, from morning to night, enough to think about, without embarrassing our
      heads concerning others. <i>I</i> think for others? No, no.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The spy, who was there to pick up any crumbs he could find or make, did
      not allow his baffled state to express itself in his sinister face; but,
      stood with an air of gossiping gallantry, leaning his elbow on Madame
      Defarge&rsquo;s little counter, and occasionally sipping his cognac.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A bad business this, madame, of Gaspard&rsquo;s execution. Ah! the poor
      Gaspard!&rdquo; With a sigh of great compassion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My faith!&rdquo; returned madame, coolly and lightly, &ldquo;if people use knives for
      such purposes, they have to pay for it. He knew beforehand what the price
      of his luxury was; he has paid the price.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe,&rdquo; said the spy, dropping his soft voice to a tone that invited
      confidence, and expressing an injured revolutionary susceptibility in
      every muscle of his wicked face: &ldquo;I believe there is much compassion and
      anger in this neighbourhood, touching the poor fellow? Between ourselves.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is there?&rdquo; asked madame, vacantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is there not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&mdash;Here is my husband!&rdquo; said Madame Defarge.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the keeper of the wine-shop entered at the door, the spy saluted him by
      touching his hat, and saying, with an engaging smile, &ldquo;Good day, Jacques!&rdquo;
       Defarge stopped short, and stared at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good day, Jacques!&rdquo; the spy repeated; with not quite so much confidence,
      or quite so easy a smile under the stare.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You deceive yourself, monsieur,&rdquo; returned the keeper of the wine-shop.
      &ldquo;You mistake me for another. That is not my name. I am Ernest Defarge.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is all the same,&rdquo; said the spy, airily, but discomfited too: &ldquo;good
      day!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good day!&rdquo; answered Defarge, drily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was saying to madame, with whom I had the pleasure of chatting when you
      entered, that they tell me there is&mdash;and no wonder!&mdash;much
      sympathy and anger in Saint Antoine, touching the unhappy fate of poor
      Gaspard.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No one has told me so,&rdquo; said Defarge, shaking his head. &ldquo;I know nothing
      of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Having said it, he passed behind the little counter, and stood with his
      hand on the back of his wife&rsquo;s chair, looking over that barrier at the
      person to whom they were both opposed, and whom either of them would have
      shot with the greatest satisfaction.
    </p>
    <p>
      The spy, well used to his business, did not change his unconscious
      attitude, but drained his little glass of cognac, took a sip of fresh
      water, and asked for another glass of cognac. Madame Defarge poured it out
      for him, took to her knitting again, and hummed a little song over it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You seem to know this quarter well; that is to say, better than I do?&rdquo;
       observed Defarge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not at all, but I hope to know it better. I am so profoundly interested
      in its miserable inhabitants.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hah!&rdquo; muttered Defarge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The pleasure of conversing with you, Monsieur Defarge, recalls to me,&rdquo;
       pursued the spy, &ldquo;that I have the honour of cherishing some interesting
      associations with your name.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed!&rdquo; said Defarge, with much indifference.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, indeed. When Doctor Manette was released, you, his old domestic, had
      the charge of him, I know. He was delivered to you. You see I am informed
      of the circumstances?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Such is the fact, certainly,&rdquo; said Defarge. He had had it conveyed to
      him, in an accidental touch of his wife&rsquo;s elbow as she knitted and
      warbled, that he would do best to answer, but always with brevity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was to you,&rdquo; said the spy, &ldquo;that his daughter came; and it was from
      your care that his daughter took him, accompanied by a neat brown
      monsieur; how is he called?&mdash;in a little wig&mdash;Lorry&mdash;of the
      bank of Tellson and Company&mdash;over to England.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Such is the fact,&rdquo; repeated Defarge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very interesting remembrances!&rdquo; said the spy. &ldquo;I have known Doctor
      Manette and his daughter, in England.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes?&rdquo; said Defarge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t hear much about them now?&rdquo; said the spy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Defarge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In effect,&rdquo; madame struck in, looking up from her work and her little
      song, &ldquo;we never hear about them. We received the news of their safe
      arrival, and perhaps another letter, or perhaps two; but, since then, they
      have gradually taken their road in life&mdash;we, ours&mdash;and we have
      held no correspondence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perfectly so, madame,&rdquo; replied the spy. &ldquo;She is going to be married.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Going?&rdquo; echoed madame. &ldquo;She was pretty enough to have been married long
      ago. You English are cold, it seems to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! You know I am English.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I perceive your tongue is,&rdquo; returned madame; &ldquo;and what the tongue is, I
      suppose the man is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He did not take the identification as a compliment; but he made the best
      of it, and turned it off with a laugh. After sipping his cognac to the
      end, he added:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Miss Manette is going to be married. But not to an Englishman; to
      one who, like herself, is French by birth. And speaking of Gaspard (ah,
      poor Gaspard! It was cruel, cruel!), it is a curious thing that she is
      going to marry the nephew of Monsieur the Marquis, for whom Gaspard was
      exalted to that height of so many feet; in other words, the present
      Marquis. But he lives unknown in England, he is no Marquis there; he is
      Mr. Charles Darnay. D&rsquo;Aulnais is the name of his mother&rsquo;s family.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame Defarge knitted steadily, but the intelligence had a palpable
      effect upon her husband. Do what he would, behind the little counter, as
      to the striking of a light and the lighting of his pipe, he was troubled,
      and his hand was not trustworthy. The spy would have been no spy if he had
      failed to see it, or to record it in his mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      Having made, at least, this one hit, whatever it might prove to be worth,
      and no customers coming in to help him to any other, Mr. Barsad paid for
      what he had drunk, and took his leave: taking occasion to say, in a
      genteel manner, before he departed, that he looked forward to the pleasure
      of seeing Monsieur and Madame Defarge again. For some minutes after he had
      emerged into the outer presence of Saint Antoine, the husband and wife
      remained exactly as he had left them, lest he should come back.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can it be true,&rdquo; said Defarge, in a low voice, looking down at his wife
      as he stood smoking with his hand on the back of her chair: &ldquo;what he has
      said of Ma&rsquo;amselle Manette?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As he has said it,&rdquo; returned madame, lifting her eyebrows a little, &ldquo;it
      is probably false. But it may be true.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If it is&mdash;&rdquo; Defarge began, and stopped.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If it is?&rdquo; repeated his wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&mdash;And if it does come, while we live to see it triumph&mdash;I hope,
      for her sake, Destiny will keep her husband out of France.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Her husband&rsquo;s destiny,&rdquo; said Madame Defarge, with her usual composure,
      &ldquo;will take him where he is to go, and will lead him to the end that is to
      end him. That is all I know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it is very strange&mdash;now, at least, is it not very strange&rdquo;&mdash;said
      Defarge, rather pleading with his wife to induce her to admit it, &ldquo;that,
      after all our sympathy for Monsieur her father, and herself, her husband&rsquo;s
      name should be proscribed under your hand at this moment, by the side of
      that infernal dog&rsquo;s who has just left us?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stranger things than that will happen when it does come,&rdquo; answered
      madame. &ldquo;I have them both here, of a certainty; and they are both here for
      their merits; that is enough.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She rolled up her knitting when she had said those words, and presently
      took the rose out of the handkerchief that was wound about her head.
      Either Saint Antoine had an instinctive sense that the objectionable
      decoration was gone, or Saint Antoine was on the watch for its
      disappearance; howbeit, the Saint took courage to lounge in, very shortly
      afterwards, and the wine-shop recovered its habitual aspect.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the evening, at which season of all others Saint Antoine turned himself
      inside out, and sat on door-steps and window-ledges, and came to the
      corners of vile streets and courts, for a breath of air, Madame Defarge
      with her work in her hand was accustomed to pass from place to place and
      from group to group: a Missionary&mdash;there were many like her&mdash;such
      as the world will do well never to breed again. All the women knitted.
      They knitted worthless things; but, the mechanical work was a mechanical
      substitute for eating and drinking; the hands moved for the jaws and the
      digestive apparatus: if the bony fingers had been still, the stomachs
      would have been more famine-pinched.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, as the fingers went, the eyes went, and the thoughts. And as Madame
      Defarge moved on from group to group, all three went quicker and fiercer
      among every little knot of women that she had spoken with, and left
      behind.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her husband smoked at his door, looking after her with admiration. &ldquo;A
      great woman,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;a strong woman, a grand woman, a frightfully grand
      woman!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Darkness closed around, and then came the ringing of church bells and the
      distant beating of the military drums in the Palace Courtyard, as the
      women sat knitting, knitting. Darkness encompassed them. Another darkness
      was closing in as surely, when the church bells, then ringing pleasantly
      in many an airy steeple over France, should be melted into thundering
      cannon; when the military drums should be beating to drown a wretched
      voice, that night all potent as the voice of Power and Plenty, Freedom and
      Life. So much was closing in about the women who sat knitting, knitting,
      that they their very selves were closing in around a structure yet
      unbuilt, where they were to sit knitting, knitting, counting dropping
      heads.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"></a>
      CHAPTER XVII.<br />One Night
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">N</span>ever did the sun go down with a brighter glory on the quiet corner in
      Soho, than one memorable evening when the Doctor and his daughter sat
      under the plane-tree together. Never did the moon rise with a milder
      radiance over great London, than on that night when it found them still
      seated under the tree, and shone upon their faces through its leaves.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucie was to be married to-morrow. She had reserved this last evening for
      her father, and they sat alone under the plane-tree.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are happy, my dear father?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quite, my child.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They had said little, though they had been there a long time. When it was
      yet light enough to work and read, she had neither engaged herself in her
      usual work, nor had she read to him. She had employed herself in both
      ways, at his side under the tree, many and many a time; but, this time was
      not quite like any other, and nothing could make it so.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I am very happy to-night, dear father. I am deeply happy in the love
      that Heaven has so blessed&mdash;my love for Charles, and Charles&rsquo;s love
      for me. But, if my life were not to be still consecrated to you, or if my
      marriage were so arranged as that it would part us, even by the length of
      a few of these streets, I should be more unhappy and self-reproachful now
      than I can tell you. Even as it is&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Even as it was, she could not command her voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the sad moonlight, she clasped him by the neck, and laid her face upon
      his breast. In the moonlight which is always sad, as the light of the sun
      itself is&mdash;as the light called human life is&mdash;at its coming and
      its going.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dearest dear! Can you tell me, this last time, that you feel quite, quite
      sure, no new affections of mine, and no new duties of mine, will ever
      interpose between us? <i>I</i> know it well, but do you know it? In your
      own heart, do you feel quite certain?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her father answered, with a cheerful firmness of conviction he could
      scarcely have assumed, &ldquo;Quite sure, my darling! More than that,&rdquo; he added,
      as he tenderly kissed her: &ldquo;my future is far brighter, Lucie, seen through
      your marriage, than it could have been&mdash;nay, than it ever was&mdash;without
      it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I could hope <i>that</i>, my father!&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Believe it, love! Indeed it is so. Consider how natural and how plain it
      is, my dear, that it should be so. You, devoted and young, cannot fully
      appreciate the anxiety I have felt that your life should not be wasted&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She moved her hand towards his lips, but he took it in his, and repeated
      the word.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&mdash;wasted, my child&mdash;should not be wasted, struck aside from the
      natural order of things&mdash;for my sake. Your unselfishness cannot
      entirely comprehend how much my mind has gone on this; but, only ask
      yourself, how could my happiness be perfect, while yours was incomplete?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I had never seen Charles, my father, I should have been quite happy
      with you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He smiled at her unconscious admission that she would have been unhappy
      without Charles, having seen him; and replied:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My child, you did see him, and it is Charles. If it had not been Charles,
      it would have been another. Or, if it had been no other, I should have
      been the cause, and then the dark part of my life would have cast its
      shadow beyond myself, and would have fallen on you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was the first time, except at the trial, of her ever hearing him refer
      to the period of his suffering. It gave her a strange and new sensation
      while his words were in her ears; and she remembered it long afterwards.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See!&rdquo; said the Doctor of Beauvais, raising his hand towards the moon. &ldquo;I
      have looked at her from my prison-window, when I could not bear her light.
      I have looked at her when it has been such torture to me to think of her
      shining upon what I had lost, that I have beaten my head against my
      prison-walls. I have looked at her, in a state so dull and lethargic, that
      I have thought of nothing but the number of horizontal lines I could draw
      across her at the full, and the number of perpendicular lines with which I
      could intersect them.&rdquo; He added in his inward and pondering manner, as he
      looked at the moon, &ldquo;It was twenty either way, I remember, and the
      twentieth was difficult to squeeze in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The strange thrill with which she heard him go back to that time, deepened
      as he dwelt upon it; but, there was nothing to shock her in the manner of
      his reference. He only seemed to contrast his present cheerfulness and
      felicity with the dire endurance that was over.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have looked at her, speculating thousands of times upon the unborn
      child from whom I had been rent. Whether it was alive. Whether it had been
      born alive, or the poor mother&rsquo;s shock had killed it. Whether it was a son
      who would some day avenge his father. (There was a time in my
      imprisonment, when my desire for vengeance was unbearable.) Whether it was
      a son who would never know his father&rsquo;s story; who might even live to
      weigh the possibility of his father&rsquo;s having disappeared of his own will
      and act. Whether it was a daughter who would grow to be a woman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She drew closer to him, and kissed his cheek and his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have pictured my daughter, to myself, as perfectly forgetful of me&mdash;rather,
      altogether ignorant of me, and unconscious of me. I have cast up the years
      of her age, year after year. I have seen her married to a man who knew
      nothing of my fate. I have altogether perished from the remembrance of the
      living, and in the next generation my place was a blank.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My father! Even to hear that you had such thoughts of a daughter who
      never existed, strikes to my heart as if I had been that child.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You, Lucie? It is out of the Consolation and restoration you have brought
      to me, that these remembrances arise, and pass between us and the moon on
      this last night.&mdash;What did I say just now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She knew nothing of you. She cared nothing for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So! But on other moonlight nights, when the sadness and the silence have
      touched me in a different way&mdash;have affected me with something as
      like a sorrowful sense of peace, as any emotion that had pain for its
      foundations could&mdash;I have imagined her as coming to me in my cell,
      and leading me out into the freedom beyond the fortress. I have seen her
      image in the moonlight often, as I now see you; except that I never held
      her in my arms; it stood between the little grated window and the door.
      But, you understand that that was not the child I am speaking of?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The figure was not; the&mdash;the&mdash;image; the fancy?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. That was another thing. It stood before my disturbed sense of sight,
      but it never moved. The phantom that my mind pursued, was another and more
      real child. Of her outward appearance I know no more than that she was
      like her mother. The other had that likeness too&mdash;as you have&mdash;but
      was not the same. Can you follow me, Lucie? Hardly, I think? I doubt you
      must have been a solitary prisoner to understand these perplexed
      distinctions.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His collected and calm manner could not prevent her blood from running
      cold, as he thus tried to anatomise his old condition.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In that more peaceful state, I have imagined her, in the moonlight,
      coming to me and taking me out to show me that the home of her married
      life was full of her loving remembrance of her lost father. My picture was
      in her room, and I was in her prayers. Her life was active, cheerful,
      useful; but my poor history pervaded it all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was that child, my father, I was not half so good, but in my love that
      was I.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And she showed me her children,&rdquo; said the Doctor of Beauvais, &ldquo;and they
      had heard of me, and had been taught to pity me. When they passed a prison
      of the State, they kept far from its frowning walls, and looked up at its
      bars, and spoke in whispers. She could never deliver me; I imagined that
      she always brought me back after showing me such things. But then, blessed
      with the relief of tears, I fell upon my knees, and blessed her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am that child, I hope, my father. O my dear, my dear, will you bless me
      as fervently to-morrow?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lucie, I recall these old troubles in the reason that I have to-night for
      loving you better than words can tell, and thanking God for my great
      happiness. My thoughts, when they were wildest, never rose near the
      happiness that I have known with you, and that we have before us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He embraced her, solemnly commended her to Heaven, and humbly thanked
      Heaven for having bestowed her on him. By-and-bye, they went into the
      house.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was no one bidden to the marriage but Mr. Lorry; there was even to
      be no bridesmaid but the gaunt Miss Pross. The marriage was to make no
      change in their place of residence; they had been able to extend it, by
      taking to themselves the upper rooms formerly belonging to the apocryphal
      invisible lodger, and they desired nothing more.
    </p>
    <p>
      Doctor Manette was very cheerful at the little supper. They were only
      three at table, and Miss Pross made the third. He regretted that Charles
      was not there; was more than half disposed to object to the loving little
      plot that kept him away; and drank to him affectionately.
    </p>
    <p>
      So, the time came for him to bid Lucie good night, and they separated.
      But, in the stillness of the third hour of the morning, Lucie came
      downstairs again, and stole into his room; not free from unshaped fears,
      beforehand.
    </p>
    <p>
      All things, however, were in their places; all was quiet; and he lay
      asleep, his white hair picturesque on the untroubled pillow, and his hands
      lying quiet on the coverlet. She put her needless candle in the shadow at
      a distance, crept up to his bed, and put her lips to his; then, leaned
      over him, and looked at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Into his handsome face, the bitter waters of captivity had worn; but, he
      covered up their tracks with a determination so strong, that he held the
      mastery of them even in his sleep. A more remarkable face in its quiet,
      resolute, and guarded struggle with an unseen assailant, was not to be
      beheld in all the wide dominions of sleep, that night.
    </p>
    <p>
      She timidly laid her hand on his dear breast, and put up a prayer that she
      might ever be as true to him as her love aspired to be, and as his sorrows
      deserved. Then, she withdrew her hand, and kissed his lips once more, and
      went away. So, the sunrise came, and the shadows of the leaves of the
      plane-tree moved upon his face, as softly as her lips had moved in praying
      for him.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"></a>
      CHAPTER XVIII.<br />Nine Days
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he marriage-day was shining brightly, and they were ready outside the
      closed door of the Doctor&rsquo;s room, where he was speaking with Charles
      Darnay. They were ready to go to church; the beautiful bride, Mr. Lorry,
      and Miss Pross&mdash;to whom the event, through a gradual process of
      reconcilement to the inevitable, would have been one of absolute bliss,
      but for the yet lingering consideration that her brother Solomon should
      have been the bridegroom.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And so,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, who could not sufficiently admire the bride, and
      who had been moving round her to take in every point of her quiet, pretty
      dress; &ldquo;and so it was for this, my sweet Lucie, that I brought you across
      the Channel, such a baby! Lord bless me! How little I thought what I was
      doing! How lightly I valued the obligation I was conferring on my friend
      Mr. Charles!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You didn&rsquo;t mean it,&rdquo; remarked the matter-of-fact Miss Pross, &ldquo;and
      therefore how could you know it? Nonsense!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really? Well; but don&rsquo;t cry,&rdquo; said the gentle Mr. Lorry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not crying,&rdquo; said Miss Pross; &ldquo;<i>you</i> are.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I, my Pross?&rdquo; (By this time, Mr. Lorry dared to be pleasant with her, on
      occasion.)
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You were, just now; I saw you do it, and I don&rsquo;t wonder at it. Such a
      present of plate as you have made &rsquo;em, is enough to bring tears into
      anybody&rsquo;s eyes. There&rsquo;s not a fork or a spoon in the collection,&rdquo; said
      Miss Pross, &ldquo;that I didn&rsquo;t cry over, last night after the box came, till I
      couldn&rsquo;t see it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am highly gratified,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, &ldquo;though, upon my honour, I had no
      intention of rendering those trifling articles of remembrance invisible to
      any one. Dear me! This is an occasion that makes a man speculate on all he
      has lost. Dear, dear, dear! To think that there might have been a Mrs.
      Lorry, any time these fifty years almost!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not at all!&rdquo; From Miss Pross.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You think there never might have been a Mrs. Lorry?&rdquo; asked the gentleman
      of that name.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pooh!&rdquo; rejoined Miss Pross; &ldquo;you were a bachelor in your cradle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well!&rdquo; observed Mr. Lorry, beamingly adjusting his little wig, &ldquo;that
      seems probable, too.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you were cut out for a bachelor,&rdquo; pursued Miss Pross, &ldquo;before you
      were put in your cradle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, I think,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, &ldquo;that I was very unhandsomely dealt with,
      and that I ought to have had a voice in the selection of my pattern.
      Enough! Now, my dear Lucie,&rdquo; drawing his arm soothingly round her waist,
      &ldquo;I hear them moving in the next room, and Miss Pross and I, as two formal
      folks of business, are anxious not to lose the final opportunity of saying
      something to you that you wish to hear. You leave your good father, my
      dear, in hands as earnest and as loving as your own; he shall be taken
      every conceivable care of; during the next fortnight, while you are in
      Warwickshire and thereabouts, even Tellson&rsquo;s shall go to the wall
      (comparatively speaking) before him. And when, at the fortnight&rsquo;s end, he
      comes to join you and your beloved husband, on your other fortnight&rsquo;s trip
      in Wales, you shall say that we have sent him to you in the best health
      and in the happiest frame. Now, I hear Somebody&rsquo;s step coming to the door.
      Let me kiss my dear girl with an old-fashioned bachelor blessing, before
      Somebody comes to claim his own.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For a moment, he held the fair face from him to look at the
      well-remembered expression on the forehead, and then laid the bright
      golden hair against his little brown wig, with a genuine tenderness and
      delicacy which, if such things be old-fashioned, were as old as Adam.
    </p>
    <p>
      The door of the Doctor&rsquo;s room opened, and he came out with Charles Darnay.
      He was so deadly pale&mdash;which had not been the case when they went in
      together&mdash;that no vestige of colour was to be seen in his face. But,
      in the composure of his manner he was unaltered, except that to the shrewd
      glance of Mr. Lorry it disclosed some shadowy indication that the old air
      of avoidance and dread had lately passed over him, like a cold wind.
    </p>
    <p>
      He gave his arm to his daughter, and took her down-stairs to the chariot
      which Mr. Lorry had hired in honour of the day. The rest followed in
      another carriage, and soon, in a neighbouring church, where no strange
      eyes looked on, Charles Darnay and Lucie Manette were happily married.
    </p>
    <p>
      Besides the glancing tears that shone among the smiles of the little group
      when it was done, some diamonds, very bright and sparkling, glanced on the
      bride&rsquo;s hand, which were newly released from the dark obscurity of one of
      Mr. Lorry&rsquo;s pockets. They returned home to breakfast, and all went well,
      and in due course the golden hair that had mingled with the poor
      shoemaker&rsquo;s white locks in the Paris garret, were mingled with them again
      in the morning sunlight, on the threshold of the door at parting.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a hard parting, though it was not for long. But her father cheered
      her, and said at last, gently disengaging himself from her enfolding arms,
      &ldquo;Take her, Charles! She is yours!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And her agitated hand waved to them from a chaise window, and she was
      gone.
    </p>
    <p>
      The corner being out of the way of the idle and curious, and the
      preparations having been very simple and few, the Doctor, Mr. Lorry, and
      Miss Pross, were left quite alone. It was when they turned into the
      welcome shade of the cool old hall, that Mr. Lorry observed a great change
      to have come over the Doctor; as if the golden arm uplifted there, had
      struck him a poisoned blow.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had naturally repressed much, and some revulsion might have been
      expected in him when the occasion for repression was gone. But, it was the
      old scared lost look that troubled Mr. Lorry; and through his absent
      manner of clasping his head and drearily wandering away into his own room
      when they got up-stairs, Mr. Lorry was reminded of Defarge the wine-shop
      keeper, and the starlight ride.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think,&rdquo; he whispered to Miss Pross, after anxious consideration, &ldquo;I
      think we had best not speak to him just now, or at all disturb him. I must
      look in at Tellson&rsquo;s; so I will go there at once and come back presently.
      Then, we will take him a ride into the country, and dine there, and all
      will be well.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was easier for Mr. Lorry to look in at Tellson&rsquo;s, than to look out of
      Tellson&rsquo;s. He was detained two hours. When he came back, he ascended the
      old staircase alone, having asked no question of the servant; going thus
      into the Doctor&rsquo;s rooms, he was stopped by a low sound of knocking.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good God!&rdquo; he said, with a start. &ldquo;What&rsquo;s that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Pross, with a terrified face, was at his ear. &ldquo;O me, O me! All is
      lost!&rdquo; cried she, wringing her hands. &ldquo;What is to be told to Ladybird? He
      doesn&rsquo;t know me, and is making shoes!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Lorry said what he could to calm her, and went himself into the
      Doctor&rsquo;s room. The bench was turned towards the light, as it had been when
      he had seen the shoemaker at his work before, and his head was bent down,
      and he was very busy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Doctor Manette. My dear friend, Doctor Manette!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Doctor looked at him for a moment&mdash;half inquiringly, half as if
      he were angry at being spoken to&mdash;and bent over his work again.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had laid aside his coat and waistcoat; his shirt was open at the
      throat, as it used to be when he did that work; and even the old haggard,
      faded surface of face had come back to him. He worked hard&mdash;impatiently&mdash;as
      if in some sense of having been interrupted.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Lorry glanced at the work in his hand, and observed that it was a shoe
      of the old size and shape. He took up another that was lying by him, and
      asked what it was.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A young lady&rsquo;s walking shoe,&rdquo; he muttered, without looking up. &ldquo;It ought
      to have been finished long ago. Let it be.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Doctor Manette. Look at me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He obeyed, in the old mechanically submissive manner, without pausing in
      his work.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know me, my dear friend? Think again. This is not your proper
      occupation. Think, dear friend!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Nothing would induce him to speak more. He looked up, for an instant at a
      time, when he was requested to do so; but, no persuasion would extract a
      word from him. He worked, and worked, and worked, in silence, and words
      fell on him as they would have fallen on an echoless wall, or on the air.
      The only ray of hope that Mr. Lorry could discover, was, that he sometimes
      furtively looked up without being asked. In that, there seemed a faint
      expression of curiosity or perplexity&mdash;as though he were trying to
      reconcile some doubts in his mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      Two things at once impressed themselves on Mr. Lorry, as important above
      all others; the first, that this must be kept secret from Lucie; the
      second, that it must be kept secret from all who knew him. In conjunction
      with Miss Pross, he took immediate steps towards the latter precaution, by
      giving out that the Doctor was not well, and required a few days of
      complete rest. In aid of the kind deception to be practised on his
      daughter, Miss Pross was to write, describing his having been called away
      professionally, and referring to an imaginary letter of two or three
      hurried lines in his own hand, represented to have been addressed to her
      by the same post.
    </p>
    <p>
      These measures, advisable to be taken in any case, Mr. Lorry took in the
      hope of his coming to himself. If that should happen soon, he kept another
      course in reserve; which was, to have a certain opinion that he thought
      the best, on the Doctor&rsquo;s case.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the hope of his recovery, and of resort to this third course being
      thereby rendered practicable, Mr. Lorry resolved to watch him attentively,
      with as little appearance as possible of doing so. He therefore made
      arrangements to absent himself from Tellson&rsquo;s for the first time in his
      life, and took his post by the window in the same room.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was not long in discovering that it was worse than useless to speak to
      him, since, on being pressed, he became worried. He abandoned that attempt
      on the first day, and resolved merely to keep himself always before him,
      as a silent protest against the delusion into which he had fallen, or was
      falling. He remained, therefore, in his seat near the window, reading and
      writing, and expressing in as many pleasant and natural ways as he could
      think of, that it was a free place.
    </p>
    <p>
      Doctor Manette took what was given him to eat and drink, and worked on,
      that first day, until it was too dark to see&mdash;worked on, half an hour
      after Mr. Lorry could not have seen, for his life, to read or write. When
      he put his tools aside as useless, until morning, Mr. Lorry rose and said
      to him:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you go out?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He looked down at the floor on either side of him in the old manner,
      looked up in the old manner, and repeated in the old low voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Out?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; for a walk with me. Why not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He made no effort to say why not, and said not a word more. But, Mr. Lorry
      thought he saw, as he leaned forward on his bench in the dusk, with his
      elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, that he was in some misty
      way asking himself, &ldquo;Why not?&rdquo; The sagacity of the man of business
      perceived an advantage here, and determined to hold it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Pross and he divided the night into two watches, and observed him at
      intervals from the adjoining room. He paced up and down for a long time
      before he lay down; but, when he did finally lay himself down, he fell
      asleep. In the morning, he was up betimes, and went straight to his bench
      and to work.
    </p>
    <p>
      On this second day, Mr. Lorry saluted him cheerfully by his name, and
      spoke to him on topics that had been of late familiar to them. He returned
      no reply, but it was evident that he heard what was said, and that he
      thought about it, however confusedly. This encouraged Mr. Lorry to have
      Miss Pross in with her work, several times during the day; at those times,
      they quietly spoke of Lucie, and of her father then present, precisely in
      the usual manner, and as if there were nothing amiss. This was done
      without any demonstrative accompaniment, not long enough, or often enough
      to harass him; and it lightened Mr. Lorry&rsquo;s friendly heart to believe that
      he looked up oftener, and that he appeared to be stirred by some
      perception of inconsistencies surrounding him.
    </p>
    <p>
      When it fell dark again, Mr. Lorry asked him as before:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear Doctor, will you go out?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As before, he repeated, &ldquo;Out?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; for a walk with me. Why not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This time, Mr. Lorry feigned to go out when he could extract no answer
      from him, and, after remaining absent for an hour, returned. In the
      meanwhile, the Doctor had removed to the seat in the window, and had sat
      there looking down at the plane-tree; but, on Mr. Lorry&rsquo;s return, he
      slipped away to his bench.
    </p>
    <p>
      The time went very slowly on, and Mr. Lorry&rsquo;s hope darkened, and his heart
      grew heavier again, and grew yet heavier and heavier every day. The third
      day came and went, the fourth, the fifth. Five days, six days, seven days,
      eight days, nine days.
    </p>
    <p>
      With a hope ever darkening, and with a heart always growing heavier and
      heavier, Mr. Lorry passed through this anxious time. The secret was well
      kept, and Lucie was unconscious and happy; but he could not fail to
      observe that the shoemaker, whose hand had been a little out at first, was
      growing dreadfully skilful, and that he had never been so intent on his
      work, and that his hands had never been so nimble and expert, as in the
      dusk of the ninth evening.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"></a>
      CHAPTER XIX.<br />An Opinion
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>orn out by anxious watching, Mr. Lorry fell asleep at his post. On the
      tenth morning of his suspense, he was startled by the shining of the sun
      into the room where a heavy slumber had overtaken him when it was dark
      night.
    </p>
    <p>
      He rubbed his eyes and roused himself; but he doubted, when he had done
      so, whether he was not still asleep. For, going to the door of the
      Doctor&rsquo;s room and looking in, he perceived that the shoemaker&rsquo;s bench and
      tools were put aside again, and that the Doctor himself sat reading at the
      window. He was in his usual morning dress, and his face (which Mr. Lorry
      could distinctly see), though still very pale, was calmly studious and
      attentive.
    </p>
    <p>
      Even when he had satisfied himself that he was awake, Mr. Lorry felt
      giddily uncertain for some few moments whether the late shoemaking might
      not be a disturbed dream of his own; for, did not his eyes show him his
      friend before him in his accustomed clothing and aspect, and employed as
      usual; and was there any sign within their range, that the change of which
      he had so strong an impression had actually happened?
    </p>
    <p>
      It was but the inquiry of his first confusion and astonishment, the answer
      being obvious. If the impression were not produced by a real corresponding
      and sufficient cause, how came he, Jarvis Lorry, there? How came he to
      have fallen asleep, in his clothes, on the sofa in Doctor Manette&rsquo;s
      consulting-room, and to be debating these points outside the Doctor&rsquo;s
      bedroom door in the early morning?
    </p>
    <p>
      Within a few minutes, Miss Pross stood whispering at his side. If he had
      had any particle of doubt left, her talk would of necessity have resolved
      it; but he was by that time clear-headed, and had none. He advised that
      they should let the time go by until the regular breakfast-hour, and
      should then meet the Doctor as if nothing unusual had occurred. If he
      appeared to be in his customary state of mind, Mr. Lorry would then
      cautiously proceed to seek direction and guidance from the opinion he had
      been, in his anxiety, so anxious to obtain.
    </p>
    <p>
      Miss Pross, submitting herself to his judgment, the scheme was worked out
      with care. Having abundance of time for his usual methodical toilette, Mr.
      Lorry presented himself at the breakfast-hour in his usual white linen,
      and with his usual neat leg. The Doctor was summoned in the usual way, and
      came to breakfast.
    </p>
    <p>
      So far as it was possible to comprehend him without overstepping those
      delicate and gradual approaches which Mr. Lorry felt to be the only safe
      advance, he at first supposed that his daughter&rsquo;s marriage had taken place
      yesterday. An incidental allusion, purposely thrown out, to the day of the
      week, and the day of the month, set him thinking and counting, and
      evidently made him uneasy. In all other respects, however, he was so
      composedly himself, that Mr. Lorry determined to have the aid he sought.
      And that aid was his own.
    </p>
    <p>
      Therefore, when the breakfast was done and cleared away, and he and the
      Doctor were left together, Mr. Lorry said, feelingly:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear Manette, I am anxious to have your opinion, in confidence, on a
      very curious case in which I am deeply interested; that is to say, it is
      very curious to me; perhaps, to your better information it may be less
      so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Glancing at his hands, which were discoloured by his late work, the Doctor
      looked troubled, and listened attentively. He had already glanced at his
      hands more than once.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Doctor Manette,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, touching him affectionately on the arm,
      &ldquo;the case is the case of a particularly dear friend of mine. Pray give
      your mind to it, and advise me well for his sake&mdash;and above all, for
      his daughter&rsquo;s&mdash;his daughter&rsquo;s, my dear Manette.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I understand,&rdquo; said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, &ldquo;some mental shock&mdash;?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be explicit,&rdquo; said the Doctor. &ldquo;Spare no detail.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Lorry saw that they understood one another, and proceeded.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear Manette, it is the case of an old and a prolonged shock, of great
      acuteness and severity to the affections, the feelings, the&mdash;the&mdash;as
      you express it&mdash;the mind. The mind. It is the case of a shock under
      which the sufferer was borne down, one cannot say for how long, because I
      believe he cannot calculate the time himself, and there are no other means
      of getting at it. It is the case of a shock from which the sufferer
      recovered, by a process that he cannot trace himself&mdash;as I once heard
      him publicly relate in a striking manner. It is the case of a shock from
      which he has recovered, so completely, as to be a highly intelligent man,
      capable of close application of mind, and great exertion of body, and of
      constantly making fresh additions to his stock of knowledge, which was
      already very large. But, unfortunately, there has been,&rdquo; he paused and
      took a deep breath&mdash;&ldquo;a slight relapse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Doctor, in a low voice, asked, &ldquo;Of how long duration?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nine days and nights.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How did it show itself? I infer,&rdquo; glancing at his hands again, &ldquo;in the
      resumption of some old pursuit connected with the shock?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is the fact.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, did you ever see him,&rdquo; asked the Doctor, distinctly and collectedly,
      though in the same low voice, &ldquo;engaged in that pursuit originally?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And when the relapse fell on him, was he in most respects&mdash;or in all
      respects&mdash;as he was then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think in all respects.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You spoke of his daughter. Does his daughter know of the relapse?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. It has been kept from her, and I hope will always be kept from her.
      It is known only to myself, and to one other who may be trusted.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Doctor grasped his hand, and murmured, &ldquo;That was very kind. That was
      very thoughtful!&rdquo; Mr. Lorry grasped his hand in return, and neither of the
      two spoke for a little while.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, my dear Manette,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, at length, in his most considerate
      and most affectionate way, &ldquo;I am a mere man of business, and unfit to cope
      with such intricate and difficult matters. I do not possess the kind of
      information necessary; I do not possess the kind of intelligence; I want
      guiding. There is no man in this world on whom I could so rely for right
      guidance, as on you. Tell me, how does this relapse come about? Is there
      danger of another? Could a repetition of it be prevented? How should a
      repetition of it be treated? How does it come about at all? What can I do
      for my friend? No man ever can have been more desirous in his heart to
      serve a friend, than I am to serve mine, if I knew how.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I don&rsquo;t know how to originate, in such a case. If your sagacity,
      knowledge, and experience, could put me on the right track, I might be
      able to do so much; unenlightened and undirected, I can do so little. Pray
      discuss it with me; pray enable me to see it a little more clearly, and
      teach me how to be a little more useful.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Doctor Manette sat meditating after these earnest words were spoken, and
      Mr. Lorry did not press him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think it probable,&rdquo; said the Doctor, breaking silence with an effort,
      &ldquo;that the relapse you have described, my dear friend, was not quite
      unforeseen by its subject.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Was it dreaded by him?&rdquo; Mr. Lorry ventured to ask.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very much.&rdquo; He said it with an involuntary shudder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have no idea how such an apprehension weighs on the sufferer&rsquo;s mind,
      and how difficult&mdash;how almost impossible&mdash;it is, for him to
      force himself to utter a word upon the topic that oppresses him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would he,&rdquo; asked Mr. Lorry, &ldquo;be sensibly relieved if he could prevail
      upon himself to impart that secret brooding to any one, when it is on
      him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think so. But it is, as I have told you, next to impossible. I even
      believe it&mdash;in some cases&mdash;to be quite impossible.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, gently laying his hand on the Doctor&rsquo;s arm again,
      after a short silence on both sides, &ldquo;to what would you refer this
      attack?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe,&rdquo; returned Doctor Manette, &ldquo;that there had been a strong and
      extraordinary revival of the train of thought and remembrance that was the
      first cause of the malady. Some intense associations of a most distressing
      nature were vividly recalled, I think. It is probable that there had long
      been a dread lurking in his mind, that those associations would be
      recalled&mdash;say, under certain circumstances&mdash;say, on a particular
      occasion. He tried to prepare himself in vain; perhaps the effort to
      prepare himself made him less able to bear it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would he remember what took place in the relapse?&rdquo; asked Mr. Lorry, with
      natural hesitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Doctor looked desolately round the room, shook his head, and answered,
      in a low voice, &ldquo;Not at all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, as to the future,&rdquo; hinted Mr. Lorry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As to the future,&rdquo; said the Doctor, recovering firmness, &ldquo;I should have
      great hope. As it pleased Heaven in its mercy to restore him so soon, I
      should have great hope. He, yielding under the pressure of a complicated
      something, long dreaded and long vaguely foreseen and contended against,
      and recovering after the cloud had burst and passed, I should hope that
      the worst was over.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, well! That&rsquo;s good comfort. I am thankful!&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am thankful!&rdquo; repeated the Doctor, bending his head with reverence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There are two other points,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, &ldquo;on which I am anxious to be
      instructed. I may go on?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You cannot do your friend a better service.&rdquo; The Doctor gave him his
      hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To the first, then. He is of a studious habit, and unusually energetic;
      he applies himself with great ardour to the acquisition of professional
      knowledge, to the conducting of experiments, to many things. Now, does he
      do too much?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think not. It may be the character of his mind, to be always in
      singular need of occupation. That may be, in part, natural to it; in part,
      the result of affliction. The less it was occupied with healthy things,
      the more it would be in danger of turning in the unhealthy direction. He
      may have observed himself, and made the discovery.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are sure that he is not under too great a strain?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think I am quite sure of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear Manette, if he were overworked now&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear Lorry, I doubt if that could easily be. There has been a violent
      stress in one direction, and it needs a counterweight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excuse me, as a persistent man of business. Assuming for a moment, that
      he <i>was</i> overworked; it would show itself in some renewal of this
      disorder?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not think so. I do not think,&rdquo; said Doctor Manette with the firmness
      of self-conviction, &ldquo;that anything but the one train of association would
      renew it. I think that, henceforth, nothing but some extraordinary jarring
      of that chord could renew it. After what has happened, and after his
      recovery, I find it difficult to imagine any such violent sounding of that
      string again. I trust, and I almost believe, that the circumstances likely
      to renew it are exhausted.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He spoke with the diffidence of a man who knew how slight a thing would
      overset the delicate organisation of the mind, and yet with the confidence
      of a man who had slowly won his assurance out of personal endurance and
      distress. It was not for his friend to abate that confidence. He professed
      himself more relieved and encouraged than he really was, and approached
      his second and last point. He felt it to be the most difficult of all;
      but, remembering his old Sunday morning conversation with Miss Pross, and
      remembering what he had seen in the last nine days, he knew that he must
      face it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The occupation resumed under the influence of this passing affliction so
      happily recovered from,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, clearing his throat, &ldquo;we will
      call&mdash;Blacksmith&rsquo;s work, Blacksmith&rsquo;s work. We will say, to put a
      case and for the sake of illustration, that he had been used, in his bad
      time, to work at a little forge. We will say that he was unexpectedly
      found at his forge again. Is it not a pity that he should keep it by him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Doctor shaded his forehead with his hand, and beat his foot nervously
      on the ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He has always kept it by him,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, with an anxious look at
      his friend. &ldquo;Now, would it not be better that he should let it go?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Still, the Doctor, with shaded forehead, beat his foot nervously on the
      ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You do not find it easy to advise me?&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry. &ldquo;I quite
      understand it to be a nice question. And yet I think&mdash;&rdquo; And there he
      shook his head, and stopped.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see,&rdquo; said Doctor Manette, turning to him after an uneasy pause, &ldquo;it
      is very hard to explain, consistently, the innermost workings of this poor
      man&rsquo;s mind. He once yearned so frightfully for that occupation, and it was
      so welcome when it came; no doubt it relieved his pain so much, by
      substituting the perplexity of the fingers for the perplexity of the
      brain, and by substituting, as he became more practised, the ingenuity of
      the hands, for the ingenuity of the mental torture; that he has never been
      able to bear the thought of putting it quite out of his reach. Even now,
      when I believe he is more hopeful of himself than he has ever been, and
      even speaks of himself with a kind of confidence, the idea that he might
      need that old employment, and not find it, gives him a sudden sense of
      terror, like that which one may fancy strikes to the heart of a lost
      child.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He looked like his illustration, as he raised his eyes to Mr. Lorry&rsquo;s
      face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But may not&mdash;mind! I ask for information, as a plodding man of
      business who only deals with such material objects as guineas, shillings,
      and bank-notes&mdash;may not the retention of the thing involve the
      retention of the idea? If the thing were gone, my dear Manette, might not
      the fear go with it? In short, is it not a concession to the misgiving, to
      keep the forge?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was another silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see, too,&rdquo; said the Doctor, tremulously, &ldquo;it is such an old
      companion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would not keep it,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, shaking his head; for he gained in
      firmness as he saw the Doctor disquieted. &ldquo;I would recommend him to
      sacrifice it. I only want your authority. I am sure it does no good. Come!
      Give me your authority, like a dear good man. For his daughter&rsquo;s sake, my
      dear Manette!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Very strange to see what a struggle there was within him!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In her name, then, let it be done; I sanction it. But, I would not take
      it away while he was present. Let it be removed when he is not there; let
      him miss his old companion after an absence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Lorry readily engaged for that, and the conference was ended. They
      passed the day in the country, and the Doctor was quite restored. On the
      three following days he remained perfectly well, and on the fourteenth day
      he went away to join Lucie and her husband. The precaution that had been
      taken to account for his silence, Mr. Lorry had previously explained to
      him, and he had written to Lucie in accordance with it, and she had no
      suspicions.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the night of the day on which he left the house, Mr. Lorry went into
      his room with a chopper, saw, chisel, and hammer, attended by Miss Pross
      carrying a light. There, with closed doors, and in a mysterious and guilty
      manner, Mr. Lorry hacked the shoemaker&rsquo;s bench to pieces, while Miss Pross
      held the candle as if she were assisting at a murder&mdash;for which,
      indeed, in her grimness, she was no unsuitable figure. The burning of the
      body (previously reduced to pieces convenient for the purpose) was
      commenced without delay in the kitchen fire; and the tools, shoes, and
      leather, were buried in the garden. So wicked do destruction and secrecy
      appear to honest minds, that Mr. Lorry and Miss Pross, while engaged in
      the commission of their deed and in the removal of its traces, almost
      felt, and almost looked, like accomplices in a horrible crime.
    </p>

<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/0576m.jpg" style="width:100%;"  alt="0576m " /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0576.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"></a>
      CHAPTER XX.<br />A Plea
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hen the newly-married pair came home, the first person who appeared, to
      offer his congratulations, was Sydney Carton. They had not been at home
      many hours, when he presented himself. He was not improved in habits, or
      in looks, or in manner; but there was a certain rugged air of fidelity
      about him, which was new to the observation of Charles Darnay.
    </p>
    <p>
      He watched his opportunity of taking Darnay aside into a window, and of
      speaking to him when no one overheard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Darnay,&rdquo; said Carton, &ldquo;I wish we might be friends.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We are already friends, I hope.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are good enough to say so, as a fashion of speech; but, I don&rsquo;t mean
      any fashion of speech. Indeed, when I say I wish we might be friends, I
      scarcely mean quite that, either.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Charles Darnay&mdash;as was natural&mdash;asked him, in all good-humour
      and good-fellowship, what he did mean?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Upon my life,&rdquo; said Carton, smiling, &ldquo;I find that easier to comprehend in
      my own mind, than to convey to yours. However, let me try. You remember a
      certain famous occasion when I was more drunk than&mdash;than usual?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I remember a certain famous occasion when you forced me to confess that
      you had been drinking.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I remember it too. The curse of those occasions is heavy upon me, for I
      always remember them. I hope it may be taken into account one day, when
      all days are at an end for me! Don&rsquo;t be alarmed; I am not going to
      preach.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not at all alarmed. Earnestness in you, is anything but alarming to
      me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; said Carton, with a careless wave of his hand, as if he waved that
      away. &ldquo;On the drunken occasion in question (one of a large number, as you
      know), I was insufferable about liking you, and not liking you. I wish you
      would forget it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I forgot it long ago.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fashion of speech again! But, Mr. Darnay, oblivion is not so easy to me,
      as you represent it to be to you. I have by no means forgotten it, and a
      light answer does not help me to forget it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If it was a light answer,&rdquo; returned Darnay, &ldquo;I beg your forgiveness for
      it. I had no other object than to turn a slight thing, which, to my
      surprise, seems to trouble you too much, aside. I declare to you, on the
      faith of a gentleman, that I have long dismissed it from my mind. Good
      Heaven, what was there to dismiss! Have I had nothing more important to
      remember, in the great service you rendered me that day?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As to the great service,&rdquo; said Carton, &ldquo;I am bound to avow to you, when
      you speak of it in that way, that it was mere professional claptrap, I
      don&rsquo;t know that I cared what became of you, when I rendered it.&mdash;Mind!
      I say when I rendered it; I am speaking of the past.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You make light of the obligation,&rdquo; returned Darnay, &ldquo;but I will not
      quarrel with <i>your</i> light answer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Genuine truth, Mr. Darnay, trust me! I have gone aside from my purpose; I
      was speaking about our being friends. Now, you know me; you know I am
      incapable of all the higher and better flights of men. If you doubt it,
      ask Stryver, and he&rsquo;ll tell you so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I prefer to form my own opinion, without the aid of his.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well! At any rate you know me as a dissolute dog, who has never done any
      good, and never will.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know that you &lsquo;never will.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I do, and you must take my word for it. Well! If you could endure to
      have such a worthless fellow, and a fellow of such indifferent reputation,
      coming and going at odd times, I should ask that I might be permitted to
      come and go as a privileged person here; that I might be regarded as an
      useless (and I would add, if it were not for the resemblance I detected
      between you and me, an unornamental) piece of furniture, tolerated for its
      old service, and taken no notice of. I doubt if I should abuse the
      permission. It is a hundred to one if I should avail myself of it four
      times in a year. It would satisfy me, I dare say, to know that I had it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you try?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is another way of saying that I am placed on the footing I have
      indicated. I thank you, Darnay. I may use that freedom with your name?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think so, Carton, by this time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They shook hands upon it, and Sydney turned away. Within a minute
      afterwards, he was, to all outward appearance, as unsubstantial as ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he was gone, and in the course of an evening passed with Miss Pross,
      the Doctor, and Mr. Lorry, Charles Darnay made some mention of this
      conversation in general terms, and spoke of Sydney Carton as a problem of
      carelessness and recklessness. He spoke of him, in short, not bitterly or
      meaning to bear hard upon him, but as anybody might who saw him as he
      showed himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had no idea that this could dwell in the thoughts of his fair young
      wife; but, when he afterwards joined her in their own rooms, he found her
      waiting for him with the old pretty lifting of the forehead strongly
      marked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We are thoughtful to-night!&rdquo; said Darnay, drawing his arm about her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, dearest Charles,&rdquo; with her hands on his breast, and the inquiring
      and attentive expression fixed upon him; &ldquo;we are rather thoughtful
      to-night, for we have something on our mind to-night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it, my Lucie?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you promise not to press one question on me, if I beg you not to ask
      it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will I promise? What will I not promise to my Love?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      What, indeed, with his hand putting aside the golden hair from the cheek,
      and his other hand against the heart that beat for him!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think, Charles, poor Mr. Carton deserves more consideration and respect
      than you expressed for him to-night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, my own? Why so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is what you are not to ask me. But I think&mdash;I know&mdash;he
      does.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you know it, it is enough. What would you have me do, my Life?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would ask you, dearest, to be very generous with him always, and very
      lenient on his faults when he is not by. I would ask you to believe that
      he has a heart he very, very seldom reveals, and that there are deep
      wounds in it. My dear, I have seen it bleeding.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a painful reflection to me,&rdquo; said Charles Darnay, quite astounded,
      &ldquo;that I should have done him any wrong. I never thought this of him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My husband, it is so. I fear he is not to be reclaimed; there is scarcely
      a hope that anything in his character or fortunes is reparable now. But, I
      am sure that he is capable of good things, gentle things, even magnanimous
      things.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She looked so beautiful in the purity of her faith in this lost man, that
      her husband could have looked at her as she was for hours.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And, O my dearest Love!&rdquo; she urged, clinging nearer to him, laying her
      head upon his breast, and raising her eyes to his, &ldquo;remember how strong we
      are in our happiness, and how weak he is in his misery!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The supplication touched him home. &ldquo;I will always remember it, dear Heart!
      I will remember it as long as I live.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He bent over the golden head, and put the rosy lips to his, and folded her
      in his arms. If one forlorn wanderer then pacing the dark streets, could
      have heard her innocent disclosure, and could have seen the drops of pity
      kissed away by her husband from the soft blue eyes so loving of that
      husband, he might have cried to the night&mdash;and the words would not
      have parted from his lips for the first time&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God bless her for her sweet compassion!&rdquo;
     </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"></a>
      CHAPTER XXI.<br />Echoing Footsteps
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span> wonderful corner for echoes, it has been remarked, that corner where the
      Doctor lived. Ever busily winding the golden thread which bound her
      husband, and her father, and herself, and her old directress and
      companion, in a life of quiet bliss, Lucie sat in the still house in the
      tranquilly resounding corner, listening to the echoing footsteps of years.
    </p>
    <p>
      At first, there were times, though she was a perfectly happy young wife,
      when her work would slowly fall from her hands, and her eyes would be
      dimmed. For, there was something coming in the echoes, something light,
      afar off, and scarcely audible yet, that stirred her heart too much.
      Fluttering hopes and doubts&mdash;hopes, of a love as yet unknown to her:
      doubts, of her remaining upon earth, to enjoy that new delight&mdash;divided
      her breast. Among the echoes then, there would arise the sound of
      footsteps at her own early grave; and thoughts of the husband who would be
      left so desolate, and who would mourn for her so much, swelled to her
      eyes, and broke like waves.
    </p>
    <p>
      That time passed, and her little Lucie lay on her bosom. Then, among the
      advancing echoes, there was the tread of her tiny feet and the sound of
      her prattling words. Let greater echoes resound as they would, the young
      mother at the cradle side could always hear those coming. They came, and
      the shady house was sunny with a child&rsquo;s laugh, and the Divine friend of
      children, to whom in her trouble she had confided hers, seemed to take her
      child in his arms, as He took the child of old, and made it a sacred joy
      to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ever busily winding the golden thread that bound them all together,
      weaving the service of her happy influence through the tissue of all their
      lives, and making it predominate nowhere, Lucie heard in the echoes of
      years none but friendly and soothing sounds. Her husband&rsquo;s step was strong
      and prosperous among them; her father&rsquo;s firm and equal. Lo, Miss Pross, in
      harness of string, awakening the echoes, as an unruly charger,
      whip-corrected, snorting and pawing the earth under the plane-tree in the
      garden!
    </p>
    <p>
      Even when there were sounds of sorrow among the rest, they were not harsh
      nor cruel. Even when golden hair, like her own, lay in a halo on a pillow
      round the worn face of a little boy, and he said, with a radiant smile,
      &ldquo;Dear papa and mamma, I am very sorry to leave you both, and to leave my
      pretty sister; but I am called, and I must go!&rdquo; those were not tears all
      of agony that wetted his young mother&rsquo;s cheek, as the spirit departed from
      her embrace that had been entrusted to it. Suffer them and forbid them
      not. They see my Father&rsquo;s face. O Father, blessed words!
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus, the rustling of an Angel&rsquo;s wings got blended with the other echoes,
      and they were not wholly of earth, but had in them that breath of Heaven.
      Sighs of the winds that blew over a little garden-tomb were mingled with
      them also, and both were audible to Lucie, in a hushed murmur&mdash;like
      the breathing of a summer sea asleep upon a sandy shore&mdash;as the
      little Lucie, comically studious at the task of the morning, or dressing a
      doll at her mother&rsquo;s footstool, chattered in the tongues of the Two Cities
      that were blended in her life.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Echoes rarely answered to the actual tread of Sydney Carton. Some
      half-dozen times a year, at most, he claimed his privilege of coming in
      uninvited, and would sit among them through the evening, as he had once
      done often. He never came there heated with wine. And one other thing
      regarding him was whispered in the echoes, which has been whispered by all
      true echoes for ages and ages.
    </p>
    <p>
      No man ever really loved a woman, lost her, and knew her with a blameless
      though an unchanged mind, when she was a wife and a mother, but her
      children had a strange sympathy with him&mdash;an instinctive delicacy of
      pity for him. What fine hidden sensibilities are touched in such a case,
      no echoes tell; but it is so, and it was so here. Carton was the first
      stranger to whom little Lucie held out her chubby arms, and he kept his
      place with her as she grew. The little boy had spoken of him, almost at
      the last. &ldquo;Poor Carton! Kiss him for me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Stryver shouldered his way through the law, like some great engine
      forcing itself through turbid water, and dragged his useful friend in his
      wake, like a boat towed astern. As the boat so favoured is usually in a
      rough plight, and mostly under water, so, Sydney had a swamped life of it.
      But, easy and strong custom, unhappily so much easier and stronger in him
      than any stimulating sense of desert or disgrace, made it the life he was
      to lead; and he no more thought of emerging from his state of lion&rsquo;s
      jackal, than any real jackal may be supposed to think of rising to be a
      lion. Stryver was rich; had married a florid widow with property and three
      boys, who had nothing particularly shining about them but the straight
      hair of their dumpling heads.
    </p>
    <p>
      These three young gentlemen, Mr. Stryver, exuding patronage of the most
      offensive quality from every pore, had walked before him like three sheep
      to the quiet corner in Soho, and had offered as pupils to Lucie&rsquo;s husband:
      delicately saying &ldquo;Halloa! here are three lumps of bread-and-cheese
      towards your matrimonial picnic, Darnay!&rdquo; The polite rejection of the
      three lumps of bread-and-cheese had quite bloated Mr. Stryver with
      indignation, which he afterwards turned to account in the training of the
      young gentlemen, by directing them to beware of the pride of Beggars, like
      that tutor-fellow. He was also in the habit of declaiming to Mrs. Stryver,
      over his full-bodied wine, on the arts Mrs. Darnay had once put in
      practice to &ldquo;catch&rdquo; him, and on the diamond-cut-diamond arts in himself,
      madam, which had rendered him &ldquo;not to be caught.&rdquo; Some of his King&rsquo;s Bench
      familiars, who were occasionally parties to the full-bodied wine and the
      lie, excused him for the latter by saying that he had told it so often,
      that he believed it himself&mdash;which is surely such an incorrigible
      aggravation of an originally bad offence, as to justify any such
      offender&rsquo;s being carried off to some suitably retired spot, and there
      hanged out of the way.
    </p>
    <p>
      These were among the echoes to which Lucie, sometimes pensive, sometimes
      amused and laughing, listened in the echoing corner, until her little
      daughter was six years old. How near to her heart the echoes of her
      child&rsquo;s tread came, and those of her own dear father&rsquo;s, always active and
      self-possessed, and those of her dear husband&rsquo;s, need not be told. Nor,
      how the lightest echo of their united home, directed by herself with such
      a wise and elegant thrift that it was more abundant than any waste, was
      music to her. Nor, how there were echoes all about her, sweet in her ears,
      of the many times her father had told her that he found her more devoted
      to him married (if that could be) than single, and of the many times her
      husband had said to her that no cares and duties seemed to divide her love
      for him or her help to him, and asked her &ldquo;What is the magic secret, my
      darling, of your being everything to all of us, as if there were only one
      of us, yet never seeming to be hurried, or to have too much to do?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But, there were other echoes, from a distance, that rumbled menacingly in
      the corner all through this space of time. And it was now, about little
      Lucie&rsquo;s sixth birthday, that they began to have an awful sound, as of a
      great storm in France with a dreadful sea rising.
    </p>
    <p>
      On a night in mid-July, one thousand seven hundred and eighty-nine, Mr.
      Lorry came in late, from Tellson&rsquo;s, and sat himself down by Lucie and her
      husband in the dark window. It was a hot, wild night, and they were all
      three reminded of the old Sunday night when they had looked at the
      lightning from the same place.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I began to think,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, pushing his brown wig back, &ldquo;that I
      should have to pass the night at Tellson&rsquo;s. We have been so full of
      business all day, that we have not known what to do first, or which way to
      turn. There is such an uneasiness in Paris, that we have actually a run of
      confidence upon us! Our customers over there, seem not to be able to
      confide their property to us fast enough. There is positively a mania
      among some of them for sending it to England.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That has a bad look,&rdquo; said Darnay&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A bad look, you say, my dear Darnay? Yes, but we don&rsquo;t know what reason
      there is in it. People are so unreasonable! Some of us at Tellson&rsquo;s are
      getting old, and we really can&rsquo;t be troubled out of the ordinary course
      without due occasion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Still,&rdquo; said Darnay, &ldquo;you know how gloomy and threatening the sky is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know that, to be sure,&rdquo; assented Mr. Lorry, trying to persuade himself
      that his sweet temper was soured, and that he grumbled, &ldquo;but I am
      determined to be peevish after my long day&rsquo;s botheration. Where is
      Manette?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here he is,&rdquo; said the Doctor, entering the dark room at the moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am quite glad you are at home; for these hurries and forebodings by
      which I have been surrounded all day long, have made me nervous without
      reason. You are not going out, I hope?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; I am going to play backgammon with you, if you like,&rdquo; said the
      Doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t think I do like, if I may speak my mind. I am not fit to be
      pitted against you to-night. Is the teaboard still there, Lucie? I can&rsquo;t
      see.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course, it has been kept for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank ye, my dear. The precious child is safe in bed?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And sleeping soundly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s right; all safe and well! I don&rsquo;t know why anything should be
      otherwise than safe and well here, thank God; but I have been so put out
      all day, and I am not as young as I was! My tea, my dear! Thank ye. Now,
      come and take your place in the circle, and let us sit quiet, and hear the
      echoes about which you have your theory.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not a theory; it was a fancy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A fancy, then, my wise pet,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, patting her hand. &ldquo;They are
      very numerous and very loud, though, are they not? Only hear them!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Headlong, mad, and dangerous footsteps to force their way into anybody&rsquo;s
      life, footsteps not easily made clean again if once stained red, the
      footsteps raging in Saint Antoine afar off, as the little circle sat in
      the dark London window.
    </p>
    <p>
      Saint Antoine had been, that morning, a vast dusky mass of scarecrows
      heaving to and fro, with frequent gleams of light above the billowy heads,
      where steel blades and bayonets shone in the sun. A tremendous roar arose
      from the throat of Saint Antoine, and a forest of naked arms struggled in
      the air like shrivelled branches of trees in a winter wind: all the
      fingers convulsively clutching at every weapon or semblance of a weapon
      that was thrown up from the depths below, no matter how far off.
    </p>
    <p>
      Who gave them out, whence they last came, where they began, through what
      agency they crookedly quivered and jerked, scores at a time, over the
      heads of the crowd, like a kind of lightning, no eye in the throng could
      have told; but, muskets were being distributed&mdash;so were cartridges,
      powder, and ball, bars of iron and wood, knives, axes, pikes, every weapon
      that distracted ingenuity could discover or devise. People who could lay
      hold of nothing else, set themselves with bleeding hands to force stones
      and bricks out of their places in walls. Every pulse and heart in Saint
      Antoine was on high-fever strain and at high-fever heat. Every living
      creature there held life as of no account, and was demented with a
      passionate readiness to sacrifice it.
    </p>
    <p>
      As a whirlpool of boiling waters has a centre point, so, all this raging
      circled round Defarge&rsquo;s wine-shop, and every human drop in the caldron had
      a tendency to be sucked towards the vortex where Defarge himself, already
      begrimed with gunpowder and sweat, issued orders, issued arms, thrust this
      man back, dragged this man forward, disarmed one to arm another, laboured
      and strove in the thickest of the uproar.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Keep near to me, Jacques Three,&rdquo; cried Defarge; &ldquo;and do you, Jacques One
      and Two, separate and put yourselves at the head of as many of these
      patriots as you can. Where is my wife?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh, well! Here you see me!&rdquo; said madame, composed as ever, but not
      knitting to-day. Madame&rsquo;s resolute right hand was occupied with an axe, in
      place of the usual softer implements, and in her girdle were a pistol and
      a cruel knife.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where do you go, my wife?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I go,&rdquo; said madame, &ldquo;with you at present. You shall see me at the head of
      women, by-and-bye.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, then!&rdquo; cried Defarge, in a resounding voice. &ldquo;Patriots and friends,
      we are ready! The Bastille!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With a roar that sounded as if all the breath in France had been shaped
      into the detested word, the living sea rose, wave on wave, depth on depth,
      and overflowed the city to that point. Alarm-bells ringing, drums beating,
      the sea raging and thundering on its new beach, the attack began.
    </p>
    <p>
      Deep ditches, double drawbridge, massive stone walls, eight great towers,
      cannon, muskets, fire and smoke. Through the fire and through the smoke&mdash;in
      the fire and in the smoke, for the sea cast him up against a cannon, and
      on the instant he became a cannonier&mdash;Defarge of the wine-shop worked
      like a manful soldier, Two fierce hours.
    </p>
    <p>
      Deep ditch, single drawbridge, massive stone walls, eight great towers,
      cannon, muskets, fire and smoke. One drawbridge down! &ldquo;Work, comrades all,
      work! Work, Jacques One, Jacques Two, Jacques One Thousand, Jacques Two
      Thousand, Jacques Five-and-Twenty Thousand; in the name of all the Angels
      or the Devils&mdash;which you prefer&mdash;work!&rdquo; Thus Defarge of the
      wine-shop, still at his gun, which had long grown hot.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To me, women!&rdquo; cried madame his wife. &ldquo;What! We can kill as well as the
      men when the place is taken!&rdquo; And to her, with a shrill thirsty cry,
      trooping women variously armed, but all armed alike in hunger and revenge.
    </p>
    <p>
      Cannon, muskets, fire and smoke; but, still the deep ditch, the single
      drawbridge, the massive stone walls, and the eight great towers. Slight
      displacements of the raging sea, made by the falling wounded. Flashing
      weapons, blazing torches, smoking waggonloads of wet straw, hard work at
      neighbouring barricades in all directions, shrieks, volleys, execrations,
      bravery without stint, boom smash and rattle, and the furious sounding of
      the living sea; but, still the deep ditch, and the single drawbridge, and
      the massive stone walls, and the eight great towers, and still Defarge of
      the wine-shop at his gun, grown doubly hot by the service of Four fierce
      hours.
    </p>
    <p>
      A white flag from within the fortress, and a parley&mdash;this dimly
      perceptible through the raging storm, nothing audible in it&mdash;suddenly
      the sea rose immeasurably wider and higher, and swept Defarge of the
      wine-shop over the lowered drawbridge, past the massive stone outer walls,
      in among the eight great towers surrendered!
    </p>
    <p>
      So resistless was the force of the ocean bearing him on, that even to draw
      his breath or turn his head was as impracticable as if he had been
      struggling in the surf at the South Sea, until he was landed in the outer
      courtyard of the Bastille. There, against an angle of a wall, he made a
      struggle to look about him. Jacques Three was nearly at his side; Madame
      Defarge, still heading some of her women, was visible in the inner
      distance, and her knife was in her hand. Everywhere was tumult,
      exultation, deafening and maniacal bewilderment, astounding noise, yet
      furious dumb-show.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Prisoners!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Records!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The secret cells!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The instruments of torture!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Prisoners!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Of all these cries, and ten thousand incoherences, &ldquo;The Prisoners!&rdquo; was
      the cry most taken up by the sea that rushed in, as if there were an
      eternity of people, as well as of time and space. When the foremost
      billows rolled past, bearing the prison officers with them, and
      threatening them all with instant death if any secret nook remained
      undisclosed, Defarge laid his strong hand on the breast of one of these
      men&mdash;a man with a grey head, who had a lighted torch in his hand&mdash;separated
      him from the rest, and got him between himself and the wall.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Show me the North Tower!&rdquo; said Defarge. &ldquo;Quick!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will faithfully,&rdquo; replied the man, &ldquo;if you will come with me. But there
      is no one there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is the meaning of One Hundred and Five, North Tower?&rdquo; asked Defarge.
      &ldquo;Quick!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The meaning, monsieur?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does it mean a captive, or a place of captivity? Or do you mean that I
      shall strike you dead?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Kill him!&rdquo; croaked Jacques Three, who had come close up.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur, it is a cell.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Show it me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pass this way, then.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jacques Three, with his usual craving on him, and evidently disappointed
      by the dialogue taking a turn that did not seem to promise bloodshed, held
      by Defarge&rsquo;s arm as he held by the turnkey&rsquo;s. Their three heads had been
      close together during this brief discourse, and it had been as much as
      they could do to hear one another, even then: so tremendous was the noise
      of the living ocean, in its irruption into the Fortress, and its
      inundation of the courts and passages and staircases. All around outside,
      too, it beat the walls with a deep, hoarse roar, from which, occasionally,
      some partial shouts of tumult broke and leaped into the air like spray.
    </p>
    <p>
      Through gloomy vaults where the light of day had never shone, past hideous
      doors of dark dens and cages, down cavernous flights of steps, and again
      up steep rugged ascents of stone and brick, more like dry waterfalls than
      staircases, Defarge, the turnkey, and Jacques Three, linked hand and arm,
      went with all the speed they could make. Here and there, especially at
      first, the inundation started on them and swept by; but when they had done
      descending, and were winding and climbing up a tower, they were alone.
      Hemmed in here by the massive thickness of walls and arches, the storm
      within the fortress and without was only audible to them in a dull,
      subdued way, as if the noise out of which they had come had almost
      destroyed their sense of hearing.
    </p>
    <p>
      The turnkey stopped at a low door, put a key in a clashing lock, swung the
      door slowly open, and said, as they all bent their heads and passed in:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One hundred and five, North Tower!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was a small, heavily-grated, unglazed window high in the wall, with
      a stone screen before it, so that the sky could be only seen by stooping
      low and looking up. There was a small chimney, heavily barred across, a
      few feet within. There was a heap of old feathery wood-ashes on the
      hearth. There was a stool, and table, and a straw bed. There were the four
      blackened walls, and a rusted iron ring in one of them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pass that torch slowly along these walls, that I may see them,&rdquo; said
      Defarge to the turnkey.
    </p>
    <p>
      The man obeyed, and Defarge followed the light closely with his eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stop!&mdash;Look here, Jacques!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A. M.!&rdquo; croaked Jacques Three, as he read greedily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alexandre Manette,&rdquo; said Defarge in his ear, following the letters with
      his swart forefinger, deeply engrained with gunpowder. &ldquo;And here he wrote
      &lsquo;a poor physician.&rsquo; And it was he, without doubt, who scratched a calendar
      on this stone. What is that in your hand? A crowbar? Give it me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had still the linstock of his gun in his own hand. He made a sudden
      exchange of the two instruments, and turning on the worm-eaten stool and
      table, beat them to pieces in a few blows.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hold the light higher!&rdquo; he said, wrathfully, to the turnkey. &ldquo;Look among
      those fragments with care, Jacques. And see! Here is my knife,&rdquo; throwing
      it to him; &ldquo;rip open that bed, and search the straw. Hold the light
      higher, you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With a menacing look at the turnkey he crawled upon the hearth, and,
      peering up the chimney, struck and prised at its sides with the crowbar,
      and worked at the iron grating across it. In a few minutes, some mortar
      and dust came dropping down, which he averted his face to avoid; and in
      it, and in the old wood-ashes, and in a crevice in the chimney into which
      his weapon had slipped or wrought itself, he groped with a cautious touch.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing in the wood, and nothing in the straw, Jacques?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us collect them together, in the middle of the cell. So! Light them,
      you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The turnkey fired the little pile, which blazed high and hot. Stooping
      again to come out at the low-arched door, they left it burning, and
      retraced their way to the courtyard; seeming to recover their sense of
      hearing as they came down, until they were in the raging flood once more.
    </p>
    <p>
      They found it surging and tossing, in quest of Defarge himself. Saint
      Antoine was clamorous to have its wine-shop keeper foremost in the guard
      upon the governor who had defended the Bastille and shot the people.
      Otherwise, the governor would not be marched to the Hotel de Ville for
      judgment. Otherwise, the governor would escape, and the people&rsquo;s blood
      (suddenly of some value, after many years of worthlessness) be unavenged.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the howling universe of passion and contention that seemed to encompass
      this grim old officer conspicuous in his grey coat and red decoration,
      there was but one quite steady figure, and that was a woman&rsquo;s. &ldquo;See, there
      is my husband!&rdquo; she cried, pointing him out. &ldquo;See Defarge!&rdquo; She stood
      immovable close to the grim old officer, and remained immovable close to
      him; remained immovable close to him through the streets, as Defarge and
      the rest bore him along; remained immovable close to him when he was got
      near his destination, and began to be struck at from behind; remained
      immovable close to him when the long-gathering rain of stabs and blows
      fell heavy; was so close to him when he dropped dead under it, that,
      suddenly animated, she put her foot upon his neck, and with her cruel
      knife&mdash;long ready&mdash;hewed off his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      The hour was come, when Saint Antoine was to execute his horrible idea of
      hoisting up men for lamps to show what he could be and do. Saint Antoine&rsquo;s
      blood was up, and the blood of tyranny and domination by the iron hand was
      down&mdash;down on the steps of the Hotel de Ville where the governor&rsquo;s
      body lay&mdash;down on the sole of the shoe of Madame Defarge where she
      had trodden on the body to steady it for mutilation. &ldquo;Lower the lamp
      yonder!&rdquo; cried Saint Antoine, after glaring round for a new means of
      death; &ldquo;here is one of his soldiers to be left on guard!&rdquo; The swinging
      sentinel was posted, and the sea rushed on.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sea of black and threatening waters, and of destructive upheaving of
      wave against wave, whose depths were yet unfathomed and whose forces were
      yet unknown. The remorseless sea of turbulently swaying shapes, voices of
      vengeance, and faces hardened in the furnaces of suffering until the touch
      of pity could make no mark on them.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, in the ocean of faces where every fierce and furious expression was
      in vivid life, there were two groups of faces&mdash;each seven in number&mdash;so
      fixedly contrasting with the rest, that never did sea roll which bore more
      memorable wrecks with it. Seven faces of prisoners, suddenly released by
      the storm that had burst their tomb, were carried high overhead: all
      scared, all lost, all wondering and amazed, as if the Last Day were come,
      and those who rejoiced around them were lost spirits. Other seven faces
      there were, carried higher, seven dead faces, whose drooping eyelids and
      half-seen eyes awaited the Last Day. Impassive faces, yet with a suspended&mdash;not
      an abolished&mdash;expression on them; faces, rather, in a fearful pause,
      as having yet to raise the dropped lids of the eyes, and bear witness with
      the bloodless lips, &ldquo;<i>Thou Didst It!</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Seven prisoners released, seven gory heads on pikes, the keys of the
      accursed fortress of the eight strong towers, some discovered letters and
      other memorials of prisoners of old time, long dead of broken hearts,&mdash;such,
      and such&mdash;like, the loudly echoing footsteps of Saint Antoine escort
      through the Paris streets in mid-July, one thousand seven hundred and
      eighty-nine. Now, Heaven defeat the fancy of Lucie Darnay, and keep these
      feet far out of her life! For, they are headlong, mad, and dangerous; and
      in the years so long after the breaking of the cask at Defarge&rsquo;s wine-shop
      door, they are not easily purified when once stained red.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"></a>
      CHAPTER XXII.<br />The Sea Still Rises
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span>aggard Saint Antoine had had only one exultant week, in which to soften
      his modicum of hard and bitter bread to such extent as he could, with the
      relish of fraternal embraces and congratulations, when Madame Defarge sat
      at her counter, as usual, presiding over the customers. Madame Defarge
      wore no rose in her head, for the great brotherhood of Spies had become,
      even in one short week, extremely chary of trusting themselves to the
      saint&rsquo;s mercies. The lamps across his streets had a portentously elastic
      swing with them.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame Defarge, with her arms folded, sat in the morning light and heat,
      contemplating the wine-shop and the street. In both, there were several
      knots of loungers, squalid and miserable, but now with a manifest sense of
      power enthroned on their distress. The raggedest nightcap, awry on the
      wretchedest head, had this crooked significance in it: &ldquo;I know how hard it
      has grown for me, the wearer of this, to support life in myself; but do
      you know how easy it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to destroy life
      in you?&rdquo; Every lean bare arm, that had been without work before, had this
      work always ready for it now, that it could strike. The fingers of the
      knitting women were vicious, with the experience that they could tear.
      There was a change in the appearance of Saint Antoine; the image had been
      hammering into this for hundreds of years, and the last finishing blows
      had told mightily on the expression.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame Defarge sat observing it, with such suppressed approval as was to
      be desired in the leader of the Saint Antoine women. One of her sisterhood
      knitted beside her. The short, rather plump wife of a starved grocer, and
      the mother of two children withal, this lieutenant had already earned the
      complimentary name of The Vengeance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hark!&rdquo; said The Vengeance. &ldquo;Listen, then! Who comes?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As if a train of powder laid from the outermost bound of Saint Antoine
      Quarter to the wine-shop door, had been suddenly fired, a fast-spreading
      murmur came rushing along.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is Defarge,&rdquo; said madame. &ldquo;Silence, patriots!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Defarge came in breathless, pulled off a red cap he wore, and looked
      around him! &ldquo;Listen, everywhere!&rdquo; said madame again. &ldquo;Listen to him!&rdquo;
       Defarge stood, panting, against a background of eager eyes and open
      mouths, formed outside the door; all those within the wine-shop had sprung
      to their feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say then, my husband. What is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;News from the other world!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How, then?&rdquo; cried madame, contemptuously. &ldquo;The other world?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does everybody here recall old Foulon, who told the famished people that
      they might eat grass, and who died, and went to Hell?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Everybody!&rdquo; from all throats.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The news is of him. He is among us!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Among us!&rdquo; from the universal throat again. &ldquo;And dead?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not dead! He feared us so much&mdash;and with reason&mdash;that he caused
      himself to be represented as dead, and had a grand mock-funeral. But they
      have found him alive, hiding in the country, and have brought him in. I
      have seen him but now, on his way to the Hotel de Ville, a prisoner. I
      have said that he had reason to fear us. Say all! <i>Had</i> he reason?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Wretched old sinner of more than threescore years and ten, if he had never
      known it yet, he would have known it in his heart of hearts if he could
      have heard the answering cry.
    </p>
    <p>
      A moment of profound silence followed. Defarge and his wife looked
      steadfastly at one another. The Vengeance stooped, and the jar of a drum
      was heard as she moved it at her feet behind the counter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Patriots!&rdquo; said Defarge, in a determined voice, &ldquo;are we ready?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Instantly Madame Defarge&rsquo;s knife was in her girdle; the drum was beating
      in the streets, as if it and a drummer had flown together by magic; and
      The Vengeance, uttering terrific shrieks, and flinging her arms about her
      head like all the forty Furies at once, was tearing from house to house,
      rousing the women.
    </p>

<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/0592m.jpg" style="width:100%;"  alt="0592m " /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0592.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>

    <p>
      The men were terrible, in the bloody-minded anger with which they looked
      from windows, caught up what arms they had, and came pouring down into the
      streets; but, the women were a sight to chill the boldest. From such
      household occupations as their bare poverty yielded, from their children,
      from their aged and their sick crouching on the bare ground famished and
      naked, they ran out with streaming hair, urging one another, and
      themselves, to madness with the wildest cries and actions. Villain Foulon
      taken, my sister! Old Foulon taken, my mother! Miscreant Foulon taken, my
      daughter! Then, a score of others ran into the midst of these, beating
      their breasts, tearing their hair, and screaming, Foulon alive! Foulon who
      told the starving people they might eat grass! Foulon who told my old
      father that he might eat grass, when I had no bread to give him! Foulon
      who told my baby it might suck grass, when these breasts were dry with
      want! O mother of God, this Foulon! O Heaven our suffering! Hear me, my
      dead baby and my withered father: I swear on my knees, on these stones, to
      avenge you on Foulon! Husbands, and brothers, and young men, Give us the
      blood of Foulon, Give us the head of Foulon, Give us the heart of Foulon,
      Give us the body and soul of Foulon, Rend Foulon to pieces, and dig him
      into the ground, that grass may grow from him! With these cries, numbers
      of the women, lashed into blind frenzy, whirled about, striking and
      tearing at their own friends until they dropped into a passionate swoon,
      and were only saved by the men belonging to them from being trampled under
      foot.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nevertheless, not a moment was lost; not a moment! This Foulon was at the
      Hotel de Ville, and might be loosed. Never, if Saint Antoine knew his own
      sufferings, insults, and wrongs! Armed men and women flocked out of the
      Quarter so fast, and drew even these last dregs after them with such a
      force of suction, that within a quarter of an hour there was not a human
      creature in Saint Antoine&rsquo;s bosom but a few old crones and the wailing
      children.
    </p>
    <p>
      No. They were all by that time choking the Hall of Examination where this
      old man, ugly and wicked, was, and overflowing into the adjacent open
      space and streets. The Defarges, husband and wife, The Vengeance, and
      Jacques Three, were in the first press, and at no great distance from him
      in the Hall.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See!&rdquo; cried madame, pointing with her knife. &ldquo;See the old villain bound
      with ropes. That was well done to tie a bunch of grass upon his back. Ha,
      ha! That was well done. Let him eat it now!&rdquo; Madame put her knife under
      her arm, and clapped her hands as at a play.
    </p>
    <p>
      The people immediately behind Madame Defarge, explaining the cause of her
      satisfaction to those behind them, and those again explaining to others,
      and those to others, the neighbouring streets resounded with the clapping
      of hands. Similarly, during two or three hours of drawl, and the winnowing
      of many bushels of words, Madame Defarge&rsquo;s frequent expressions of
      impatience were taken up, with marvellous quickness, at a distance: the
      more readily, because certain men who had by some wonderful exercise of
      agility climbed up the external architecture to look in from the windows,
      knew Madame Defarge well, and acted as a telegraph between her and the
      crowd outside the building.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length the sun rose so high that it struck a kindly ray as of hope or
      protection, directly down upon the old prisoner&rsquo;s head. The favour was too
      much to bear; in an instant the barrier of dust and chaff that had stood
      surprisingly long, went to the winds, and Saint Antoine had got him!
    </p>
    <p>
      It was known directly, to the furthest confines of the crowd. Defarge had
      but sprung over a railing and a table, and folded the miserable wretch in
      a deadly embrace&mdash;Madame Defarge had but followed and turned her hand
      in one of the ropes with which he was tied&mdash;The Vengeance and Jacques
      Three were not yet up with them, and the men at the windows had not yet
      swooped into the Hall, like birds of prey from their high perches&mdash;when
      the cry seemed to go up, all over the city, &ldquo;Bring him out! Bring him to
      the lamp!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Down, and up, and head foremost on the steps of the building; now, on his
      knees; now, on his feet; now, on his back; dragged, and struck at, and
      stifled by the bunches of grass and straw that were thrust into his face
      by hundreds of hands; torn, bruised, panting, bleeding, yet always
      entreating and beseeching for mercy; now full of vehement agony of action,
      with a small clear space about him as the people drew one another back
      that they might see; now, a log of dead wood drawn through a forest of
      legs; he was hauled to the nearest street corner where one of the fatal
      lamps swung, and there Madame Defarge let him go&mdash;as a cat might have
      done to a mouse&mdash;and silently and composedly looked at him while they
      made ready, and while he besought her: the women passionately screeching
      at him all the time, and the men sternly calling out to have him killed
      with grass in his mouth. Once, he went aloft, and the rope broke, and they
      caught him shrieking; twice, he went aloft, and the rope broke, and they
      caught him shrieking; then, the rope was merciful, and held him, and his
      head was soon upon a pike, with grass enough in the mouth for all Saint
      Antoine to dance at the sight of.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nor was this the end of the day&rsquo;s bad work, for Saint Antoine so shouted
      and danced his angry blood up, that it boiled again, on hearing when the
      day closed in that the son-in-law of the despatched, another of the
      people&rsquo;s enemies and insulters, was coming into Paris under a guard five
      hundred strong, in cavalry alone. Saint Antoine wrote his crimes on
      flaring sheets of paper, seized him&mdash;would have torn him out of the
      breast of an army to bear Foulon company&mdash;set his head and heart on
      pikes, and carried the three spoils of the day, in Wolf-procession through
      the streets.
    </p>
    <p>
      Not before dark night did the men and women come back to the children,
      wailing and breadless. Then, the miserable bakers&rsquo; shops were beset by
      long files of them, patiently waiting to buy bad bread; and while they
      waited with stomachs faint and empty, they beguiled the time by embracing
      one another on the triumphs of the day, and achieving them again in
      gossip. Gradually, these strings of ragged people shortened and frayed
      away; and then poor lights began to shine in high windows, and slender
      fires were made in the streets, at which neighbours cooked in common,
      afterwards supping at their doors.
    </p>
    <p>
      Scanty and insufficient suppers those, and innocent of meat, as of most
      other sauce to wretched bread. Yet, human fellowship infused some
      nourishment into the flinty viands, and struck some sparks of cheerfulness
      out of them. Fathers and mothers who had had their full share in the worst
      of the day, played gently with their meagre children; and lovers, with
      such a world around them and before them, loved and hoped.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was almost morning, when Defarge&rsquo;s wine-shop parted with its last knot
      of customers, and Monsieur Defarge said to madame his wife, in husky
      tones, while fastening the door:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At last it is come, my dear!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh well!&rdquo; returned madame. &ldquo;Almost.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Saint Antoine slept, the Defarges slept: even The Vengeance slept with her
      starved grocer, and the drum was at rest. The drum&rsquo;s was the only voice in
      Saint Antoine that blood and hurry had not changed. The Vengeance, as
      custodian of the drum, could have wakened him up and had the same speech
      out of him as before the Bastille fell, or old Foulon was seized; not so
      with the hoarse tones of the men and women in Saint Antoine&rsquo;s bosom.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"></a>
      CHAPTER XXIII.<br />Fire Rises
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>here was a change on the village where the fountain fell, and where the
      mender of roads went forth daily to hammer out of the stones on the
      highway such morsels of bread as might serve for patches to hold his poor
      ignorant soul and his poor reduced body together. The prison on the crag
      was not so dominant as of yore; there were soldiers to guard it, but not
      many; there were officers to guard the soldiers, but not one of them knew
      what his men would do&mdash;beyond this: that it would probably not be
      what he was ordered.
    </p>
    <p>
      Far and wide lay a ruined country, yielding nothing but desolation. Every
      green leaf, every blade of grass and blade of grain, was as shrivelled and
      poor as the miserable people. Everything was bowed down, dejected,
      oppressed, and broken. Habitations, fences, domesticated animals, men,
      women, children, and the soil that bore them&mdash;all worn out.
    </p>
    <p>
      Monseigneur (often a most worthy individual gentleman) was a national
      blessing, gave a chivalrous tone to things, was a polite example of
      luxurious and shining life, and a great deal more to equal purpose;
      nevertheless, Monseigneur as a class had, somehow or other, brought things
      to this. Strange that Creation, designed expressly for Monseigneur, should
      be so soon wrung dry and squeezed out! There must be something
      short-sighted in the eternal arrangements, surely! Thus it was, however;
      and the last drop of blood having been extracted from the flints, and the
      last screw of the rack having been turned so often that its purchase
      crumbled, and it now turned and turned with nothing to bite, Monseigneur
      began to run away from a phenomenon so low and unaccountable.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, this was not the change on the village, and on many a village like
      it. For scores of years gone by, Monseigneur had squeezed it and wrung it,
      and had seldom graced it with his presence except for the pleasures of the
      chase&mdash;now, found in hunting the people; now, found in hunting the
      beasts, for whose preservation Monseigneur made edifying spaces of
      barbarous and barren wilderness. No. The change consisted in the
      appearance of strange faces of low caste, rather than in the disappearance
      of the high caste, chiselled, and otherwise beautified and beautifying
      features of Monseigneur.
    </p>
    <p>
      For, in these times, as the mender of roads worked, solitary, in the dust,
      not often troubling himself to reflect that dust he was and to dust he
      must return, being for the most part too much occupied in thinking how
      little he had for supper and how much more he would eat if he had it&mdash;in
      these times, as he raised his eyes from his lonely labour, and viewed the
      prospect, he would see some rough figure approaching on foot, the like of
      which was once a rarity in those parts, but was now a frequent presence.
      As it advanced, the mender of roads would discern without surprise, that
      it was a shaggy-haired man, of almost barbarian aspect, tall, in wooden
      shoes that were clumsy even to the eyes of a mender of roads, grim, rough,
      swart, steeped in the mud and dust of many highways, dank with the marshy
      moisture of many low grounds, sprinkled with the thorns and leaves and
      moss of many byways through woods.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such a man came upon him, like a ghost, at noon in the July weather, as he
      sat on his heap of stones under a bank, taking such shelter as he could
      get from a shower of hail.
    </p>
    <p>
      The man looked at him, looked at the village in the hollow, at the mill,
      and at the prison on the crag. When he had identified these objects in
      what benighted mind he had, he said, in a dialect that was just
      intelligible:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How goes it, Jacques?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All well, Jacques.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Touch then!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They joined hands, and the man sat down on the heap of stones.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No dinner?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing but supper now,&rdquo; said the mender of roads, with a hungry face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is the fashion,&rdquo; growled the man. &ldquo;I meet no dinner anywhere.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He took out a blackened pipe, filled it, lighted it with flint and steel,
      pulled at it until it was in a bright glow: then, suddenly held it from
      him and dropped something into it from between his finger and thumb, that
      blazed and went out in a puff of smoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Touch then.&rdquo; It was the turn of the mender of roads to say it this time,
      after observing these operations. They again joined hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To-night?&rdquo; said the mender of roads.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To-night,&rdquo; said the man, putting the pipe in his mouth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He and the mender of roads sat on the heap of stones looking silently at
      one another, with the hail driving in between them like a pigmy charge of
      bayonets, until the sky began to clear over the village.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Show me!&rdquo; said the traveller then, moving to the brow of the hill.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See!&rdquo; returned the mender of roads, with extended finger. &ldquo;You go down
      here, and straight through the street, and past the fountain&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To the Devil with all that!&rdquo; interrupted the other, rolling his eye over
      the landscape. &ldquo;<i>I</i> go through no streets and past no fountains.
      Well?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well! About two leagues beyond the summit of that hill above the
      village.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good. When do you cease to work?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At sunset.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you wake me, before departing? I have walked two nights without
      resting. Let me finish my pipe, and I shall sleep like a child. Will you
      wake me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Surely.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The wayfarer smoked his pipe out, put it in his breast, slipped off his
      great wooden shoes, and lay down on his back on the heap of stones. He was
      fast asleep directly.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the road-mender plied his dusty labour, and the hail-clouds, rolling
      away, revealed bright bars and streaks of sky which were responded to by
      silver gleams upon the landscape, the little man (who wore a red cap now,
      in place of his blue one) seemed fascinated by the figure on the heap of
      stones. His eyes were so often turned towards it, that he used his tools
      mechanically, and, one would have said, to very poor account. The bronze
      face, the shaggy black hair and beard, the coarse woollen red cap, the
      rough medley dress of home-spun stuff and hairy skins of beasts, the
      powerful frame attenuated by spare living, and the sullen and desperate
      compression of the lips in sleep, inspired the mender of roads with awe.
      The traveller had travelled far, and his feet were footsore, and his
      ankles chafed and bleeding; his great shoes, stuffed with leaves and
      grass, had been heavy to drag over the many long leagues, and his clothes
      were chafed into holes, as he himself was into sores. Stooping down beside
      him, the road-mender tried to get a peep at secret weapons in his breast
      or where not; but, in vain, for he slept with his arms crossed upon him,
      and set as resolutely as his lips. Fortified towns with their stockades,
      guard-houses, gates, trenches, and drawbridges, seemed to the mender of
      roads, to be so much air as against this figure. And when he lifted his
      eyes from it to the horizon and looked around, he saw in his small fancy
      similar figures, stopped by no obstacle, tending to centres all over
      France.
    </p>
    <p>
      The man slept on, indifferent to showers of hail and intervals of
      brightness, to sunshine on his face and shadow, to the paltering lumps of
      dull ice on his body and the diamonds into which the sun changed them,
      until the sun was low in the west, and the sky was glowing. Then, the
      mender of roads having got his tools together and all things ready to go
      down into the village, roused him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good!&rdquo; said the sleeper, rising on his elbow. &ldquo;Two leagues beyond the
      summit of the hill?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;About.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;About. Good!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The mender of roads went home, with the dust going on before him according
      to the set of the wind, and was soon at the fountain, squeezing himself in
      among the lean kine brought there to drink, and appearing even to whisper
      to them in his whispering to all the village. When the village had taken
      its poor supper, it did not creep to bed, as it usually did, but came out
      of doors again, and remained there. A curious contagion of whispering was
      upon it, and also, when it gathered together at the fountain in the dark,
      another curious contagion of looking expectantly at the sky in one
      direction only. Monsieur Gabelle, chief functionary of the place, became
      uneasy; went out on his house-top alone, and looked in that direction too;
      glanced down from behind his chimneys at the darkening faces by the
      fountain below, and sent word to the sacristan who kept the keys of the
      church, that there might be need to ring the tocsin by-and-bye.
    </p>
    <p>
      The night deepened. The trees environing the old chateau, keeping its
      solitary state apart, moved in a rising wind, as though they threatened
      the pile of building massive and dark in the gloom. Up the two terrace
      flights of steps the rain ran wildly, and beat at the great door, like a
      swift messenger rousing those within; uneasy rushes of wind went through
      the hall, among the old spears and knives, and passed lamenting up the
      stairs, and shook the curtains of the bed where the last Marquis had
      slept. East, West, North, and South, through the woods, four
      heavy-treading, unkempt figures crushed the high grass and cracked the
      branches, striding on cautiously to come together in the courtyard. Four
      lights broke out there, and moved away in different directions, and all
      was black again.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, not for long. Presently, the chateau began to make itself strangely
      visible by some light of its own, as though it were growing luminous.
      Then, a flickering streak played behind the architecture of the front,
      picking out transparent places, and showing where balustrades, arches, and
      windows were. Then it soared higher, and grew broader and brighter. Soon,
      from a score of the great windows, flames burst forth, and the stone faces
      awakened, stared out of fire.
    </p>
    <p>
      A faint murmur arose about the house from the few people who were left
      there, and there was a saddling of a horse and riding away. There was
      spurring and splashing through the darkness, and bridle was drawn in the
      space by the village fountain, and the horse in a foam stood at Monsieur
      Gabelle&rsquo;s door. &ldquo;Help, Gabelle! Help, every one!&rdquo; The tocsin rang
      impatiently, but other help (if that were any) there was none. The mender
      of roads, and two hundred and fifty particular friends, stood with folded
      arms at the fountain, looking at the pillar of fire in the sky. &ldquo;It must
      be forty feet high,&rdquo; said they, grimly; and never moved.
    </p>
    <p>
      The rider from the chateau, and the horse in a foam, clattered away
      through the village, and galloped up the stony steep, to the prison on the
      crag. At the gate, a group of officers were looking at the fire; removed
      from them, a group of soldiers. &ldquo;Help, gentlemen&mdash;officers! The
      chateau is on fire; valuable objects may be saved from the flames by
      timely aid! Help, help!&rdquo; The officers looked towards the soldiers who
      looked at the fire; gave no orders; and answered, with shrugs and biting
      of lips, &ldquo;It must burn.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As the rider rattled down the hill again and through the street, the
      village was illuminating. The mender of roads, and the two hundred and
      fifty particular friends, inspired as one man and woman by the idea of
      lighting up, had darted into their houses, and were putting candles in
      every dull little pane of glass. The general scarcity of everything,
      occasioned candles to be borrowed in a rather peremptory manner of
      Monsieur Gabelle; and in a moment of reluctance and hesitation on that
      functionary&rsquo;s part, the mender of roads, once so submissive to authority,
      had remarked that carriages were good to make bonfires with, and that
      post-horses would roast.
    </p>
    <p>
      The chateau was left to itself to flame and burn. In the roaring and
      raging of the conflagration, a red-hot wind, driving straight from the
      infernal regions, seemed to be blowing the edifice away. With the rising
      and falling of the blaze, the stone faces showed as if they were in
      torment. When great masses of stone and timber fell, the face with the two
      dints in the nose became obscured: anon struggled out of the smoke again,
      as if it were the face of the cruel Marquis, burning at the stake and
      contending with the fire.
    </p>
    <p>
      The chateau burned; the nearest trees, laid hold of by the fire, scorched
      and shrivelled; trees at a distance, fired by the four fierce figures,
      begirt the blazing edifice with a new forest of smoke. Molten lead and
      iron boiled in the marble basin of the fountain; the water ran dry; the
      extinguisher tops of the towers vanished like ice before the heat, and
      trickled down into four rugged wells of flame. Great rents and splits
      branched out in the solid walls, like crystallisation; stupefied birds
      wheeled about and dropped into the furnace; four fierce figures trudged
      away, East, West, North, and South, along the night-enshrouded roads,
      guided by the beacon they had lighted, towards their next destination. The
      illuminated village had seized hold of the tocsin, and, abolishing the
      lawful ringer, rang for joy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Not only that; but the village, light-headed with famine, fire, and
      bell-ringing, and bethinking itself that Monsieur Gabelle had to do with
      the collection of rent and taxes&mdash;though it was but a small
      instalment of taxes, and no rent at all, that Gabelle had got in those
      latter days&mdash;became impatient for an interview with him, and,
      surrounding his house, summoned him to come forth for personal conference.
      Whereupon, Monsieur Gabelle did heavily bar his door, and retire to hold
      counsel with himself. The result of that conference was, that Gabelle
      again withdrew himself to his housetop behind his stack of chimneys; this
      time resolved, if his door were broken in (he was a small Southern man of
      retaliative temperament), to pitch himself head foremost over the parapet,
      and crush a man or two below.
    </p>
    <p>
      Probably, Monsieur Gabelle passed a long night up there, with the distant
      chateau for fire and candle, and the beating at his door, combined with
      the joy-ringing, for music; not to mention his having an ill-omened lamp
      slung across the road before his posting-house gate, which the village
      showed a lively inclination to displace in his favour. A trying suspense,
      to be passing a whole summer night on the brink of the black ocean, ready
      to take that plunge into it upon which Monsieur Gabelle had resolved! But,
      the friendly dawn appearing at last, and the rush-candles of the village
      guttering out, the people happily dispersed, and Monsieur Gabelle came
      down bringing his life with him for that while.
    </p>
    <p>
      Within a hundred miles, and in the light of other fires, there were other
      functionaries less fortunate, that night and other nights, whom the rising
      sun found hanging across once-peaceful streets, where they had been born
      and bred; also, there were other villagers and townspeople less fortunate
      than the mender of roads and his fellows, upon whom the functionaries and
      soldiery turned with success, and whom they strung up in their turn. But,
      the fierce figures were steadily wending East, West, North, and South, be
      that as it would; and whosoever hung, fire burned. The altitude of the
      gallows that would turn to water and quench it, no functionary, by any
      stretch of mathematics, was able to calculate successfully.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"></a>
      CHAPTER XXIV.<br />Drawn to the Loadstone Rock
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>n such risings of fire and risings of sea&mdash;the firm earth shaken by
      the rushes of an angry ocean which had now no ebb, but was always on the
      flow, higher and higher, to the terror and wonder of the beholders on the
      shore&mdash;three years of tempest were consumed. Three more birthdays of
      little Lucie had been woven by the golden thread into the peaceful tissue
      of the life of her home.
    </p>
    <p>
      Many a night and many a day had its inmates listened to the echoes in the
      corner, with hearts that failed them when they heard the thronging feet.
      For, the footsteps had become to their minds as the footsteps of a people,
      tumultuous under a red flag and with their country declared in danger,
      changed into wild beasts, by terrible enchantment long persisted in.
    </p>
    <p>
      Monseigneur, as a class, had dissociated himself from the phenomenon of
      his not being appreciated: of his being so little wanted in France, as to
      incur considerable danger of receiving his dismissal from it, and this
      life together. Like the fabled rustic who raised the Devil with infinite
      pains, and was so terrified at the sight of him that he could ask the
      Enemy no question, but immediately fled; so, Monseigneur, after boldly
      reading the Lord&rsquo;s Prayer backwards for a great number of years, and
      performing many other potent spells for compelling the Evil One, no sooner
      beheld him in his terrors than he took to his noble heels.
    </p>
    <p>
      The shining Bull&rsquo;s Eye of the Court was gone, or it would have been the
      mark for a hurricane of national bullets. It had never been a good eye to
      see with&mdash;had long had the mote in it of Lucifer&rsquo;s pride,
      Sardanapalus&rsquo;s luxury, and a mole&rsquo;s blindness&mdash;but it had dropped out
      and was gone. The Court, from that exclusive inner circle to its outermost
      rotten ring of intrigue, corruption, and dissimulation, was all gone
      together. Royalty was gone; had been besieged in its Palace and
      &ldquo;suspended,&rdquo; when the last tidings came over.
    </p>
    <p>
      The August of the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety-two was come,
      and Monseigneur was by this time scattered far and wide.
    </p>
    <p>
      As was natural, the head-quarters and great gathering-place of
      Monseigneur, in London, was Tellson&rsquo;s Bank. Spirits are supposed to haunt
      the places where their bodies most resorted, and Monseigneur without a
      guinea haunted the spot where his guineas used to be. Moreover, it was the
      spot to which such French intelligence as was most to be relied upon, came
      quickest. Again: Tellson&rsquo;s was a munificent house, and extended great
      liberality to old customers who had fallen from their high estate. Again:
      those nobles who had seen the coming storm in time, and anticipating
      plunder or confiscation, had made provident remittances to Tellson&rsquo;s, were
      always to be heard of there by their needy brethren. To which it must be
      added that every new-comer from France reported himself and his tidings at
      Tellson&rsquo;s, almost as a matter of course. For such variety of reasons,
      Tellson&rsquo;s was at that time, as to French intelligence, a kind of High
      Exchange; and this was so well known to the public, and the inquiries made
      there were in consequence so numerous, that Tellson&rsquo;s sometimes wrote the
      latest news out in a line or so and posted it in the Bank windows, for all
      who ran through Temple Bar to read.
    </p>
    <p>
      On a steaming, misty afternoon, Mr. Lorry sat at his desk, and Charles
      Darnay stood leaning on it, talking with him in a low voice. The
      penitential den once set apart for interviews with the House, was now the
      news-Exchange, and was filled to overflowing. It was within half an hour
      or so of the time of closing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, although you are the youngest man that ever lived,&rdquo; said Charles
      Darnay, rather hesitating, &ldquo;I must still suggest to you&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I understand. That I am too old?&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Unsettled weather, a long journey, uncertain means of travelling, a
      disorganised country, a city that may not be even safe for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear Charles,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, with cheerful confidence, &ldquo;you touch
      some of the reasons for my going: not for my staying away. It is safe
      enough for me; nobody will care to interfere with an old fellow of hard
      upon fourscore when there are so many people there much better worth
      interfering with. As to its being a disorganised city, if it were not a
      disorganised city there would be no occasion to send somebody from our
      House here to our House there, who knows the city and the business, of
      old, and is in Tellson&rsquo;s confidence. As to the uncertain travelling, the
      long journey, and the winter weather, if I were not prepared to submit
      myself to a few inconveniences for the sake of Tellson&rsquo;s, after all these
      years, who ought to be?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish I were going myself,&rdquo; said Charles Darnay, somewhat restlessly,
      and like one thinking aloud.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed! You are a pretty fellow to object and advise!&rdquo; exclaimed Mr.
      Lorry. &ldquo;You wish you were going yourself? And you a Frenchman born? You
      are a wise counsellor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear Mr. Lorry, it is because I am a Frenchman born, that the thought
      (which I did not mean to utter here, however) has passed through my mind
      often. One cannot help thinking, having had some sympathy for the
      miserable people, and having abandoned something to them,&rdquo; he spoke here
      in his former thoughtful manner, &ldquo;that one might be listened to, and might
      have the power to persuade to some restraint. Only last night, after you
      had left us, when I was talking to Lucie&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When you were talking to Lucie,&rdquo; Mr. Lorry repeated. &ldquo;Yes. I wonder you
      are not ashamed to mention the name of Lucie! Wishing you were going to
      France at this time of day!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;However, I am not going,&rdquo; said Charles Darnay, with a smile. &ldquo;It is more
      to the purpose that you say you are.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I am, in plain reality. The truth is, my dear Charles,&rdquo; Mr. Lorry
      glanced at the distant House, and lowered his voice, &ldquo;you can have no
      conception of the difficulty with which our business is transacted, and of
      the peril in which our books and papers over yonder are involved. The Lord
      above knows what the compromising consequences would be to numbers of
      people, if some of our documents were seized or destroyed; and they might
      be, at any time, you know, for who can say that Paris is not set afire
      to-day, or sacked to-morrow! Now, a judicious selection from these with
      the least possible delay, and the burying of them, or otherwise getting of
      them out of harm&rsquo;s way, is within the power (without loss of precious
      time) of scarcely any one but myself, if any one. And shall I hang back,
      when Tellson&rsquo;s knows this and says this&mdash;Tellson&rsquo;s, whose bread I
      have eaten these sixty years&mdash;because I am a little stiff about the
      joints? Why, I am a boy, sir, to half a dozen old codgers here!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How I admire the gallantry of your youthful spirit, Mr. Lorry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tut! Nonsense, sir!&mdash;And, my dear Charles,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, glancing
      at the House again, &ldquo;you are to remember, that getting things out of Paris
      at this present time, no matter what things, is next to an impossibility.
      Papers and precious matters were this very day brought to us here (I speak
      in strict confidence; it is not business-like to whisper it, even to you),
      by the strangest bearers you can imagine, every one of whom had his head
      hanging on by a single hair as he passed the Barriers. At another time,
      our parcels would come and go, as easily as in business-like Old England;
      but now, everything is stopped.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And do you really go to-night?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I really go to-night, for the case has become too pressing to admit of
      delay.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And do you take no one with you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All sorts of people have been proposed to me, but I will have nothing to
      say to any of them. I intend to take Jerry. Jerry has been my bodyguard on
      Sunday nights for a long time past and I am used to him. Nobody will
      suspect Jerry of being anything but an English bull-dog, or of having any
      design in his head but to fly at anybody who touches his master.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must say again that I heartily admire your gallantry and youthfulness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must say again, nonsense, nonsense! When I have executed this little
      commission, I shall, perhaps, accept Tellson&rsquo;s proposal to retire and live
      at my ease. Time enough, then, to think about growing old.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This dialogue had taken place at Mr. Lorry&rsquo;s usual desk, with Monseigneur
      swarming within a yard or two of it, boastful of what he would do to
      avenge himself on the rascal-people before long. It was too much the way
      of Monseigneur under his reverses as a refugee, and it was much too much
      the way of native British orthodoxy, to talk of this terrible Revolution
      as if it were the only harvest ever known under the skies that had not
      been sown&mdash;as if nothing had ever been done, or omitted to be done,
      that had led to it&mdash;as if observers of the wretched millions in
      France, and of the misused and perverted resources that should have made
      them prosperous, had not seen it inevitably coming, years before, and had
      not in plain words recorded what they saw. Such vapouring, combined with
      the extravagant plots of Monseigneur for the restoration of a state of
      things that had utterly exhausted itself, and worn out Heaven and earth as
      well as itself, was hard to be endured without some remonstrance by any
      sane man who knew the truth. And it was such vapouring all about his ears,
      like a troublesome confusion of blood in his own head, added to a latent
      uneasiness in his mind, which had already made Charles Darnay restless,
      and which still kept him so.
    </p>
    <p>
      Among the talkers, was Stryver, of the King&rsquo;s Bench Bar, far on his way to
      state promotion, and, therefore, loud on the theme: broaching to
      Monseigneur, his devices for blowing the people up and exterminating them
      from the face of the earth, and doing without them: and for accomplishing
      many similar objects akin in their nature to the abolition of eagles by
      sprinkling salt on the tails of the race. Him, Darnay heard with a
      particular feeling of objection; and Darnay stood divided between going
      away that he might hear no more, and remaining to interpose his word, when
      the thing that was to be, went on to shape itself out.
    </p>
    <p>
      The House approached Mr. Lorry, and laying a soiled and unopened letter
      before him, asked if he had yet discovered any traces of the person to
      whom it was addressed? The House laid the letter down so close to Darnay
      that he saw the direction&mdash;the more quickly because it was his own
      right name. The address, turned into English, ran:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very pressing. To Monsieur heretofore the Marquis St. Evrémonde, of
      France. Confided to the cares of Messrs. Tellson and Co., Bankers, London,
      England.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      On the marriage morning, Doctor Manette had made it his one urgent and
      express request to Charles Darnay, that the secret of this name should be&mdash;unless
      he, the Doctor, dissolved the obligation&mdash;kept inviolate between
      them. Nobody else knew it to be his name; his own wife had no suspicion of
      the fact; Mr. Lorry could have none.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, in reply to the House; &ldquo;I have referred it, I think,
      to everybody now here, and no one can tell me where this gentleman is to
      be found.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The hands of the clock verging upon the hour of closing the Bank, there
      was a general set of the current of talkers past Mr. Lorry&rsquo;s desk. He held
      the letter out inquiringly; and Monseigneur looked at it, in the person of
      this plotting and indignant refugee; and Monseigneur looked at it in the
      person of that plotting and indignant refugee; and This, That, and The
      Other, all had something disparaging to say, in French or in English,
      concerning the Marquis who was not to be found.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nephew, I believe&mdash;but in any case degenerate successor&mdash;of the
      polished Marquis who was murdered,&rdquo; said one. &ldquo;Happy to say, I never knew
      him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A craven who abandoned his post,&rdquo; said another&mdash;this Monseigneur had
      been got out of Paris, legs uppermost and half suffocated, in a load of
      hay&mdash;&ldquo;some years ago.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Infected with the new doctrines,&rdquo; said a third, eyeing the direction
      through his glass in passing; &ldquo;set himself in opposition to the last
      Marquis, abandoned the estates when he inherited them, and left them to
      the ruffian herd. They will recompense him now, I hope, as he deserves.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hey?&rdquo; cried the blatant Stryver. &ldquo;Did he though? Is that the sort of
      fellow? Let us look at his infamous name. D&mdash;n the fellow!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Darnay, unable to restrain himself any longer, touched Mr. Stryver on the
      shoulder, and said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know the fellow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you, by Jupiter?&rdquo; said Stryver. &ldquo;I am sorry for it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Mr. Darnay? D&rsquo;ye hear what he did? Don&rsquo;t ask, why, in these times.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I do ask why?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I tell you again, Mr. Darnay, I am sorry for it. I am sorry to hear
      you putting any such extraordinary questions. Here is a fellow, who,
      infected by the most pestilent and blasphemous code of devilry that ever
      was known, abandoned his property to the vilest scum of the earth that
      ever did murder by wholesale, and you ask me why I am sorry that a man who
      instructs youth knows him? Well, but I&rsquo;ll answer you. I am sorry because I
      believe there is contamination in such a scoundrel. That&rsquo;s why.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mindful of the secret, Darnay with great difficulty checked himself, and
      said: &ldquo;You may not understand the gentleman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I understand how to put <i>you</i> in a corner, Mr. Darnay,&rdquo; said Bully
      Stryver, &ldquo;and I&rsquo;ll do it. If this fellow is a gentleman, I <i>don&rsquo;t</i>
      understand him. You may tell him so, with my compliments. You may also
      tell him, from me, that after abandoning his worldly goods and position to
      this butcherly mob, I wonder he is not at the head of them. But, no,
      gentlemen,&rdquo; said Stryver, looking all round, and snapping his fingers, &ldquo;I
      know something of human nature, and I tell you that you&rsquo;ll never find a
      fellow like this fellow, trusting himself to the mercies of such precious
      <i>protégés</i>. No, gentlemen; he&rsquo;ll always show &rsquo;em a clean pair of
      heels very early in the scuffle, and sneak away.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With those words, and a final snap of his fingers, Mr. Stryver shouldered
      himself into Fleet-street, amidst the general approbation of his hearers.
      Mr. Lorry and Charles Darnay were left alone at the desk, in the general
      departure from the Bank.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you take charge of the letter?&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry. &ldquo;You know where to
      deliver it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you undertake to explain, that we suppose it to have been addressed
      here, on the chance of our knowing where to forward it, and that it has
      been here some time?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will do so. Do you start for Paris from here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From here, at eight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will come back, to see you off.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Very ill at ease with himself, and with Stryver and most other men, Darnay
      made the best of his way into the quiet of the Temple, opened the letter,
      and read it. These were its contents:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Prison of the Abbaye, Paris.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;June 21, 1792. &ldquo;<i>Monsieur Heretofore The Marquis</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;After having long been in danger of my life at the hands of the village,
      I have been seized, with great violence and indignity, and brought a long
      journey on foot to Paris. On the road I have suffered a great deal. Nor is
      that all; my house has been destroyed&mdash;razed to the ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The crime for which I am imprisoned, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, and
      for which I shall be summoned before the tribunal, and shall lose my life
      (without your so generous help), is, they tell me, treason against the
      majesty of the people, in that I have acted against them for an emigrant.
      It is in vain I represent that I have acted for them, and not against,
      according to your commands. It is in vain I represent that, before the
      sequestration of emigrant property, I had remitted the imposts they had
      ceased to pay; that I had collected no rent; that I had had recourse to no
      process. The only response is, that I have acted for an emigrant, and
      where is that emigrant?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! most gracious Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, where is that
      emigrant? I cry in my sleep where is he? I demand of Heaven, will he not
      come to deliver me? No answer. Ah Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, I send
      my desolate cry across the sea, hoping it may perhaps reach your ears
      through the great bank of Tilson known at Paris!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For the love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the honour of your
      noble name, I supplicate you, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, to succour
      and release me. My fault is, that I have been true to you. Oh Monsieur
      heretofore the Marquis, I pray you be you true to me!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From this prison here of horror, whence I every hour tend nearer and
      nearer to destruction, I send you, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, the
      assurance of my dolorous and unhappy service.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your afflicted,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gabelle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The latent uneasiness in Darnay&rsquo;s mind was roused to vigourous life by
      this letter. The peril of an old servant and a good one, whose only crime
      was fidelity to himself and his family, stared him so reproachfully in the
      face, that, as he walked to and fro in the Temple considering what to do,
      he almost hid his face from the passersby.
    </p>
    <p>
      He knew very well, that in his horror of the deed which had culminated the
      bad deeds and bad reputation of the old family house, in his resentful
      suspicions of his uncle, and in the aversion with which his conscience
      regarded the crumbling fabric that he was supposed to uphold, he had acted
      imperfectly. He knew very well, that in his love for Lucie, his
      renunciation of his social place, though by no means new to his own mind,
      had been hurried and incomplete. He knew that he ought to have
      systematically worked it out and supervised it, and that he had meant to
      do it, and that it had never been done.
    </p>
    <p>
      The happiness of his own chosen English home, the necessity of being
      always actively employed, the swift changes and troubles of the time which
      had followed on one another so fast, that the events of this week
      annihilated the immature plans of last week, and the events of the week
      following made all new again; he knew very well, that to the force of
      these circumstances he had yielded:&mdash;not without disquiet, but still
      without continuous and accumulating resistance. That he had watched the
      times for a time of action, and that they had shifted and struggled until
      the time had gone by, and the nobility were trooping from France by every
      highway and byway, and their property was in course of confiscation and
      destruction, and their very names were blotting out, was as well known to
      himself as it could be to any new authority in France that might impeach
      him for it.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, he had oppressed no man, he had imprisoned no man; he was so far from
      having harshly exacted payment of his dues, that he had relinquished them
      of his own will, thrown himself on a world with no favour in it, won his
      own private place there, and earned his own bread. Monsieur Gabelle had
      held the impoverished and involved estate on written instructions, to
      spare the people, to give them what little there was to give&mdash;such
      fuel as the heavy creditors would let them have in the winter, and such
      produce as could be saved from the same grip in the summer&mdash;and no
      doubt he had put the fact in plea and proof, for his own safety, so that
      it could not but appear now.
    </p>
    <p>
      This favoured the desperate resolution Charles Darnay had begun to make,
      that he would go to Paris.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yes. Like the mariner in the old story, the winds and streams had driven
      him within the influence of the Loadstone Rock, and it was drawing him to
      itself, and he must go. Everything that arose before his mind drifted him
      on, faster and faster, more and more steadily, to the terrible attraction.
      His latent uneasiness had been, that bad aims were being worked out in his
      own unhappy land by bad instruments, and that he who could not fail to
      know that he was better than they, was not there, trying to do something
      to stay bloodshed, and assert the claims of mercy and humanity. With this
      uneasiness half stifled, and half reproaching him, he had been brought to
      the pointed comparison of himself with the brave old gentleman in whom
      duty was so strong; upon that comparison (injurious to himself) had
      instantly followed the sneers of Monseigneur, which had stung him
      bitterly, and those of Stryver, which above all were coarse and galling,
      for old reasons. Upon those, had followed Gabelle&rsquo;s letter: the appeal of
      an innocent prisoner, in danger of death, to his justice, honour, and good
      name.
    </p>
    <p>
      His resolution was made. He must go to Paris.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yes. The Loadstone Rock was drawing him, and he must sail on, until he
      struck. He knew of no rock; he saw hardly any danger. The intention with
      which he had done what he had done, even although he had left it
      incomplete, presented it before him in an aspect that would be gratefully
      acknowledged in France on his presenting himself to assert it. Then, that
      glorious vision of doing good, which is so often the sanguine mirage of so
      many good minds, arose before him, and he even saw himself in the illusion
      with some influence to guide this raging Revolution that was running so
      fearfully wild.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he walked to and fro with his resolution made, he considered that
      neither Lucie nor her father must know of it until he was gone. Lucie
      should be spared the pain of separation; and her father, always reluctant
      to turn his thoughts towards the dangerous ground of old, should come to
      the knowledge of the step, as a step taken, and not in the balance of
      suspense and doubt. How much of the incompleteness of his situation was
      referable to her father, through the painful anxiety to avoid reviving old
      associations of France in his mind, he did not discuss with himself. But,
      that circumstance too, had had its influence in his course.
    </p>
    <p>
      He walked to and fro, with thoughts very busy, until it was time to return
      to Tellson&rsquo;s and take leave of Mr. Lorry. As soon as he arrived in Paris
      he would present himself to this old friend, but he must say nothing of
      his intention now.
    </p>
    <p>
      A carriage with post-horses was ready at the Bank door, and Jerry was
      booted and equipped.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have delivered that letter,&rdquo; said Charles Darnay to Mr. Lorry. &ldquo;I would
      not consent to your being charged with any written answer, but perhaps you
      will take a verbal one?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That I will, and readily,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, &ldquo;if it is not dangerous.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not at all. Though it is to a prisoner in the Abbaye.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is his name?&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, with his open pocket-book in his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gabelle.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gabelle. And what is the message to the unfortunate Gabelle in prison?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Simply, &lsquo;that he has received the letter, and will come.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Any time mentioned?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He will start upon his journey to-morrow night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Any person mentioned?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He helped Mr. Lorry to wrap himself in a number of coats and cloaks, and
      went out with him from the warm atmosphere of the old Bank, into the misty
      air of Fleet-street. &ldquo;My love to Lucie, and to little Lucie,&rdquo; said Mr.
      Lorry at parting, &ldquo;and take precious care of them till I come back.&rdquo;
       Charles Darnay shook his head and doubtfully smiled, as the carriage
      rolled away.
    </p>
    <p>
      That night&mdash;it was the fourteenth of August&mdash;he sat up late, and
      wrote two fervent letters; one was to Lucie, explaining the strong
      obligation he was under to go to Paris, and showing her, at length, the
      reasons that he had, for feeling confident that he could become involved
      in no personal danger there; the other was to the Doctor, confiding Lucie
      and their dear child to his care, and dwelling on the same topics with the
      strongest assurances. To both, he wrote that he would despatch letters in
      proof of his safety, immediately after his arrival.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a hard day, that day of being among them, with the first
      reservation of their joint lives on his mind. It was a hard matter to
      preserve the innocent deceit of which they were profoundly unsuspicious.
      But, an affectionate glance at his wife, so happy and busy, made him
      resolute not to tell her what impended (he had been half moved to do it,
      so strange it was to him to act in anything without her quiet aid), and
      the day passed quickly. Early in the evening he embraced her, and her
      scarcely less dear namesake, pretending that he would return by-and-bye
      (an imaginary engagement took him out, and he had secreted a valise of
      clothes ready), and so he emerged into the heavy mist of the heavy
      streets, with a heavier heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      The unseen force was drawing him fast to itself, now, and all the tides
      and winds were setting straight and strong towards it. He left his two
      letters with a trusty porter, to be delivered half an hour before
      midnight, and no sooner; took horse for Dover; and began his journey. &ldquo;For
      the love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the honour of your noble
      name!&rdquo; was the poor prisoner&rsquo;s cry with which he strengthened his sinking
      heart, as he left all that was dear on earth behind him, and floated away
      for the Loadstone Rock.
    </p>
    <p>
      The end of the second book.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"></a>
      Book the Third&mdash;the Track of a Storm
    </h2>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"></a>
      CHAPTER I.<br />In Secret
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he traveller fared slowly on his way, who fared towards Paris from
      England in the autumn of the year one thousand seven hundred and
      ninety-two. More than enough of bad roads, bad equipages, and bad horses,
      he would have encountered to delay him, though the fallen and unfortunate
      King of France had been upon his throne in all his glory; but, the changed
      times were fraught with other obstacles than these. Every town-gate and
      village taxing-house had its band of citizen-patriots, with their national
      muskets in a most explosive state of readiness, who stopped all comers and
      goers, cross-questioned them, inspected their papers, looked for their
      names in lists of their own, turned them back, or sent them on, or stopped
      them and laid them in hold, as their capricious judgment or fancy deemed
      best for the dawning Republic One and Indivisible, of Liberty, Equality,
      Fraternity, or Death.
    </p>
    <p>
      A very few French leagues of his journey were accomplished, when Charles
      Darnay began to perceive that for him along these country roads there was
      no hope of return until he should have been declared a good citizen at
      Paris. Whatever might befall now, he must on to his journey&rsquo;s end. Not a
      mean village closed upon him, not a common barrier dropped across the road
      behind him, but he knew it to be another iron door in the series that was
      barred between him and England. The universal watchfulness so encompassed
      him, that if he had been taken in a net, or were being forwarded to his
      destination in a cage, he could not have felt his freedom more completely
      gone.
    </p>
    <p>
      This universal watchfulness not only stopped him on the highway twenty
      times in a stage, but retarded his progress twenty times in a day, by
      riding after him and taking him back, riding before him and stopping him
      by anticipation, riding with him and keeping him in charge. He had been
      days upon his journey in France alone, when he went to bed tired out, in a
      little town on the high road, still a long way from Paris.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nothing but the production of the afflicted Gabelle&rsquo;s letter from his
      prison of the Abbaye would have got him on so far. His difficulty at the
      guard-house in this small place had been such, that he felt his journey to
      have come to a crisis. And he was, therefore, as little surprised as a man
      could be, to find himself awakened at the small inn to which he had been
      remitted until morning, in the middle of the night.
    </p>
    <p>
      Awakened by a timid local functionary and three armed patriots in rough
      red caps and with pipes in their mouths, who sat down on the bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Emigrant,&rdquo; said the functionary, &ldquo;I am going to send you on to Paris,
      under an escort.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Citizen, I desire nothing more than to get to Paris, though I could
      dispense with the escort.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Silence!&rdquo; growled a red-cap, striking at the coverlet with the butt-end
      of his musket. &ldquo;Peace, aristocrat!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is as the good patriot says,&rdquo; observed the timid functionary. &ldquo;You are
      an aristocrat, and must have an escort&mdash;and must pay for it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have no choice,&rdquo; said Charles Darnay.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Choice! Listen to him!&rdquo; cried the same scowling red-cap. &ldquo;As if it was
      not a favour to be protected from the lamp-iron!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is always as the good patriot says,&rdquo; observed the functionary. &ldquo;Rise
      and dress yourself, emigrant.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Darnay complied, and was taken back to the guard-house, where other
      patriots in rough red caps were smoking, drinking, and sleeping, by a
      watch-fire. Here he paid a heavy price for his escort, and hence he
      started with it on the wet, wet roads at three o&rsquo;clock in the morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      The escort were two mounted patriots in red caps and tri-coloured
      cockades, armed with national muskets and sabres, who rode one on either
      side of him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The escorted governed his own horse, but a loose line was attached to his
      bridle, the end of which one of the patriots kept girded round his wrist.
      In this state they set forth with the sharp rain driving in their faces:
      clattering at a heavy dragoon trot over the uneven town pavement, and out
      upon the mire-deep roads. In this state they traversed without change,
      except of horses and pace, all the mire-deep leagues that lay between them
      and the capital.
    </p>
    <p>
      They travelled in the night, halting an hour or two after daybreak, and
      lying by until the twilight fell. The escort were so wretchedly clothed,
      that they twisted straw round their bare legs, and thatched their ragged
      shoulders to keep the wet off. Apart from the personal discomfort of being
      so attended, and apart from such considerations of present danger as arose
      from one of the patriots being chronically drunk, and carrying his musket
      very recklessly, Charles Darnay did not allow the restraint that was laid
      upon him to awaken any serious fears in his breast; for, he reasoned with
      himself that it could have no reference to the merits of an individual
      case that was not yet stated, and of representations, confirmable by the
      prisoner in the Abbaye, that were not yet made.
    </p>
    <p>
      But when they came to the town of Beauvais&mdash;which they did at
      eventide, when the streets were filled with people&mdash;he could not
      conceal from himself that the aspect of affairs was very alarming. An
      ominous crowd gathered to see him dismount of the posting-yard, and many
      voices called out loudly, &ldquo;Down with the emigrant!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He stopped in the act of swinging himself out of his saddle, and, resuming
      it as his safest place, said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Emigrant, my friends! Do you not see me here, in France, of my own will?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are a cursed emigrant,&rdquo; cried a farrier, making at him in a furious
      manner through the press, hammer in hand; &ldquo;and you are a cursed
      aristocrat!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The postmaster interposed himself between this man and the rider&rsquo;s bridle
      (at which he was evidently making), and soothingly said, &ldquo;Let him be; let
      him be! He will be judged at Paris.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Judged!&rdquo; repeated the farrier, swinging his hammer. &ldquo;Ay! and condemned as
      a traitor.&rdquo; At this the crowd roared approval.
    </p>
    <p>
      Checking the postmaster, who was for turning his horse&rsquo;s head to the yard
      (the drunken patriot sat composedly in his saddle looking on, with the
      line round his wrist), Darnay said, as soon as he could make his voice
      heard:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Friends, you deceive yourselves, or you are deceived. I am not a
      traitor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He lies!&rdquo; cried the smith. &ldquo;He is a traitor since the decree. His life is
      forfeit to the people. His cursed life is not his own!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At the instant when Darnay saw a rush in the eyes of the crowd, which
      another instant would have brought upon him, the postmaster turned his
      horse into the yard, the escort rode in close upon his horse&rsquo;s flanks, and
      the postmaster shut and barred the crazy double gates. The farrier struck
      a blow upon them with his hammer, and the crowd groaned; but, no more was
      done.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is this decree that the smith spoke of?&rdquo; Darnay asked the
      postmaster, when he had thanked him, and stood beside him in the yard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Truly, a decree for selling the property of emigrants.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When passed?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On the fourteenth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The day I left England!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Everybody says it is but one of several, and that there will be others&mdash;if
      there are not already&mdash;banishing all emigrants, and condemning all to
      death who return. That is what he meant when he said your life was not
      your own.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But there are no such decrees yet?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do I know!&rdquo; said the postmaster, shrugging his shoulders; &ldquo;there may
      be, or there will be. It is all the same. What would you have?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They rested on some straw in a loft until the middle of the night, and
      then rode forward again when all the town was asleep. Among the many wild
      changes observable on familiar things which made this wild ride unreal,
      not the least was the seeming rarity of sleep. After long and lonely
      spurring over dreary roads, they would come to a cluster of poor cottages,
      not steeped in darkness, but all glittering with lights, and would find
      the people, in a ghostly manner in the dead of the night, circling hand in
      hand round a shrivelled tree of Liberty, or all drawn up together singing
      a Liberty song. Happily, however, there was sleep in Beauvais that night
      to help them out of it and they passed on once more into solitude and
      loneliness: jingling through the untimely cold and wet, among impoverished
      fields that had yielded no fruits of the earth that year, diversified by
      the blackened remains of burnt houses, and by the sudden emergence from
      ambuscade, and sharp reining up across their way, of patriot patrols on
      the watch on all the roads.
    </p>
    <p>
      Daylight at last found them before the wall of Paris. The barrier was
      closed and strongly guarded when they rode up to it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where are the papers of this prisoner?&rdquo; demanded a resolute-looking man
      in authority, who was summoned out by the guard.
    </p>
    <p>
      Naturally struck by the disagreeable word, Charles Darnay requested the
      speaker to take notice that he was a free traveller and French citizen, in
      charge of an escort which the disturbed state of the country had imposed
      upon him, and which he had paid for.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where,&rdquo; repeated the same personage, without taking any heed of him
      whatever, &ldquo;are the papers of this prisoner?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The drunken patriot had them in his cap, and produced them. Casting his
      eyes over Gabelle&rsquo;s letter, the same personage in authority showed some
      disorder and surprise, and looked at Darnay with a close attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      He left escort and escorted without saying a word, however, and went into
      the guard-room; meanwhile, they sat upon their horses outside the gate.
      Looking about him while in this state of suspense, Charles Darnay observed
      that the gate was held by a mixed guard of soldiers and patriots, the
      latter far outnumbering the former; and that while ingress into the city
      for peasants&rsquo; carts bringing in supplies, and for similar traffic and
      traffickers, was easy enough, egress, even for the homeliest people, was
      very difficult. A numerous medley of men and women, not to mention beasts
      and vehicles of various sorts, was waiting to issue forth; but, the
      previous identification was so strict, that they filtered through the
      barrier very slowly. Some of these people knew their turn for examination
      to be so far off, that they lay down on the ground to sleep or smoke,
      while others talked together, or loitered about. The red cap and
      tri-colour cockade were universal, both among men and women.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he had sat in his saddle some half-hour, taking note of these things,
      Darnay found himself confronted by the same man in authority, who directed
      the guard to open the barrier. Then he delivered to the escort, drunk and
      sober, a receipt for the escorted, and requested him to dismount. He did
      so, and the two patriots, leading his tired horse, turned and rode away
      without entering the city.
    </p>
    <p>
      He accompanied his conductor into a guard-room, smelling of common wine
      and tobacco, where certain soldiers and patriots, asleep and awake, drunk
      and sober, and in various neutral states between sleeping and waking,
      drunkenness and sobriety, were standing and lying about. The light in the
      guard-house, half derived from the waning oil-lamps of the night, and half
      from the overcast day, was in a correspondingly uncertain condition. Some
      registers were lying open on a desk, and an officer of a coarse, dark
      aspect, presided over these.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Citizen Defarge,&rdquo; said he to Darnay&rsquo;s conductor, as he took a slip of
      paper to write on. &ldquo;Is this the emigrant Evrémonde?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is the man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your age, Evrémonde?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thirty-seven.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Married, Evrémonde?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where married?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In England.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Without doubt. Where is your wife, Evrémonde?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In England.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Without doubt. You are consigned, Evrémonde, to the prison of La Force.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just Heaven!&rdquo; exclaimed Darnay. &ldquo;Under what law, and for what offence?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The officer looked up from his slip of paper for a moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We have new laws, Evrémonde, and new offences, since you were here.&rdquo; He
      said it with a hard smile, and went on writing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I entreat you to observe that I have come here voluntarily, in response
      to that written appeal of a fellow-countryman which lies before you. I
      demand no more than the opportunity to do so without delay. Is not that my
      right?&rdquo;
     </p>

<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/0616m.jpg" style="width:100%;"  alt="0616m " /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0616.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>

    <p>
      &ldquo;Emigrants have no rights, Evrémonde,&rdquo; was the stolid reply. The officer
      wrote until he had finished, read over to himself what he had written,
      sanded it, and handed it to Defarge, with the words &ldquo;In secret.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Defarge motioned with the paper to the prisoner that he must accompany
      him. The prisoner obeyed, and a guard of two armed patriots attended them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it you,&rdquo; said Defarge, in a low voice, as they went down the
      guardhouse steps and turned into Paris, &ldquo;who married the daughter of
      Doctor Manette, once a prisoner in the Bastille that is no more?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; replied Darnay, looking at him with surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My name is Defarge, and I keep a wine-shop in the Quarter Saint Antoine.
      Possibly you have heard of me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My wife came to your house to reclaim her father? Yes!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The word &ldquo;wife&rdquo; seemed to serve as a gloomy reminder to Defarge, to say
      with sudden impatience, &ldquo;In the name of that sharp female newly-born, and
      called La Guillotine, why did you come to France?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You heard me say why, a minute ago. Do you not believe it is the truth?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A bad truth for you,&rdquo; said Defarge, speaking with knitted brows, and
      looking straight before him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed I am lost here. All here is so unprecedented, so changed, so
      sudden and unfair, that I am absolutely lost. Will you render me a little
      help?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;None.&rdquo; Defarge spoke, always looking straight before him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you answer me a single question?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps. According to its nature. You can say what it is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In this prison that I am going to so unjustly, shall I have some free
      communication with the world outside?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will see.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not to be buried there, prejudged, and without any means of
      presenting my case?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will see. But, what then? Other people have been similarly buried in
      worse prisons, before now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But never by me, Citizen Defarge.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Defarge glanced darkly at him for answer, and walked on in a steady and
      set silence. The deeper he sank into this silence, the fainter hope there
      was&mdash;or so Darnay thought&mdash;of his softening in any slight
      degree. He, therefore, made haste to say:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is of the utmost importance to me (you know, Citizen, even better than
      I, of how much importance), that I should be able to communicate to Mr.
      Lorry of Tellson&rsquo;s Bank, an English gentleman who is now in Paris, the
      simple fact, without comment, that I have been thrown into the prison of
      La Force. Will you cause that to be done for me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will do,&rdquo; Defarge doggedly rejoined, &ldquo;nothing for you. My duty is to my
      country and the People. I am the sworn servant of both, against you. I
      will do nothing for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Charles Darnay felt it hopeless to entreat him further, and his pride was
      touched besides. As they walked on in silence, he could not but see how
      used the people were to the spectacle of prisoners passing along the
      streets. The very children scarcely noticed him. A few passers turned
      their heads, and a few shook their fingers at him as an aristocrat;
      otherwise, that a man in good clothes should be going to prison, was no
      more remarkable than that a labourer in working clothes should be going to
      work. In one narrow, dark, and dirty street through which they passed, an
      excited orator, mounted on a stool, was addressing an excited audience on
      the crimes against the people, of the king and the royal family. The few
      words that he caught from this man&rsquo;s lips, first made it known to Charles
      Darnay that the king was in prison, and that the foreign ambassadors had
      one and all left Paris. On the road (except at Beauvais) he had heard
      absolutely nothing. The escort and the universal watchfulness had
      completely isolated him.
    </p>
    <p>
      That he had fallen among far greater dangers than those which had
      developed themselves when he left England, he of course knew now. That
      perils had thickened about him fast, and might thicken faster and faster
      yet, he of course knew now. He could not but admit to himself that he
      might not have made this journey, if he could have foreseen the events of
      a few days. And yet his misgivings were not so dark as, imagined by the
      light of this later time, they would appear. Troubled as the future was,
      it was the unknown future, and in its obscurity there was ignorant hope.
      The horrible massacre, days and nights long, which, within a few rounds of
      the clock, was to set a great mark of blood upon the blessed garnering
      time of harvest, was as far out of his knowledge as if it had been a
      hundred thousand years away. The &ldquo;sharp female newly-born, and called La
      Guillotine,&rdquo; was hardly known to him, or to the generality of people, by
      name. The frightful deeds that were to be soon done, were probably
      unimagined at that time in the brains of the doers. How could they have a
      place in the shadowy conceptions of a gentle mind?
    </p>
    <p>
      Of unjust treatment in detention and hardship, and in cruel separation
      from his wife and child, he foreshadowed the likelihood, or the certainty;
      but, beyond this, he dreaded nothing distinctly. With this on his mind,
      which was enough to carry into a dreary prison courtyard, he arrived at
      the prison of La Force.
    </p>
    <p>
      A man with a bloated face opened the strong wicket, to whom Defarge
      presented &ldquo;The Emigrant Evrémonde.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What the Devil! How many more of them!&rdquo; exclaimed the man with the
      bloated face.
    </p>
    <p>
      Defarge took his receipt without noticing the exclamation, and withdrew,
      with his two fellow-patriots.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What the Devil, I say again!&rdquo; exclaimed the gaoler, left with his wife.
      &ldquo;How many more!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The gaoler&rsquo;s wife, being provided with no answer to the question, merely
      replied, &ldquo;One must have patience, my dear!&rdquo; Three turnkeys who entered
      responsive to a bell she rang, echoed the sentiment, and one added, &ldquo;For
      the love of Liberty;&rdquo; which sounded in that place like an inappropriate
      conclusion.
    </p>
    <p>
      The prison of La Force was a gloomy prison, dark and filthy, and with a
      horrible smell of foul sleep in it. Extraordinary how soon the noisome
      flavour of imprisoned sleep, becomes manifest in all such places that are
      ill cared for!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In secret, too,&rdquo; grumbled the gaoler, looking at the written paper. &ldquo;As
      if I was not already full to bursting!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He stuck the paper on a file, in an ill-humour, and Charles Darnay awaited
      his further pleasure for half an hour: sometimes, pacing to and fro in the
      strong arched room: sometimes, resting on a stone seat: in either case
      detained to be imprinted on the memory of the chief and his subordinates.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come!&rdquo; said the chief, at length taking up his keys, &ldquo;come with me,
      emigrant.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Through the dismal prison twilight, his new charge accompanied him by
      corridor and staircase, many doors clanging and locking behind them, until
      they came into a large, low, vaulted chamber, crowded with prisoners of
      both sexes. The women were seated at a long table, reading and writing,
      knitting, sewing, and embroidering; the men were for the most part
      standing behind their chairs, or lingering up and down the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the instinctive association of prisoners with shameful crime and
      disgrace, the new-comer recoiled from this company. But the crowning
      unreality of his long unreal ride, was, their all at once rising to
      receive him, with every refinement of manner known to the time, and with
      all the engaging graces and courtesies of life.
    </p>
    <p>
      So strangely clouded were these refinements by the prison manners and
      gloom, so spectral did they become in the inappropriate squalor and misery
      through which they were seen, that Charles Darnay seemed to stand in a
      company of the dead. Ghosts all! The ghost of beauty, the ghost of
      stateliness, the ghost of elegance, the ghost of pride, the ghost of
      frivolity, the ghost of wit, the ghost of youth, the ghost of age, all
      waiting their dismissal from the desolate shore, all turning on him eyes
      that were changed by the death they had died in coming there.
    </p>
    <p>
      It struck him motionless. The gaoler standing at his side, and the other
      gaolers moving about, who would have been well enough as to appearance in
      the ordinary exercise of their functions, looked so extravagantly coarse
      contrasted with sorrowing mothers and blooming daughters who were there&mdash;with
      the apparitions of the coquette, the young beauty, and the mature woman
      delicately bred&mdash;that the inversion of all experience and likelihood
      which the scene of shadows presented, was heightened to its utmost.
      Surely, ghosts all. Surely, the long unreal ride some progress of disease
      that had brought him to these gloomy shades!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the name of the assembled companions in misfortune,&rdquo; said a gentleman
      of courtly appearance and address, coming forward, &ldquo;I have the honour of
      giving you welcome to La Force, and of condoling with you on the calamity
      that has brought you among us. May it soon terminate happily! It would be
      an impertinence elsewhere, but it is not so here, to ask your name and
      condition?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Charles Darnay roused himself, and gave the required information, in words
      as suitable as he could find.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I hope,&rdquo; said the gentleman, following the chief gaoler with his
      eyes, who moved across the room, &ldquo;that you are not in secret?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not understand the meaning of the term, but I have heard them say
      so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, what a pity! We so much regret it! But take courage; several members
      of our society have been in secret, at first, and it has lasted but a
      short time.&rdquo; Then he added, raising his voice, &ldquo;I grieve to inform the
      society&mdash;in secret.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was a murmur of commiseration as Charles Darnay crossed the room to
      a grated door where the gaoler awaited him, and many voices&mdash;among
      which, the soft and compassionate voices of women were conspicuous&mdash;gave
      him good wishes and encouragement. He turned at the grated door, to render
      the thanks of his heart; it closed under the gaoler&rsquo;s hand; and the
      apparitions vanished from his sight forever.
    </p>
    <p>
      The wicket opened on a stone staircase, leading upward. When they had
      ascended forty steps (the prisoner of half an hour already counted them),
      the gaoler opened a low black door, and they passed into a solitary cell.
      It struck cold and damp, but was not dark.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yours,&rdquo; said the gaoler.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why am I confined alone?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How do I know!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can buy pen, ink, and paper?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Such are not my orders. You will be visited, and can ask then. At
      present, you may buy your food, and nothing more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There were in the cell, a chair, a table, and a straw mattress. As the
      gaoler made a general inspection of these objects, and of the four walls,
      before going out, a wandering fancy wandered through the mind of the
      prisoner leaning against the wall opposite to him, that this gaoler was so
      unwholesomely bloated, both in face and person, as to look like a man who
      had been drowned and filled with water. When the gaoler was gone, he
      thought in the same wandering way, &ldquo;Now am I left, as if I were dead.&rdquo;
       Stopping then, to look down at the mattress, he turned from it with a sick
      feeling, and thought, &ldquo;And here in these crawling creatures is the first
      condition of the body after death.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Five paces by four and a half, five paces by four and a half, five paces
      by four and a half.&rdquo; The prisoner walked to and fro in his cell, counting
      its measurement, and the roar of the city arose like muffled drums with a
      wild swell of voices added to them. &ldquo;He made shoes, he made shoes, he made
      shoes.&rdquo; The prisoner counted the measurement again, and paced faster, to
      draw his mind with him from that latter repetition. &ldquo;The ghosts that
      vanished when the wicket closed. There was one among them, the appearance
      of a lady dressed in black, who was leaning in the embrasure of a window,
      and she had a light shining upon her golden hair, and she looked like * *
      * * Let us ride on again, for God&rsquo;s sake, through the illuminated villages
      with the people all awake! * * * * He made shoes, he made shoes, he made
      shoes. * * * * Five paces by four and a half.&rdquo; With such scraps tossing
      and rolling upward from the depths of his mind, the prisoner walked faster
      and faster, obstinately counting and counting; and the roar of the city
      changed to this extent&mdash;that it still rolled in like muffled drums,
      but with the wail of voices that he knew, in the swell that rose above
      them.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"></a>
      CHAPTER II.<br />The Grindstone
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>ellson&rsquo;s Bank, established in the Saint Germain Quarter of Paris, was in
      a wing of a large house, approached by a courtyard and shut off from the
      street by a high wall and a strong gate. The house belonged to a great
      nobleman who had lived in it until he made a flight from the troubles, in
      his own cook&rsquo;s dress, and got across the borders. A mere beast of the
      chase flying from hunters, he was still in his metempsychosis no other
      than the same Monseigneur, the preparation of whose chocolate for whose
      lips had once occupied three strong men besides the cook in question.
    </p>
    <p>
      Monseigneur gone, and the three strong men absolving themselves from the
      sin of having drawn his high wages, by being more than ready and willing
      to cut his throat on the altar of the dawning Republic one and indivisible
      of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, Monseigneur&rsquo;s house had been
      first sequestrated, and then confiscated. For, all things moved so fast,
      and decree followed decree with that fierce precipitation, that now upon
      the third night of the autumn month of September, patriot emissaries of
      the law were in possession of Monseigneur&rsquo;s house, and had marked it with
      the tri-colour, and were drinking brandy in its state apartments.
    </p>
    <p>
      A place of business in London like Tellson&rsquo;s place of business in Paris,
      would soon have driven the House out of its mind and into the Gazette.
      For, what would staid British responsibility and respectability have said
      to orange-trees in boxes in a Bank courtyard, and even to a Cupid over the
      counter? Yet such things were. Tellson&rsquo;s had whitewashed the Cupid, but he
      was still to be seen on the ceiling, in the coolest linen, aiming (as he
      very often does) at money from morning to night. Bankruptcy must
      inevitably have come of this young Pagan, in Lombard-street, London, and
      also of a curtained alcove in the rear of the immortal boy, and also of a
      looking-glass let into the wall, and also of clerks not at all old, who
      danced in public on the slightest provocation. Yet, a French Tellson&rsquo;s
      could get on with these things exceedingly well, and, as long as the times
      held together, no man had taken fright at them, and drawn out his money.
    </p>
    <p>
      What money would be drawn out of Tellson&rsquo;s henceforth, and what would lie
      there, lost and forgotten; what plate and jewels would tarnish in
      Tellson&rsquo;s hiding-places, while the depositors rusted in prisons, and when
      they should have violently perished; how many accounts with Tellson&rsquo;s
      never to be balanced in this world, must be carried over into the next; no
      man could have said, that night, any more than Mr. Jarvis Lorry could,
      though he thought heavily of these questions. He sat by a newly-lighted
      wood fire (the blighted and unfruitful year was prematurely cold), and on
      his honest and courageous face there was a deeper shade than the pendent
      lamp could throw, or any object in the room distortedly reflect&mdash;a
      shade of horror.
    </p>
    <p>
      He occupied rooms in the Bank, in his fidelity to the House of which he
      had grown to be a part, like strong root-ivy. It chanced that they derived
      a kind of security from the patriotic occupation of the main building, but
      the true-hearted old gentleman never calculated about that. All such
      circumstances were indifferent to him, so that he did his duty. On the
      opposite side of the courtyard, under a colonnade, was extensive standing&mdash;for
      carriages&mdash;where, indeed, some carriages of Monseigneur yet stood.
      Against two of the pillars were fastened two great flaring flambeaux, and
      in the light of these, standing out in the open air, was a large
      grindstone: a roughly mounted thing which appeared to have hurriedly been
      brought there from some neighbouring smithy, or other workshop. Rising and
      looking out of window at these harmless objects, Mr. Lorry shivered, and
      retired to his seat by the fire. He had opened, not only the glass window,
      but the lattice blind outside it, and he had closed both again, and he
      shivered through his frame.
    </p>
    <p>
      From the streets beyond the high wall and the strong gate, there came the
      usual night hum of the city, with now and then an indescribable ring in
      it, weird and unearthly, as if some unwonted sounds of a terrible nature
      were going up to Heaven.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank God,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, clasping his hands, &ldquo;that no one near and
      dear to me is in this dreadful town to-night. May He have mercy on all who
      are in danger!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Soon afterwards, the bell at the great gate sounded, and he thought, &ldquo;They
      have come back!&rdquo; and sat listening. But, there was no loud irruption into
      the courtyard, as he had expected, and he heard the gate clash again, and
      all was quiet.
    </p>
    <p>
      The nervousness and dread that were upon him inspired that vague
      uneasiness respecting the Bank, which a great change would naturally
      awaken, with such feelings roused. It was well guarded, and he got up to
      go among the trusty people who were watching it, when his door suddenly
      opened, and two figures rushed in, at sight of which he fell back in
      amazement.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucie and her father! Lucie with her arms stretched out to him, and with
      that old look of earnestness so concentrated and intensified, that it
      seemed as though it had been stamped upon her face expressly to give force
      and power to it in this one passage of her life.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is this?&rdquo; cried Mr. Lorry, breathless and confused. &ldquo;What is the
      matter? Lucie! Manette! What has happened? What has brought you here? What
      is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With the look fixed upon him, in her paleness and wildness, she panted out
      in his arms, imploringly, &ldquo;O my dear friend! My husband!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your husband, Lucie?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Charles.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What of Charles?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here, in Paris?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Has been here some days&mdash;three or four&mdash;I don&rsquo;t know how many&mdash;I
      can&rsquo;t collect my thoughts. An errand of generosity brought him here
      unknown to us; he was stopped at the barrier, and sent to prison.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The old man uttered an irrepressible cry. Almost at the same moment, the
      bell of the great gate rang again, and a loud noise of feet and voices came
      pouring into the courtyard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is that noise?&rdquo; said the Doctor, turning towards the window.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t look!&rdquo; cried Mr. Lorry. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t look out! Manette, for your life,
      don&rsquo;t touch the blind!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Doctor turned, with his hand upon the fastening of the window, and
      said, with a cool, bold smile:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear friend, I have a charmed life in this city. I have been a
      Bastille prisoner. There is no patriot in Paris&mdash;in Paris? In France&mdash;who,
      knowing me to have been a prisoner in the Bastille, would touch me, except
      to overwhelm me with embraces, or carry me in triumph. My old pain has
      given me a power that has brought us through the barrier, and gained us
      news of Charles there, and brought us here. I knew it would be so; I knew
      I could help Charles out of all danger; I told Lucie so.&mdash;What is
      that noise?&rdquo; His hand was again upon the window.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t look!&rdquo; cried Mr. Lorry, absolutely desperate. &ldquo;No, Lucie, my dear,
      nor you!&rdquo; He got his arm round her, and held her. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be so terrified,
      my love. I solemnly swear to you that I know of no harm having happened to
      Charles; that I had no suspicion even of his being in this fatal place.
      What prison is he in?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;La Force!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;La Force! Lucie, my child, if ever you were brave and serviceable in your
      life&mdash;and you were always both&mdash;you will compose yourself now,
      to do exactly as I bid you; for more depends upon it than you can think,
      or I can say. There is no help for you in any action on your part
      to-night; you cannot possibly stir out. I say this, because what I must
      bid you to do for Charles&rsquo;s sake, is the hardest thing to do of all. You
      must instantly be obedient, still, and quiet. You must let me put you in a
      room at the back here. You must leave your father and me alone for two
      minutes, and as there are Life and Death in the world you must not delay.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will be submissive to you. I see in your face that you know I can do
      nothing else than this. I know you are true.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The old man kissed her, and hurried her into his room, and turned the key;
      then, came hurrying back to the Doctor, and opened the window and partly
      opened the blind, and put his hand upon the Doctor&rsquo;s arm, and looked out
      with him into the courtyard.
    </p>
    <p>
      Looked out upon a throng of men and women: not enough in number, or near
      enough, to fill the courtyard: not more than forty or fifty in all. The
      people in possession of the house had let them in at the gate, and they
      had rushed in to work at the grindstone; it had evidently been set up
      there for their purpose, as in a convenient and retired spot.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, such awful workers, and such awful work!
    </p>
    <p>
      The grindstone had a double handle, and, turning at it madly were two men,
      whose faces, as their long hair flapped back when the whirlings of the
      grindstone brought their faces up, were more horrible and cruel than the
      visages of the wildest savages in their most barbarous disguise. False
      eyebrows and false moustaches were stuck upon them, and their hideous
      countenances were all bloody and sweaty, and all awry with howling, and
      all staring and glaring with beastly excitement and want of sleep. As
      these ruffians turned and turned, their matted locks now flung forward
      over their eyes, now flung backward over their necks, some women held wine
      to their mouths that they might drink; and what with dropping blood, and
      what with dropping wine, and what with the stream of sparks struck out of
      the stone, all their wicked atmosphere seemed gore and fire. The eye could
      not detect one creature in the group free from the smear of blood.
      Shouldering one another to get next at the sharpening-stone, were men
      stripped to the waist, with the stain all over their limbs and bodies; men
      in all sorts of rags, with the stain upon those rags; men devilishly set
      off with spoils of women&rsquo;s lace and silk and ribbon, with the stain dyeing
      those trifles through and through. Hatchets, knives, bayonets, swords, all
      brought to be sharpened, were all red with it. Some of the hacked swords
      were tied to the wrists of those who carried them, with strips of linen
      and fragments of dress: ligatures various in kind, but all deep of the one
      colour. And as the frantic wielders of these weapons snatched them from
      the stream of sparks and tore away into the streets, the same red hue was
      red in their frenzied eyes;&mdash;eyes which any unbrutalised beholder
      would have given twenty years of life, to petrify with a well-directed
      gun.
    </p>
    <p>
      All this was seen in a moment, as the vision of a drowning man, or of any
      human creature at any very great pass, could see a world if it were there.
      They drew back from the window, and the Doctor looked for explanation in
      his friend&rsquo;s ashy face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are,&rdquo; Mr. Lorry whispered the words, glancing fearfully round at the
      locked room, &ldquo;murdering the prisoners. If you are sure of what you say; if
      you really have the power you think you have&mdash;as I believe you have&mdash;make
      yourself known to these devils, and get taken to La Force. It may be too
      late, I don&rsquo;t know, but let it not be a minute later!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Doctor Manette pressed his hand, hastened bareheaded out of the room, and
      was in the courtyard when Mr. Lorry regained the blind.
    </p>
    <p>
      His streaming white hair, his remarkable face, and the impetuous
      confidence of his manner, as he put the weapons aside like water, carried
      him in an instant to the heart of the concourse at the stone. For a few
      moments there was a pause, and a hurry, and a murmur, and the
      unintelligible sound of his voice; and then Mr. Lorry saw him, surrounded
      by all, and in the midst of a line of twenty men long, all linked shoulder
      to shoulder, and hand to shoulder, hurried out with cries of&mdash;&ldquo;Live
      the Bastille prisoner! Help for the Bastille prisoner&rsquo;s kindred in La
      Force! Room for the Bastille prisoner in front there! Save the prisoner
      Evrémonde at La Force!&rdquo; and a thousand answering shouts.
    </p>
    <p>
      He closed the lattice again with a fluttering heart, closed the window and
      the curtain, hastened to Lucie, and told her that her father was assisted
      by the people, and gone in search of her husband. He found her child and
      Miss Pross with her; but, it never occurred to him to be surprised by
      their appearance until a long time afterwards, when he sat watching them
      in such quiet as the night knew.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lucie had, by that time, fallen into a stupor on the floor at his feet,
      clinging to his hand. Miss Pross had laid the child down on his own bed,
      and her head had gradually fallen on the pillow beside her pretty charge.
      O the long, long night, with the moans of the poor wife! And O the long,
      long night, with no return of her father and no tidings!
    </p>
    <p>
      Twice more in the darkness the bell at the great gate sounded, and the
      irruption was repeated, and the grindstone whirled and spluttered. &ldquo;What
      is it?&rdquo; cried Lucie, affrighted. &ldquo;Hush! The soldiers&rsquo; swords are sharpened
      there,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry. &ldquo;The place is national property now, and used as a
      kind of armoury, my love.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Twice more in all; but, the last spell of work was feeble and fitful. Soon
      afterwards the day began to dawn, and he softly detached himself from the
      clasping hand, and cautiously looked out again. A man, so besmeared that
      he might have been a sorely wounded soldier creeping back to consciousness
      on a field of slain, was rising from the pavement by the side of the
      grindstone, and looking about him with a vacant air. Shortly, this
      worn-out murderer descried in the imperfect light one of the carriages of
      Monseigneur, and, staggering to that gorgeous vehicle, climbed in at the
      door, and shut himself up to take his rest on its dainty cushions.
    </p>
    <p>
      The great grindstone, Earth, had turned when Mr. Lorry looked out again,
      and the sun was red on the courtyard. But, the lesser grindstone stood
      alone there in the calm morning air, with a red upon it that the sun had
      never given, and would never take away.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"></a>
      CHAPTER III.<br />The Shadow
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>ne of the first considerations which arose in the business mind of Mr.
      Lorry when business hours came round, was this:&mdash;that he had no right
      to imperil Tellson&rsquo;s by sheltering the wife of an emigrant prisoner under
      the Bank roof. His own possessions, safety, life, he would have hazarded
      for Lucie and her child, without a moment&rsquo;s demur; but the great trust he
      held was not his own, and as to that business charge he was a strict man
      of business.
    </p>
    <p>
      At first, his mind reverted to Defarge, and he thought of finding out the
      wine-shop again and taking counsel with its master in reference to the
      safest dwelling-place in the distracted state of the city. But, the same
      consideration that suggested him, repudiated him; he lived in the most
      violent Quarter, and doubtless was influential there, and deep in its
      dangerous workings.
    </p>
    <p>
      Noon coming, and the Doctor not returning, and every minute&rsquo;s delay
      tending to compromise Tellson&rsquo;s, Mr. Lorry advised with Lucie. She said
      that her father had spoken of hiring a lodging for a short term, in that
      Quarter, near the Banking-house. As there was no business objection to
      this, and as he foresaw that even if it were all well with Charles, and he
      were to be released, he could not hope to leave the city, Mr. Lorry went
      out in quest of such a lodging, and found a suitable one, high up in a
      removed by-street where the closed blinds in all the other windows of a
      high melancholy square of buildings marked deserted homes.
    </p>
    <p>
      To this lodging he at once removed Lucie and her child, and Miss Pross:
      giving them what comfort he could, and much more than he had himself. He
      left Jerry with them, as a figure to fill a doorway that would bear
      considerable knocking on the head, and returned to his own occupations. A
      disturbed and doleful mind he brought to bear upon them, and slowly and
      heavily the day lagged on with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      It wore itself out, and wore him out with it, until the Bank closed. He
      was again alone in his room of the previous night, considering what to do
      next, when he heard a foot upon the stair. In a few moments, a man stood
      in his presence, who, with a keenly observant look at him, addressed him
      by his name.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your servant,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry. &ldquo;Do you know me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was a strongly made man with dark curling hair, from forty-five to
      fifty years of age. For answer he repeated, without any change of
      emphasis, the words:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have seen you somewhere.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps at my wine-shop?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Much interested and agitated, Mr. Lorry said: &ldquo;You come from Doctor
      Manette?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. I come from Doctor Manette.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what says he? What does he send me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Defarge gave into his anxious hand, an open scrap of paper. It bore the
      words in the Doctor&rsquo;s writing:
    </p>
    <p class="letter">
    &ldquo;Charles is safe, but I cannot safely leave this place yet.
     I have obtained the favour that the bearer has a short note
     from Charles to his wife. Let the bearer see his wife.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      It was dated from La Force, within an hour.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you accompany me,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, joyfully relieved after reading
      this note aloud, &ldquo;to where his wife resides?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; returned Defarge.
    </p>
    <p>
      Scarcely noticing as yet, in what a curiously reserved and mechanical way
      Defarge spoke, Mr. Lorry put on his hat and they went down into the
      courtyard. There, they found two women; one, knitting.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame Defarge, surely!&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, who had left her in exactly the
      same attitude some seventeen years ago.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is she,&rdquo; observed her husband.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does Madame go with us?&rdquo; inquired Mr. Lorry, seeing that she moved as
      they moved.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. That she may be able to recognise the faces and know the persons. It
      is for their safety.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Beginning to be struck by Defarge&rsquo;s manner, Mr. Lorry looked dubiously at
      him, and led the way. Both the women followed; the second woman being The
      Vengeance.
    </p>
    <p>
      They passed through the intervening streets as quickly as they might,
      ascended the staircase of the new domicile, were admitted by Jerry, and
      found Lucie weeping, alone. She was thrown into a transport by the tidings
      Mr. Lorry gave her of her husband, and clasped the hand that delivered his
      note&mdash;little thinking what it had been doing near him in the night,
      and might, but for a chance, have done to him.
    </p>
    <p class="letter">
     &ldquo;<i>Dearest</i>,&mdash;Take courage. I am well, and your father has
      influence around me. You cannot answer this.
      Kiss our child for me.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      That was all the writing. It was so much, however, to her who received it,
      that she turned from Defarge to his wife, and kissed one of the hands that
      knitted. It was a passionate, loving, thankful, womanly action, but the
      hand made no response&mdash;dropped cold and heavy, and took to its
      knitting again.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was something in its touch that gave Lucie a check. She stopped in
      the act of putting the note in her bosom, and, with her hands yet at her
      neck, looked terrified at Madame Defarge. Madame Defarge met the lifted
      eyebrows and forehead with a cold, impassive stare.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, striking in to explain; &ldquo;there are frequent
      risings in the streets; and, although it is not likely they will ever
      trouble you, Madame Defarge wishes to see those whom she has the power to
      protect at such times, to the end that she may know them&mdash;that she
      may identify them. I believe,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, rather halting in his
      reassuring words, as the stony manner of all the three impressed itself
      upon him more and more, &ldquo;I state the case, Citizen Defarge?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Defarge looked gloomily at his wife, and gave no other answer than a gruff
      sound of acquiescence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You had better, Lucie,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, doing all he could to propitiate,
      by tone and manner, &ldquo;have the dear child here, and our good Pross. Our
      good Pross, Defarge, is an English lady, and knows no French.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The lady in question, whose rooted conviction that she was more than a
      match for any foreigner, was not to be shaken by distress and, danger,
      appeared with folded arms, and observed in English to The Vengeance, whom
      her eyes first encountered, &ldquo;Well, I am sure, Boldface! I hope <i>you</i>
      are pretty well!&rdquo; She also bestowed a British cough on Madame Defarge;
      but, neither of the two took much heed of her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that his child?&rdquo; said Madame Defarge, stopping in her work for the
      first time, and pointing her knitting-needle at little Lucie as if it were
      the finger of Fate.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, madame,&rdquo; answered Mr. Lorry; &ldquo;this is our poor prisoner&rsquo;s darling
      daughter, and only child.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The shadow attendant on Madame Defarge and her party seemed to fall so
      threatening and dark on the child, that her mother instinctively kneeled
      on the ground beside her, and held her to her breast. The shadow attendant
      on Madame Defarge and her party seemed then to fall, threatening and dark,
      on both the mother and the child.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is enough, my husband,&rdquo; said Madame Defarge. &ldquo;I have seen them. We may
      go.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But, the suppressed manner had enough of menace in it&mdash;not visible
      and presented, but indistinct and withheld&mdash;to alarm Lucie into
      saying, as she laid her appealing hand on Madame Defarge&rsquo;s dress:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will be good to my poor husband. You will do him no harm. You will
      help me to see him if you can?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your husband is not my business here,&rdquo; returned Madame Defarge, looking
      down at her with perfect composure. &ldquo;It is the daughter of your father who
      is my business here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For my sake, then, be merciful to my husband. For my child&rsquo;s sake! She
      will put her hands together and pray you to be merciful. We are more
      afraid of you than of these others.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame Defarge received it as a compliment, and looked at her husband.
      Defarge, who had been uneasily biting his thumb-nail and looking at her,
      collected his face into a sterner expression.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it that your husband says in that little letter?&rdquo; asked Madame
      Defarge, with a lowering smile. &ldquo;Influence; he says something touching
      influence?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That my father,&rdquo; said Lucie, hurriedly taking the paper from her breast,
      but with her alarmed eyes on her questioner and not on it, &ldquo;has much
      influence around him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Surely it will release him!&rdquo; said Madame Defarge. &ldquo;Let it do so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As a wife and mother,&rdquo; cried Lucie, most earnestly, &ldquo;I implore you to
      have pity on me and not to exercise any power that you possess, against my
      innocent husband, but to use it in his behalf. O sister-woman, think of
      me. As a wife and mother!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame Defarge looked, coldly as ever, at the suppliant, and said, turning
      to her friend The Vengeance:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The wives and mothers we have been used to see, since we were as little
      as this child, and much less, have not been greatly considered? We have
      known <i>their</i> husbands and fathers laid in prison and kept from them,
      often enough? All our lives, we have seen our sister-women suffer, in
      themselves and in their children, poverty, nakedness, hunger, thirst,
      sickness, misery, oppression and neglect of all kinds?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We have seen nothing else,&rdquo; returned The Vengeance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We have borne this a long time,&rdquo; said Madame Defarge, turning her eyes
      again upon Lucie. &ldquo;Judge you! Is it likely that the trouble of one wife
      and mother would be much to us now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She resumed her knitting and went out. The Vengeance followed. Defarge
      went last, and closed the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Courage, my dear Lucie,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, as he raised her. &ldquo;Courage,
      courage! So far all goes well with us&mdash;much, much better than it has
      of late gone with many poor souls. Cheer up, and have a thankful heart.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not thankless, I hope, but that dreadful woman seems to throw a
      shadow on me and on all my hopes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tut, tut!&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry; &ldquo;what is this despondency in the brave little
      breast? A shadow indeed! No substance in it, Lucie.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But the shadow of the manner of these Defarges was dark upon himself, for
      all that, and in his secret mind it troubled him greatly.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"></a>
      CHAPTER IV.<br />Calm in Storm
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">D</span>octor Manette did not return until the morning of the fourth day of his
      absence. So much of what had happened in that dreadful time as could be
      kept from the knowledge of Lucie was so well concealed from her, that not
      until long afterwards, when France and she were far apart, did she know
      that eleven hundred defenceless prisoners of both sexes and all ages had
      been killed by the populace; that four days and nights had been darkened
      by this deed of horror; and that the air around her had been tainted by
      the slain. She only knew that there had been an attack upon the prisons,
      that all political prisoners had been in danger, and that some had been
      dragged out by the crowd and murdered.
    </p>
    <p>
      To Mr. Lorry, the Doctor communicated under an injunction of secrecy on
      which he had no need to dwell, that the crowd had taken him through a
      scene of carnage to the prison of La Force. That, in the prison he had
      found a self-appointed Tribunal sitting, before which the prisoners were
      brought singly, and by which they were rapidly ordered to be put forth to
      be massacred, or to be released, or (in a few cases) to be sent back to
      their cells. That, presented by his conductors to this Tribunal, he had
      announced himself by name and profession as having been for eighteen years
      a secret and unaccused prisoner in the Bastille; that, one of the body so
      sitting in judgment had risen and identified him, and that this man was
      Defarge.
    </p>
    <p>
      That, hereupon he had ascertained, through the registers on the table,
      that his son-in-law was among the living prisoners, and had pleaded hard
      to the Tribunal&mdash;of whom some members were asleep and some awake,
      some dirty with murder and some clean, some sober and some not&mdash;for
      his life and liberty. That, in the first frantic greetings lavished on
      himself as a notable sufferer under the overthrown system, it had been
      accorded to him to have Charles Darnay brought before the lawless Court,
      and examined. That, he seemed on the point of being at once released, when
      the tide in his favour met with some unexplained check (not intelligible
      to the Doctor), which led to a few words of secret conference. That, the
      man sitting as President had then informed Doctor Manette that the
      prisoner must remain in custody, but should, for his sake, be held
      inviolate in safe custody. That, immediately, on a signal, the prisoner
      was removed to the interior of the prison again; but, that he, the Doctor,
      had then so strongly pleaded for permission to remain and assure himself
      that his son-in-law was, through no malice or mischance, delivered to the
      concourse whose murderous yells outside the gate had often drowned the
      proceedings, that he had obtained the permission, and had remained in that
      Hall of Blood until the danger was over.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sights he had seen there, with brief snatches of food and sleep by
      intervals, shall remain untold. The mad joy over the prisoners who were
      saved, had astounded him scarcely less than the mad ferocity against those
      who were cut to pieces. One prisoner there was, he said, who had been
      discharged into the street free, but at whom a mistaken savage had thrust
      a pike as he passed out. Being besought to go to him and dress the wound,
      the Doctor had passed out at the same gate, and had found him in the arms
      of a company of Samaritans, who were seated on the bodies of their
      victims. With an inconsistency as monstrous as anything in this awful
      nightmare, they had helped the healer, and tended the wounded man with the
      gentlest solicitude&mdash;had made a litter for him and escorted him
      carefully from the spot&mdash;had then caught up their weapons and plunged
      anew into a butchery so dreadful, that the Doctor had covered his eyes
      with his hands, and swooned away in the midst of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      As Mr. Lorry received these confidences, and as he watched the face of his
      friend now sixty-two years of age, a misgiving arose within him that such
      dread experiences would revive the old danger.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, he had never seen his friend in his present aspect: he had never at
      all known him in his present character. For the first time the Doctor
      felt, now, that his suffering was strength and power. For the first time
      he felt that in that sharp fire, he had slowly forged the iron which could
      break the prison door of his daughter&rsquo;s husband, and deliver him. &ldquo;It all
      tended to a good end, my friend; it was not mere waste and ruin. As my
      beloved child was helpful in restoring me to myself, I will be helpful now
      in restoring the dearest part of herself to her; by the aid of Heaven I
      will do it!&rdquo; Thus, Doctor Manette. And when Jarvis Lorry saw the kindled
      eyes, the resolute face, the calm strong look and bearing of the man whose
      life always seemed to him to have been stopped, like a clock, for so many
      years, and then set going again with an energy which had lain dormant
      during the cessation of its usefulness, he believed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Greater things than the Doctor had at that time to contend with, would
      have yielded before his persevering purpose. While he kept himself in his
      place, as a physician, whose business was with all degrees of mankind,
      bond and free, rich and poor, bad and good, he used his personal influence
      so wisely, that he was soon the inspecting physician of three prisons, and
      among them of La Force. He could now assure Lucie that her husband was no
      longer confined alone, but was mixed with the general body of prisoners;
      he saw her husband weekly, and brought sweet messages to her, straight
      from his lips; sometimes her husband himself sent a letter to her (though
      never by the Doctor&rsquo;s hand), but she was not permitted to write to him:
      for, among the many wild suspicions of plots in the prisons, the wildest
      of all pointed at emigrants who were known to have made friends or
      permanent connections abroad.
    </p>
    <p>
      This new life of the Doctor&rsquo;s was an anxious life, no doubt; still, the
      sagacious Mr. Lorry saw that there was a new sustaining pride in it.
      Nothing unbecoming tinged the pride; it was a natural and worthy one; but
      he observed it as a curiosity. The Doctor knew, that up to that time, his
      imprisonment had been associated in the minds of his daughter and his
      friend, with his personal affliction, deprivation, and weakness. Now that
      this was changed, and he knew himself to be invested through that old
      trial with forces to which they both looked for Charles&rsquo;s ultimate safety
      and deliverance, he became so far exalted by the change, that he took the
      lead and direction, and required them as the weak, to trust to him as the
      strong. The preceding relative positions of himself and Lucie were
      reversed, yet only as the liveliest gratitude and affection could reverse
      them, for he could have had no pride but in rendering some service to her
      who had rendered so much to him. &ldquo;All curious to see,&rdquo; thought Mr. Lorry,
      in his amiably shrewd way, &ldquo;but all natural and right; so, take the lead,
      my dear friend, and keep it; it couldn&rsquo;t be in better hands.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But, though the Doctor tried hard, and never ceased trying, to get Charles
      Darnay set at liberty, or at least to get him brought to trial, the public
      current of the time set too strong and fast for him. The new era began;
      the king was tried, doomed, and beheaded; the Republic of Liberty,
      Equality, Fraternity, or Death, declared for victory or death against the
      world in arms; the black flag waved night and day from the great towers of
      Notre Dame; three hundred thousand men, summoned to rise against the
      tyrants of the earth, rose from all the varying soils of France, as if the
      dragon&rsquo;s teeth had been sown broadcast, and had yielded fruit equally on
      hill and plain, on rock, in gravel, and alluvial mud, under the bright sky
      of the South and under the clouds of the North, in fell and forest, in the
      vineyards and the olive-grounds and among the cropped grass and the
      stubble of the corn, along the fruitful banks of the broad rivers, and in
      the sand of the sea-shore. What private solicitude could rear itself
      against the deluge of the Year One of Liberty&mdash;the deluge rising from
      below, not falling from above, and with the windows of Heaven shut, not
      opened!
    </p>
    <p>
      There was no pause, no pity, no peace, no interval of relenting rest, no
      measurement of time. Though days and nights circled as regularly as when
      time was young, and the evening and morning were the first day, other
      count of time there was none. Hold of it was lost in the raging fever of a
      nation, as it is in the fever of one patient. Now, breaking the unnatural
      silence of a whole city, the executioner showed the people the head of the
      king&mdash;and now, it seemed almost in the same breath, the head of his
      fair wife which had had eight weary months of imprisoned widowhood and
      misery, to turn it grey.
    </p>
    <p>
      And yet, observing the strange law of contradiction which obtains in all
      such cases, the time was long, while it flamed by so fast. A revolutionary
      tribunal in the capital, and forty or fifty thousand revolutionary
      committees all over the land; a law of the Suspected, which struck away
      all security for liberty or life, and delivered over any good and innocent
      person to any bad and guilty one; prisons gorged with people who had
      committed no offence, and could obtain no hearing; these things became the
      established order and nature of appointed things, and seemed to be ancient
      usage before they were many weeks old. Above all, one hideous figure grew
      as familiar as if it had been before the general gaze from the foundations
      of the world&mdash;the figure of the sharp female called La Guillotine.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was the popular theme for jests; it was the best cure for headache, it
      infallibly prevented the hair from turning grey, it imparted a peculiar
      delicacy to the complexion, it was the National Razor which shaved close:
      who kissed La Guillotine, looked through the little window and sneezed
      into the sack. It was the sign of the regeneration of the human race. It
      superseded the Cross. Models of it were worn on breasts from which the
      Cross was discarded, and it was bowed down to and believed in where the
      Cross was denied.
    </p>
    <p>
      It sheared off heads so many, that it, and the ground it most polluted,
      were a rotten red. It was taken to pieces, like a toy-puzzle for a young
      Devil, and was put together again when the occasion wanted it. It hushed
      the eloquent, struck down the powerful, abolished the beautiful and good.
      Twenty-two friends of high public mark, twenty-one living and one dead, it
      had lopped the heads off, in one morning, in as many minutes. The name of
      the strong man of Old Scripture had descended to the chief functionary who
      worked it; but, so armed, he was stronger than his namesake, and blinder,
      and tore away the gates of God&rsquo;s own Temple every day.
    </p>
    <p>
      Among these terrors, and the brood belonging to them, the Doctor walked
      with a steady head: confident in his power, cautiously persistent in his
      end, never doubting that he would save Lucie&rsquo;s husband at last. Yet the
      current of the time swept by, so strong and deep, and carried the time
      away so fiercely, that Charles had lain in prison one year and three
      months when the Doctor was thus steady and confident. So much more wicked
      and distracted had the Revolution grown in that December month, that the
      rivers of the South were encumbered with the bodies of the violently
      drowned by night, and prisoners were shot in lines and squares under the
      southern wintry sun. Still, the Doctor walked among the terrors with a
      steady head. No man better known than he, in Paris at that day; no man in
      a stranger situation. Silent, humane, indispensable in hospital and
      prison, using his art equally among assassins and victims, he was a man
      apart. In the exercise of his skill, the appearance and the story of the
      Bastille Captive removed him from all other men. He was not suspected or
      brought in question, any more than if he had indeed been recalled to life
      some eighteen years before, or were a Spirit moving among mortals.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0038" id="link2H_4_0038"></a>
      CHAPTER V.<br />The Wood-Sawyer
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>ne year and three months. During all that time Lucie was never sure, from
      hour to hour, but that the Guillotine would strike off her husband&rsquo;s head
      next day. Every day, through the stony streets, the tumbrils now jolted
      heavily, filled with Condemned. Lovely girls; bright women, brown-haired,
      black-haired, and grey; youths; stalwart men and old; gentle born and
      peasant born; all red wine for La Guillotine, all daily brought into light
      from the dark cellars of the loathsome prisons, and carried to her through
      the streets to slake her devouring thirst. Liberty, equality, fraternity,
      or death;&mdash;the last, much the easiest to bestow, O Guillotine!
    </p>
    <p>
      If the suddenness of her calamity, and the whirling wheels of the time,
      had stunned the Doctor&rsquo;s daughter into awaiting the result in idle
      despair, it would but have been with her as it was with many. But, from
      the hour when she had taken the white head to her fresh young bosom in the
      garret of Saint Antoine, she had been true to her duties. She was truest
      to them in the season of trial, as all the quietly loyal and good will
      always be.
    </p>
    <p>
      As soon as they were established in their new residence, and her father
      had entered on the routine of his avocations, she arranged the little
      household as exactly as if her husband had been there. Everything had its
      appointed place and its appointed time. Little Lucie she taught, as
      regularly, as if they had all been united in their English home. The
      slight devices with which she cheated herself into the show of a belief
      that they would soon be reunited&mdash;the little preparations for his
      speedy return, the setting aside of his chair and his books&mdash;these,
      and the solemn prayer at night for one dear prisoner especially, among the
      many unhappy souls in prison and the shadow of death&mdash;were almost the
      only outspoken reliefs of her heavy mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      She did not greatly alter in appearance. The plain dark dresses, akin to
      mourning dresses, which she and her child wore, were as neat and as well
      attended to as the brighter clothes of happy days. She lost her colour,
      and the old and intent expression was a constant, not an occasional,
      thing; otherwise, she remained very pretty and comely. Sometimes, at night
      on kissing her father, she would burst into the grief she had repressed
      all day, and would say that her sole reliance, under Heaven, was on him.
      He always resolutely answered: &ldquo;Nothing can happen to him without my
      knowledge, and I know that I can save him, Lucie.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They had not made the round of their changed life many weeks, when her
      father said to her, on coming home one evening:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear, there is an upper window in the prison, to which Charles can
      sometimes gain access at three in the afternoon. When he can get to it&mdash;which
      depends on many uncertainties and incidents&mdash;he might see you in the
      street, he thinks, if you stood in a certain place that I can show you.
      But you will not be able to see him, my poor child, and even if you could,
      it would be unsafe for you to make a sign of recognition.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O show me the place, my father, and I will go there every day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      From that time, in all weathers, she waited there two hours. As the clock
      struck two, she was there, and at four she turned resignedly away. When it
      was not too wet or inclement for her child to be with her, they went
      together; at other times she was alone; but, she never missed a single
      day.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was the dark and dirty corner of a small winding street. The hovel of a
      cutter of wood into lengths for burning, was the only house at that end;
      all else was wall. On the third day of her being there, he noticed her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good day, citizeness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good day, citizen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This mode of address was now prescribed by decree. It had been established
      voluntarily some time ago, among the more thorough patriots; but, was now
      law for everybody.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Walking here again, citizeness?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see me, citizen!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The wood-sawyer, who was a little man with a redundancy of gesture (he had
      once been a mender of roads), cast a glance at the prison, pointed at the
      prison, and putting his ten fingers before his face to represent bars,
      peeped through them jocosely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it&rsquo;s not my business,&rdquo; said he. And went on sawing his wood.
    </p>
    <p>
      Next day he was looking out for her, and accosted her the moment she
      appeared.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What? Walking here again, citizeness?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, citizen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! A child too! Your mother, is it not, my little citizeness?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do I say yes, mamma?&rdquo; whispered little Lucie, drawing close to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, dearest.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, citizen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! But it&rsquo;s not my business. My work is my business. See my saw! I call
      it my Little Guillotine. La, la, la; La, la, la! And off his head comes!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The billet fell as he spoke, and he threw it into a basket.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I call myself the Samson of the firewood guillotine. See here again! Loo,
      loo, loo; Loo, loo, loo! And off <i>her</i> head comes! Now, a child.
      Tickle, tickle; Pickle, pickle! And off <i>its</i> head comes. All the
      family!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lucie shuddered as he threw two more billets into his basket, but it was
      impossible to be there while the wood-sawyer was at work, and not be in
      his sight. Thenceforth, to secure his good will, she always spoke to him
      first, and often gave him drink-money, which he readily received.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was an inquisitive fellow, and sometimes when she had quite forgotten
      him in gazing at the prison roof and grates, and in lifting her heart up
      to her husband, she would come to herself to find him looking at her, with
      his knee on his bench and his saw stopped in its work. &ldquo;But it&rsquo;s not my
      business!&rdquo; he would generally say at those times, and would briskly fall
      to his sawing again.
    </p>
    <p>
      In all weathers, in the snow and frost of winter, in the bitter winds of
      spring, in the hot sunshine of summer, in the rains of autumn, and again
      in the snow and frost of winter, Lucie passed two hours of every day at
      this place; and every day on leaving it, she kissed the prison wall. Her
      husband saw her (so she learned from her father) it might be once in five
      or six times: it might be twice or thrice running: it might be, not for a
      week or a fortnight together. It was enough that he could and did see her
      when the chances served, and on that possibility she would have waited out
      the day, seven days a week.
    </p>
    <p>
      These occupations brought her round to the December month, wherein her
      father walked among the terrors with a steady head. On a lightly-snowing
      afternoon she arrived at the usual corner. It was a day of some wild
      rejoicing, and a festival. She had seen the houses, as she came along,
      decorated with little pikes, and with little red caps stuck upon them;
      also, with tricoloured ribbons; also, with the standard inscription
      (tricoloured letters were the favourite), Republic One and Indivisible.
      Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death!
    </p>
    <p>
      The miserable shop of the wood-sawyer was so small, that its whole surface
      furnished very indifferent space for this legend. He had got somebody to
      scrawl it up for him, however, who had squeezed Death in with most
      inappropriate difficulty. On his house-top, he displayed pike and cap, as
      a good citizen must, and in a window he had stationed his saw inscribed as
      his &ldquo;Little Sainte Guillotine&rdquo;&mdash;for the great sharp female was by
      that time popularly canonised. His shop was shut and he was not there,
      which was a relief to Lucie, and left her quite alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, he was not far off, for presently she heard a troubled movement and a
      shouting coming along, which filled her with fear. A moment afterwards,
      and a throng of people came pouring round the corner by the prison wall,
      in the midst of whom was the wood-sawyer hand in hand with The Vengeance.
      There could not be fewer than five hundred people, and they were dancing
      like five thousand demons. There was no other music than their own
      singing. They danced to the popular Revolution song, keeping a ferocious
      time that was like a gnashing of teeth in unison. Men and women danced
      together, women danced together, men danced together, as hazard had
      brought them together. At first, they were a mere storm of coarse red caps
      and coarse woollen rags; but, as they filled the place, and stopped to
      dance about Lucie, some ghastly apparition of a dance-figure gone raving
      mad arose among them. They advanced, retreated, struck at one another&rsquo;s
      hands, clutched at one another&rsquo;s heads, spun round alone, caught one
      another and spun round in pairs, until many of them dropped. While those
      were down, the rest linked hand in hand, and all spun round together: then
      the ring broke, and in separate rings of two and four they turned and
      turned until they all stopped at once, began again, struck, clutched, and
      tore, and then reversed the spin, and all spun round another way. Suddenly
      they stopped again, paused, struck out the time afresh, formed into lines
      the width of the public way, and, with their heads low down and their
      hands high up, swooped screaming off. No fight could have been half so
      terrible as this dance. It was so emphatically a fallen sport&mdash;a
      something, once innocent, delivered over to all devilry&mdash;a healthy
      pastime changed into a means of angering the blood, bewildering the
      senses, and steeling the heart. Such grace as was visible in it, made it
      the uglier, showing how warped and perverted all things good by nature
      were become. The maidenly bosom bared to this, the pretty almost-child&rsquo;s
      head thus distracted, the delicate foot mincing in this slough of blood
      and dirt, were types of the disjointed time.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was the Carmagnole. As it passed, leaving Lucie frightened and
      bewildered in the doorway of the wood-sawyer&rsquo;s house, the feathery snow
      fell as quietly and lay as white and soft, as if it had never been.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O my father!&rdquo; for he stood before her when she lifted up the eyes she had
      momentarily darkened with her hand; &ldquo;such a cruel, bad sight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know, my dear, I know. I have seen it many times. Don&rsquo;t be frightened!
      Not one of them would harm you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not frightened for myself, my father. But when I think of my
      husband, and the mercies of these people&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We will set him above their mercies very soon. I left him climbing to the
      window, and I came to tell you. There is no one here to see. You may kiss
      your hand towards that highest shelving roof.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do so, father, and I send him my Soul with it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You cannot see him, my poor dear?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, father,&rdquo; said Lucie, yearning and weeping as she kissed her hand,
      &ldquo;no.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A footstep in the snow. Madame Defarge. &ldquo;I salute you, citizeness,&rdquo; from
      the Doctor. &ldquo;I salute you, citizen.&rdquo; This in passing. Nothing more. Madame
      Defarge gone, like a shadow over the white road.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give me your arm, my love. Pass from here with an air of cheerfulness and
      courage, for his sake. That was well done;&rdquo; they had left the spot; &ldquo;it
      shall not be in vain. Charles is summoned for to-morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For to-morrow!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is no time to lose. I am well prepared, but there are precautions
      to be taken, that could not be taken until he was actually summoned before
      the Tribunal. He has not received the notice yet, but I know that he will
      presently be summoned for to-morrow, and removed to the Conciergerie; I
      have timely information. You are not afraid?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She could scarcely answer, &ldquo;I trust in you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do so, implicitly. Your suspense is nearly ended, my darling; he shall be
      restored to you within a few hours; I have encompassed him with every
      protection. I must see Lorry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He stopped. There was a heavy lumbering of wheels within hearing. They
      both knew too well what it meant. One. Two. Three. Three tumbrils faring
      away with their dread loads over the hushing snow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must see Lorry,&rdquo; the Doctor repeated, turning her another way.
    </p>
    <p>
      The staunch old gentleman was still in his trust; had never left it. He
      and his books were in frequent requisition as to property confiscated and
      made national. What he could save for the owners, he saved. No better man
      living to hold fast by what Tellson&rsquo;s had in keeping, and to hold his
      peace.
    </p>
    <p>
      A murky red and yellow sky, and a rising mist from the Seine, denoted the
      approach of darkness. It was almost dark when they arrived at the Bank.
      The stately residence of Monseigneur was altogether blighted and deserted.
      Above a heap of dust and ashes in the court, ran the letters: National
      Property. Republic One and Indivisible. Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or
      Death!
    </p>
    <p>
      Who could that be with Mr. Lorry&mdash;the owner of the riding-coat upon
      the chair&mdash;who must not be seen? From whom newly arrived, did he come
      out, agitated and surprised, to take his favourite in his arms? To whom
      did he appear to repeat her faltering words, when, raising his voice and
      turning his head towards the door of the room from which he had issued, he
      said: &ldquo;Removed to the Conciergerie, and summoned for to-morrow?&rdquo;
     </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039"></a>
      CHAPTER VI.<br />Triumph
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he dread tribunal of five Judges, Public Prosecutor, and determined Jury,
      sat every day. Their lists went forth every evening, and were read out by
      the gaolers of the various prisons to their prisoners. The standard
      gaoler-joke was, &ldquo;Come out and listen to the Evening Paper, you inside
      there!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Charles Evrémonde, called Darnay!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So at last began the Evening Paper at La Force.
    </p>
    <p>
      When a name was called, its owner stepped apart into a spot reserved for
      those who were announced as being thus fatally recorded. Charles
      Evrémonde, called Darnay, had reason to know the usage; he had seen
      hundreds pass away so.
    </p>
    <p>
      His bloated gaoler, who wore spectacles to read with, glanced over them to
      assure himself that he had taken his place, and went through the list,
      making a similar short pause at each name. There were twenty-three names,
      but only twenty were responded to; for one of the prisoners so summoned
      had died in gaol and been forgotten, and two had already been guillotined
      and forgotten. The list was read, in the vaulted chamber where Darnay had
      seen the associated prisoners on the night of his arrival. Every one of
      those had perished in the massacre; every human creature he had since
      cared for and parted with, had died on the scaffold.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were hurried words of farewell and kindness, but the parting was
      soon over. It was the incident of every day, and the society of La Force
      were engaged in the preparation of some games of forfeits and a little
      concert, for that evening. They crowded to the grates and shed tears
      there; but, twenty places in the projected entertainments had to be
      refilled, and the time was, at best, short to the lock-up hour, when the
      common rooms and corridors would be delivered over to the great dogs who
      kept watch there through the night. The prisoners were far from insensible
      or unfeeling; their ways arose out of the condition of the time.
      Similarly, though with a subtle difference, a species of fervour or
      intoxication, known, without doubt, to have led some persons to brave the
      guillotine unnecessarily, and to die by it, was not mere boastfulness, but
      a wild infection of the wildly shaken public mind. In seasons of
      pestilence, some of us will have a secret attraction to the disease&mdash;a
      terrible passing inclination to die of it. And all of us have like wonders
      hidden in our breasts, only needing circumstances to evoke them.
    </p>
    <p>
      The passage to the Conciergerie was short and dark; the night in its
      vermin-haunted cells was long and cold. Next day, fifteen prisoners were
      put to the bar before Charles Darnay&rsquo;s name was called. All the fifteen
      were condemned, and the trials of the whole occupied an hour and a half.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Charles Evrémonde, called Darnay,&rdquo; was at length arraigned.
    </p>
    <p>
      His judges sat upon the Bench in feathered hats; but the rough red cap and
      tricoloured cockade was the head-dress otherwise prevailing. Looking at
      the Jury and the turbulent audience, he might have thought that the usual
      order of things was reversed, and that the felons were trying the honest
      men. The lowest, cruelest, and worst populace of a city, never without its
      quantity of low, cruel, and bad, were the directing spirits of the scene:
      noisily commenting, applauding, disapproving, anticipating, and
      precipitating the result, without a check. Of the men, the greater part
      were armed in various ways; of the women, some wore knives, some daggers,
      some ate and drank as they looked on, many knitted. Among these last, was
      one, with a spare piece of knitting under her arm as she worked. She was
      in a front row, by the side of a man whom he had never seen since his
      arrival at the Barrier, but whom he directly remembered as Defarge. He
      noticed that she once or twice whispered in his ear, and that she seemed
      to be his wife; but, what he most noticed in the two figures was, that
      although they were posted as close to himself as they could be, they never
      looked towards him. They seemed to be waiting for something with a dogged
      determination, and they looked at the Jury, but at nothing else. Under the
      President sat Doctor Manette, in his usual quiet dress. As well as the
      prisoner could see, he and Mr. Lorry were the only men there, unconnected
      with the Tribunal, who wore their usual clothes, and had not assumed the
      coarse garb of the Carmagnole.
    </p>
    <p>
      Charles Evrémonde, called Darnay, was accused by the public prosecutor as
      an emigrant, whose life was forfeit to the Republic, under the decree
      which banished all emigrants on pain of Death. It was nothing that the
      decree bore date since his return to France. There he was, and there was
      the decree; he had been taken in France, and his head was demanded.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take off his head!&rdquo; cried the audience. &ldquo;An enemy to the Republic!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The President rang his bell to silence those cries, and asked the prisoner
      whether it was not true that he had lived many years in England?
    </p>
    <p>
      Undoubtedly it was.
    </p>
    <p>
      Was he not an emigrant then? What did he call himself?
    </p>
    <p>
      Not an emigrant, he hoped, within the sense and spirit of the law.
    </p>
    <p>
      Why not? the President desired to know.
    </p>
    <p>
      Because he had voluntarily relinquished a title that was distasteful to
      him, and a station that was distasteful to him, and had left his country&mdash;he
      submitted before the word emigrant in the present acceptation by the
      Tribunal was in use&mdash;to live by his own industry in England, rather
      than on the industry of the overladen people of France.
    </p>
    <p>
      What proof had he of this?
    </p>
    <p>
      He handed in the names of two witnesses; Theophile Gabelle, and Alexandre
      Manette.
    </p>
    <p>
      But he had married in England? the President reminded him.
    </p>
    <p>
      True, but not an English woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      A citizeness of France?
    </p>
    <p>
      Yes. By birth.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her name and family?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lucie Manette, only daughter of Doctor Manette, the good physician who
      sits there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This answer had a happy effect upon the audience. Cries in exaltation of
      the well-known good physician rent the hall. So capriciously were the
      people moved, that tears immediately rolled down several ferocious
      countenances which had been glaring at the prisoner a moment before, as if
      with impatience to pluck him out into the streets and kill him.
    </p>
    <p>
      On these few steps of his dangerous way, Charles Darnay had set his foot
      according to Doctor Manette&rsquo;s reiterated instructions. The same cautious
      counsel directed every step that lay before him, and had prepared every
      inch of his road.
    </p>
    <p>
      The President asked, why had he returned to France when he did, and not
      sooner?
    </p>
    <p>
      He had not returned sooner, he replied, simply because he had no means of
      living in France, save those he had resigned; whereas, in England, he
      lived by giving instruction in the French language and literature. He had
      returned when he did, on the pressing and written entreaty of a French
      citizen, who represented that his life was endangered by his absence. He
      had come back, to save a citizen&rsquo;s life, and to bear his testimony, at
      whatever personal hazard, to the truth. Was that criminal in the eyes of
      the Republic?
    </p>
    <p>
      The populace cried enthusiastically, &ldquo;No!&rdquo; and the President rang his bell
      to quiet them. Which it did not, for they continued to cry &ldquo;No!&rdquo; until
      they left off, of their own will.
    </p>
    <p>
      The President required the name of that citizen. The accused explained
      that the citizen was his first witness. He also referred with confidence
      to the citizen&rsquo;s letter, which had been taken from him at the Barrier, but
      which he did not doubt would be found among the papers then before the
      President.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Doctor had taken care that it should be there&mdash;had assured him
      that it would be there&mdash;and at this stage of the proceedings it was
      produced and read. Citizen Gabelle was called to confirm it, and did so.
      Citizen Gabelle hinted, with infinite delicacy and politeness, that in the
      pressure of business imposed on the Tribunal by the multitude of enemies
      of the Republic with which it had to deal, he had been slightly overlooked
      in his prison of the Abbaye&mdash;in fact, had rather passed out of the
      Tribunal&rsquo;s patriotic remembrance&mdash;until three days ago; when he had
      been summoned before it, and had been set at liberty on the Jury&rsquo;s
      declaring themselves satisfied that the accusation against him was
      answered, as to himself, by the surrender of the citizen Evrémonde, called
      Darnay.
    </p>
    <p>
      Doctor Manette was next questioned. His high personal popularity, and the
      clearness of his answers, made a great impression; but, as he proceeded,
      as he showed that the Accused was his first friend on his release from his
      long imprisonment; that, the accused had remained in England, always
      faithful and devoted to his daughter and himself in their exile; that, so
      far from being in favour with the Aristocrat government there, he had
      actually been tried for his life by it, as the foe of England and friend
      of the United States&mdash;as he brought these circumstances into view,
      with the greatest discretion and with the straightforward force of truth
      and earnestness, the Jury and the populace became one. At last, when he
      appealed by name to Monsieur Lorry, an English gentleman then and there
      present, who, like himself, had been a witness on that English trial and
      could corroborate his account of it, the Jury declared that they had heard
      enough, and that they were ready with their votes if the President were
      content to receive them.
    </p>
    <p>
      At every vote (the Jurymen voted aloud and individually), the populace set
      up a shout of applause. All the voices were in the prisoner&rsquo;s favour, and
      the President declared him free.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, began one of those extraordinary scenes with which the populace
      sometimes gratified their fickleness, or their better impulses towards
      generosity and mercy, or which they regarded as some set-off against their
      swollen account of cruel rage. No man can decide now to which of these
      motives such extraordinary scenes were referable; it is probable, to a
      blending of all the three, with the second predominating. No sooner was
      the acquittal pronounced, than tears were shed as freely as blood at
      another time, and such fraternal embraces were bestowed upon the prisoner
      by as many of both sexes as could rush at him, that after his long and
      unwholesome confinement he was in danger of fainting from exhaustion; none
      the less because he knew very well, that the very same people, carried by
      another current, would have rushed at him with the very same intensity, to
      rend him to pieces and strew him over the streets.
    </p>
    <p>
      His removal, to make way for other accused persons who were to be tried,
      rescued him from these caresses for the moment. Five were to be tried
      together, next, as enemies of the Republic, forasmuch as they had not
      assisted it by word or deed. So quick was the Tribunal to compensate
      itself and the nation for a chance lost, that these five came down to him
      before he left the place, condemned to die within twenty-four hours. The
      first of them told him so, with the customary prison sign of Death&mdash;a
      raised finger&mdash;and they all added in words, &ldquo;Long live the Republic!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The five had had, it is true, no audience to lengthen their proceedings,
      for when he and Doctor Manette emerged from the gate, there was a great
      crowd about it, in which there seemed to be every face he had seen in
      Court&mdash;except two, for which he looked in vain. On his coming out,
      the concourse made at him anew, weeping, embracing, and shouting, all by
      turns and all together, until the very tide of the river on the bank of
      which the mad scene was acted, seemed to run mad, like the people on the
      shore.
    </p>
    <p>
      They put him into a great chair they had among them, and which they had
      taken either out of the Court itself, or one of its rooms or passages.
      Over the chair they had thrown a red flag, and to the back of it they had
      bound a pike with a red cap on its top. In this car of triumph, not even
      the Doctor&rsquo;s entreaties could prevent his being carried to his home on
      men&rsquo;s shoulders, with a confused sea of red caps heaving about him, and
      casting up to sight from the stormy deep such wrecks of faces, that he
      more than once misdoubted his mind being in confusion, and that he was in
      the tumbril on his way to the Guillotine.
    </p>
    <p>
      In wild dreamlike procession, embracing whom they met and pointing him
      out, they carried him on. Reddening the snowy streets with the prevailing
      Republican colour, in winding and tramping through them, as they had
      reddened them below the snow with a deeper dye, they carried him thus into
      the courtyard of the building where he lived. Her father had gone on
      before, to prepare her, and when her husband stood upon his feet, she
      dropped insensible in his arms.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he held her to his heart and turned her beautiful head between his face
      and the brawling crowd, so that his tears and her lips might come together
      unseen, a few of the people fell to dancing. Instantly, all the rest fell
      to dancing, and the courtyard overflowed with the Carmagnole. Then, they
      elevated into the vacant chair a young woman from the crowd to be carried
      as the Goddess of Liberty, and then swelling and overflowing out into the
      adjacent streets, and along the river&rsquo;s bank, and over the bridge, the
      Carmagnole absorbed them every one and whirled them away.
    </p>
    <p>
      After grasping the Doctor&rsquo;s hand, as he stood victorious and proud before
      him; after grasping the hand of Mr. Lorry, who came panting in breathless
      from his struggle against the waterspout of the Carmagnole; after kissing
      little Lucie, who was lifted up to clasp her arms round his neck; and
      after embracing the ever zealous and faithful Pross who lifted her; he
      took his wife in his arms, and carried her up to their rooms.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lucie! My own! I am safe.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O dearest Charles, let me thank God for this on my knees as I have prayed
      to Him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They all reverently bowed their heads and hearts. When she was again in
      his arms, he said to her:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And now speak to your father, dearest. No other man in all this France
      could have done what he has done for me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She laid her head upon her father&rsquo;s breast, as she had laid his poor head
      on her own breast, long, long ago. He was happy in the return he had made
      her, he was recompensed for his suffering, he was proud of his strength.
      &ldquo;You must not be weak, my darling,&rdquo; he remonstrated; &ldquo;don&rsquo;t tremble so. I
      have saved him.&rdquo;
     </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0040" id="link2H_4_0040"></a>
      CHAPTER VII.<br />A Knock at the Door
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> have saved him.&rdquo; It was not another of the dreams in which he had often
      come back; he was really here. And yet his wife trembled, and a vague but
      heavy fear was upon her.
    </p>
    <p>
      All the air round was so thick and dark, the people were so passionately
      revengeful and fitful, the innocent were so constantly put to death on
      vague suspicion and black malice, it was so impossible to forget that many
      as blameless as her husband and as dear to others as he was to her, every
      day shared the fate from which he had been clutched, that her heart could
      not be as lightened of its load as she felt it ought to be. The shadows of
      the wintry afternoon were beginning to fall, and even now the dreadful
      carts were rolling through the streets. Her mind pursued them, looking for
      him among the Condemned; and then she clung closer to his real presence
      and trembled more.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her father, cheering her, showed a compassionate superiority to this
      woman&rsquo;s weakness, which was wonderful to see. No garret, no shoemaking, no
      One Hundred and Five, North Tower, now! He had accomplished the task he
      had set himself, his promise was redeemed, he had saved Charles. Let them
      all lean upon him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Their housekeeping was of a very frugal kind: not only because that was
      the safest way of life, involving the least offence to the people, but
      because they were not rich, and Charles, throughout his imprisonment, had
      had to pay heavily for his bad food, and for his guard, and towards the
      living of the poorer prisoners. Partly on this account, and partly to
      avoid a domestic spy, they kept no servant; the citizen and citizeness who
      acted as porters at the courtyard gate, rendered them occasional service;
      and Jerry (almost wholly transferred to them by Mr. Lorry) had become
      their daily retainer, and had his bed there every night.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was an ordinance of the Republic One and Indivisible of Liberty,
      Equality, Fraternity, or Death, that on the door or doorpost of every
      house, the name of every inmate must be legibly inscribed in letters of a
      certain size, at a certain convenient height from the ground. Mr. Jerry
      Cruncher&rsquo;s name, therefore, duly embellished the doorpost down below; and,
      as the afternoon shadows deepened, the owner of that name himself
      appeared, from overlooking a painter whom Doctor Manette had employed to
      add to the list the name of Charles Evrémonde, called Darnay.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the universal fear and distrust that darkened the time, all the usual
      harmless ways of life were changed. In the Doctor&rsquo;s little household, as
      in very many others, the articles of daily consumption that were wanted
      were purchased every evening, in small quantities and at various small
      shops. To avoid attracting notice, and to give as little occasion as
      possible for talk and envy, was the general desire.
    </p>
    <p>
      For some months past, Miss Pross and Mr. Cruncher had discharged the
      office of purveyors; the former carrying the money; the latter, the
      basket. Every afternoon at about the time when the public lamps were
      lighted, they fared forth on this duty, and made and brought home such
      purchases as were needful. Although Miss Pross, through her long
      association with a French family, might have known as much of their
      language as of her own, if she had had a mind, she had no mind in that
      direction; consequently she knew no more of that &ldquo;nonsense&rdquo; (as she was
      pleased to call it) than Mr. Cruncher did. So her manner of marketing was
      to plump a noun-substantive at the head of a shopkeeper without any
      introduction in the nature of an article, and, if it happened not to be
      the name of the thing she wanted, to look round for that thing, lay hold
      of it, and hold on by it until the bargain was concluded. She always made
      a bargain for it, by holding up, as a statement of its just price, one
      finger less than the merchant held up, whatever his number might be.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, Mr. Cruncher,&rdquo; said Miss Pross, whose eyes were red with felicity;
      &ldquo;if you are ready, I am.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Jerry hoarsely professed himself at Miss Pross&rsquo;s service. He had worn all
      his rust off long ago, but nothing would file his spiky head down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s all manner of things wanted,&rdquo; said Miss Pross, &ldquo;and we shall have
      a precious time of it. We want wine, among the rest. Nice toasts these
      Redheads will be drinking, wherever we buy it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It will be much the same to your knowledge, miss, I should think,&rdquo;
       retorted Jerry, &ldquo;whether they drink your health or the Old Un&rsquo;s.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who&rsquo;s he?&rdquo; said Miss Pross.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Cruncher, with some diffidence, explained himself as meaning &ldquo;Old
      Nick&rsquo;s.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha!&rdquo; said Miss Pross, &ldquo;it doesn&rsquo;t need an interpreter to explain the
      meaning of these creatures. They have but one, and it&rsquo;s Midnight Murder,
      and Mischief.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush, dear! Pray, pray, be cautious!&rdquo; cried Lucie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes, yes, I&rsquo;ll be cautious,&rdquo; said Miss Pross; &ldquo;but I may say among
      ourselves, that I do hope there will be no oniony and tobaccoey
      smotherings in the form of embracings all round, going on in the streets.
      Now, Ladybird, never you stir from that fire till I come back! Take care
      of the dear husband you have recovered, and don&rsquo;t move your pretty head
      from his shoulder as you have it now, till you see me again! May I ask a
      question, Doctor Manette, before I go?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think you may take that liberty,&rdquo; the Doctor answered, smiling.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For gracious sake, don&rsquo;t talk about Liberty; we have quite enough of
      that,&rdquo; said Miss Pross.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush, dear! Again?&rdquo; Lucie remonstrated.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, my sweet,&rdquo; said Miss Pross, nodding her head emphatically, &ldquo;the
      short and the long of it is, that I am a subject of His Most Gracious
      Majesty King George the Third;&rdquo; Miss Pross curtseyed at the name; &ldquo;and as
      such, my maxim is, Confound their politics, Frustrate their knavish
      tricks, On him our hopes we fix, God save the King!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Cruncher, in an access of loyalty, growlingly repeated the words after
      Miss Pross, like somebody at church.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am glad you have so much of the Englishman in you, though I wish you
      had never taken that cold in your voice,&rdquo; said Miss Pross, approvingly.
      &ldquo;But the question, Doctor Manette. Is there&rdquo;&mdash;it was the good
      creature&rsquo;s way to affect to make light of anything that was a great
      anxiety with them all, and to come at it in this chance manner&mdash;&ldquo;is
      there any prospect yet, of our getting out of this place?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I fear not yet. It would be dangerous for Charles yet.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Heigh-ho-hum!&rdquo; said Miss Pross, cheerfully repressing a sigh as she
      glanced at her darling&rsquo;s golden hair in the light of the fire, &ldquo;then we
      must have patience and wait: that&rsquo;s all. We must hold up our heads and
      fight low, as my brother Solomon used to say. Now, Mr. Cruncher!&mdash;Don&rsquo;t
      you move, Ladybird!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They went out, leaving Lucie, and her husband, her father, and the child,
      by a bright fire. Mr. Lorry was expected back presently from the Banking
      House. Miss Pross had lighted the lamp, but had put it aside in a corner,
      that they might enjoy the fire-light undisturbed. Little Lucie sat by her
      grandfather with her hands clasped through his arm: and he, in a tone not
      rising much above a whisper, began to tell her a story of a great and
      powerful Fairy who had opened a prison-wall and let out a captive who had
      once done the Fairy a service. All was subdued and quiet, and Lucie was
      more at ease than she had been.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is that?&rdquo; she cried, all at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear!&rdquo; said her father, stopping in his story, and laying his hand on
      hers, &ldquo;command yourself. What a disordered state you are in! The least
      thing&mdash;nothing&mdash;startles you! <i>You</i>, your father&rsquo;s
      daughter!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought, my father,&rdquo; said Lucie, excusing herself, with a pale face and
      in a faltering voice, &ldquo;that I heard strange feet upon the stairs.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My love, the staircase is as still as Death.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As he said the word, a blow was struck upon the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh father, father. What can this be! Hide Charles. Save him!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My child,&rdquo; said the Doctor, rising, and laying his hand upon her
      shoulder, &ldquo;I <i>have</i> saved him. What weakness is this, my dear! Let me
      go to the door.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He took the lamp in his hand, crossed the two intervening outer rooms, and
      opened it. A rude clattering of feet over the floor, and four rough men in
      red caps, armed with sabres and pistols, entered the room.
    </p>

<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/0649m.jpg" style="width:100%;"  alt="0649m " /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0649.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>

    <p>
      &ldquo;The Citizen Evrémonde, called Darnay,&rdquo; said the first.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who seeks him?&rdquo; answered Darnay.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I seek him. We seek him. I know you, Evrémonde; I saw you before the
      Tribunal to-day. You are again the prisoner of the Republic.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The four surrounded him, where he stood with his wife and child clinging
      to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell me how and why am I again a prisoner?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is enough that you return straight to the Conciergerie, and will know
      to-morrow. You are summoned for to-morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Doctor Manette, whom this visitation had so turned into stone, that he
      stood with the lamp in his hand, as if he were a statue made to hold it,
      moved after these words were spoken, put the lamp down, and confronting
      the speaker, and taking him, not ungently, by the loose front of his red
      woollen shirt, said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know him, you have said. Do you know me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I know you, Citizen Doctor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We all know you, Citizen Doctor,&rdquo; said the other three.
    </p>
    <p>
      He looked abstractedly from one to another, and said, in a lower voice,
      after a pause:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you answer his question to me then? How does this happen?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Citizen Doctor,&rdquo; said the first, reluctantly, &ldquo;he has been denounced to
      the Section of Saint Antoine. This citizen,&rdquo; pointing out the second who
      had entered, &ldquo;is from Saint Antoine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The citizen here indicated nodded his head, and added:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is accused by Saint Antoine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of what?&rdquo; asked the Doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Citizen Doctor,&rdquo; said the first, with his former reluctance, &ldquo;ask no
      more. If the Republic demands sacrifices from you, without doubt you as a
      good patriot will be happy to make them. The Republic goes before all. The
      People is supreme. Evrémonde, we are pressed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One word,&rdquo; the Doctor entreated. &ldquo;Will you tell me who denounced him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is against rule,&rdquo; answered the first; &ldquo;but you can ask Him of Saint
      Antoine here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Doctor turned his eyes upon that man. Who moved uneasily on his feet,
      rubbed his beard a little, and at length said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well! Truly it is against rule. But he is denounced&mdash;and gravely&mdash;by
      the Citizen and Citizeness Defarge. And by one other.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What other?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do <i>you</i> ask, Citizen Doctor?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then,&rdquo; said he of Saint Antoine, with a strange look, &ldquo;you will be
      answered to-morrow. Now, I am dumb!&rdquo;
     </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0041" id="link2H_4_0041"></a>
      CHAPTER VIII.<br />A Hand at Cards
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span>appily unconscious of the new calamity at home, Miss Pross threaded her
      way along the narrow streets and crossed the river by the bridge of the
      Pont-Neuf, reckoning in her mind the number of indispensable purchases she
      had to make. Mr. Cruncher, with the basket, walked at her side. They both
      looked to the right and to the left into most of the shops they passed,
      had a wary eye for all gregarious assemblages of people, and turned out of
      their road to avoid any very excited group of talkers. It was a raw
      evening, and the misty river, blurred to the eye with blazing lights and
      to the ear with harsh noises, showed where the barges were stationed in
      which the smiths worked, making guns for the Army of the Republic. Woe to
      the man who played tricks with <i>that</i> Army, or got undeserved
      promotion in it! Better for him that his beard had never grown, for the
      National Razor shaved him close.
    </p>
    <p>
      Having purchased a few small articles of grocery, and a measure of oil for
      the lamp, Miss Pross bethought herself of the wine they wanted. After
      peeping into several wine-shops, she stopped at the sign of the Good
      Republican Brutus of Antiquity, not far from the National Palace, once
      (and twice) the Tuileries, where the aspect of things rather took her
      fancy. It had a quieter look than any other place of the same description
      they had passed, and, though red with patriotic caps, was not so red as
      the rest. Sounding Mr. Cruncher, and finding him of her opinion, Miss
      Pross resorted to the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, attended by her
      cavalier.
    </p>
    <p>
      Slightly observant of the smoky lights; of the people, pipe in mouth,
      playing with limp cards and yellow dominoes; of the one bare-breasted,
      bare-armed, soot-begrimed workman reading a journal aloud, and of the
      others listening to him; of the weapons worn, or laid aside to be resumed;
      of the two or three customers fallen forward asleep, who in the popular
      high-shouldered shaggy black spencer looked, in that attitude, like
      slumbering bears or dogs; the two outlandish customers approached the
      counter, and showed what they wanted.
    </p>
    <p>
      As their wine was measuring out, a man parted from another man in a
      corner, and rose to depart. In going, he had to face Miss Pross. No sooner
      did he face her, than Miss Pross uttered a scream, and clapped her hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a moment, the whole company were on their feet. That somebody was
      assassinated by somebody vindicating a difference of opinion was the
      likeliest occurrence. Everybody looked to see somebody fall, but only saw
      a man and a woman standing staring at each other; the man with all the
      outward aspect of a Frenchman and a thorough Republican; the woman,
      evidently English.
    </p>

<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/0653m.jpg" style="width:100%;"  alt="0653m " /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0653.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>

    <p>
      What was said in this disappointing anti-climax, by the disciples of the
      Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, except that it was something very
      voluble and loud, would have been as so much Hebrew or Chaldean to Miss
      Pross and her protector, though they had been all ears. But, they had no
      ears for anything in their surprise. For, it must be recorded, that not
      only was Miss Pross lost in amazement and agitation, but, Mr. Cruncher&mdash;though
      it seemed on his own separate and individual account&mdash;was in a state
      of the greatest wonder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is the matter?&rdquo; said the man who had caused Miss Pross to scream;
      speaking in a vexed, abrupt voice (though in a low tone), and in English.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Solomon, dear Solomon!&rdquo; cried Miss Pross, clapping her hands again.
      &ldquo;After not setting eyes upon you or hearing of you for so long a time, do
      I find you here!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t call me Solomon. Do you want to be the death of me?&rdquo; asked the man,
      in a furtive, frightened way.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Brother, brother!&rdquo; cried Miss Pross, bursting into tears. &ldquo;Have I ever
      been so hard with you that you ask me such a cruel question?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then hold your meddlesome tongue,&rdquo; said Solomon, &ldquo;and come out, if you
      want to speak to me. Pay for your wine, and come out. Who&rsquo;s this man?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Pross, shaking her loving and dejected head at her by no means
      affectionate brother, said through her tears, &ldquo;Mr. Cruncher.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let him come out too,&rdquo; said Solomon. &ldquo;Does he think me a ghost?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Apparently, Mr. Cruncher did, to judge from his looks. He said not a word,
      however, and Miss Pross, exploring the depths of her reticule through her
      tears with great difficulty paid for her wine. As she did so, Solomon
      turned to the followers of the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, and
      offered a few words of explanation in the French language, which caused
      them all to relapse into their former places and pursuits.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now,&rdquo; said Solomon, stopping at the dark street corner, &ldquo;what do you
      want?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How dreadfully unkind in a brother nothing has ever turned my love away
      from!&rdquo; cried Miss Pross, &ldquo;to give me such a greeting, and show me no
      affection.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There. Confound it! There,&rdquo; said Solomon, making a dab at Miss Pross&rsquo;s
      lips with his own. &ldquo;Now are you content?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Pross only shook her head and wept in silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you expect me to be surprised,&rdquo; said her brother Solomon, &ldquo;I am not
      surprised; I knew you were here; I know of most people who are here. If
      you really don&rsquo;t want to endanger my existence&mdash;which I half believe
      you do&mdash;go your ways as soon as possible, and let me go mine. I am
      busy. I am an official.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My English brother Solomon,&rdquo; mourned Miss Pross, casting up her
      tear-fraught eyes, &ldquo;that had the makings in him of one of the best and
      greatest of men in his native country, an official among foreigners, and
      such foreigners! I would almost sooner have seen the dear boy lying in his&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I said so!&rdquo; cried her brother, interrupting. &ldquo;I knew it. You want to be
      the death of me. I shall be rendered Suspected, by my own sister. Just as
      I am getting on!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The gracious and merciful Heavens forbid!&rdquo; cried Miss Pross. &ldquo;Far rather
      would I never see you again, dear Solomon, though I have ever loved you
      truly, and ever shall. Say but one affectionate word to me, and tell me
      there is nothing angry or estranged between us, and I will detain you no
      longer.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Good Miss Pross! As if the estrangement between them had come of any
      culpability of hers. As if Mr. Lorry had not known it for a fact, years
      ago, in the quiet corner in Soho, that this precious brother had spent her
      money and left her!
    </p>
    <p>
      He was saying the affectionate word, however, with a far more grudging
      condescension and patronage than he could have shown if their relative
      merits and positions had been reversed (which is invariably the case, all
      the world over), when Mr. Cruncher, touching him on the shoulder, hoarsely
      and unexpectedly interposed with the following singular question:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say! Might I ask the favour? As to whether your name is John Solomon,
      or Solomon John?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The official turned towards him with sudden distrust. He had not
      previously uttered a word.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come!&rdquo; said Mr. Cruncher. &ldquo;Speak out, you know.&rdquo; (Which, by the way, was
      more than he could do himself.) &ldquo;John Solomon, or Solomon John? She calls
      you Solomon, and she must know, being your sister. And <i>I</i> know
      you&rsquo;re John, you know. Which of the two goes first? And regarding that
      name of Pross, likewise. That warn&rsquo;t your name over the water.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I don&rsquo;t know all I mean, for I can&rsquo;t call to mind what your name
      was, over the water.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. But I&rsquo;ll swear it was a name of two syllables.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. T&rsquo;other one&rsquo;s was one syllable. I know you. You was a spy&mdash;witness
      at the Bailey. What, in the name of the Father of Lies, own father to
      yourself, was you called at that time?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Barsad,&rdquo; said another voice, striking in.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s the name for a thousand pound!&rdquo; cried Jerry.
    </p>
    <p>
      The speaker who struck in, was Sydney Carton. He had his hands behind him
      under the skirts of his riding-coat, and he stood at Mr. Cruncher&rsquo;s elbow
      as negligently as he might have stood at the Old Bailey itself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be alarmed, my dear Miss Pross. I arrived at Mr. Lorry&rsquo;s, to his
      surprise, yesterday evening; we agreed that I would not present myself
      elsewhere until all was well, or unless I could be useful; I present
      myself here, to beg a little talk with your brother. I wish you had a
      better employed brother than Mr. Barsad. I wish for your sake Mr. Barsad
      was not a Sheep of the Prisons.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sheep was a cant word of the time for a spy, under the gaolers. The spy,
      who was pale, turned paler, and asked him how he dared&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll tell you,&rdquo; said Sydney. &ldquo;I lighted on you, Mr. Barsad, coming out of
      the prison of the Conciergerie while I was contemplating the walls, an
      hour or more ago. You have a face to be remembered, and I remember faces
      well. Made curious by seeing you in that connection, and having a reason,
      to which you are no stranger, for associating you with the misfortunes of
      a friend now very unfortunate, I walked in your direction. I walked into
      the wine-shop here, close after you, and sat near you. I had no difficulty
      in deducing from your unreserved conversation, and the rumour openly going
      about among your admirers, the nature of your calling. And gradually, what
      I had done at random, seemed to shape itself into a purpose, Mr. Barsad.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What purpose?&rdquo; the spy asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would be troublesome, and might be dangerous, to explain in the
      street. Could you favour me, in confidence, with some minutes of your
      company&mdash;at the office of Tellson&rsquo;s Bank, for instance?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Under a threat?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! Did I say that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, why should I go there?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really, Mr. Barsad, I can&rsquo;t say, if you can&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you mean that you won&rsquo;t say, sir?&rdquo; the spy irresolutely asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You apprehend me very clearly, Mr. Barsad. I won&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carton&rsquo;s negligent recklessness of manner came powerfully in aid of his
      quickness and skill, in such a business as he had in his secret mind, and
      with such a man as he had to do with. His practised eye saw it, and made
      the most of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, I told you so,&rdquo; said the spy, casting a reproachful look at his
      sister; &ldquo;if any trouble comes of this, it&rsquo;s your doing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, come, Mr. Barsad!&rdquo; exclaimed Sydney. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be ungrateful. But for
      my great respect for your sister, I might not have led up so pleasantly to
      a little proposal that I wish to make for our mutual satisfaction. Do you
      go with me to the Bank?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll hear what you have got to say. Yes, I&rsquo;ll go with you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I propose that we first conduct your sister safely to the corner of her
      own street. Let me take your arm, Miss Pross. This is not a good city, at
      this time, for you to be out in, unprotected; and as your escort knows Mr.
      Barsad, I will invite him to Mr. Lorry&rsquo;s with us. Are we ready? Come
      then!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Miss Pross recalled soon afterwards, and to the end of her life
      remembered, that as she pressed her hands on Sydney&rsquo;s arm and looked up in
      his face, imploring him to do no hurt to Solomon, there was a braced
      purpose in the arm and a kind of inspiration in the eyes, which not only
      contradicted his light manner, but changed and raised the man. She was too
      much occupied then with fears for the brother who so little deserved her
      affection, and with Sydney&rsquo;s friendly reassurances, adequately to heed
      what she observed.
    </p>
    <p>
      They left her at the corner of the street, and Carton led the way to Mr.
      Lorry&rsquo;s, which was within a few minutes&rsquo; walk. John Barsad, or Solomon
      Pross, walked at his side.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Lorry had just finished his dinner, and was sitting before a cheery
      little log or two of fire&mdash;perhaps looking into their blaze for the
      picture of that younger elderly gentleman from Tellson&rsquo;s, who had looked
      into the red coals at the Royal George at Dover, now a good many years
      ago. He turned his head as they entered, and showed the surprise with
      which he saw a stranger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miss Pross&rsquo;s brother, sir,&rdquo; said Sydney. &ldquo;Mr. Barsad.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Barsad?&rdquo; repeated the old gentleman, &ldquo;Barsad? I have an association with
      the name&mdash;and with the face.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I told you you had a remarkable face, Mr. Barsad,&rdquo; observed Carton,
      coolly. &ldquo;Pray sit down.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As he took a chair himself, he supplied the link that Mr. Lorry wanted, by
      saying to him with a frown, &ldquo;Witness at that trial.&rdquo; Mr. Lorry immediately
      remembered, and regarded his new visitor with an undisguised look of
      abhorrence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Barsad has been recognised by Miss Pross as the affectionate brother
      you have heard of,&rdquo; said Sydney, &ldquo;and has acknowledged the relationship. I
      pass to worse news. Darnay has been arrested again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Struck with consternation, the old gentleman exclaimed, &ldquo;What do you tell
      me! I left him safe and free within these two hours, and am about to
      return to him!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Arrested for all that. When was it done, Mr. Barsad?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just now, if at all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Barsad is the best authority possible, sir,&rdquo; said Sydney, &ldquo;and I have
      it from Mr. Barsad&rsquo;s communication to a friend and brother Sheep over a
      bottle of wine, that the arrest has taken place. He left the messengers at
      the gate, and saw them admitted by the porter. There is no earthly doubt
      that he is retaken.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Lorry&rsquo;s business eye read in the speaker&rsquo;s face that it was loss of
      time to dwell upon the point. Confused, but sensible that something might
      depend on his presence of mind, he commanded himself, and was silently
      attentive.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, I trust,&rdquo; said Sydney to him, &ldquo;that the name and influence of Doctor
      Manette may stand him in as good stead to-morrow&mdash;you said he would
      be before the Tribunal again to-morrow, Mr. Barsad?&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; I believe so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&mdash;In as good stead to-morrow as to-day. But it may not be so. I own
      to you, I am shaken, Mr. Lorry, by Doctor Manette&rsquo;s not having had the
      power to prevent this arrest.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He may not have known of it beforehand,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But that very circumstance would be alarming, when we remember how
      identified he is with his son-in-law.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s true,&rdquo; Mr. Lorry acknowledged, with his troubled hand at his chin,
      and his troubled eyes on Carton.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In short,&rdquo; said Sydney, &ldquo;this is a desperate time, when desperate games
      are played for desperate stakes. Let the Doctor play the winning game; I
      will play the losing one. No man&rsquo;s life here is worth purchase. Any one
      carried home by the people to-day, may be condemned tomorrow. Now, the
      stake I have resolved to play for, in case of the worst, is a friend in
      the Conciergerie. And the friend I purpose to myself to win, is Mr.
      Barsad.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You need have good cards, sir,&rdquo; said the spy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll run them over. I&rsquo;ll see what I hold,&mdash;Mr. Lorry, you know what
      a brute I am; I wish you&rsquo;d give me a little brandy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was put before him, and he drank off a glassful&mdash;drank off another
      glassful&mdash;pushed the bottle thoughtfully away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Barsad,&rdquo; he went on, in the tone of one who really was looking over a
      hand at cards: &ldquo;Sheep of the prisons, emissary of Republican committees,
      now turnkey, now prisoner, always spy and secret informer, so much the
      more valuable here for being English that an Englishman is less open to
      suspicion of subornation in those characters than a Frenchman, represents
      himself to his employers under a false name. That&rsquo;s a very good card. Mr.
      Barsad, now in the employ of the republican French government, was
      formerly in the employ of the aristocratic English government, the enemy
      of France and freedom. That&rsquo;s an excellent card. Inference clear as day in
      this region of suspicion, that Mr. Barsad, still in the pay of the
      aristocratic English government, is the spy of Pitt, the treacherous foe
      of the Republic crouching in its bosom, the English traitor and agent of
      all mischief so much spoken of and so difficult to find. That&rsquo;s a card not
      to be beaten. Have you followed my hand, Mr. Barsad?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not to understand your play,&rdquo; returned the spy, somewhat uneasily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I play my Ace, Denunciation of Mr. Barsad to the nearest Section
      Committee. Look over your hand, Mr. Barsad, and see what you have. Don&rsquo;t
      hurry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He drew the bottle near, poured out another glassful of brandy, and drank
      it off. He saw that the spy was fearful of his drinking himself into a fit
      state for the immediate denunciation of him. Seeing it, he poured out and
      drank another glassful.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look over your hand carefully, Mr. Barsad. Take time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was a poorer hand than he suspected. Mr. Barsad saw losing cards in it
      that Sydney Carton knew nothing of. Thrown out of his honourable
      employment in England, through too much unsuccessful hard swearing there&mdash;not
      because he was not wanted there; our English reasons for vaunting our
      superiority to secrecy and spies are of very modern date&mdash;he knew
      that he had crossed the Channel, and accepted service in France: first, as
      a tempter and an eavesdropper among his own countrymen there: gradually,
      as a tempter and an eavesdropper among the natives. He knew that under the
      overthrown government he had been a spy upon Saint Antoine and Defarge&rsquo;s
      wine-shop; had received from the watchful police such heads of information
      concerning Doctor Manette&rsquo;s imprisonment, release, and history, as should
      serve him for an introduction to familiar conversation with the Defarges;
      and tried them on Madame Defarge, and had broken down with them signally.
      He always remembered with fear and trembling, that that terrible woman had
      knitted when he talked with her, and had looked ominously at him as her
      fingers moved. He had since seen her, in the Section of Saint Antoine,
      over and over again produce her knitted registers, and denounce people
      whose lives the guillotine then surely swallowed up. He knew, as every one
      employed as he was did, that he was never safe; that flight was
      impossible; that he was tied fast under the shadow of the axe; and that in
      spite of his utmost tergiversation and treachery in furtherance of the
      reigning terror, a word might bring it down upon him. Once denounced, and
      on such grave grounds as had just now been suggested to his mind, he
      foresaw that the dreadful woman of whose unrelenting character he had seen
      many proofs, would produce against him that fatal register, and would
      quash his last chance of life. Besides that all secret men are men soon
      terrified, here were surely cards enough of one black suit, to justify the
      holder in growing rather livid as he turned them over.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You scarcely seem to like your hand,&rdquo; said Sydney, with the greatest
      composure. &ldquo;Do you play?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think, sir,&rdquo; said the spy, in the meanest manner, as he turned to Mr.
      Lorry, &ldquo;I may appeal to a gentleman of your years and benevolence, to put
      it to this other gentleman, so much your junior, whether he can under any
      circumstances reconcile it to his station to play that Ace of which he has
      spoken. I admit that <i>I</i> am a spy, and that it is considered a
      discreditable station&mdash;though it must be filled by somebody; but this
      gentleman is no spy, and why should he so demean himself as to make
      himself one?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I play my Ace, Mr. Barsad,&rdquo; said Carton, taking the answer on himself,
      and looking at his watch, &ldquo;without any scruple, in a very few minutes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should have hoped, gentlemen both,&rdquo; said the spy, always striving to
      hook Mr. Lorry into the discussion, &ldquo;that your respect for my sister&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I could not better testify my respect for your sister than by finally
      relieving her of her brother,&rdquo; said Sydney Carton.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You think not, sir?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have thoroughly made up my mind about it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The smooth manner of the spy, curiously in dissonance with his
      ostentatiously rough dress, and probably with his usual demeanour,
      received such a check from the inscrutability of Carton,&mdash;who was a
      mystery to wiser and honester men than he,&mdash;that it faltered here and
      failed him. While he was at a loss, Carton said, resuming his former air
      of contemplating cards:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And indeed, now I think again, I have a strong impression that I have
      another good card here, not yet enumerated. That friend and fellow-Sheep,
      who spoke of himself as pasturing in the country prisons; who was he?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;French. You don&rsquo;t know him,&rdquo; said the spy, quickly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;French, eh?&rdquo; repeated Carton, musing, and not appearing to notice him at
      all, though he echoed his word. &ldquo;Well; he may be.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is, I assure you,&rdquo; said the spy; &ldquo;though it&rsquo;s not important.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Though it&rsquo;s not important,&rdquo; repeated Carton, in the same mechanical way&mdash;&ldquo;though
      it&rsquo;s not important&mdash;No, it&rsquo;s not important. No. Yet I know the face.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think not. I am sure not. It can&rsquo;t be,&rdquo; said the spy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It-can&rsquo;t-be,&rdquo; muttered Sydney Carton, retrospectively, and idling his
      glass (which fortunately was a small one) again. &ldquo;Can&rsquo;t-be. Spoke good
      French. Yet like a foreigner, I thought?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Provincial,&rdquo; said the spy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. Foreign!&rdquo; cried Carton, striking his open hand on the table, as a
      light broke clearly on his mind. &ldquo;Cly! Disguised, but the same man. We had
      that man before us at the Old Bailey.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, there you are hasty, sir,&rdquo; said Barsad, with a smile that gave his
      aquiline nose an extra inclination to one side; &ldquo;there you really give me
      an advantage over you. Cly (who I will unreservedly admit, at this
      distance of time, was a partner of mine) has been dead several years. I
      attended him in his last illness. He was buried in London, at the church
      of Saint Pancras-in-the-Fields. His unpopularity with the blackguard
      multitude at the moment prevented my following his remains, but I helped
      to lay him in his coffin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here, Mr. Lorry became aware, from where he sat, of a most remarkable
      goblin shadow on the wall. Tracing it to its source, he discovered it to
      be caused by a sudden extraordinary rising and stiffening of all the risen
      and stiff hair on Mr. Cruncher&rsquo;s head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us be reasonable,&rdquo; said the spy, &ldquo;and let us be fair. To show you how
      mistaken you are, and what an unfounded assumption yours is, I will lay
      before you a certificate of Cly&rsquo;s burial, which I happened to have carried
      in my pocket-book,&rdquo; with a hurried hand he produced and opened it, &ldquo;ever
      since. There it is. Oh, look at it, look at it! You may take it in your
      hand; it&rsquo;s no forgery.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here, Mr. Lorry perceived the reflection on the wall to elongate, and Mr.
      Cruncher rose and stepped forward. His hair could not have been more
      violently on end, if it had been that moment dressed by the Cow with the
      crumpled horn in the house that Jack built.
    </p>
    <p>
      Unseen by the spy, Mr. Cruncher stood at his side, and touched him on the
      shoulder like a ghostly bailiff.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That there Roger Cly, master,&rdquo; said Mr. Cruncher, with a taciturn and
      iron-bound visage. &ldquo;So <i>you</i> put him in his coffin?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who took him out of it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Barsad leaned back in his chair, and stammered, &ldquo;What do you mean?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mean,&rdquo; said Mr. Cruncher, &ldquo;that he warn&rsquo;t never in it. No! Not he! I&rsquo;ll
      have my head took off, if he was ever in it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The spy looked round at the two gentlemen; they both looked in unspeakable
      astonishment at Jerry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I tell you,&rdquo; said Jerry, &ldquo;that you buried paving-stones and earth in that
      there coffin. Don&rsquo;t go and tell me that you buried Cly. It was a take in.
      Me and two more knows it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How do you know it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s that to you? Ecod!&rdquo; growled Mr. Cruncher, &ldquo;it&rsquo;s you I have got a
      old grudge again, is it, with your shameful impositions upon tradesmen!
      I&rsquo;d catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a guinea.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sydney Carton, who, with Mr. Lorry, had been lost in amazement at this
      turn of the business, here requested Mr. Cruncher to moderate and explain
      himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At another time, sir,&rdquo; he returned, evasively, &ldquo;the present time is
      ill-conwenient for explainin&rsquo;. What I stand to, is, that he knows well wot
      that there Cly was never in that there coffin. Let him say he was, in so
      much as a word of one syllable, and I&rsquo;ll either catch hold of his throat
      and choke him for half a guinea;&rdquo; Mr. Cruncher dwelt upon this as quite a
      liberal offer; &ldquo;or I&rsquo;ll out and announce him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Humph! I see one thing,&rdquo; said Carton. &ldquo;I hold another card, Mr. Barsad.
      Impossible, here in raging Paris, with Suspicion filling the air, for you
      to outlive denunciation, when you are in communication with another
      aristocratic spy of the same antecedents as yourself, who, moreover, has
      the mystery about him of having feigned death and come to life again! A
      plot in the prisons, of the foreigner against the Republic. A strong card&mdash;a
      certain Guillotine card! Do you play?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No!&rdquo; returned the spy. &ldquo;I throw up. I confess that we were so unpopular
      with the outrageous mob, that I only got away from England at the risk of
      being ducked to death, and that Cly was so ferreted up and down, that he
      never would have got away at all but for that sham. Though how this man
      knows it was a sham, is a wonder of wonders to me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never you trouble your head about this man,&rdquo; retorted the contentious Mr.
      Cruncher; &ldquo;you&rsquo;ll have trouble enough with giving your attention to that
      gentleman. And look here! Once more!&rdquo;&mdash;Mr. Cruncher could not be
      restrained from making rather an ostentatious parade of his liberality&mdash;&ldquo;I&rsquo;d
      catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a guinea.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Sheep of the prisons turned from him to Sydney Carton, and said, with
      more decision, &ldquo;It has come to a point. I go on duty soon, and can&rsquo;t
      overstay my time. You told me you had a proposal; what is it? Now, it is
      of no use asking too much of me. Ask me to do anything in my office,
      putting my head in great extra danger, and I had better trust my life to
      the chances of a refusal than the chances of consent. In short, I should
      make that choice. You talk of desperation. We are all desperate here.
      Remember! I may denounce you if I think proper, and I can swear my way
      through stone walls, and so can others. Now, what do you want with me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not very much. You are a turnkey at the Conciergerie?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I tell you once for all, there is no such thing as an escape possible,&rdquo;
       said the spy, firmly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why need you tell me what I have not asked? You are a turnkey at the
      Conciergerie?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sometimes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You can be when you choose?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can pass in and out when I choose.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sydney Carton filled another glass with brandy, poured it slowly out upon
      the hearth, and watched it as it dropped. It being all spent, he said,
      rising:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So far, we have spoken before these two, because it was as well that the
      merits of the cards should not rest solely between you and me. Come into
      the dark room here, and let us have one final word alone.&rdquo;
     </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0042" id="link2H_4_0042"></a>
      CHAPTER IX.<br />The Game Made
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hile Sydney Carton and the Sheep of the prisons were in the adjoining
      dark room, speaking so low that not a sound was heard, Mr. Lorry looked at
      Jerry in considerable doubt and mistrust. That honest tradesman&rsquo;s manner
      of receiving the look, did not inspire confidence; he changed the leg on
      which he rested, as often as if he had fifty of those limbs, and were
      trying them all; he examined his finger-nails with a very questionable
      closeness of attention; and whenever Mr. Lorry&rsquo;s eye caught his, he was
      taken with that peculiar kind of short cough requiring the hollow of a
      hand before it, which is seldom, if ever, known to be an infirmity
      attendant on perfect openness of character.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jerry,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry. &ldquo;Come here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Cruncher came forward sideways, with one of his shoulders in advance
      of him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What have you been, besides a messenger?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After some cogitation, accompanied with an intent look at his patron, Mr.
      Cruncher conceived the luminous idea of replying, &ldquo;Agicultooral
      character.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My mind misgives me much,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, angrily shaking a forefinger
      at him, &ldquo;that you have used the respectable and great house of Tellson&rsquo;s
      as a blind, and that you have had an unlawful occupation of an infamous
      description. If you have, don&rsquo;t expect me to befriend you when you get
      back to England. If you have, don&rsquo;t expect me to keep your secret.
      Tellson&rsquo;s shall not be imposed upon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope, sir,&rdquo; pleaded the abashed Mr. Cruncher, &ldquo;that a gentleman like
      yourself wot I&rsquo;ve had the honour of odd jobbing till I&rsquo;m grey at it, would
      think twice about harming of me, even if it wos so&mdash;I don&rsquo;t say it
      is, but even if it wos. And which it is to be took into account that if it
      wos, it wouldn&rsquo;t, even then, be all o&rsquo; one side. There&rsquo;d be two sides to
      it. There might be medical doctors at the present hour, a picking up their
      guineas where a honest tradesman don&rsquo;t pick up his fardens&mdash;fardens!
      no, nor yet his half fardens&mdash;half fardens! no, nor yet his quarter&mdash;a
      banking away like smoke at Tellson&rsquo;s, and a cocking their medical eyes at
      that tradesman on the sly, a going in and going out to their own carriages&mdash;ah!
      equally like smoke, if not more so. Well, that &rsquo;ud be imposing, too, on
      Tellson&rsquo;s. For you cannot sarse the goose and not the gander. And here&rsquo;s
      Mrs. Cruncher, or leastways wos in the Old England times, and would be
      to-morrow, if cause given, a floppin&rsquo; again the business to that degree as
      is ruinating&mdash;stark ruinating! Whereas them medical doctors&rsquo; wives
      don&rsquo;t flop&mdash;catch &rsquo;em at it! Or, if they flop, their floppings goes
      in favour of more patients, and how can you rightly have one without
      t&rsquo;other? Then, wot with undertakers, and wot with parish clerks, and wot
      with sextons, and wot with private watchmen (all awaricious and all in
      it), a man wouldn&rsquo;t get much by it, even if it wos so. And wot little a
      man did get, would never prosper with him, Mr. Lorry. He&rsquo;d never have no
      good of it; he&rsquo;d want all along to be out of the line, if he, could see
      his way out, being once in&mdash;even if it wos so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ugh!&rdquo; cried Mr. Lorry, rather relenting, nevertheless, &ldquo;I am shocked at
      the sight of you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, what I would humbly offer to you, sir,&rdquo; pursued Mr. Cruncher, &ldquo;even
      if it wos so, which I don&rsquo;t say it is&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t prevaricate,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I will <i>not</i>, sir,&rdquo; returned Mr. Crunches as if nothing were
      further from his thoughts or practice&mdash;&ldquo;which I don&rsquo;t say it is&mdash;wot
      I would humbly offer to you, sir, would be this. Upon that there stool, at
      that there Bar, sets that there boy of mine, brought up and growed up to
      be a man, wot will errand you, message you, general-light-job you, till
      your heels is where your head is, if such should be your wishes. If it wos
      so, which I still don&rsquo;t say it is (for I will not prewaricate to you,
      sir), let that there boy keep his father&rsquo;s place, and take care of his
      mother; don&rsquo;t blow upon that boy&rsquo;s father&mdash;do not do it, sir&mdash;and
      let that father go into the line of the reg&rsquo;lar diggin&rsquo;, and make amends
      for what he would have undug&mdash;if it wos so&mdash;by diggin&rsquo; of &rsquo;em in
      with a will, and with conwictions respectin&rsquo; the futur&rsquo; keepin&rsquo; of &rsquo;em
      safe. That, Mr. Lorry,&rdquo; said Mr. Cruncher, wiping his forehead with his
      arm, as an announcement that he had arrived at the peroration of his
      discourse, &ldquo;is wot I would respectfully offer to you, sir. A man don&rsquo;t see
      all this here a goin&rsquo; on dreadful round him, in the way of Subjects
      without heads, dear me, plentiful enough fur to bring the price down to
      porterage and hardly that, without havin&rsquo; his serious thoughts of things.
      And these here would be mine, if it wos so, entreatin&rsquo; of you fur to bear
      in mind that wot I said just now, I up and said in the good cause when I
      might have kep&rsquo; it back.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That at least is true,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry. &ldquo;Say no more now. It may be that
      I shall yet stand your friend, if you deserve it, and repent in action&mdash;not
      in words. I want no more words.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Cruncher knuckled his forehead, as Sydney Carton and the spy returned
      from the dark room. &ldquo;Adieu, Mr. Barsad,&rdquo; said the former; &ldquo;our arrangement
      thus made, you have nothing to fear from me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He sat down in a chair on the hearth, over against Mr. Lorry. When they
      were alone, Mr. Lorry asked him what he had done?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not much. If it should go ill with the prisoner, I have ensured access to
      him, once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Lorry&rsquo;s countenance fell.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is all I could do,&rdquo; said Carton. &ldquo;To propose too much, would be to put
      this man&rsquo;s head under the axe, and, as he himself said, nothing worse
      could happen to him if he were denounced. It was obviously the weakness of
      the position. There is no help for it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But access to him,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, &ldquo;if it should go ill before the
      Tribunal, will not save him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never said it would.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Lorry&rsquo;s eyes gradually sought the fire; his sympathy with his darling,
      and the heavy disappointment of his second arrest, gradually weakened
      them; he was an old man now, overborne with anxiety of late, and his tears
      fell.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are a good man and a true friend,&rdquo; said Carton, in an altered voice.
      &ldquo;Forgive me if I notice that you are affected. I could not see my father
      weep, and sit by, careless. And I could not respect your sorrow more, if
      you were my father. You are free from that misfortune, however.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Though he said the last words, with a slip into his usual manner, there
      was a true feeling and respect both in his tone and in his touch, that Mr.
      Lorry, who had never seen the better side of him, was wholly unprepared
      for. He gave him his hand, and Carton gently pressed it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To return to poor Darnay,&rdquo; said Carton. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t tell Her of this
      interview, or this arrangement. It would not enable Her to go to see him.
      She might think it was contrived, in case of the worse, to convey to him
      the means of anticipating the sentence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Lorry had not thought of that, and he looked quickly at Carton to see
      if it were in his mind. It seemed to be; he returned the look, and
      evidently understood it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She might think a thousand things,&rdquo; Carton said, &ldquo;and any of them would
      only add to her trouble. Don&rsquo;t speak of me to her. As I said to you when I
      first came, I had better not see her. I can put my hand out, to do any
      little helpful work for her that my hand can find to do, without that. You
      are going to her, I hope? She must be very desolate to-night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am going now, directly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am glad of that. She has such a strong attachment to you and reliance
      on you. How does she look?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Anxious and unhappy, but very beautiful.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was a long, grieving sound, like a sigh&mdash;almost like a sob. It
      attracted Mr. Lorry&rsquo;s eyes to Carton&rsquo;s face, which was turned to the fire.
      A light, or a shade (the old gentleman could not have said which), passed
      from it as swiftly as a change will sweep over a hill-side on a wild
      bright day, and he lifted his foot to put back one of the little flaming
      logs, which was tumbling forward. He wore the white riding-coat and
      top-boots, then in vogue, and the light of the fire touching their light
      surfaces made him look very pale, with his long brown hair, all untrimmed,
      hanging loose about him. His indifference to fire was sufficiently
      remarkable to elicit a word of remonstrance from Mr. Lorry; his boot was
      still upon the hot embers of the flaming log, when it had broken under the
      weight of his foot.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I forgot it,&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Lorry&rsquo;s eyes were again attracted to his face. Taking note of the
      wasted air which clouded the naturally handsome features, and having the
      expression of prisoners&rsquo; faces fresh in his mind, he was strongly reminded
      of that expression.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And your duties here have drawn to an end, sir?&rdquo; said Carton, turning to
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. As I was telling you last night when Lucie came in so unexpectedly,
      I have at length done all that I can do here. I hoped to have left them in
      perfect safety, and then to have quitted Paris. I have my Leave to Pass. I
      was ready to go.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They were both silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yours is a long life to look back upon, sir?&rdquo; said Carton, wistfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am in my seventy-eighth year.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have been useful all your life; steadily and constantly occupied;
      trusted, respected, and looked up to?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have been a man of business, ever since I have been a man. Indeed, I
      may say that I was a man of business when a boy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See what a place you fill at seventy-eight. How many people will miss you
      when you leave it empty!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A solitary old bachelor,&rdquo; answered Mr. Lorry, shaking his head. &ldquo;There is
      nobody to weep for me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How can you say that? Wouldn&rsquo;t She weep for you? Wouldn&rsquo;t her child?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes, thank God. I didn&rsquo;t quite mean what I said.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It <i>is</i> a thing to thank God for; is it not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Surely, surely.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you could say, with truth, to your own solitary heart, to-night, &lsquo;I
      have secured to myself the love and attachment, the gratitude or respect,
      of no human creature; I have won myself a tender place in no regard; I
      have done nothing good or serviceable to be remembered by!&rsquo; your
      seventy-eight years would be seventy-eight heavy curses; would they not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You say truly, Mr. Carton; I think they would be.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sydney turned his eyes again upon the fire, and, after a silence of a few
      moments, said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should like to ask you:&mdash;Does your childhood seem far off? Do the
      days when you sat at your mother&rsquo;s knee, seem days of very long ago?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Responding to his softened manner, Mr. Lorry answered:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Twenty years back, yes; at this time of my life, no. For, as I draw
      closer and closer to the end, I travel in the circle, nearer and nearer to
      the beginning. It seems to be one of the kind smoothings and preparings of
      the way. My heart is touched now, by many remembrances that had long
      fallen asleep, of my pretty young mother (and I so old!), and by many
      associations of the days when what we call the World was not so real with
      me, and my faults were not confirmed in me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I understand the feeling!&rdquo; exclaimed Carton, with a bright flush. &ldquo;And
      you are the better for it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carton terminated the conversation here, by rising to help him on with his
      outer coat; &ldquo;But you,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, reverting to the theme, &ldquo;you are
      young.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Carton. &ldquo;I am not old, but my young way was never the way to
      age. Enough of me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And of me, I am sure,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry. &ldquo;Are you going out?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll walk with you to her gate. You know my vagabond and restless habits.
      If I should prowl about the streets a long time, don&rsquo;t be uneasy; I shall
      reappear in the morning. You go to the Court to-morrow?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, unhappily.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall be there, but only as one of the crowd. My Spy will find a place
      for me. Take my arm, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Lorry did so, and they went down-stairs and out in the streets. A few
      minutes brought them to Mr. Lorry&rsquo;s destination. Carton left him there;
      but lingered at a little distance, and turned back to the gate again when
      it was shut, and touched it. He had heard of her going to the prison every
      day. &ldquo;She came out here,&rdquo; he said, looking about him, &ldquo;turned this way,
      must have trod on these stones often. Let me follow in her steps.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was ten o&rsquo;clock at night when he stood before the prison of La Force,
      where she had stood hundreds of times. A little wood-sawyer, having closed
      his shop, was smoking his pipe at his shop-door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good night, citizen,&rdquo; said Sydney Carton, pausing in going by; for, the
      man eyed him inquisitively.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good night, citizen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How goes the Republic?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You mean the Guillotine. Not ill. Sixty-three to-day. We shall mount to a
      hundred soon. Samson and his men complain sometimes, of being exhausted.
      Ha, ha, ha! He is so droll, that Samson. Such a Barber!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you often go to see him&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shave? Always. Every day. What a barber! You have seen him at work?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go and see him when he has a good batch. Figure this to yourself,
      citizen; he shaved the sixty-three to-day, in less than two pipes! Less
      than two pipes. Word of honour!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As the grinning little man held out the pipe he was smoking, to explain
      how he timed the executioner, Carton was so sensible of a rising desire to
      strike the life out of him, that he turned away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you are not English,&rdquo; said the wood-sawyer, &ldquo;though you wear English
      dress?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said Carton, pausing again, and answering over his shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You speak like a Frenchman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am an old student here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aha, a perfect Frenchman! Good night, Englishman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good night, citizen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But go and see that droll dog,&rdquo; the little man persisted, calling after
      him. &ldquo;And take a pipe with you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sydney had not gone far out of sight, when he stopped in the middle of the
      street under a glimmering lamp, and wrote with his pencil on a scrap of
      paper. Then, traversing with the decided step of one who remembered the
      way well, several dark and dirty streets&mdash;much dirtier than usual,
      for the best public thoroughfares remained uncleansed in those times of
      terror&mdash;he stopped at a chemist&rsquo;s shop, which the owner was closing
      with his own hands. A small, dim, crooked shop, kept in a tortuous,
      up-hill thoroughfare, by a small, dim, crooked man.
    </p>
    <p>
      Giving this citizen, too, good night, as he confronted him at his counter,
      he laid the scrap of paper before him. &ldquo;Whew!&rdquo; the chemist whistled
      softly, as he read it. &ldquo;Hi! hi! hi!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sydney Carton took no heed, and the chemist said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For you, citizen?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will be careful to keep them separate, citizen? You know the
      consequences of mixing them?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perfectly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Certain small packets were made and given to him. He put them, one by one,
      in the breast of his inner coat, counted out the money for them, and
      deliberately left the shop. &ldquo;There is nothing more to do,&rdquo; said he,
      glancing upward at the moon, &ldquo;until to-morrow. I can&rsquo;t sleep.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was not a reckless manner, the manner in which he said these words
      aloud under the fast-sailing clouds, nor was it more expressive of
      negligence than defiance. It was the settled manner of a tired man, who
      had wandered and struggled and got lost, but who at length struck into his
      road and saw its end.
    </p>
    <p>
      Long ago, when he had been famous among his earliest competitors as a
      youth of great promise, he had followed his father to the grave. His
      mother had died, years before. These solemn words, which had been read at
      his father&rsquo;s grave, arose in his mind as he went down the dark streets,
      among the heavy shadows, with the moon and the clouds sailing on high
      above him. &ldquo;I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that
      believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever
      liveth and believeth in me, shall never die.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In a city dominated by the axe, alone at night, with natural sorrow rising
      in him for the sixty-three who had been that day put to death, and for
      to-morrow&rsquo;s victims then awaiting their doom in the prisons, and still of
      to-morrow&rsquo;s and to-morrow&rsquo;s, the chain of association that brought the
      words home, like a rusty old ship&rsquo;s anchor from the deep, might have been
      easily found. He did not seek it, but repeated them and went on.
    </p>
    <p>
      With a solemn interest in the lighted windows where the people were going
      to rest, forgetful through a few calm hours of the horrors surrounding
      them; in the towers of the churches, where no prayers were said, for the
      popular revulsion had even travelled that length of self-destruction from
      years of priestly impostors, plunderers, and profligates; in the distant
      burial-places, reserved, as they wrote upon the gates, for Eternal Sleep;
      in the abounding gaols; and in the streets along which the sixties rolled
      to a death which had become so common and material, that no sorrowful
      story of a haunting Spirit ever arose among the people out of all the
      working of the Guillotine; with a solemn interest in the whole life and
      death of the city settling down to its short nightly pause in fury; Sydney
      Carton crossed the Seine again for the lighter streets.
    </p>
    <p>
      Few coaches were abroad, for riders in coaches were liable to be
      suspected, and gentility hid its head in red nightcaps, and put on heavy
      shoes, and trudged. But, the theatres were all well filled, and the people
      poured cheerfully out as he passed, and went chatting home. At one of the
      theatre doors, there was a little girl with a mother, looking for a way
      across the street through the mud. He carried the child over, and before
      the timid arm was loosed from his neck asked her for a kiss.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in
      me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and
      believeth in me, shall never die.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Now, that the streets were quiet, and the night wore on, the words were in
      the echoes of his feet, and were in the air. Perfectly calm and steady, he
      sometimes repeated them to himself as he walked; but, he heard them
      always.
    </p>
    <p>
      The night wore out, and, as he stood upon the bridge listening to the
      water as it splashed the river-walls of the Island of Paris, where the
      picturesque confusion of houses and cathedral shone bright in the light of
      the moon, the day came coldly, looking like a dead face out of the sky.
      Then, the night, with the moon and the stars, turned pale and died, and
      for a little while it seemed as if Creation were delivered over to Death&rsquo;s
      dominion.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, the glorious sun, rising, seemed to strike those words, that burden
      of the night, straight and warm to his heart in its long bright rays. And
      looking along them, with reverently shaded eyes, a bridge of light
      appeared to span the air between him and the sun, while the river sparkled
      under it.
    </p>
    <p>
      The strong tide, so swift, so deep, and certain, was like a congenial
      friend, in the morning stillness. He walked by the stream, far from the
      houses, and in the light and warmth of the sun fell asleep on the bank.
      When he awoke and was afoot again, he lingered there yet a little longer,
      watching an eddy that turned and turned purposeless, until the stream
      absorbed it, and carried it on to the sea.&mdash;&ldquo;Like me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A trading-boat, with a sail of the softened colour of a dead leaf, then
      glided into his view, floated by him, and died away. As its silent track
      in the water disappeared, the prayer that had broken up out of his heart
      for a merciful consideration of all his poor blindnesses and errors, ended
      in the words, &ldquo;I am the resurrection and the life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Lorry was already out when he got back, and it was easy to surmise
      where the good old man was gone. Sydney Carton drank nothing but a little
      coffee, ate some bread, and, having washed and changed to refresh himself,
      went out to the place of trial.
    </p>
    <p>
      The court was all astir and a-buzz, when the black sheep&mdash;whom many
      fell away from in dread&mdash;pressed him into an obscure corner among the
      crowd. Mr. Lorry was there, and Doctor Manette was there. She was there,
      sitting beside her father.
    </p>
    <p>
      When her husband was brought in, she turned a look upon him, so
      sustaining, so encouraging, so full of admiring love and pitying
      tenderness, yet so courageous for his sake, that it called the healthy
      blood into his face, brightened his glance, and animated his heart. If
      there had been any eyes to notice the influence of her look, on Sydney
      Carton, it would have been seen to be the same influence exactly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before that unjust Tribunal, there was little or no order of procedure,
      ensuring to any accused person any reasonable hearing. There could have
      been no such Revolution, if all laws, forms, and ceremonies, had not first
      been so monstrously abused, that the suicidal vengeance of the Revolution
      was to scatter them all to the winds.
    </p>
    <p>
      Every eye was turned to the jury. The same determined patriots and good
      republicans as yesterday and the day before, and to-morrow and the day
      after. Eager and prominent among them, one man with a craving face, and
      his fingers perpetually hovering about his lips, whose appearance gave
      great satisfaction to the spectators. A life-thirsting, cannibal-looking,
      bloody-minded juryman, the Jacques Three of St. Antoine. The whole jury,
      as a jury of dogs empannelled to try the deer.
    </p>
    <p>
      Every eye then turned to the five judges and the public prosecutor. No
      favourable leaning in that quarter to-day. A fell, uncompromising,
      murderous business-meaning there. Every eye then sought some other eye in
      the crowd, and gleamed at it approvingly; and heads nodded at one another,
      before bending forward with a strained attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      Charles Evrémonde, called Darnay. Released yesterday. Reaccused and
      retaken yesterday. Indictment delivered to him last night. Suspected and
      Denounced enemy of the Republic, Aristocrat, one of a family of tyrants,
      one of a race proscribed, for that they had used their abolished
      privileges to the infamous oppression of the people. Charles Evrémonde,
      called Darnay, in right of such proscription, absolutely Dead in Law.
    </p>
    <p>
      To this effect, in as few or fewer words, the Public Prosecutor.
    </p>
    <p>
      The President asked, was the Accused openly denounced or secretly?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Openly, President.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By whom?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Three voices. Ernest Defarge, wine-vendor of St. Antoine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thérèse Defarge, his wife.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alexandre Manette, physician.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A great uproar took place in the court, and in the midst of it, Doctor
      Manette was seen, pale and trembling, standing where he had been seated.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;President, I indignantly protest to you that this is a forgery and a
      fraud. You know the accused to be the husband of my daughter. My daughter,
      and those dear to her, are far dearer to me than my life. Who and where is
      the false conspirator who says that I denounce the husband of my child!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Citizen Manette, be tranquil. To fail in submission to the authority of
      the Tribunal would be to put yourself out of Law. As to what is dearer to
      you than life, nothing can be so dear to a good citizen as the Republic.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Loud acclamations hailed this rebuke. The President rang his bell, and
      with warmth resumed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If the Republic should demand of you the sacrifice of your child herself,
      you would have no duty but to sacrifice her. Listen to what is to follow.
      In the meanwhile, be silent!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Frantic acclamations were again raised. Doctor Manette sat down, with his
      eyes looking around, and his lips trembling; his daughter drew closer to
      him. The craving man on the jury rubbed his hands together, and restored
      the usual hand to his mouth.
    </p>
    <p>
      Defarge was produced, when the court was quiet enough to admit of his
      being heard, and rapidly expounded the story of the imprisonment, and of
      his having been a mere boy in the Doctor&rsquo;s service, and of the release,
      and of the state of the prisoner when released and delivered to him. This
      short examination followed, for the court was quick with its work.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You did good service at the taking of the Bastille, citizen?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Here, an excited woman screeched from the crowd: &ldquo;You were one of the best
      patriots there. Why not say so? You were a cannonier that day there, and
      you were among the first to enter the accursed fortress when it fell.
      Patriots, I speak the truth!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was The Vengeance who, amidst the warm commendations of the audience,
      thus assisted the proceedings. The President rang his bell; but, The
      Vengeance, warming with encouragement, shrieked, &ldquo;I defy that bell!&rdquo;
       wherein she was likewise much commended.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Inform the Tribunal of what you did that day within the Bastille,
      citizen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I knew,&rdquo; said Defarge, looking down at his wife, who stood at the bottom
      of the steps on which he was raised, looking steadily up at him; &ldquo;I knew
      that this prisoner, of whom I speak, had been confined in a cell known as
      One Hundred and Five, North Tower. I knew it from himself. He knew himself
      by no other name than One Hundred and Five, North Tower, when he made
      shoes under my care. As I serve my gun that day, I resolve, when the place
      shall fall, to examine that cell. It falls. I mount to the cell, with a
      fellow-citizen who is one of the Jury, directed by a gaoler. I examine it,
      very closely. In a hole in the chimney, where a stone has been worked out
      and replaced, I find a written paper. This is that written paper. I have
      made it my business to examine some specimens of the writing of Doctor
      Manette. This is the writing of Doctor Manette. I confide this paper, in
      the writing of Doctor Manette, to the hands of the President.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let it be read.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In a dead silence and stillness&mdash;the prisoner under trial looking
      lovingly at his wife, his wife only looking from him to look with
      solicitude at her father, Doctor Manette keeping his eyes fixed on the
      reader, Madame Defarge never taking hers from the prisoner, Defarge never
      taking his from his feasting wife, and all the other eyes there intent
      upon the Doctor, who saw none of them&mdash;the paper was read, as
      follows.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0043" id="link2H_4_0043"></a>
      CHAPTER X.<br />The Substance of the Shadow
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>, Alexandre Manette, unfortunate physician, native of Beauvais, and
      afterwards resident in Paris, write this melancholy paper in my doleful
      cell in the Bastille, during the last month of the year, 1767. I write it
      at stolen intervals, under every difficulty. I design to secrete it in the
      wall of the chimney, where I have slowly and laboriously made a place of
      concealment for it. Some pitying hand may find it there, when I and my
      sorrows are dust.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;These words are formed by the rusty iron point with which I write with
      difficulty in scrapings of soot and charcoal from the chimney, mixed with
      blood, in the last month of the tenth year of my captivity. Hope has quite
      departed from my breast. I know from terrible warnings I have noted in
      myself that my reason will not long remain unimpaired, but I solemnly
      declare that I am at this time in the possession of my right mind&mdash;that
      my memory is exact and circumstantial&mdash;and that I write the truth as
      I shall answer for these my last recorded words, whether they be ever read
      by men or not, at the Eternal Judgment-seat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One cloudy moonlight night, in the third week of December (I think the
      twenty-second of the month) in the year 1757, I was walking on a retired
      part of the quay by the Seine for the refreshment of the frosty air, at an
      hour&rsquo;s distance from my place of residence in the Street of the School of
      Medicine, when a carriage came along behind me, driven very fast. As I
      stood aside to let that carriage pass, apprehensive that it might
      otherwise run me down, a head was put out at the window, and a voice
      called to the driver to stop.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The carriage stopped as soon as the driver could rein in his horses, and
      the same voice called to me by my name. I answered. The carriage was then
      so far in advance of me that two gentlemen had time to open the door and
      alight before I came up with it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I observed that they were both wrapped in cloaks, and appeared to conceal
      themselves. As they stood side by side near the carriage door, I also
      observed that they both looked of about my own age, or rather younger, and
      that they were greatly alike, in stature, manner, voice, and (as far as I
      could see) face too.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;You are Doctor Manette?&rsquo; said one.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Doctor Manette, formerly of Beauvais,&rsquo; said the other; &lsquo;the young
      physician, originally an expert surgeon, who within the last year or two
      has made a rising reputation in Paris?&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Gentlemen,&rsquo; I returned, &lsquo;I am that Doctor Manette of whom you speak so
      graciously.&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;We have been to your residence,&rsquo; said the first, &lsquo;and not being so
      fortunate as to find you there, and being informed that you were probably
      walking in this direction, we followed, in the hope of overtaking you.
      Will you please to enter the carriage?&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The manner of both was imperious, and they both moved, as these words
      were spoken, so as to place me between themselves and the carriage door.
      They were armed. I was not.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Gentlemen,&rsquo; said I, &lsquo;pardon me; but I usually inquire who does me the
      honour to seek my assistance, and what is the nature of the case to which
      I am summoned.&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The reply to this was made by him who had spoken second. &lsquo;Doctor, your
      clients are people of condition. As to the nature of the case, our
      confidence in your skill assures us that you will ascertain it for
      yourself better than we can describe it. Enough. Will you please to enter
      the carriage?&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I could do nothing but comply, and I entered it in silence. They both
      entered after me&mdash;the last springing in, after putting up the steps.
      The carriage turned about, and drove on at its former speed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I repeat this conversation exactly as it occurred. I have no doubt that
      it is, word for word, the same. I describe everything exactly as it took
      place, constraining my mind not to wander from the task. Where I make the
      broken marks that follow here, I leave off for the time, and put my paper
      in its hiding-place.
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      &ldquo;The carriage left the streets behind, passed the North Barrier, and
      emerged upon the country road. At two-thirds of a league from the Barrier&mdash;I
      did not estimate the distance at that time, but afterwards when I
      traversed it&mdash;it struck out of the main avenue, and presently stopped
      at a solitary house, We all three alighted, and walked, by a damp soft
      footpath in a garden where a neglected fountain had overflowed, to the
      door of the house. It was not opened immediately, in answer to the ringing
      of the bell, and one of my two conductors struck the man who opened it,
      with his heavy riding glove, across the face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There was nothing in this action to attract my particular attention, for
      I had seen common people struck more commonly than dogs. But, the other of
      the two, being angry likewise, struck the man in like manner with his arm;
      the look and bearing of the brothers were then so exactly alike, that I
      then first perceived them to be twin brothers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From the time of our alighting at the outer gate (which we found locked,
      and which one of the brothers had opened to admit us, and had relocked), I
      had heard cries proceeding from an upper chamber. I was conducted to this
      chamber straight, the cries growing louder as we ascended the stairs, and
      I found a patient in a high fever of the brain, lying on a bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The patient was a woman of great beauty, and young; assuredly not much
      past twenty. Her hair was torn and ragged, and her arms were bound to her
      sides with sashes and handkerchiefs. I noticed that these bonds were all
      portions of a gentleman&rsquo;s dress. On one of them, which was a fringed scarf
      for a dress of ceremony, I saw the armorial bearings of a Noble, and the
      letter E.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I saw this, within the first minute of my contemplation of the patient;
      for, in her restless strivings she had turned over on her face on the edge
      of the bed, had drawn the end of the scarf into her mouth, and was in
      danger of suffocation. My first act was to put out my hand to relieve her
      breathing; and in moving the scarf aside, the embroidery in the corner
      caught my sight.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I turned her gently over, placed my hands upon her breast to calm her and
      keep her down, and looked into her face. Her eyes were dilated and wild,
      and she constantly uttered piercing shrieks, and repeated the words, &lsquo;My
      husband, my father, and my brother!&rsquo; and then counted up to twelve, and
      said, &lsquo;Hush!&rsquo; For an instant, and no more, she would pause to listen, and
      then the piercing shrieks would begin again, and she would repeat the cry,
      &lsquo;My husband, my father, and my brother!&rsquo; and would count up to twelve, and
      say, &lsquo;Hush!&rsquo; There was no variation in the order, or the manner. There was
      no cessation, but the regular moment&rsquo;s pause, in the utterance of these
      sounds.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;How long,&rsquo; I asked, &lsquo;has this lasted?&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To distinguish the brothers, I will call them the elder and the younger;
      by the elder, I mean him who exercised the most authority. It was the
      elder who replied, &lsquo;Since about this hour last night.&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;She has a husband, a father, and a brother?&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;A brother.&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;I do not address her brother?&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He answered with great contempt, &lsquo;No.&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;She has some recent association with the number twelve?&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The younger brother impatiently rejoined, &lsquo;With twelve o&rsquo;clock?&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;See, gentlemen,&rsquo; said I, still keeping my hands upon her breast, &lsquo;how
      useless I am, as you have brought me! If I had known what I was coming to
      see, I could have come provided. As it is, time must be lost. There are no
      medicines to be obtained in this lonely place.&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The elder brother looked to the younger, who said haughtily, &lsquo;There is a
      case of medicines here;&rsquo; and brought it from a closet, and put it on the
      table.
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      &ldquo;I opened some of the bottles, smelt them, and put the stoppers to my
      lips. If I had wanted to use anything save narcotic medicines that were
      poisons in themselves, I would not have administered any of those.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Do you doubt them?&rsquo; asked the younger brother.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;You see, monsieur, I am going to use them,&rsquo; I replied, and said no more.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I made the patient swallow, with great difficulty, and after many
      efforts, the dose that I desired to give. As I intended to repeat it after
      a while, and as it was necessary to watch its influence, I then sat down
      by the side of the bed. There was a timid and suppressed woman in
      attendance (wife of the man down-stairs), who had retreated into a corner.
      The house was damp and decayed, indifferently furnished&mdash;evidently,
      recently occupied and temporarily used. Some thick old hangings had been
      nailed up before the windows, to deaden the sound of the shrieks. They
      continued to be uttered in their regular succession, with the cry, &lsquo;My
      husband, my father, and my brother!&rsquo; the counting up to twelve, and
      &lsquo;Hush!&rsquo; The frenzy was so violent, that I had not unfastened the bandages
      restraining the arms; but, I had looked to them, to see that they were not
      painful. The only spark of encouragement in the case, was, that my hand
      upon the sufferer&rsquo;s breast had this much soothing influence, that for
      minutes at a time it tranquillised the figure. It had no effect upon the
      cries; no pendulum could be more regular.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For the reason that my hand had this effect (I assume), I had sat by the
      side of the bed for half an hour, with the two brothers looking on, before
      the elder said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;There is another patient.&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was startled, and asked, &lsquo;Is it a pressing case?&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;You had better see,&rsquo; he carelessly answered; and took up a light.
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      &ldquo;The other patient lay in a back room across a second staircase, which was
      a species of loft over a stable. There was a low plastered ceiling to a
      part of it; the rest was open, to the ridge of the tiled roof, and there
      were beams across. Hay and straw were stored in that portion of the place,
      fagots for firing, and a heap of apples in sand. I had to pass through
      that part, to get at the other. My memory is circumstantial and unshaken.
      I try it with these details, and I see them all, in this my cell in the
      Bastille, near the close of the tenth year of my captivity, as I saw them
      all that night.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On some hay on the ground, with a cushion thrown under his head, lay a
      handsome peasant boy&mdash;a boy of not more than seventeen at the most.
      He lay on his back, with his teeth set, his right hand clenched on his
      breast, and his glaring eyes looking straight upward. I could not see
      where his wound was, as I kneeled on one knee over him; but, I could see
      that he was dying of a wound from a sharp point.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;I am a doctor, my poor fellow,&rsquo; said I. &lsquo;Let me examine it.&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;I do not want it examined,&rsquo; he answered; &lsquo;let it be.&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was under his hand, and I soothed him to let me move his hand away.
      The wound was a sword-thrust, received from twenty to twenty-four hours
      before, but no skill could have saved him if it had been looked to without
      delay. He was then dying fast. As I turned my eyes to the elder brother, I
      saw him looking down at this handsome boy whose life was ebbing out, as if
      he were a wounded bird, or hare, or rabbit; not at all as if he were a
      fellow-creature.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;How has this been done, monsieur?&rsquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;A crazed young common dog! A serf! Forced my brother to draw upon him,
      and has fallen by my brother&rsquo;s sword&mdash;like a gentleman.&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There was no touch of pity, sorrow, or kindred humanity, in this answer.
      The speaker seemed to acknowledge that it was inconvenient to have that
      different order of creature dying there, and that it would have been
      better if he had died in the usual obscure routine of his vermin kind. He
      was quite incapable of any compassionate feeling about the boy, or about
      his fate.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The boy&rsquo;s eyes had slowly moved to him as he had spoken, and they now
      slowly moved to me.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Doctor, they are very proud, these Nobles; but we common dogs are proud
      too, sometimes. They plunder us, outrage us, beat us, kill us; but we have
      a little pride left, sometimes. She&mdash;have you seen her, Doctor?&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The shrieks and the cries were audible there, though subdued by the
      distance. He referred to them, as if she were lying in our presence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I said, &lsquo;I have seen her.&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;She is my sister, Doctor. They have had their shameful rights, these
      Nobles, in the modesty and virtue of our sisters, many years, but we have
      had good girls among us. I know it, and have heard my father say so. She
      was a good girl. She was betrothed to a good young man, too: a tenant of
      his. We were all tenants of his&mdash;that man&rsquo;s who stands there. The
      other is his brother, the worst of a bad race.&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was with the greatest difficulty that the boy gathered bodily force to
      speak; but, his spirit spoke with a dreadful emphasis.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;We were so robbed by that man who stands there, as all we common dogs
      are by those superior Beings&mdash;taxed by him without mercy, obliged to
      work for him without pay, obliged to grind our corn at his mill, obliged
      to feed scores of his tame birds on our wretched crops, and forbidden for
      our lives to keep a single tame bird of our own, pillaged and plundered to
      that degree that when we chanced to have a bit of meat, we ate it in fear,
      with the door barred and the shutters closed, that his people should not
      see it and take it from us&mdash;I say, we were so robbed, and hunted, and
      were made so poor, that our father told us it was a dreadful thing to
      bring a child into the world, and that what we should most pray for, was,
      that our women might be barren and our miserable race die out!&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had never before seen the sense of being oppressed, bursting forth like
      a fire. I had supposed that it must be latent in the people somewhere;
      but, I had never seen it break out, until I saw it in the dying boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Nevertheless, Doctor, my sister married. He was ailing at that time,
      poor fellow, and she married her lover, that she might tend and comfort
      him in our cottage&mdash;our dog-hut, as that man would call it. She had
      not been married many weeks, when that man&rsquo;s brother saw her and admired
      her, and asked that man to lend her to him&mdash;for what are husbands
      among us! He was willing enough, but my sister was good and virtuous, and
      hated his brother with a hatred as strong as mine. What did the two then,
      to persuade her husband to use his influence with her, to make her
      willing?&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The boy&rsquo;s eyes, which had been fixed on mine, slowly turned to the
      looker-on, and I saw in the two faces that all he said was true. The two
      opposing kinds of pride confronting one another, I can see, even in this
      Bastille; the gentleman&rsquo;s, all negligent indifference; the peasant&rsquo;s, all
      trodden-down sentiment, and passionate revenge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;You know, Doctor, that it is among the Rights of these Nobles to harness
      us common dogs to carts, and drive us. They so harnessed him and drove
      him. You know that it is among their Rights to keep us in their grounds
      all night, quieting the frogs, in order that their noble sleep may not be
      disturbed. They kept him out in the unwholesome mists at night, and
      ordered him back into his harness in the day. But he was not persuaded.
      No! Taken out of harness one day at noon, to feed&mdash;if he could find
      food&mdash;he sobbed twelve times, once for every stroke of the bell, and
      died on her bosom.&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing human could have held life in the boy but his determination to
      tell all his wrong. He forced back the gathering shadows of death, as he
      forced his clenched right hand to remain clenched, and to cover his wound.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Then, with that man&rsquo;s permission and even with his aid, his brother took
      her away; in spite of what I know she must have told his brother&mdash;and
      what that is, will not be long unknown to you, Doctor, if it is now&mdash;his
      brother took her away&mdash;for his pleasure and diversion, for a little
      while. I saw her pass me on the road. When I took the tidings home, our
      father&rsquo;s heart burst; he never spoke one of the words that filled it. I
      took my young sister (for I have another) to a place beyond the reach of
      this man, and where, at least, she will never be <i>his</i> vassal. Then,
      I tracked the brother here, and last night climbed in&mdash;a common dog,
      but sword in hand.&mdash;Where is the loft window? It was somewhere here?&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The room was darkening to his sight; the world was narrowing around him.
      I glanced about me, and saw that the hay and straw were trampled over the
      floor, as if there had been a struggle.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;She heard me, and ran in. I told her not to come near us till he was
      dead. He came in and first tossed me some pieces of money; then struck at
      me with a whip. But I, though a common dog, so struck at him as to make
      him draw. Let him break into as many pieces as he will, the sword that he
      stained with my common blood; he drew to defend himself&mdash;thrust at me
      with all his skill for his life.&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My glance had fallen, but a few moments before, on the fragments of a
      broken sword, lying among the hay. That weapon was a gentleman&rsquo;s. In
      another place, lay an old sword that seemed to have been a soldier&rsquo;s.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Now, lift me up, Doctor; lift me up. Where is he?&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;He is not here,&rsquo; I said, supporting the boy, and thinking that he
      referred to the brother.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;He! Proud as these nobles are, he is afraid to see me. Where is the man
      who was here? Turn my face to him.&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did so, raising the boy&rsquo;s head against my knee. But, invested for the
      moment with extraordinary power, he raised himself completely: obliging me
      to rise too, or I could not have still supported him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Marquis,&rsquo; said the boy, turned to him with his eyes opened wide, and his
      right hand raised, &lsquo;in the days when all these things are to be answered
      for, I summon you and yours, to the last of your bad race, to answer for
      them. I mark this cross of blood upon you, as a sign that I do it. In the
      days when all these things are to be answered for, I summon your brother,
      the worst of the bad race, to answer for them separately. I mark this
      cross of blood upon him, as a sign that I do it.&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Twice, he put his hand to the wound in his breast, and with his
      forefinger drew a cross in the air. He stood for an instant with the
      finger yet raised, and as it dropped, he dropped with it, and I laid him
      down dead.
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      &ldquo;When I returned to the bedside of the young woman, I found her raving in
      precisely the same order of continuity. I knew that this might last for
      many hours, and that it would probably end in the silence of the grave.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I repeated the medicines I had given her, and I sat at the side of the
      bed until the night was far advanced. She never abated the piercing
      quality of her shrieks, never stumbled in the distinctness or the order of
      her words. They were always &lsquo;My husband, my father, and my brother! One,
      two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve.
      Hush!&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This lasted twenty-six hours from the time when I first saw her. I had
      come and gone twice, and was again sitting by her, when she began to
      falter. I did what little could be done to assist that opportunity, and
      by-and-bye she sank into a lethargy, and lay like the dead.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was as if the wind and rain had lulled at last, after a long and
      fearful storm. I released her arms, and called the woman to assist me to
      compose her figure and the dress she had torn. It was then that I knew her
      condition to be that of one in whom the first expectations of being a
      mother have arisen; and it was then that I lost the little hope I had had
      of her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Is she dead?&rsquo; asked the Marquis, whom I will still describe as the elder
      brother, coming booted into the room from his horse.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Not dead,&rsquo; said I; &lsquo;but like to die.&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;What strength there is in these common bodies!&rsquo; he said, looking down at
      her with some curiosity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;There is prodigious strength,&rsquo; I answered him, &lsquo;in sorrow and despair.&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He first laughed at my words, and then frowned at them. He moved a chair
      with his foot near to mine, ordered the woman away, and said in a subdued
      voice,
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Doctor, finding my brother in this difficulty with these hinds, I
      recommended that your aid should be invited. Your reputation is high, and,
      as a young man with your fortune to make, you are probably mindful of your
      interest. The things that you see here, are things to be seen, and not
      spoken of.&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I listened to the patient&rsquo;s breathing, and avoided answering.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Do you honour me with your attention, Doctor?&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Monsieur,&rsquo; said I, &lsquo;in my profession, the communications of patients are
      always received in confidence.&rsquo; I was guarded in my answer, for I was
      troubled in my mind with what I had heard and seen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Her breathing was so difficult to trace, that I carefully tried the pulse
      and the heart. There was life, and no more. Looking round as I resumed my
      seat, I found both the brothers intent upon me.
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      &ldquo;I write with so much difficulty, the cold is so severe, I am so fearful
      of being detected and consigned to an underground cell and total darkness,
      that I must abridge this narrative. There is no confusion or failure in my
      memory; it can recall, and could detail, every word that was ever spoken
      between me and those brothers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She lingered for a week. Towards the last, I could understand some few
      syllables that she said to me, by placing my ear close to her lips. She
      asked me where she was, and I told her; who I was, and I told her. It was
      in vain that I asked her for her family name. She faintly shook her head
      upon the pillow, and kept her secret, as the boy had done.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had no opportunity of asking her any question, until I had told the
      brothers she was sinking fast, and could not live another day. Until then,
      though no one was ever presented to her consciousness save the woman and
      myself, one or other of them had always jealously sat behind the curtain
      at the head of the bed when I was there. But when it came to that, they
      seemed careless what communication I might hold with her; as if&mdash;the
      thought passed through my mind&mdash;I were dying too.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I always observed that their pride bitterly resented the younger
      brother&rsquo;s (as I call him) having crossed swords with a peasant, and that
      peasant a boy. The only consideration that appeared to affect the mind of
      either of them was the consideration that this was highly degrading to the
      family, and was ridiculous. As often as I caught the younger brother&rsquo;s
      eyes, their expression reminded me that he disliked me deeply, for knowing
      what I knew from the boy. He was smoother and more polite to me than the
      elder; but I saw this. I also saw that I was an incumbrance in the mind of
      the elder, too.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My patient died, two hours before midnight&mdash;at a time, by my watch,
      answering almost to the minute when I had first seen her. I was alone with
      her, when her forlorn young head drooped gently on one side, and all her
      earthly wrongs and sorrows ended.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The brothers were waiting in a room down-stairs, impatient to ride away.
      I had heard them, alone at the bedside, striking their boots with their
      riding-whips, and loitering up and down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;At last she is dead?&rsquo; said the elder, when I went in.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;She is dead,&rsquo; said I.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;I congratulate you, my brother,&rsquo; were his words as he turned round.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He had before offered me money, which I had postponed taking. He now gave
      me a rouleau of gold. I took it from his hand, but laid it on the table. I
      had considered the question, and had resolved to accept nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Pray excuse me,&rsquo; said I. &lsquo;Under the circumstances, no.&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They exchanged looks, but bent their heads to me as I bent mine to them,
      and we parted without another word on either side.
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am weary, weary, weary&mdash;worn down by misery. I cannot read what I
      have written with this gaunt hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Early in the morning, the rouleau of gold was left at my door in a little
      box, with my name on the outside. From the first, I had anxiously
      considered what I ought to do. I decided, that day, to write privately to
      the Minister, stating the nature of the two cases to which I had been
      summoned, and the place to which I had gone: in effect, stating all the
      circumstances. I knew what Court influence was, and what the immunities of
      the Nobles were, and I expected that the matter would never be heard of;
      but, I wished to relieve my own mind. I had kept the matter a profound
      secret, even from my wife; and this, too, I resolved to state in my
      letter. I had no apprehension whatever of my real danger; but I was
      conscious that there might be danger for others, if others were
      compromised by possessing the knowledge that I possessed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was much engaged that day, and could not complete my letter that night.
      I rose long before my usual time next morning to finish it. It was the
      last day of the year. The letter was lying before me just completed, when
      I was told that a lady waited, who wished to see me.
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am growing more and more unequal to the task I have set myself. It is
      so cold, so dark, my senses are so benumbed, and the gloom upon me is so
      dreadful.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The lady was young, engaging, and handsome, but not marked for long life.
      She was in great agitation. She presented herself to me as the wife of the
      Marquis St. Evrémonde. I connected the title by which the boy had
      addressed the elder brother, with the initial letter embroidered on the
      scarf, and had no difficulty in arriving at the conclusion that I had seen
      that nobleman very lately.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My memory is still accurate, but I cannot write the words of our
      conversation. I suspect that I am watched more closely than I was, and I
      know not at what times I may be watched. She had in part suspected, and in
      part discovered, the main facts of the cruel story, of her husband&rsquo;s share
      in it, and my being resorted to. She did not know that the girl was dead.
      Her hope had been, she said in great distress, to show her, in secret, a
      woman&rsquo;s sympathy. Her hope had been to avert the wrath of Heaven from a
      House that had long been hateful to the suffering many.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She had reasons for believing that there was a young sister living, and
      her greatest desire was, to help that sister. I could tell her nothing but
      that there was such a sister; beyond that, I knew nothing. Her inducement
      to come to me, relying on my confidence, had been the hope that I could
      tell her the name and place of abode. Whereas, to this wretched hour I am
      ignorant of both.
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      &ldquo;These scraps of paper fail me. One was taken from me, with a warning,
      yesterday. I must finish my record to-day.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She was a good, compassionate lady, and not happy in her marriage. How
      could she be! The brother distrusted and disliked her, and his influence
      was all opposed to her; she stood in dread of him, and in dread of her
      husband too. When I handed her down to the door, there was a child, a
      pretty boy from two to three years old, in her carriage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;For his sake, Doctor,&rsquo; she said, pointing to him in tears, &lsquo;I would do
      all I can to make what poor amends I can. He will never prosper in his
      inheritance otherwise. I have a presentiment that if no other innocent
      atonement is made for this, it will one day be required of him. What I
      have left to call my own&mdash;it is little beyond the worth of a few
      jewels&mdash;I will make it the first charge of his life to bestow, with
      the compassion and lamenting of his dead mother, on this injured family,
      if the sister can be discovered.&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She kissed the boy, and said, caressing him, &lsquo;It is for thine own dear
      sake. Thou wilt be faithful, little Charles?&rsquo; The child answered her
      bravely, &lsquo;Yes!&rsquo; I kissed her hand, and she took him in her arms, and went
      away caressing him. I never saw her more.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As she had mentioned her husband&rsquo;s name in the faith that I knew it, I
      added no mention of it to my letter. I sealed my letter, and, not trusting
      it out of my own hands, delivered it myself that day.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That night, the last night of the year, towards nine o&rsquo;clock, a man in a
      black dress rang at my gate, demanded to see me, and softly followed my
      servant, Ernest Defarge, a youth, up-stairs. When my servant came into the
      room where I sat with my wife&mdash;O my wife, beloved of my heart! My
      fair young English wife!&mdash;we saw the man, who was supposed to be at
      the gate, standing silent behind him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An urgent case in the Rue St. Honore, he said. It would not detain me, he
      had a coach in waiting.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It brought me here, it brought me to my grave. When I was clear of the
      house, a black muffler was drawn tightly over my mouth from behind, and my
      arms were pinioned. The two brothers crossed the road from a dark corner,
      and identified me with a single gesture. The Marquis took from his pocket
      the letter I had written, showed it me, burnt it in the light of a lantern
      that was held, and extinguished the ashes with his foot. Not a word was
      spoken. I was brought here, I was brought to my living grave.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If it had pleased <i>God</i> to put it in the hard heart of either of the
      brothers, in all these frightful years, to grant me any tidings of my
      dearest wife&mdash;so much as to let me know by a word whether alive or
      dead&mdash;I might have thought that He had not quite abandoned them. But,
      now I believe that the mark of the red cross is fatal to them, and that
      they have no part in His mercies. And them and their descendants, to the
      last of their race, I, Alexandre Manette, unhappy prisoner, do this last
      night of the year 1767, in my unbearable agony, denounce to the times when
      all these things shall be answered for. I denounce them to Heaven and to
      earth.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A terrible sound arose when the reading of this document was done. A sound
      of craving and eagerness that had nothing articulate in it but blood. The
      narrative called up the most revengeful passions of the time, and there
      was not a head in the nation but must have dropped before it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Little need, in presence of that tribunal and that auditory, to show how
      the Defarges had not made the paper public, with the other captured
      Bastille memorials borne in procession, and had kept it, biding their
      time. Little need to show that this detested family name had long been
      anathematised by Saint Antoine, and was wrought into the fatal register.
      The man never trod ground whose virtues and services would have sustained
      him in that place that day, against such denunciation.
    </p>
    <p>
      And all the worse for the doomed man, that the denouncer was a well-known
      citizen, his own attached friend, the father of his wife. One of the
      frenzied aspirations of the populace was, for imitations of the
      questionable public virtues of antiquity, and for sacrifices and
      self-immolations on the people&rsquo;s altar. Therefore when the President said
      (else had his own head quivered on his shoulders), that the good physician
      of the Republic would deserve better still of the Republic by rooting out
      an obnoxious family of Aristocrats, and would doubtless feel a sacred glow
      and joy in making his daughter a widow and her child an orphan, there was
      wild excitement, patriotic fervour, not a touch of human sympathy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Much influence around him, has that Doctor?&rdquo; murmured Madame Defarge,
      smiling to The Vengeance. &ldquo;Save him now, my Doctor, save him!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At every juryman&rsquo;s vote, there was a roar. Another and another. Roar and
      roar.
    </p>
    <p>
      Unanimously voted. At heart and by descent an Aristocrat, an enemy of the
      Republic, a notorious oppressor of the People. Back to the Conciergerie,
      and Death within four-and-twenty hours!
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0044" id="link2H_4_0044"></a>
      CHAPTER XI.<br />Dusk
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he wretched wife of the innocent man thus doomed to die, fell under the
      sentence, as if she had been mortally stricken. But, she uttered no sound;
      and so strong was the voice within her, representing that it was she of
      all the world who must uphold him in his misery and not augment it, that
      it quickly raised her, even from that shock.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Judges having to take part in a public demonstration out of doors, the
      Tribunal adjourned. The quick noise and movement of the court&rsquo;s emptying
      itself by many passages had not ceased, when Lucie stood stretching out
      her arms towards her husband, with nothing in her face but love and
      consolation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I might touch him! If I might embrace him once! O, good citizens, if
      you would have so much compassion for us!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was but a gaoler left, along with two of the four men who had taken
      him last night, and Barsad. The people had all poured out to the show in
      the streets. Barsad proposed to the rest, &ldquo;Let her embrace him then; it is
      but a moment.&rdquo; It was silently acquiesced in, and they passed her over the
      seats in the hall to a raised place, where he, by leaning over the dock,
      could fold her in his arms.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Farewell, dear darling of my soul. My parting blessing on my love. We
      shall meet again, where the weary are at rest!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They were her husband&rsquo;s words, as he held her to his bosom.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can bear it, dear Charles. I am supported from above: don&rsquo;t suffer for
      me. A parting blessing for our child.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I send it to her by you. I kiss her by you. I say farewell to her by
      you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My husband. No! A moment!&rdquo; He was tearing himself apart from her. &ldquo;We
      shall not be separated long. I feel that this will break my heart
      by-and-bye; but I will do my duty while I can, and when I leave her, God
      will raise up friends for her, as He did for me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her father had followed her, and would have fallen on his knees to both of
      them, but that Darnay put out a hand and seized him, crying:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no! What have you done, what have you done, that you should kneel to
      us! We know now, what a struggle you made of old. We know, now what you
      underwent when you suspected my descent, and when you knew it. We know
      now, the natural antipathy you strove against, and conquered, for her dear
      sake. We thank you with all our hearts, and all our love and duty. Heaven
      be with you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Her father&rsquo;s only answer was to draw his hands through his white hair, and
      wring them with a shriek of anguish.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It could not be otherwise,&rdquo; said the prisoner. &ldquo;All things have worked
      together as they have fallen out. It was the always-vain endeavour to
      discharge my poor mother&rsquo;s trust that first brought my fatal presence near
      you. Good could never come of such evil, a happier end was not in nature
      to so unhappy a beginning. Be comforted, and forgive me. Heaven bless
      you!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As he was drawn away, his wife released him, and stood looking after him
      with her hands touching one another in the attitude of prayer, and with a
      radiant look upon her face, in which there was even a comforting smile. As
      he went out at the prisoners&rsquo; door, she turned, laid her head lovingly on
      her father&rsquo;s breast, tried to speak to him, and fell at his feet.
    </p>

<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
      <img src="images/0686m.jpg" style="width:100%;"  alt="0686m " /><br />
    </div>
    <h5>
      <a href="images/0686.jpg" style="width:100%;" ><i>Original</i></a>
    </h5>

    <p>
      Then, issuing from the obscure corner from which he had never moved,
      Sydney Carton came and took her up. Only her father and Mr. Lorry were
      with her. His arm trembled as it raised her, and supported her head. Yet,
      there was an air about him that was not all of pity&mdash;that had a flush
      of pride in it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shall I take her to a coach? I shall never feel her weight.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He carried her lightly to the door, and laid her tenderly down in a coach.
      Her father and their old friend got into it, and he took his seat beside
      the driver.
    </p>
    <p>
      When they arrived at the gateway where he had paused in the dark not many
      hours before, to picture to himself on which of the rough stones of the
      street her feet had trodden, he lifted her again, and carried her up the
      staircase to their rooms. There, he laid her down on a couch, where her
      child and Miss Pross wept over her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t recall her to herself,&rdquo; he said, softly, to the latter, &ldquo;she is
      better so. Don&rsquo;t revive her to consciousness, while she only faints.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Carton, Carton, dear Carton!&rdquo; cried little Lucie, springing up and
      throwing her arms passionately round him, in a burst of grief. &ldquo;Now that
      you have come, I think you will do something to help mamma, something to
      save papa! O, look at her, dear Carton! Can you, of all the people who
      love her, bear to see her so?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He bent over the child, and laid her blooming cheek against his face. He
      put her gently from him, and looked at her unconscious mother.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Before I go,&rdquo; he said, and paused&mdash;&ldquo;I may kiss her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was remembered afterwards that when he bent down and touched her face
      with his lips, he murmured some words. The child, who was nearest to him,
      told them afterwards, and told her grandchildren when she was a handsome
      old lady, that she heard him say, &ldquo;A life you love.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When he had gone out into the next room, he turned suddenly on Mr. Lorry
      and her father, who were following, and said to the latter:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You had great influence but yesterday, Doctor Manette; let it at least be
      tried. These judges, and all the men in power, are very friendly to you,
      and very recognisant of your services; are they not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing connected with Charles was concealed from me. I had the strongest
      assurances that I should save him; and I did.&rdquo; He returned the answer in
      great trouble, and very slowly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Try them again. The hours between this and to-morrow afternoon are few
      and short, but try.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I intend to try. I will not rest a moment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s well. I have known such energy as yours do great things before now&mdash;though
      never,&rdquo; he added, with a smile and a sigh together, &ldquo;such great things as
      this. But try! Of little worth as life is when we misuse it, it is worth
      that effort. It would cost nothing to lay down if it were not.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will go,&rdquo; said Doctor Manette, &ldquo;to the Prosecutor and the President
      straight, and I will go to others whom it is better not to name. I will
      write too, and&mdash;But stay! There is a Celebration in the streets, and
      no one will be accessible until dark.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s true. Well! It is a forlorn hope at the best, and not much the
      forlorner for being delayed till dark. I should like to know how you
      speed; though, mind! I expect nothing! When are you likely to have seen
      these dread powers, Doctor Manette?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Immediately after dark, I should hope. Within an hour or two from this.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It will be dark soon after four. Let us stretch the hour or two. If I go
      to Mr. Lorry&rsquo;s at nine, shall I hear what you have done, either from our
      friend or from yourself?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;May you prosper!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Lorry followed Sydney to the outer door, and, touching him on the
      shoulder as he was going away, caused him to turn.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have no hope,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, in a low and sorrowful whisper.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nor have I.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If any one of these men, or all of these men, were disposed to spare him&mdash;which
      is a large supposition; for what is his life, or any man&rsquo;s to them!&mdash;I
      doubt if they durst spare him after the demonstration in the court.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And so do I. I heard the fall of the axe in that sound.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Lorry leaned his arm upon the door-post, and bowed his face upon it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t despond,&rdquo; said Carton, very gently; &ldquo;don&rsquo;t grieve. I encouraged
      Doctor Manette in this idea, because I felt that it might one day be
      consolatory to her. Otherwise, she might think &lsquo;his life was wantonly
      thrown away or wasted,&rsquo; and that might trouble her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes, yes,&rdquo; returned Mr. Lorry, drying his eyes, &ldquo;you are right. But
      he will perish; there is no real hope.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes. He will perish: there is no real hope,&rdquo; echoed Carton.
    </p>
    <p>
      And walked with a settled step, down-stairs.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0045" id="link2H_4_0045"></a>
      CHAPTER XII.<br />Darkness
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">S</span>ydney Carton paused in the street, not quite decided where to go. &ldquo;At
      Tellson&rsquo;s banking-house at nine,&rdquo; he said, with a musing face. &ldquo;Shall I do
      well, in the mean time, to show myself? I think so. It is best that these
      people should know there is such a man as I here; it is a sound
      precaution, and may be a necessary preparation. But care, care, care! Let
      me think it out!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Checking his steps which had begun to tend towards an object, he took a
      turn or two in the already darkening street, and traced the thought in his
      mind to its possible consequences. His first impression was confirmed. &ldquo;It
      is best,&rdquo; he said, finally resolved, &ldquo;that these people should know there
      is such a man as I here.&rdquo; And he turned his face towards Saint Antoine.
    </p>
    <p>
      Defarge had described himself, that day, as the keeper of a wine-shop in
      the Saint Antoine suburb. It was not difficult for one who knew the city
      well, to find his house without asking any question. Having ascertained
      its situation, Carton came out of those closer streets again, and dined at
      a place of refreshment and fell sound asleep after dinner. For the first
      time in many years, he had no strong drink. Since last night he had taken
      nothing but a little light thin wine, and last night he had dropped the
      brandy slowly down on Mr. Lorry&rsquo;s hearth like a man who had done with it.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was as late as seven o&rsquo;clock when he awoke refreshed, and went out into
      the streets again. As he passed along towards Saint Antoine, he stopped at
      a shop-window where there was a mirror, and slightly altered the
      disordered arrangement of his loose cravat, and his coat-collar, and his
      wild hair. This done, he went on direct to Defarge&rsquo;s, and went in.
    </p>
    <p>
      There happened to be no customer in the shop but Jacques Three, of the
      restless fingers and the croaking voice. This man, whom he had seen upon
      the Jury, stood drinking at the little counter, in conversation with the
      Defarges, man and wife. The Vengeance assisted in the conversation, like a
      regular member of the establishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      As Carton walked in, took his seat and asked (in very indifferent French)
      for a small measure of wine, Madame Defarge cast a careless glance at him,
      and then a keener, and then a keener, and then advanced to him herself,
      and asked him what it was he had ordered.
    </p>
    <p>
      He repeated what he had already said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;English?&rdquo; asked Madame Defarge, inquisitively raising her dark eyebrows.
    </p>
    <p>
      After looking at her, as if the sound of even a single French word were
      slow to express itself to him, he answered, in his former strong foreign
      accent. &ldquo;Yes, madame, yes. I am English!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame Defarge returned to her counter to get the wine, and, as he took up
      a Jacobin journal and feigned to pore over it puzzling out its meaning, he
      heard her say, &ldquo;I swear to you, like Evrémonde!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Defarge brought him the wine, and gave him Good Evening.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good evening.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! Good evening, citizen,&rdquo; filling his glass. &ldquo;Ah! and good wine. I
      drink to the Republic.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Defarge went back to the counter, and said, &ldquo;Certainly, a little like.&rdquo;
       Madame sternly retorted, &ldquo;I tell you a good deal like.&rdquo; Jacques Three
      pacifically remarked, &ldquo;He is so much in your mind, see you, madame.&rdquo; The
      amiable Vengeance added, with a laugh, &ldquo;Yes, my faith! And you are looking
      forward with so much pleasure to seeing him once more to-morrow!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Carton followed the lines and words of his paper, with a slow forefinger,
      and with a studious and absorbed face. They were all leaning their arms on
      the counter close together, speaking low. After a silence of a few
      moments, during which they all looked towards him without disturbing his
      outward attention from the Jacobin editor, they resumed their
      conversation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is true what madame says,&rdquo; observed Jacques Three. &ldquo;Why stop? There is
      great force in that. Why stop?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, well,&rdquo; reasoned Defarge, &ldquo;but one must stop somewhere. After all,
      the question is still where?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At extermination,&rdquo; said madame.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Magnificent!&rdquo; croaked Jacques Three. The Vengeance, also, highly
      approved.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Extermination is good doctrine, my wife,&rdquo; said Defarge, rather troubled;
      &ldquo;in general, I say nothing against it. But this Doctor has suffered much;
      you have seen him to-day; you have observed his face when the paper was
      read.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have observed his face!&rdquo; repeated madame, contemptuously and angrily.
      &ldquo;Yes. I have observed his face. I have observed his face to be not the
      face of a true friend of the Republic. Let him take care of his face!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you have observed, my wife,&rdquo; said Defarge, in a deprecatory manner,
      &ldquo;the anguish of his daughter, which must be a dreadful anguish to him!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have observed his daughter,&rdquo; repeated madame; &ldquo;yes, I have observed his
      daughter, more times than one. I have observed her to-day, and I have
      observed her other days. I have observed her in the court, and I have
      observed her in the street by the prison. Let me but lift my finger&mdash;!&rdquo;
       She seemed to raise it (the listener&rsquo;s eyes were always on his paper), and
      to let it fall with a rattle on the ledge before her, as if the axe had
      dropped.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The citizeness is superb!&rdquo; croaked the Juryman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is an Angel!&rdquo; said The Vengeance, and embraced her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As to thee,&rdquo; pursued madame, implacably, addressing her husband, &ldquo;if it
      depended on thee&mdash;which, happily, it does not&mdash;thou wouldst
      rescue this man even now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No!&rdquo; protested Defarge. &ldquo;Not if to lift this glass would do it! But I
      would leave the matter there. I say, stop there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See you then, Jacques,&rdquo; said Madame Defarge, wrathfully; &ldquo;and see you,
      too, my little Vengeance; see you both! Listen! For other crimes as
      tyrants and oppressors, I have this race a long time on my register,
      doomed to destruction and extermination. Ask my husband, is that so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is so,&rdquo; assented Defarge, without being asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the beginning of the great days, when the Bastille falls, he finds
      this paper of to-day, and he brings it home, and in the middle of the
      night when this place is clear and shut, we read it, here on this spot, by
      the light of this lamp. Ask him, is that so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is so,&rdquo; assented Defarge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That night, I tell him, when the paper is read through, and the lamp is
      burnt out, and the day is gleaming in above those shutters and between
      those iron bars, that I have now a secret to communicate. Ask him, is that
      so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is so,&rdquo; assented Defarge again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I communicate to him that secret. I smite this bosom with these two hands
      as I smite it now, and I tell him, &lsquo;Defarge, I was brought up among the
      fishermen of the sea-shore, and that peasant family so injured by the two
      Evrémonde brothers, as that Bastille paper describes, is my family.
      Defarge, that sister of the mortally wounded boy upon the ground was my
      sister, that husband was my sister&rsquo;s husband, that unborn child was their
      child, that brother was my brother, that father was my father, those dead
      are my dead, and that summons to answer for those things descends to me!&rsquo;
      Ask him, is that so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is so,&rdquo; assented Defarge once more.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then tell Wind and Fire where to stop,&rdquo; returned madame; &ldquo;but don&rsquo;t tell
      me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Both her hearers derived a horrible enjoyment from the deadly nature of
      her wrath&mdash;the listener could feel how white she was, without seeing
      her&mdash;and both highly commended it. Defarge, a weak minority,
      interposed a few words for the memory of the compassionate wife of the
      Marquis; but only elicited from his own wife a repetition of her last
      reply. &ldquo;Tell the Wind and the Fire where to stop; not me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Customers entered, and the group was broken up. The English customer paid
      for what he had had, perplexedly counted his change, and asked, as a
      stranger, to be directed towards the National Palace. Madame Defarge took
      him to the door, and put her arm on his, in pointing out the road. The
      English customer was not without his reflections then, that it might be a
      good deed to seize that arm, lift it, and strike under it sharp and deep.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, he went his way, and was soon swallowed up in the shadow of the
      prison wall. At the appointed hour, he emerged from it to present himself
      in Mr. Lorry&rsquo;s room again, where he found the old gentleman walking to and
      fro in restless anxiety. He said he had been with Lucie until just now,
      and had only left her for a few minutes, to come and keep his appointment.
      Her father had not been seen, since he quitted the banking-house towards
      four o&rsquo;clock. She had some faint hopes that his mediation might save
      Charles, but they were very slight. He had been more than five hours gone:
      where could he be?
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Lorry waited until ten; but, Doctor Manette not returning, and he
      being unwilling to leave Lucie any longer, it was arranged that he should
      go back to her, and come to the banking-house again at midnight. In the
      meanwhile, Carton would wait alone by the fire for the Doctor.
    </p>
    <p>
      He waited and waited, and the clock struck twelve; but Doctor Manette did
      not come back. Mr. Lorry returned, and found no tidings of him, and
      brought none. Where could he be?
    </p>
    <p>
      They were discussing this question, and were almost building up some weak
      structure of hope on his prolonged absence, when they heard him on the
      stairs. The instant he entered the room, it was plain that all was lost.
    </p>
    <p>
      Whether he had really been to any one, or whether he had been all that
      time traversing the streets, was never known. As he stood staring at them,
      they asked him no question, for his face told them everything.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cannot find it,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;and I must have it. Where is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His head and throat were bare, and, as he spoke with a helpless look
      straying all around, he took his coat off, and let it drop on the floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where is my bench? I have been looking everywhere for my bench, and I
      can&rsquo;t find it. What have they done with my work? Time presses: I must
      finish those shoes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They looked at one another, and their hearts died within them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, come!&rdquo; said he, in a whimpering miserable way; &ldquo;let me get to work.
      Give me my work.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Receiving no answer, he tore his hair, and beat his feet upon the ground,
      like a distracted child.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t torture a poor forlorn wretch,&rdquo; he implored them, with a dreadful
      cry; &ldquo;but give me my work! What is to become of us, if those shoes are not
      done to-night?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Lost, utterly lost!
    </p>
    <p>
      It was so clearly beyond hope to reason with him, or try to restore him,
      that&mdash;as if by agreement&mdash;they each put a hand upon his
      shoulder, and soothed him to sit down before the fire, with a promise that
      he should have his work presently. He sank into the chair, and brooded
      over the embers, and shed tears. As if all that had happened since the
      garret time were a momentary fancy, or a dream, Mr. Lorry saw him shrink
      into the exact figure that Defarge had had in keeping.
    </p>
    <p>
      Affected, and impressed with terror as they both were, by this spectacle
      of ruin, it was not a time to yield to such emotions. His lonely daughter,
      bereft of her final hope and reliance, appealed to them both too strongly.
      Again, as if by agreement, they looked at one another with one meaning in
      their faces. Carton was the first to speak:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The last chance is gone: it was not much. Yes; he had better be taken to
      her. But, before you go, will you, for a moment, steadily attend to me?
      Don&rsquo;t ask me why I make the stipulations I am going to make, and exact the
      promise I am going to exact; I have a reason&mdash;a good one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not doubt it,&rdquo; answered Mr. Lorry. &ldquo;Say on.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The figure in the chair between them, was all the time monotonously
      rocking itself to and fro, and moaning. They spoke in such a tone as they
      would have used if they had been watching by a sick-bed in the night.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carton stooped to pick up the coat, which lay almost entangling his feet.
      As he did so, a small case in which the Doctor was accustomed to carry the
      lists of his day&rsquo;s duties, fell lightly on the floor. Carton took it up,
      and there was a folded paper in it. &ldquo;We should look at this!&rdquo; he said. Mr.
      Lorry nodded his consent. He opened it, and exclaimed, &ldquo;Thank <i>God!</i>&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; asked Mr. Lorry, eagerly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A moment! Let me speak of it in its place. First,&rdquo; he put his hand in his
      coat, and took another paper from it, &ldquo;that is the certificate which
      enables me to pass out of this city. Look at it. You see&mdash;Sydney
      Carton, an Englishman?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Lorry held it open in his hand, gazing in his earnest face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Keep it for me until to-morrow. I shall see him to-morrow, you remember,
      and I had better not take it into the prison.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know; I prefer not to do so. Now, take this paper that Doctor
      Manette has carried about him. It is a similar certificate, enabling him
      and his daughter and her child, at any time, to pass the barrier and the
      frontier! You see?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps he obtained it as his last and utmost precaution against evil,
      yesterday. When is it dated? But no matter; don&rsquo;t stay to look; put it up
      carefully with mine and your own. Now, observe! I never doubted until
      within this hour or two, that he had, or could have such a paper. It is
      good, until recalled. But it may be soon recalled, and, I have reason to
      think, will be.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are not in danger?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are in great danger. They are in danger of denunciation by Madame
      Defarge. I know it from her own lips. I have overheard words of that
      woman&rsquo;s, to-night, which have presented their danger to me in strong
      colours. I have lost no time, and since then, I have seen the spy. He
      confirms me. He knows that a wood-sawyer, living by the prison wall, is
      under the control of the Defarges, and has been rehearsed by Madame
      Defarge as to his having seen Her&rdquo;&mdash;he never mentioned Lucie&rsquo;s name&mdash;&ldquo;making
      signs and signals to prisoners. It is easy to foresee that the pretence
      will be the common one, a prison plot, and that it will involve her life&mdash;and
      perhaps her child&rsquo;s&mdash;and perhaps her father&rsquo;s&mdash;for both have
      been seen with her at that place. Don&rsquo;t look so horrified. You will save
      them all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Heaven grant I may, Carton! But how?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am going to tell you how. It will depend on you, and it could depend on
      no better man. This new denunciation will certainly not take place until
      after to-morrow; probably not until two or three days afterwards; more
      probably a week afterwards. You know it is a capital crime, to mourn for,
      or sympathise with, a victim of the Guillotine. She and her father would
      unquestionably be guilty of this crime, and this woman (the inveteracy of
      whose pursuit cannot be described) would wait to add that strength to her
      case, and make herself doubly sure. You follow me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So attentively, and with so much confidence in what you say, that for the
      moment I lose sight,&rdquo; touching the back of the Doctor&rsquo;s chair, &ldquo;even of
      this distress.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have money, and can buy the means of travelling to the seacoast as
      quickly as the journey can be made. Your preparations have been completed
      for some days, to return to England. Early to-morrow have your horses
      ready, so that they may be in starting trim at two o&rsquo;clock in the
      afternoon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It shall be done!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His manner was so fervent and inspiring, that Mr. Lorry caught the flame,
      and was as quick as youth.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are a noble heart. Did I say we could depend upon no better man? Tell
      her, to-night, what you know of her danger as involving her child and her
      father. Dwell upon that, for she would lay her own fair head beside her
      husband&rsquo;s cheerfully.&rdquo; He faltered for an instant; then went on as before.
      &ldquo;For the sake of her child and her father, press upon her the necessity of
      leaving Paris, with them and you, at that hour. Tell her that it was her
      husband&rsquo;s last arrangement. Tell her that more depends upon it than she
      dare believe, or hope. You think that her father, even in this sad state,
      will submit himself to her; do you not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sure of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought so. Quietly and steadily have all these arrangements made in
      the courtyard here, even to the taking of your own seat in the carriage.
      The moment I come to you, take me in, and drive away.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I understand that I wait for you under all circumstances?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have my certificate in your hand with the rest, you know, and will
      reserve my place. Wait for nothing but to have my place occupied, and then
      for England!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, then,&rdquo; said Mr. Lorry, grasping his eager but so firm and steady
      hand, &ldquo;it does not all depend on one old man, but I shall have a young and
      ardent man at my side.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By the help of Heaven you shall! Promise me solemnly that nothing will
      influence you to alter the course on which we now stand pledged to one
      another.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing, Carton.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Remember these words to-morrow: change the course, or delay in it&mdash;for
      any reason&mdash;and no life can possibly be saved, and many lives must
      inevitably be sacrificed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will remember them. I hope to do my part faithfully.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I hope to do mine. Now, good bye!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Though he said it with a grave smile of earnestness, and though he even
      put the old man&rsquo;s hand to his lips, he did not part from him then. He
      helped him so far to arouse the rocking figure before the dying embers, as
      to get a cloak and hat put upon it, and to tempt it forth to find where
      the bench and work were hidden that it still moaningly besought to have.
      He walked on the other side of it and protected it to the courtyard of the
      house where the afflicted heart&mdash;so happy in the memorable time when
      he had revealed his own desolate heart to it&mdash;outwatched the awful
      night. He entered the courtyard and remained there for a few moments
      alone, looking up at the light in the window of her room. Before he went
      away, he breathed a blessing towards it, and a Farewell.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0046" id="link2H_4_0046"></a>
      CHAPTER XIII.<br />Fifty-two
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>n the black prison of the Conciergerie, the doomed of the day awaited
      their fate. They were in number as the weeks of the year. Fifty-two were
      to roll that afternoon on the life-tide of the city to the boundless
      everlasting sea. Before their cells were quit of them, new occupants were
      appointed; before their blood ran into the blood spilled yesterday, the
      blood that was to mingle with theirs to-morrow was already set apart.
    </p>
    <p>
      Two score and twelve were told off. From the farmer-general of seventy,
      whose riches could not buy his life, to the seamstress of twenty, whose
      poverty and obscurity could not save her. Physical diseases, engendered in
      the vices and neglects of men, will seize on victims of all degrees; and
      the frightful moral disorder, born of unspeakable suffering, intolerable
      oppression, and heartless indifference, smote equally without distinction.
    </p>
    <p>
      Charles Darnay, alone in a cell, had sustained himself with no flattering
      delusion since he came to it from the Tribunal. In every line of the
      narrative he had heard, he had heard his condemnation. He had fully
      comprehended that no personal influence could possibly save him, that he
      was virtually sentenced by the millions, and that units could avail him
      nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nevertheless, it was not easy, with the face of his beloved wife fresh
      before him, to compose his mind to what it must bear. His hold on life was
      strong, and it was very, very hard, to loosen; by gradual efforts and
      degrees unclosed a little here, it clenched the tighter there; and when he
      brought his strength to bear on that hand and it yielded, this was closed
      again. There was a hurry, too, in all his thoughts, a turbulent and heated
      working of his heart, that contended against resignation. If, for a
      moment, he did feel resigned, then his wife and child who had to live
      after him, seemed to protest and to make it a selfish thing.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, all this was at first. Before long, the consideration that there was
      no disgrace in the fate he must meet, and that numbers went the same road
      wrongfully, and trod it firmly every day, sprang up to stimulate him. Next
      followed the thought that much of the future peace of mind enjoyable by
      the dear ones, depended on his quiet fortitude. So, by degrees he calmed
      into the better state, when he could raise his thoughts much higher, and
      draw comfort down.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before it had set in dark on the night of his condemnation, he had
      travelled thus far on his last way. Being allowed to purchase the means of
      writing, and a light, he sat down to write until such time as the prison
      lamps should be extinguished.
    </p>
    <p>
      He wrote a long letter to Lucie, showing her that he had known nothing of
      her father&rsquo;s imprisonment, until he had heard of it from herself, and that
      he had been as ignorant as she of his father&rsquo;s and uncle&rsquo;s responsibility
      for that misery, until the paper had been read. He had already explained
      to her that his concealment from herself of the name he had relinquished,
      was the one condition&mdash;fully intelligible now&mdash;that her father
      had attached to their betrothal, and was the one promise he had still
      exacted on the morning of their marriage. He entreated her, for her
      father&rsquo;s sake, never to seek to know whether her father had become
      oblivious of the existence of the paper, or had had it recalled to him
      (for the moment, or for good), by the story of the Tower, on that old
      Sunday under the dear old plane-tree in the garden. If he had preserved
      any definite remembrance of it, there could be no doubt that he had
      supposed it destroyed with the Bastille, when he had found no mention of
      it among the relics of prisoners which the populace had discovered there,
      and which had been described to all the world. He besought her&mdash;though
      he added that he knew it was needless&mdash;to console her father, by
      impressing him through every tender means she could think of, with the
      truth that he had done nothing for which he could justly reproach himself,
      but had uniformly forgotten himself for their joint sakes. Next to her
      preservation of his own last grateful love and blessing, and her
      overcoming of her sorrow, to devote herself to their dear child, he
      adjured her, as they would meet in Heaven, to comfort her father.
    </p>
    <p>
      To her father himself, he wrote in the same strain; but, he told her
      father that he expressly confided his wife and child to his care. And he
      told him this, very strongly, with the hope of rousing him from any
      despondency or dangerous retrospect towards which he foresaw he might be
      tending.
    </p>
    <p>
      To Mr. Lorry, he commended them all, and explained his worldly affairs.
      That done, with many added sentences of grateful friendship and warm
      attachment, all was done. He never thought of Carton. His mind was so full
      of the others, that he never once thought of him.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had time to finish these letters before the lights were put out. When
      he lay down on his straw bed, he thought he had done with this world.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, it beckoned him back in his sleep, and showed itself in shining
      forms. Free and happy, back in the old house in Soho (though it had
      nothing in it like the real house), unaccountably released and light of
      heart, he was with Lucie again, and she told him it was all a dream, and
      he had never gone away. A pause of forgetfulness, and then he had even
      suffered, and had come back to her, dead and at peace, and yet there was
      no difference in him. Another pause of oblivion, and he awoke in the
      sombre morning, unconscious where he was or what had happened, until it
      flashed upon his mind, &ldquo;this is the day of my death!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thus, had he come through the hours, to the day when the fifty-two heads
      were to fall. And now, while he was composed, and hoped that he could meet
      the end with quiet heroism, a new action began in his waking thoughts,
      which was very difficult to master.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had never seen the instrument that was to terminate his life. How high
      it was from the ground, how many steps it had, where he would be stood,
      how he would be touched, whether the touching hands would be dyed red,
      which way his face would be turned, whether he would be the first, or
      might be the last: these and many similar questions, in nowise directed by
      his will, obtruded themselves over and over again, countless times.
      Neither were they connected with fear: he was conscious of no fear.
      Rather, they originated in a strange besetting desire to know what to do
      when the time came; a desire gigantically disproportionate to the few
      swift moments to which it referred; a wondering that was more like the
      wondering of some other spirit within his, than his own.
    </p>
    <p>
      The hours went on as he walked to and fro, and the clocks struck the
      numbers he would never hear again. Nine gone for ever, ten gone for ever,
      eleven gone for ever, twelve coming on to pass away. After a hard contest
      with that eccentric action of thought which had last perplexed him, he had
      got the better of it. He walked up and down, softly repeating their names
      to himself. The worst of the strife was over. He could walk up and down,
      free from distracting fancies, praying for himself and for them.
    </p>
    <p>
      Twelve gone for ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had been apprised that the final hour was Three, and he knew he would
      be summoned some time earlier, inasmuch as the tumbrils jolted heavily and
      slowly through the streets. Therefore, he resolved to keep Two before his
      mind, as the hour, and so to strengthen himself in the interval that he
      might be able, after that time, to strengthen others.
    </p>
    <p>
      Walking regularly to and fro with his arms folded on his breast, a very
      different man from the prisoner, who had walked to and fro at La Force, he
      heard One struck away from him, without surprise. The hour had measured
      like most other hours. Devoutly thankful to Heaven for his recovered
      self-possession, he thought, &ldquo;There is but another now,&rdquo; and turned to
      walk again.
    </p>
    <p>
      Footsteps in the stone passage outside the door. He stopped.
    </p>
    <p>
      The key was put in the lock, and turned. Before the door was opened, or as
      it opened, a man said in a low voice, in English: &ldquo;He has never seen me
      here; I have kept out of his way. Go you in alone; I wait near. Lose no
      time!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The door was quickly opened and closed, and there stood before him face to
      face, quiet, intent upon him, with the light of a smile on his features,
      and a cautionary finger on his lip, Sydney Carton.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was something so bright and remarkable in his look, that, for the
      first moment, the prisoner misdoubted him to be an apparition of his own
      imagining. But, he spoke, and it was his voice; he took the prisoner&rsquo;s
      hand, and it was his real grasp.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of all the people upon earth, you least expected to see me?&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I could not believe it to be you. I can scarcely believe it now. You are
      not&rdquo;&mdash;the apprehension came suddenly into his mind&mdash;&ldquo;a
      prisoner?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No. I am accidentally possessed of a power over one of the keepers here,
      and in virtue of it I stand before you. I come from her&mdash;your wife,
      dear Darnay.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The prisoner wrung his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I bring you a request from her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A most earnest, pressing, and emphatic entreaty, addressed to you in the
      most pathetic tones of the voice so dear to you, that you well remember.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The prisoner turned his face partly aside.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have no time to ask me why I bring it, or what it means; I have no
      time to tell you. You must comply with it&mdash;take off those boots you
      wear, and draw on these of mine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was a chair against the wall of the cell, behind the prisoner.
      Carton, pressing forward, had already, with the speed of lightning, got
      him down into it, and stood over him, barefoot.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Draw on these boots of mine. Put your hands to them; put your will to
      them. Quick!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Carton, there is no escaping from this place; it never can be done. You
      will only die with me. It is madness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would be madness if I asked you to escape; but do I? When I ask you to
      pass out at that door, tell me it is madness and remain here. Change that
      cravat for this of mine, that coat for this of mine. While you do it, let
      me take this ribbon from your hair, and shake out your hair like this of
      mine!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      With wonderful quickness, and with a strength both of will and action,
      that appeared quite supernatural, he forced all these changes upon him.
      The prisoner was like a young child in his hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Carton! Dear Carton! It is madness. It cannot be accomplished, it never
      can be done, it has been attempted, and has always failed. I implore you
      not to add your death to the bitterness of mine.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do I ask you, my dear Darnay, to pass the door? When I ask that, refuse.
      There are pen and ink and paper on this table. Is your hand steady enough
      to write?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was when you came in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Steady it again, and write what I shall dictate. Quick, friend, quick!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pressing his hand to his bewildered head, Darnay sat down at the table.
      Carton, with his right hand in his breast, stood close beside him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Write exactly as I speak.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To whom do I address it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To no one.&rdquo; Carton still had his hand in his breast.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do I date it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The prisoner looked up, at each question. Carton, standing over him with
      his hand in his breast, looked down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;If you remember,&rsquo;&rdquo; said Carton, dictating, &ldquo;&lsquo;the words that passed
      between us, long ago, you will readily comprehend this when you see it.
      You do remember them, I know. It is not in your nature to forget them.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He was drawing his hand from his breast; the prisoner chancing to look up
      in his hurried wonder as he wrote, the hand stopped, closing upon
      something.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you written &lsquo;forget them&rsquo;?&rdquo; Carton asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have. Is that a weapon in your hand?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; I am not armed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it in your hand?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You shall know directly. Write on; there are but a few words more.&rdquo; He
      dictated again. &ldquo;&lsquo;I am thankful that the time has come, when I can prove
      them. That I do so is no subject for regret or grief.&rsquo;&rdquo; As he said these
      words with his eyes fixed on the writer, his hand slowly and softly moved
      down close to the writer&rsquo;s face.
    </p>
    <p>
      The pen dropped from Darnay&rsquo;s fingers on the table, and he looked about
      him vacantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What vapour is that?&rdquo; he asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Vapour?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Something that crossed me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am conscious of nothing; there can be nothing here. Take up the pen and
      finish. Hurry, hurry!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As if his memory were impaired, or his faculties disordered, the prisoner
      made an effort to rally his attention. As he looked at Carton with clouded
      eyes and with an altered manner of breathing, Carton&mdash;his hand again
      in his breast&mdash;looked steadily at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hurry, hurry!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The prisoner bent over the paper, once more.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;If it had been otherwise;&rsquo;&rdquo; Carton&rsquo;s hand was again watchfully and
      softly stealing down; &ldquo;&lsquo;I never should have used the longer opportunity.
      If it had been otherwise;&rsquo;&rdquo; the hand was at the prisoner&rsquo;s face; &ldquo;&lsquo;I
      should but have had so much the more to answer for. If it had been
      otherwise&mdash;&rsquo;&rdquo; Carton looked at the pen and saw it was trailing off
      into unintelligible signs.
    </p>
    <p>
      Carton&rsquo;s hand moved back to his breast no more. The prisoner sprang up
      with a reproachful look, but Carton&rsquo;s hand was close and firm at his
      nostrils, and Carton&rsquo;s left arm caught him round the waist. For a few
      seconds he faintly struggled with the man who had come to lay down his
      life for him; but, within a minute or so, he was stretched insensible on
      the ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      Quickly, but with hands as true to the purpose as his heart was, Carton
      dressed himself in the clothes the prisoner had laid aside, combed back
      his hair, and tied it with the ribbon the prisoner had worn. Then, he
      softly called, &ldquo;Enter there! Come in!&rdquo; and the Spy presented himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see?&rdquo; said Carton, looking up, as he kneeled on one knee beside the
      insensible figure, putting the paper in the breast: &ldquo;is your hazard very
      great?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mr. Carton,&rdquo; the Spy answered, with a timid snap of his fingers, &ldquo;my
      hazard is not <i>that</i>, in the thick of business here, if you are true
      to the whole of your bargain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t fear me. I will be true to the death.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must be, Mr. Carton, if the tale of fifty-two is to be right. Being
      made right by you in that dress, I shall have no fear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have no fear! I shall soon be out of the way of harming you, and the rest
      will soon be far from here, please God! Now, get assistance and take me to
      the coach.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You?&rdquo; said the Spy nervously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Him, man, with whom I have exchanged. You go out at the gate by which you
      brought me in?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was weak and faint when you brought me in, and I am fainter now you
      take me out. The parting interview has overpowered me. Such a thing has
      happened here, often, and too often. Your life is in your own hands.
      Quick! Call assistance!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You swear not to betray me?&rdquo; said the trembling Spy, as he paused for a
      last moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Man, man!&rdquo; returned Carton, stamping his foot; &ldquo;have I sworn by no solemn
      vow already, to go through with this, that you waste the precious moments
      now? Take him yourself to the courtyard you know of, place him yourself in
      the carriage, show him yourself to Mr. Lorry, tell him yourself to give
      him no restorative but air, and to remember my words of last night, and
      his promise of last night, and drive away!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Spy withdrew, and Carton seated himself at the table, resting his
      forehead on his hands. The Spy returned immediately, with two men.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How, then?&rdquo; said one of them, contemplating the fallen figure. &ldquo;So
      afflicted to find that his friend has drawn a prize in the lottery of
      Sainte Guillotine?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A good patriot,&rdquo; said the other, &ldquo;could hardly have been more afflicted
      if the Aristocrat had drawn a blank.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They raised the unconscious figure, placed it on a litter they had brought
      to the door, and bent to carry it away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The time is short, Evrémonde,&rdquo; said the Spy, in a warning voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know it well,&rdquo; answered Carton. &ldquo;Be careful of my friend, I entreat
      you, and leave me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, then, my children,&rdquo; said Barsad. &ldquo;Lift him, and come away!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The door closed, and Carton was left alone. Straining his powers of
      listening to the utmost, he listened for any sound that might denote
      suspicion or alarm. There was none. Keys turned, doors clashed, footsteps
      passed along distant passages: no cry was raised, or hurry made, that
      seemed unusual. Breathing more freely in a little while, he sat down at
      the table, and listened again until the clock struck Two.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sounds that he was not afraid of, for he divined their meaning, then began
      to be audible. Several doors were opened in succession, and finally his
      own. A gaoler, with a list in his hand, looked in, merely saying, &ldquo;Follow
      me, Evrémonde!&rdquo; and he followed into a large dark room, at a distance. It
      was a dark winter day, and what with the shadows within, and what with the
      shadows without, he could but dimly discern the others who were brought
      there to have their arms bound. Some were standing; some seated. Some were
      lamenting, and in restless motion; but, these were few. The great majority
      were silent and still, looking fixedly at the ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he stood by the wall in a dim corner, while some of the fifty-two were
      brought in after him, one man stopped in passing, to embrace him, as
      having a knowledge of him. It thrilled him with a great dread of
      discovery; but the man went on. A very few moments after that, a young
      woman, with a slight girlish form, a sweet spare face in which there was
      no vestige of colour, and large widely opened patient eyes, rose from the
      seat where he had observed her sitting, and came to speak to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Citizen Evrémonde,&rdquo; she said, touching him with her cold hand. &ldquo;I am a
      poor little seamstress, who was with you in La Force.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He murmured for answer: &ldquo;True. I forget what you were accused of?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Plots. Though the just Heaven knows that I am innocent of any. Is it
      likely? Who would think of plotting with a poor little weak creature like
      me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The forlorn smile with which she said it, so touched him, that tears
      started from his eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not afraid to die, Citizen Evrémonde, but I have done nothing. I am
      not unwilling to die, if the Republic which is to do so much good to us
      poor, will profit by my death; but I do not know how that can be, Citizen
      Evrémonde. Such a poor weak little creature!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As the last thing on earth that his heart was to warm and soften to, it
      warmed and softened to this pitiable girl.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I heard you were released, Citizen Evrémonde. I hoped it was true?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was. But, I was again taken and condemned.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I may ride with you, Citizen Evrémonde, will you let me hold your
      hand? I am not afraid, but I am little and weak, and it will give me more
      courage.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As the patient eyes were lifted to his face, he saw a sudden doubt in
      them, and then astonishment. He pressed the work-worn, hunger-worn young
      fingers, and touched his lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you dying for him?&rdquo; she whispered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And his wife and child. Hush! Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O you will let me hold your brave hand, stranger?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush! Yes, my poor sister; to the last.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      The same shadows that are falling on the prison, are falling, in that same
      hour of the early afternoon, on the Barrier with the crowd about it, when
      a coach going out of Paris drives up to be examined.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who goes here? Whom have we within? Papers!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The papers are handed out, and read.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alexandre Manette. Physician. French. Which is he?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This is he; this helpless, inarticulately murmuring, wandering old man
      pointed out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Apparently the Citizen-Doctor is not in his right mind? The
      Revolution-fever will have been too much for him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Greatly too much for him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hah! Many suffer with it. Lucie. His daughter. French. Which is she?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This is she.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Apparently it must be. Lucie, the wife of Evrémonde; is it not?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It is.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hah! Evrémonde has an assignation elsewhere. Lucie, her child. English.
      This is she?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She and no other.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Kiss me, child of Evrémonde. Now, thou hast kissed a good Republican;
      something new in thy family; remember it! Sydney Carton. Advocate.
      English. Which is he?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He lies here, in this corner of the carriage. He, too, is pointed out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Apparently the English advocate is in a swoon?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It is hoped he will recover in the fresher air. It is represented that he
      is not in strong health, and has separated sadly from a friend who is
      under the displeasure of the Republic.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that all? It is not a great deal, that! Many are under the displeasure
      of the Republic, and must look out at the little window. Jarvis Lorry.
      Banker. English. Which is he?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am he. Necessarily, being the last.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It is Jarvis Lorry who has replied to all the previous questions. It is
      Jarvis Lorry who has alighted and stands with his hand on the coach door,
      replying to a group of officials. They leisurely walk round the carriage
      and leisurely mount the box, to look at what little luggage it carries on
      the roof; the country-people hanging about, press nearer to the coach
      doors and greedily stare in; a little child, carried by its mother, has
      its short arm held out for it, that it may touch the wife of an aristocrat
      who has gone to the Guillotine.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Behold your papers, Jarvis Lorry, countersigned.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One can depart, citizen?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One can depart. Forward, my postilions! A good journey!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I salute you, citizens.&mdash;And the first danger passed!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      These are again the words of Jarvis Lorry, as he clasps his hands, and
      looks upward. There is terror in the carriage, there is weeping, there is
      the heavy breathing of the insensible traveller.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are we not going too slowly? Can they not be induced to go faster?&rdquo; asks
      Lucie, clinging to the old man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would seem like flight, my darling. I must not urge them too much; it
      would rouse suspicion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The road is clear, my dearest. So far, we are not pursued.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Houses in twos and threes pass by us, solitary farms, ruinous buildings,
      dye-works, tanneries, and the like, open country, avenues of leafless
      trees. The hard uneven pavement is under us, the soft deep mud is on
      either side. Sometimes, we strike into the skirting mud, to avoid the
      stones that clatter us and shake us; sometimes, we stick in ruts and
      sloughs there. The agony of our impatience is then so great, that in our
      wild alarm and hurry we are for getting out and running&mdash;hiding&mdash;doing
      anything but stopping.
    </p>
    <p>
      Out of the open country, in again among ruinous buildings, solitary farms,
      dye-works, tanneries, and the like, cottages in twos and threes, avenues
      of leafless trees. Have these men deceived us, and taken us back by
      another road? Is not this the same place twice over? Thank Heaven, no. A
      village. Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued! Hush! the
      posting-house.
    </p>
    <p>
      Leisurely, our four horses are taken out; leisurely, the coach stands in
      the little street, bereft of horses, and with no likelihood upon it of
      ever moving again; leisurely, the new horses come into visible existence,
      one by one; leisurely, the new postilions follow, sucking and plaiting the
      lashes of their whips; leisurely, the old postilions count their money,
      make wrong additions, and arrive at dissatisfied results. All the time,
      our overfraught hearts are beating at a rate that would far outstrip the
      fastest gallop of the fastest horses ever foaled.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length the new postilions are in their saddles, and the old are left
      behind. We are through the village, up the hill, and down the hill, and on
      the low watery grounds. Suddenly, the postilions exchange speech with
      animated gesticulation, and the horses are pulled up, almost on their
      haunches. We are pursued?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ho! Within the carriage there. Speak then!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; asks Mr. Lorry, looking out at window.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How many did they say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not understand you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&mdash;At the last post. How many to the Guillotine to-day?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fifty-two.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I said so! A brave number! My fellow-citizen here would have it
      forty-two; ten more heads are worth having. The Guillotine goes
      handsomely. I love it. Hi forward. Whoop!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The night comes on dark. He moves more; he is beginning to revive, and to
      speak intelligibly; he thinks they are still together; he asks him, by his
      name, what he has in his hand. O pity us, kind Heaven, and help us! Look
      out, look out, and see if we are pursued.
    </p>
    <p>
      The wind is rushing after us, and the clouds are flying after us, and the
      moon is plunging after us, and the whole wild night is in pursuit of us;
      but, so far, we are pursued by nothing else.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0047" id="link2H_4_0047"></a>
      CHAPTER XIV.<br />The Knitting Done
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>n that same juncture of time when the Fifty-Two awaited their fate Madame
      Defarge held darkly ominous council with The Vengeance and Jacques Three
      of the Revolutionary Jury. Not in the wine-shop did Madame Defarge confer
      with these ministers, but in the shed of the wood-sawyer, erst a mender of
      roads. The sawyer himself did not participate in the conference, but
      abided at a little distance, like an outer satellite who was not to speak
      until required, or to offer an opinion until invited.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But our Defarge,&rdquo; said Jacques Three, &ldquo;is undoubtedly a good Republican?
      Eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is no better,&rdquo; the voluble Vengeance protested in her shrill notes,
      &ldquo;in France.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Peace, little Vengeance,&rdquo; said Madame Defarge, laying her hand with a
      slight frown on her lieutenant&rsquo;s lips, &ldquo;hear me speak. My husband,
      fellow-citizen, is a good Republican and a bold man; he has deserved well
      of the Republic, and possesses its confidence. But my husband has his
      weaknesses, and he is so weak as to relent towards this Doctor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a great pity,&rdquo; croaked Jacques Three, dubiously shaking his head,
      with his cruel fingers at his hungry mouth; &ldquo;it is not quite like a good
      citizen; it is a thing to regret.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See you,&rdquo; said madame, &ldquo;I care nothing for this Doctor, I. He may wear
      his head or lose it, for any interest I have in him; it is all one to me.
      But, the Evrémonde people are to be exterminated, and the wife and child
      must follow the husband and father.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She has a fine head for it,&rdquo; croaked Jacques Three. &ldquo;I have seen blue
      eyes and golden hair there, and they looked charming when Samson held them
      up.&rdquo; Ogre that he was, he spoke like an epicure.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame Defarge cast down her eyes, and reflected a little.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The child also,&rdquo; observed Jacques Three, with a meditative enjoyment of
      his words, &ldquo;has golden hair and blue eyes. And we seldom have a child
      there. It is a pretty sight!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In a word,&rdquo; said Madame Defarge, coming out of her short abstraction, &ldquo;I
      cannot trust my husband in this matter. Not only do I feel, since last
      night, that I dare not confide to him the details of my projects; but also
      I feel that if I delay, there is danger of his giving warning, and then
      they might escape.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That must never be,&rdquo; croaked Jacques Three; &ldquo;no one must escape. We have
      not half enough as it is. We ought to have six score a day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In a word,&rdquo; Madame Defarge went on, &ldquo;my husband has not my reason for
      pursuing this family to annihilation, and I have not his reason for
      regarding this Doctor with any sensibility. I must act for myself,
      therefore. Come hither, little citizen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The wood-sawyer, who held her in the respect, and himself in the
      submission, of mortal fear, advanced with his hand to his red cap.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Touching those signals, little citizen,&rdquo; said Madame Defarge, sternly,
      &ldquo;that she made to the prisoners; you are ready to bear witness to them
      this very day?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, ay, why not!&rdquo; cried the sawyer. &ldquo;Every day, in all weathers, from two
      to four, always signalling, sometimes with the little one, sometimes
      without. I know what I know. I have seen with my eyes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He made all manner of gestures while he spoke, as if in incidental
      imitation of some few of the great diversity of signals that he had never
      seen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Clearly plots,&rdquo; said Jacques Three. &ldquo;Transparently!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is no doubt of the Jury?&rdquo; inquired Madame Defarge, letting her eyes
      turn to him with a gloomy smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Rely upon the patriotic Jury, dear citizeness. I answer for my
      fellow-Jurymen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, let me see,&rdquo; said Madame Defarge, pondering again. &ldquo;Yet once more!
      Can I spare this Doctor to my husband? I have no feeling either way. Can I
      spare him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He would count as one head,&rdquo; observed Jacques Three, in a low voice. &ldquo;We
      really have not heads enough; it would be a pity, I think.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He was signalling with her when I saw her,&rdquo; argued Madame Defarge; &ldquo;I
      cannot speak of one without the other; and I must not be silent, and trust
      the case wholly to him, this little citizen here. For, I am not a bad
      witness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Vengeance and Jacques Three vied with each other in their fervent
      protestations that she was the most admirable and marvellous of witnesses.
      The little citizen, not to be outdone, declared her to be a celestial
      witness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He must take his chance,&rdquo; said Madame Defarge. &ldquo;No, I cannot spare him!
      You are engaged at three o&rsquo;clock; you are going to see the batch of to-day
      executed.&mdash;You?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The question was addressed to the wood-sawyer, who hurriedly replied in
      the affirmative: seizing the occasion to add that he was the most ardent
      of Republicans, and that he would be in effect the most desolate of
      Republicans, if anything prevented him from enjoying the pleasure of
      smoking his afternoon pipe in the contemplation of the droll national
      barber. He was so very demonstrative herein, that he might have been
      suspected (perhaps was, by the dark eyes that looked contemptuously at him
      out of Madame Defarge&rsquo;s head) of having his small individual fears for his
      own personal safety, every hour in the day.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I,&rdquo; said madame, &ldquo;am equally engaged at the same place. After it is over&mdash;say
      at eight to-night&mdash;come you to me, in Saint Antoine, and we will give
      information against these people at my Section.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The wood-sawyer said he would be proud and flattered to attend the
      citizeness. The citizeness looking at him, he became embarrassed, evaded
      her glance as a small dog would have done, retreated among his wood, and
      hid his confusion over the handle of his saw.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame Defarge beckoned the Juryman and The Vengeance a little nearer to
      the door, and there expounded her further views to them thus:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She will now be at home, awaiting the moment of his death. She will be
      mourning and grieving. She will be in a state of mind to impeach the
      justice of the Republic. She will be full of sympathy with its enemies. I
      will go to her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What an admirable woman; what an adorable woman!&rdquo; exclaimed Jacques
      Three, rapturously. &ldquo;Ah, my cherished!&rdquo; cried The Vengeance; and embraced
      her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take you my knitting,&rdquo; said Madame Defarge, placing it in her
      lieutenant&rsquo;s hands, &ldquo;and have it ready for me in my usual seat. Keep me my
      usual chair. Go you there, straight, for there will probably be a greater
      concourse than usual, to-day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I willingly obey the orders of my Chief,&rdquo; said The Vengeance with
      alacrity, and kissing her cheek. &ldquo;You will not be late?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall be there before the commencement.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And before the tumbrils arrive. Be sure you are there, my soul,&rdquo; said The
      Vengeance, calling after her, for she had already turned into the street,
      &ldquo;before the tumbrils arrive!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame Defarge slightly waved her hand, to imply that she heard, and might
      be relied upon to arrive in good time, and so went through the mud, and
      round the corner of the prison wall. The Vengeance and the Juryman,
      looking after her as she walked away, were highly appreciative of her fine
      figure, and her superb moral endowments.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were many women at that time, upon whom the time laid a dreadfully
      disfiguring hand; but, there was not one among them more to be dreaded
      than this ruthless woman, now taking her way along the streets. Of a
      strong and fearless character, of shrewd sense and readiness, of great
      determination, of that kind of beauty which not only seems to impart to
      its possessor firmness and animosity, but to strike into others an
      instinctive recognition of those qualities; the troubled time would have
      heaved her up, under any circumstances. But, imbued from her childhood
      with a brooding sense of wrong, and an inveterate hatred of a class,
      opportunity had developed her into a tigress. She was absolutely without
      pity. If she had ever had the virtue in her, it had quite gone out of her.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was nothing to her, that an innocent man was to die for the sins of his
      forefathers; she saw, not him, but them. It was nothing to her, that his
      wife was to be made a widow and his daughter an orphan; that was
      insufficient punishment, because they were her natural enemies and her
      prey, and as such had no right to live. To appeal to her, was made
      hopeless by her having no sense of pity, even for herself. If she had been
      laid low in the streets, in any of the many encounters in which she had
      been engaged, she would not have pitied herself; nor, if she had been
      ordered to the axe to-morrow, would she have gone to it with any softer
      feeling than a fierce desire to change places with the man who sent her
      there.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such a heart Madame Defarge carried under her rough robe. Carelessly worn,
      it was a becoming robe enough, in a certain weird way, and her dark hair
      looked rich under her coarse red cap. Lying hidden in her bosom, was a
      loaded pistol. Lying hidden at her waist, was a sharpened dagger. Thus
      accoutred, and walking with the confident tread of such a character, and
      with the supple freedom of a woman who had habitually walked in her
      girlhood, bare-foot and bare-legged, on the brown sea-sand, Madame Defarge
      took her way along the streets.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, when the journey of the travelling coach, at that very moment waiting
      for the completion of its load, had been planned out last night, the
      difficulty of taking Miss Pross in it had much engaged Mr. Lorry&rsquo;s
      attention. It was not merely desirable to avoid overloading the coach, but
      it was of the highest importance that the time occupied in examining it
      and its passengers, should be reduced to the utmost; since their escape
      might depend on the saving of only a few seconds here and there. Finally,
      he had proposed, after anxious consideration, that Miss Pross and Jerry,
      who were at liberty to leave the city, should leave it at three o&rsquo;clock in
      the lightest-wheeled conveyance known to that period. Unencumbered with
      luggage, they would soon overtake the coach, and, passing it and preceding
      it on the road, would order its horses in advance, and greatly facilitate
      its progress during the precious hours of the night, when delay was the
      most to be dreaded.
    </p>
    <p>
      Seeing in this arrangement the hope of rendering real service in that
      pressing emergency, Miss Pross hailed it with joy. She and Jerry had
      beheld the coach start, had known who it was that Solomon brought, had
      passed some ten minutes in tortures of suspense, and were now concluding
      their arrangements to follow the coach, even as Madame Defarge, taking her
      way through the streets, now drew nearer and nearer to the else-deserted
      lodging in which they held their consultation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now what do you think, Mr. Cruncher,&rdquo; said Miss Pross, whose agitation
      was so great that she could hardly speak, or stand, or move, or live:
      &ldquo;what do you think of our not starting from this courtyard? Another
      carriage having already gone from here to-day, it might awaken suspicion.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My opinion, miss,&rdquo; returned Mr. Cruncher, &ldquo;is as you&rsquo;re right. Likewise
      wot I&rsquo;ll stand by you, right or wrong.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am so distracted with fear and hope for our precious creatures,&rdquo; said
      Miss Pross, wildly crying, &ldquo;that I am incapable of forming any plan. Are
      <i>you</i> capable of forming any plan, my dear good Mr. Cruncher?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Respectin&rsquo; a future spear o&rsquo; life, miss,&rdquo; returned Mr. Cruncher, &ldquo;I hope
      so. Respectin&rsquo; any present use o&rsquo; this here blessed old head o&rsquo; mine, I
      think not. Would you do me the favour, miss, to take notice o&rsquo; two
      promises and wows wot it is my wishes fur to record in this here crisis?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, for gracious sake!&rdquo; cried Miss Pross, still wildly crying, &ldquo;record
      them at once, and get them out of the way, like an excellent man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;First,&rdquo; said Mr. Cruncher, who was all in a tremble, and who spoke with
      an ashy and solemn visage, &ldquo;them poor things well out o&rsquo; this, never no
      more will I do it, never no more!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am quite sure, Mr. Cruncher,&rdquo; returned Miss Pross, &ldquo;that you never will
      do it again, whatever it is, and I beg you not to think it necessary to
      mention more particularly what it is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, miss,&rdquo; returned Jerry, &ldquo;it shall not be named to you. Second: them
      poor things well out o&rsquo; this, and never no more will I interfere with Mrs.
      Cruncher&rsquo;s flopping, never no more!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whatever housekeeping arrangement that may be,&rdquo; said Miss Pross, striving
      to dry her eyes and compose herself, &ldquo;I have no doubt it is best that Mrs.
      Cruncher should have it entirely under her own superintendence.&mdash;O my
      poor darlings!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I go so far as to say, miss, moreover,&rdquo; proceeded Mr. Cruncher, with a
      most alarming tendency to hold forth as from a pulpit&mdash;&ldquo;and let my
      words be took down and took to Mrs. Cruncher through yourself&mdash;that
      wot my opinions respectin&rsquo; flopping has undergone a change, and that wot I
      only hope with all my heart as Mrs. Cruncher may be a flopping at the
      present time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There, there, there! I hope she is, my dear man,&rdquo; cried the distracted
      Miss Pross, &ldquo;and I hope she finds it answering her expectations.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Forbid it,&rdquo; proceeded Mr. Cruncher, with additional solemnity, additional
      slowness, and additional tendency to hold forth and hold out, &ldquo;as anything
      wot I have ever said or done should be wisited on my earnest wishes for
      them poor creeturs now! Forbid it as we shouldn&rsquo;t all flop (if it was
      anyways conwenient) to get &rsquo;em out o&rsquo; this here dismal risk! Forbid it,
      miss! Wot I say, for-<i>bid</i> it!&rdquo; This was Mr. Cruncher&rsquo;s conclusion
      after a protracted but vain endeavour to find a better one.
    </p>
    <p>
      And still Madame Defarge, pursuing her way along the streets, came nearer
      and nearer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If we ever get back to our native land,&rdquo; said Miss Pross, &ldquo;you may rely
      upon my telling Mrs. Cruncher as much as I may be able to remember and
      understand of what you have so impressively said; and at all events you
      may be sure that I shall bear witness to your being thoroughly in earnest
      at this dreadful time. Now, pray let us think! My esteemed Mr. Cruncher,
      let us think!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Still, Madame Defarge, pursuing her way along the streets, came nearer and
      nearer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you were to go before,&rdquo; said Miss Pross, &ldquo;and stop the vehicle and
      horses from coming here, and were to wait somewhere for me; wouldn&rsquo;t that
      be best?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Cruncher thought it might be best.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where could you wait for me?&rdquo; asked Miss Pross.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Cruncher was so bewildered that he could think of no locality but
      Temple Bar. Alas! Temple Bar was hundreds of miles away, and Madame
      Defarge was drawing very near indeed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By the cathedral door,&rdquo; said Miss Pross. &ldquo;Would it be much out of the
      way, to take me in, near the great cathedral door between the two towers?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, miss,&rdquo; answered Mr. Cruncher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then, like the best of men,&rdquo; said Miss Pross, &ldquo;go to the posting-house
      straight, and make that change.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am doubtful,&rdquo; said Mr. Cruncher, hesitating and shaking his head,
      &ldquo;about leaving of you, you see. We don&rsquo;t know what may happen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Heaven knows we don&rsquo;t,&rdquo; returned Miss Pross, &ldquo;but have no fear for me.
      Take me in at the cathedral, at Three o&rsquo;Clock, or as near it as you can,
      and I am sure it will be better than our going from here. I feel certain
      of it. There! Bless you, Mr. Cruncher! Think-not of me, but of the lives
      that may depend on both of us!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This exordium, and Miss Pross&rsquo;s two hands in quite agonised entreaty
      clasping his, decided Mr. Cruncher. With an encouraging nod or two, he
      immediately went out to alter the arrangements, and left her by herself to
      follow as she had proposed.
    </p>
    <p>
      The having originated a precaution which was already in course of
      execution, was a great relief to Miss Pross. The necessity of composing
      her appearance so that it should attract no special notice in the streets,
      was another relief. She looked at her watch, and it was twenty minutes
      past two. She had no time to lose, but must get ready at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      Afraid, in her extreme perturbation, of the loneliness of the deserted
      rooms, and of half-imagined faces peeping from behind every open door in
      them, Miss Pross got a basin of cold water and began laving her eyes,
      which were swollen and red. Haunted by her feverish apprehensions, she
      could not bear to have her sight obscured for a minute at a time by the
      dripping water, but constantly paused and looked round to see that there
      was no one watching her. In one of those pauses she recoiled and cried
      out, for she saw a figure standing in the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      The basin fell to the ground broken, and the water flowed to the feet of
      Madame Defarge. By strange stern ways, and through much staining blood,
      those feet had come to meet that water.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame Defarge looked coldly at her, and said, &ldquo;The wife of Evrémonde;
      where is she?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It flashed upon Miss Pross&rsquo;s mind that the doors were all standing open,
      and would suggest the flight. Her first act was to shut them. There were
      four in the room, and she shut them all. She then placed herself before
      the door of the chamber which Lucie had occupied.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame Defarge&rsquo;s dark eyes followed her through this rapid movement, and
      rested on her when it was finished. Miss Pross had nothing beautiful about
      her; years had not tamed the wildness, or softened the grimness, of her
      appearance; but, she too was a determined woman in her different way, and
      she measured Madame Defarge with her eyes, every inch.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You might, from your appearance, be the wife of Lucifer,&rdquo; said Miss
      Pross, in her breathing. &ldquo;Nevertheless, you shall not get the better of
      me. I am an Englishwoman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame Defarge looked at her scornfully, but still with something of Miss
      Pross&rsquo;s own perception that they two were at bay. She saw a tight, hard,
      wiry woman before her, as Mr. Lorry had seen in the same figure a woman
      with a strong hand, in the years gone by. She knew full well that Miss
      Pross was the family&rsquo;s devoted friend; Miss Pross knew full well that
      Madame Defarge was the family&rsquo;s malevolent enemy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On my way yonder,&rdquo; said Madame Defarge, with a slight movement of her
      hand towards the fatal spot, &ldquo;where they reserve my chair and my knitting
      for me, I am come to make my compliments to her in passing. I wish to see
      her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know that your intentions are evil,&rdquo; said Miss Pross, &ldquo;and you may
      depend upon it, I&rsquo;ll hold my own against them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Each spoke in her own language; neither understood the other&rsquo;s words; both
      were very watchful, and intent to deduce from look and manner, what the
      unintelligible words meant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It will do her no good to keep herself concealed from me at this moment,&rdquo;
       said Madame Defarge. &ldquo;Good patriots will know what that means. Let me see
      her. Go tell her that I wish to see her. Do you hear?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If those eyes of yours were bed-winches,&rdquo; returned Miss Pross, &ldquo;and I was
      an English four-poster, they shouldn&rsquo;t loose a splinter of me. No, you
      wicked foreign woman; I am your match.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame Defarge was not likely to follow these idiomatic remarks in detail;
      but, she so far understood them as to perceive that she was set at naught.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Woman imbecile and pig-like!&rdquo; said Madame Defarge, frowning. &ldquo;I take no
      answer from you. I demand to see her. Either tell her that I demand to see
      her, or stand out of the way of the door and let me go to her!&rdquo; This, with
      an angry explanatory wave of her right arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I little thought,&rdquo; said Miss Pross, &ldquo;that I should ever want to
      understand your nonsensical language; but I would give all I have, except
      the clothes I wear, to know whether you suspect the truth, or any part of
      it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Neither of them for a single moment released the other&rsquo;s eyes. Madame
      Defarge had not moved from the spot where she stood when Miss Pross first
      became aware of her; but, she now advanced one step.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am a Briton,&rdquo; said Miss Pross, &ldquo;I am desperate. I don&rsquo;t care an English
      Twopence for myself. I know that the longer I keep you here, the greater
      hope there is for my Ladybird. I&rsquo;ll not leave a handful of that dark hair
      upon your head, if you lay a finger on me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thus Miss Pross, with a shake of her head and a flash of her eyes between
      every rapid sentence, and every rapid sentence a whole breath. Thus Miss
      Pross, who had never struck a blow in her life.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, her courage was of that emotional nature that it brought the
      irrepressible tears into her eyes. This was a courage that Madame Defarge
      so little comprehended as to mistake for weakness. &ldquo;Ha, ha!&rdquo; she laughed,
      &ldquo;you poor wretch! What are you worth! I address myself to that Doctor.&rdquo;
       Then she raised her voice and called out, &ldquo;Citizen Doctor! Wife of
      Evrémonde! Child of Evrémonde! Any person but this miserable fool, answer
      the Citizeness Defarge!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Perhaps the following silence, perhaps some latent disclosure in the
      expression of Miss Pross&rsquo;s face, perhaps a sudden misgiving apart from
      either suggestion, whispered to Madame Defarge that they were gone. Three
      of the doors she opened swiftly, and looked in.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Those rooms are all in disorder, there has been hurried packing, there
      are odds and ends upon the ground. There is no one in that room behind
      you! Let me look.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never!&rdquo; said Miss Pross, who understood the request as perfectly as
      Madame Defarge understood the answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If they are not in that room, they are gone, and can be pursued and
      brought back,&rdquo; said Madame Defarge to herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As long as you don&rsquo;t know whether they are in that room or not, you are
      uncertain what to do,&rdquo; said Miss Pross to herself; &ldquo;and you shall not know
      that, if I can prevent your knowing it; and know that, or not know that,
      you shall not leave here while I can hold you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have been in the streets from the first, nothing has stopped me, I will
      tear you to pieces, but I will have you from that door,&rdquo; said Madame
      Defarge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We are alone at the top of a high house in a solitary courtyard, we are
      not likely to be heard, and I pray for bodily strength to keep you here,
      while every minute you are here is worth a hundred thousand guineas to my
      darling,&rdquo; said Miss Pross.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame Defarge made at the door. Miss Pross, on the instinct of the
      moment, seized her round the waist in both her arms, and held her tight.
      It was in vain for Madame Defarge to struggle and to strike; Miss Pross,
      with the vigorous tenacity of love, always so much stronger than hate,
      clasped her tight, and even lifted her from the floor in the struggle that
      they had. The two hands of Madame Defarge buffeted and tore her face; but,
      Miss Pross, with her head down, held her round the waist, and clung to her
      with more than the hold of a drowning woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      Soon, Madame Defarge&rsquo;s hands ceased to strike, and felt at her encircled
      waist. &ldquo;It is under my arm,&rdquo; said Miss Pross, in smothered tones, &ldquo;you
      shall not draw it. I am stronger than you, I bless Heaven for it. I hold
      you till one or other of us faints or dies!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Madame Defarge&rsquo;s hands were at her bosom. Miss Pross looked up, saw what
      it was, struck at it, struck out a flash and a crash, and stood alone&mdash;blinded
      with smoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      All this was in a second. As the smoke cleared, leaving an awful
      stillness, it passed out on the air, like the soul of the furious woman
      whose body lay lifeless on the ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the first fright and horror of her situation, Miss Pross passed the
      body as far from it as she could, and ran down the stairs to call for
      fruitless help. Happily, she bethought herself of the consequences of what
      she did, in time to check herself and go back. It was dreadful to go in at
      the door again; but, she did go in, and even went near it, to get the
      bonnet and other things that she must wear. These she put on, out on the
      staircase, first shutting and locking the door and taking away the key.
      She then sat down on the stairs a few moments to breathe and to cry, and
      then got up and hurried away.
    </p>
    <p>
      By good fortune she had a veil on her bonnet, or she could hardly have
      gone along the streets without being stopped. By good fortune, too, she
      was naturally so peculiar in appearance as not to show disfigurement like
      any other woman. She needed both advantages, for the marks of gripping
      fingers were deep in her face, and her hair was torn, and her dress
      (hastily composed with unsteady hands) was clutched and dragged a hundred
      ways.
    </p>
    <p>
      In crossing the bridge, she dropped the door key in the river. Arriving at
      the cathedral some few minutes before her escort, and waiting there, she
      thought, what if the key were already taken in a net, what if it were
      identified, what if the door were opened and the remains discovered, what
      if she were stopped at the gate, sent to prison, and charged with murder!
      In the midst of these fluttering thoughts, the escort appeared, took her
      in, and took her away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is there any noise in the streets?&rdquo; she asked him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The usual noises,&rdquo; Mr. Cruncher replied; and looked surprised by the
      question and by her aspect.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t hear you,&rdquo; said Miss Pross. &ldquo;What do you say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was in vain for Mr. Cruncher to repeat what he said; Miss Pross could
      not hear him. &ldquo;So I&rsquo;ll nod my head,&rdquo; thought Mr. Cruncher, amazed, &ldquo;at all
      events she&rsquo;ll see that.&rdquo; And she did.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is there any noise in the streets now?&rdquo; asked Miss Pross again,
      presently.
    </p>
    <p>
      Again Mr. Cruncher nodded his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t hear it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gone deaf in an hour?&rdquo; said Mr. Cruncher, ruminating, with his mind much
      disturbed; &ldquo;wot&rsquo;s come to her?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I feel,&rdquo; said Miss Pross, &ldquo;as if there had been a flash and a crash, and
      that crash was the last thing I should ever hear in this life.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Blest if she ain&rsquo;t in a queer condition!&rdquo; said Mr. Cruncher, more and
      more disturbed. &ldquo;Wot can she have been a takin&rsquo;, to keep her courage up?
      Hark! There&rsquo;s the roll of them dreadful carts! You can hear that, miss?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can hear,&rdquo; said Miss Pross, seeing that he spoke to her, &ldquo;nothing. O,
      my good man, there was first a great crash, and then a great stillness,
      and that stillness seems to be fixed and unchangeable, never to be broken
      any more as long as my life lasts.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If she don&rsquo;t hear the roll of those dreadful carts, now very nigh their
      journey&rsquo;s end,&rdquo; said Mr. Cruncher, glancing over his shoulder, &ldquo;it&rsquo;s my
      opinion that indeed she never will hear anything else in this world.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And indeed she never did.
    </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div class="chapter">

    <h2><a name="link2H_4_0048" id="link2H_4_0048"></a>
      CHAPTER XV.<br />The Footsteps Die Out For Ever
    </h2>
<p class="pfirst"><span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>long the Paris streets, the death-carts rumble, hollow and harsh. Six
      tumbrils carry the day&rsquo;s wine to La Guillotine. All the devouring and
      insatiate Monsters imagined since imagination could record itself, are
      fused in the one realisation, Guillotine. And yet there is not in France,
      with its rich variety of soil and climate, a blade, a leaf, a root, a
      sprig, a peppercorn, which will grow to maturity under conditions more
      certain than those that have produced this horror. Crush humanity out of
      shape once more, under similar hammers, and it will twist itself into the
      same tortured forms. Sow the same seed of rapacious license and oppression
      over again, and it will surely yield the same fruit according to its kind.
    </p>
    <p>
      Six tumbrils roll along the streets. Change these back again to what they
      were, thou powerful enchanter, Time, and they shall be seen to be the
      carriages of absolute monarchs, the equipages of feudal nobles, the
      toilettes of flaring Jezebels, the churches that are not my father&rsquo;s house
      but dens of thieves, the huts of millions of starving peasants! No; the
      great magician who majestically works out the appointed order of the
      Creator, never reverses his transformations. &ldquo;If thou be changed into this
      shape by the will of God,&rdquo; say the seers to the enchanted, in the wise
      Arabian stories, &ldquo;then remain so! But, if thou wear this form through mere
      passing conjuration, then resume thy former aspect!&rdquo; Changeless and
      hopeless, the tumbrils roll along.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the sombre wheels of the six carts go round, they seem to plough up a
      long crooked furrow among the populace in the streets. Ridges of faces are
      thrown to this side and to that, and the ploughs go steadily onward. So
      used are the regular inhabitants of the houses to the spectacle, that in
      many windows there are no people, and in some the occupation of the hands
      is not so much as suspended, while the eyes survey the faces in the
      tumbrils. Here and there, the inmate has visitors to see the sight; then
      he points his finger, with something of the complacency of a curator or
      authorised exponent, to this cart and to this, and seems to tell who sat
      here yesterday, and who there the day before.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of the riders in the tumbrils, some observe these things, and all things
      on their last roadside, with an impassive stare; others, with a lingering
      interest in the ways of life and men. Some, seated with drooping heads,
      are sunk in silent despair; again, there are some so heedful of their
      looks that they cast upon the multitude such glances as they have seen in
      theatres, and in pictures. Several close their eyes, and think, or try to
      get their straying thoughts together. Only one, and he a miserable
      creature, of a crazed aspect, is so shattered and made drunk by horror,
      that he sings, and tries to dance. Not one of the whole number appeals by
      look or gesture, to the pity of the people.
    </p>
    <p>
      There is a guard of sundry horsemen riding abreast of the tumbrils, and
      faces are often turned up to some of them, and they are asked some
      question. It would seem to be always the same question, for, it is always
      followed by a press of people towards the third cart. The horsemen abreast
      of that cart, frequently point out one man in it with their swords. The
      leading curiosity is, to know which is he; he stands at the back of the
      tumbril with his head bent down, to converse with a mere girl who sits on
      the side of the cart, and holds his hand. He has no curiosity or care for
      the scene about him, and always speaks to the girl. Here and there in the
      long street of St. Honore, cries are raised against him. If they move him
      at all, it is only to a quiet smile, as he shakes his hair a little more
      loosely about his face. He cannot easily touch his face, his arms being
      bound.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the steps of a church, awaiting the coming-up of the tumbrils, stands
      the Spy and prison-sheep. He looks into the first of them: not there. He
      looks into the second: not there. He already asks himself, &ldquo;Has he
      sacrificed me?&rdquo; when his face clears, as he looks into the third.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Which is Evrémonde?&rdquo; says a man behind him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That. At the back there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;With his hand in the girl&rsquo;s?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The man cries, &ldquo;Down, Evrémonde! To the Guillotine all aristocrats! Down,
      Evrémonde!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hush, hush!&rdquo; the Spy entreats him, timidly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And why not, citizen?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is going to pay the forfeit: it will be paid in five minutes more. Let
      him be at peace.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But the man continuing to exclaim, &ldquo;Down, Evrémonde!&rdquo; the face of
      Evrémonde is for a moment turned towards him. Evrémonde then sees the Spy,
      and looks attentively at him, and goes his way.
    </p>
    <p>
      The clocks are on the stroke of three, and the furrow ploughed among the
      populace is turning round, to come on into the place of execution, and
      end. The ridges thrown to this side and to that, now crumble in and close
      behind the last plough as it passes on, for all are following to the
      Guillotine. In front of it, seated in chairs, as in a garden of public
      diversion, are a number of women, busily knitting. On one of the fore-most
      chairs, stands The Vengeance, looking about for her friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thérèse!&rdquo; she cries, in her shrill tones. &ldquo;Who has seen her? Thérèse
      Defarge!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She never missed before,&rdquo; says a knitting-woman of the sisterhood.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; nor will she miss now,&rdquo; cries The Vengeance, petulantly. &ldquo;Thérèse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Louder,&rdquo; the woman recommends.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ay! Louder, Vengeance, much louder, and still she will scarcely hear thee.
      Louder yet, Vengeance, with a little oath or so added, and yet it will
      hardly bring her. Send other women up and down to seek her, lingering
      somewhere; and yet, although the messengers have done dread deeds, it is
      questionable whether of their own wills they will go far enough to find
      her!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bad Fortune!&rdquo; cries The Vengeance, stamping her foot in the chair, &ldquo;and
      here are the tumbrils! And Evrémonde will be despatched in a wink, and she
      not here! See her knitting in my hand, and her empty chair ready for her.
      I cry with vexation and disappointment!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As The Vengeance descends from her elevation to do it, the tumbrils begin
      to discharge their loads. The ministers of Sainte Guillotine are robed and
      ready. Crash!&mdash;A head is held up, and the knitting-women who scarcely
      lifted their eyes to look at it a moment ago when it could think and
      speak, count One.
    </p>
    <p>
      The second tumbril empties and moves on; the third comes up. Crash!&mdash;And
      the knitting-women, never faltering or pausing in their Work, count Two.
    </p>
    <p>
      The supposed Evrémonde descends, and the seamstress is lifted out next
      after him. He has not relinquished her patient hand in getting out, but
      still holds it as he promised. He gently places her with her back to the
      crashing engine that constantly whirrs up and falls, and she looks into
      his face and thanks him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But for you, dear stranger, I should not be so composed, for I am
      naturally a poor little thing, faint of heart; nor should I have been able
      to raise my thoughts to Him who was put to death, that we might have hope
      and comfort here to-day. I think you were sent to me by Heaven.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Or you to me,&rdquo; says Sydney Carton. &ldquo;Keep your eyes upon me, dear child,
      and mind no other object.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I mind nothing while I hold your hand. I shall mind nothing when I let it
      go, if they are rapid.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They will be rapid. Fear not!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The two stand in the fast-thinning throng of victims, but they speak as if
      they were alone. Eye to eye, voice to voice, hand to hand, heart to heart,
      these two children of the Universal Mother, else so wide apart and
      differing, have come together on the dark highway, to repair home
      together, and to rest in her bosom.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Brave and generous friend, will you let me ask you one last question? I
      am very ignorant, and it troubles me&mdash;just a little.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell me what it is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have a cousin, an only relative and an orphan, like myself, whom I love
      very dearly. She is five years younger than I, and she lives in a farmer&rsquo;s
      house in the south country. Poverty parted us, and she knows nothing of my
      fate&mdash;for I cannot write&mdash;and if I could, how should I tell her!
      It is better as it is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes: better as it is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What I have been thinking as we came along, and what I am still thinking
      now, as I look into your kind strong face which gives me so much support,
      is this:&mdash;If the Republic really does good to the poor, and they come
      to be less hungry, and in all ways to suffer less, she may live a long
      time: she may even live to be old.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What then, my gentle sister?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you think:&rdquo; the uncomplaining eyes in which there is so much
      endurance, fill with tears, and the lips part a little more and tremble:
      &ldquo;that it will seem long to me, while I wait for her in the better land
      where I trust both you and I will be mercifully sheltered?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It cannot be, my child; there is no Time there, and no trouble there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You comfort me so much! I am so ignorant. Am I to kiss you now? Is the
      moment come?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      She kisses his lips; he kisses hers; they solemnly bless each other. The
      spare hand does not tremble as he releases it; nothing worse than a sweet,
      bright constancy is in the patient face. She goes next before him&mdash;is
      gone; the knitting-women count Twenty-Two.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in
      me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and
      believeth in me shall never die.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The murmuring of many voices, the upturning of many faces, the pressing on
      of many footsteps in the outskirts of the crowd, so that it swells forward
      in a mass, like one great heave of water, all flashes away. Twenty-Three.
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      They said of him, about the city that night, that it was the peacefullest
      man&rsquo;s face ever beheld there. Many added that he looked sublime and
      prophetic.
    </p>
    <p>
      One of the most remarkable sufferers by the same axe&mdash;a woman&mdash;had
      asked at the foot of the same scaffold, not long before, to be allowed to
      write down the thoughts that were inspiring her. If he had given any
      utterance to his, and they were prophetic, they would have been these:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see Barsad, and Cly, Defarge, The Vengeance, the Juryman, the Judge,
      long ranks of the new oppressors who have risen on the destruction of the
      old, perishing by this retributive instrument, before it shall cease out
      of its present use. I see a beautiful city and a brilliant people rising
      from this abyss, and, in their struggles to be truly free, in their
      triumphs and defeats, through long years to come, I see the evil of this
      time and of the previous time of which this is the natural birth,
      gradually making expiation for itself and wearing out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see the lives for which I lay down my life, peaceful, useful,
      prosperous and happy, in that England which I shall see no more. I see Her
      with a child upon her bosom, who bears my name. I see her father, aged and
      bent, but otherwise restored, and faithful to all men in his healing
      office, and at peace. I see the good old man, so long their friend, in ten
      years&rsquo; time enriching them with all he has, and passing tranquilly to his
      reward.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the hearts of their
      descendants, generations hence. I see her, an old woman, weeping for me on
      the anniversary of this day. I see her and her husband, their course done,
      lying side by side in their last earthly bed, and I know that each was not
      more honoured and held sacred in the other&rsquo;s soul, than I was in the souls
      of both.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see that child who lay upon her bosom and who bore my name, a man
      winning his way up in that path of life which once was mine. I see him
      winning it so well, that my name is made illustrious there by the light of
      his. I see the blots I threw upon it, faded away. I see him, fore-most of
      just judges and honoured men, bringing a boy of my name, with a forehead
      that I know and golden hair, to this place&mdash;then fair to look upon,
      with not a trace of this day&rsquo;s disfigurement&mdash;and I hear him tell the
      child my story, with a tender and a faltering voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a
      far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.&rdquo;
     </p>

</div><!--end chapter-->

<div style='display:block;margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A TALE OF TWO CITIES ***</div>

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