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本周熱門小說

a tale of two cities(雙城記)

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ELECBOOK CLASSICS 
A TALE 
OF TWO 
CITIES 

Charles Dickens 



ELECBOOK CLASSICS


ebc0014. Charles Dickens: A Tale Of Two Cities


This file is free for individual use only. It must not be altered or resold.
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. The Electric Book Co 1998 

The Electric Book Company Ltd 

20 Cambridge Drive, London SE12 8AJ, UK 
+44 (0)181 488 3872 www.elecbook.com 


A TALE OF TWO
CITIES


Charles Dickens



 A Tale of Two Cities 

CONTENTS 

(Click on number to go to chapter) 

BOOK THE FIRST: RECALLED TO LIFE
Chapter I. THE PERIOD.....................................................................8
Chapter II. THE MAIL.......................................................................12
Chapter III. THE NIGHT SHADOWS ............................................20
Chapter IV. THE PREPARATION ..................................................26
Chapter V. THE WINE SHOP ..........................................................41
Chapter VI. THE SHOEMAKER......................................................56
BOOK THE SECOND: THE GOLDEN THREAD
Chapter VII. FIVE YEARS LATER.................................................71
Chapter VIII. A SIGHT......................................................................79
Chapter IX. A DISSAPOINTMENT................................................88
Chapter X. CONGRATULATORY .................................................106
Chapter XI. THE JACKAL..............................................................115
Chapter XII. HUNDREDS OF PEOPLE......................................123
Chapter XIII. MONSEIGNEUR IN TOWN..................................139
Chapter XIV. MONSEIGNEUR IN THE COUNTRY.................151
Chapter XV. THE GORGON』S HEAD...........................................158
Chapter XVI. TWO PROMISES.....................................................173
Chapter XVII. A COMPANION PICTURE ..................................184
Chapter XVIII. THE FELLOW OF DELICACY..........................189
Chapter XIX. THE FELLOW OF NO DELICACY......................198


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Chapter XX. THE HONEST TRADESMAN................................204
Chapter XXI. KNITTING................................................................218
Chapter XXII. STILL KNITTING.................................................233
Chapter XXIII. ONE NIGHT .........................................................247
Chapter XXIV. NINE DAYS...........................................................254
Chapter XXV. AN OPINION ..........................................................263
Chapter XXVI. A PLEA...................................................................273
Chapter XXVII. ECHOING FOOTSTEPS...................................278
Chapter XXVIII. THE SEA STILL RISES..................................293
Chapter XXIX. FIRE RISES..........................................................300
Chapter XXX. DRAWN TO THE LOADSTONE ROCK............310
BOOK THE THIRD: THE TRACK OF A STORM


Chapter XXXI. IN SECRET...........................................................326
Chapter XXXII. THE GRINDSTONE..........................................341
Chapter XXXIII. THE SHADOW..................................................350
Chapter XXXIV. CALM IN STORM.............................................357
Chapter XXXV. THE WOOD-SAWYER.......................................364
Chapter XXXVI. TRIUMPH...........................................................372
Chapter XXXVII. A KNOCK AT THE DOOR.............................381
Chapter XXXVIII. A HAND AT CARDS .....................................388
Chapter XXXIX. THE GAME MADE...........................................405
Chapter XL. THE SUBSTANCE OF THE SHADOW ................421
Chapter XLI. DUSK.........................................................................440


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Chapter XLII. DARKNESS ............................................................445
Chapter XLIII. FIFTY-TWO ..........................................................456
Chapter XLIV. THE KNITTING DONE.......................................472
Chapter XLV. THE FOOTSTEPS DIE OUT FOR EVER..........488


Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics 


 A Tale of Two Cities 

BOOK THE FIRST


RECALLED TO
LIFE


Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics 


 A Tale of Two Cities 

Chapter I 

THE PERIOD 

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—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. 

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. 

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 

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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. 

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 

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to be atheistical and traitorous. 

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』 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 「the Captain,」 
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, 「in consequence of the 
failure of his ammunition」: 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』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 

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Westminster Hall; today, taking the life of an atrocious murderer, 
and tomorrow of a wretched pilferer who had robbed a farmer』s 
boy of sixpence. 

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 there 
Greatnesses, and myriads of small creatures—the creatures of this 
chronicle among the rest—along the roads that lay before them. 

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Chapter II 

THE MAIL 

It 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』s Hill. He walked uphill 
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. 

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 「Wo-ho! so-ho then!」 the near leader violently shook his 
head and everything upon it—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. 

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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. 

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 
「the Captain』s」 pay, ranging from the landlord to the lowest stable 
nondescript, 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』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. 

The Dover mail was in its usual genial position that the guard 

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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. 

「Wo-ho!」 said the coachman. 「So, then! One more pull and 
you』re at the top and be damned to you, for I have had trouble 
enough to get you to it!—Joe!」 

「Halloa!」 the guard replied. 

「What o』clock do you make it, Joe?」 

「Ten minutes, good, past eleven.」 

「My blood!」 ejaculated the vexed coachman, 「and not atop of 
Shooter』s yet! Tst! Yah! Get on with you!」 

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. 

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. 

「Tst! Joe!」 cried the coachman in a warning voice, looking 
down from his box. 

「What do you say, Tom?」 

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They both listened. 

「I say a horse at a canter coming up, Joe.」 

「I say a horse at a gallop, Tom,」 returned the guard, leaving his 
hold of the door, and mounting nimbly to his place. 「Gentlemen! 
In the King』s name, all of you!」 

With this hurried adjuration, he cocked his blunderbuss, and 
stood on the offensive. 

The passenger booked by this history, was on the coachstep, 
getting in; the other two passengers were close behind him, and 
about to follow. He remained on the step, half in the coach and 
half out of it; 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. 

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. 

The sound of a horse at a gallop came fast and furiously up the 
hill. 

「So-ho!」 the guard sang out, as loud as he could roar. 「Yo 
there! Stand! I shall fire!」 

The pace was suddenly checked, and, with much splashing and 
floundering, a man』s voice called from the mist, 「Is that the Dover 

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mail?」 

「Never you mind what it is,」 the guard retorted. 「What are 
you?」 

「Is that the Dover mail?」 

「Why do you want to know?」 

「I want a passenger, if it is.」 

「What passenger?」 

「Mr. Jarvis Lorry.」 

Our booked passenger showed in a moment that it was his 
name. The guard, the coachman, and the two other passengers 
eyed him distrustfully. 

「Keep where you are,」 the guard called to the voice in the mist, 
「because, if I should make a mistake, it could never be set right in 
your lifetime. Gentleman of the name of Lorry answer straight.」 

「What is the matter?」 asked the passenger, then, with mildly 
quavering speech. 「Who wants me? Is it Jerry?」 

(「I don』t like Jerry』s voice, if it is Jerry,」 growled the guard to 
himself. 「He』s hoarser than suits me, is Jerry.」) 

「Yes, Mr. Lorry.」 

「What is the matter?」 

「A despatch sent after you from over yonder. T. and Co.」 

「I know this messenger, guard,」 said Mr. Lorry, getting down 
into the road, 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. 「He may come 
close; there』s nothing wrong.」 

「I hope there ain』t, but can』t make so 』Nation sure of that,」 said 
the guard, in gruff soliloquy. 「Hallo you!」 

「Well! And hallo you!」 said Jerry, more hoarsely than before. 

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「Come on at a footpace! d』ye mind me? And if you』ve got 
holsters to that saddle o』 yourn, don』t let me see your hands go 
nigh 』em. For I』m a devil at a quick mistake, and when I make one 
it takes the form of Lead. So now let』s look at you.」 

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 stopped, and, casting up his eyes at the 
guard, handed the passenger a small folded paper. The rider』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. 

「Guard!」 said the passenger, in a tone of quiet business 
confidence. 

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, 「Sir.」 

「There is nothing to apprehend. I belong to Tellson』s Bank. 
You must know Tellson』s Bank in London. I am going to Paris on 
business. A crown to drink. I may read this?」 

「If so be as you』re quick, sir.」 

He opened it in the light of the coach-lamp on that side, and 
read—first to himself and then aloud: 「『Wait at Dover for 
Mam』selle.』 It』s not long, you see, guard. Jerry, say that my answer 
was, RECALLED TO LIFE.」 

Jerry started in his saddle. 「That』s a Blazing strange answer, 
too,」 said he, at his hoarsest. 

「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.」 

With those words the passenger opened the coach-door and got 
in; not at all assisted by his fellow-passengers, who had 

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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. 

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』s tools, a couple of torches, and a 
tinderbox. 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. 

「Tom!」 softly over the coach-roof. 

「Hallo, Joe.」 

「Did you hear the message?」 

「I did, Joe.」 

「What did you make of it, Tom?」 

「Nothing at all, Joe.」 

「That』s a coincidence, too,」 the guard mused, 「for I made the 
same of it myself.」 

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, 

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he turned to walk down the hill. 

「After that there gallop from Temple Bar, old lady, I won』t trust 
your forelegs till I get you on the level,」 said this hoarse 
messenger, glancing at his mare. 「『Recalled to life.』 That』s a 
Blazing strange message. Much of that wouldn』t do for you, Jerry! 
I say, Jerry! You』d be in a Blazing bad way, if recalling to life was 
to come into fashion, Jerry!」 

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 Chapter III 

THE NIGHT SHADOWS 

Awonderful 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 breathing 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 mind to my life』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? 
As to this, his natural and not to be alienated inheritance, the 

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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. 

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—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』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. 

「No, Jerry, no!」 said the messenger, harping on one theme as 
he rode. 「It wouldn』t do for you, Jerry. Jerry, you honest 
tradesman, it wouldn』t suit your line of business! Recalled—! Bust 
me if I don』t think he』d been a drinking!」 

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』s work, so much more like the top 

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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. 

While he trotted back with the message he was to deliver to the 
night watchman in his box at the door of Tellson』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 her 
private topics of uneasiness. They seemed to be numerous, for she 
shied at every shadow on the road. 

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. 

Tellson』s Bank had a run upon it in the mail. As the bank 
passenger—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—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』s, with all its foreign and home 
connexion, ever paid in thrice the time. Then the strong-rooms 
underground, at Tellson』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 

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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. 

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. 

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: 

「Buried how long?」 

The answer was always the same: 「Almost eighteen years.」 

「You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?」 

「Long ago.」 

「You know that you are recalled to life?」 

「They tell me so.」 

「I hope you care to live?」 

「I can』t say.」 

「Shall I show her to you? Will you come and see her?」 

The answers to this question were various and contradictory. 

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Sometimes the broken reply was. 「Wait! It would kill me if I saw 
her too soon.」 Sometimes, it was given in a tender rain of tears, 
and then it was, 「Take me to her.」 Sometimes it was staring and 
bewildered, and then it was, 「I don』t know her. I don』t 
understand.」 

After such imaginary discourse, the passenger in his fancy 
would dig, and dig, dig—now, with a spade, now with a great key, 
now with his hands—to dig this wretched creature out. Got out at 
last, with earth hanging about his face and hair, he would 
suddenly fall 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. 

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. 

「Buried how long?」 

「Almost eighteen years.」 

「I hope you care to live?」 

「I can』t say.」 

Dig—dig—dig—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. 

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「Buried how long?」 

「Almost eighteen years.」 

「You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?」 

「Long ago.」 

The words were still in his hearing as just spoken—distinctly in 
his hearing as ever spoken words had been in his life—when the 
weary passenger started to the consciousness of daylight, and 
found that the shadows of the night were gone. 

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. 

「Eighteen years!」 said the passenger, looking at the sun. 
「Gracious Creator of day! To be buried alive for eighteen years!」 

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Chapter IV 

THE PREPARATION 

W 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. 

By that time, there was only one adventurous traveller left to 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. 

「There will be a packet to Calais, tomorrow, drawer?」 

「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?」 

「I shall not go to bed till night; but I want a bedroom, and a 
barber.」 

「And then breakfast, sir? Yes, sir, That way, sir, if you please. 
Show Concord! Gentleman』s valise and hot water to Concord. Pull 
off gentleman』s boots in Concord. (You will find a fine sea-coal fire, 
sir.) Fetch barber to Concord. Stir about there, now, for Concord!」 

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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. 

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. 

Very orderly and methodical he looked, with a hand on each 
knee, and a loud watch ticking a sonorous sermon under his 
flapped waistcoat, 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 

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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』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』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, 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: 

「I wish accommodation prepared for a young lady who may 
come here at any time today. She may ask for Mr. Jarvis Lorry, or 
she may only ask for a gentleman from Tellson』s Bank. Please to 
let me know.」 

「Yes, sir. Tellson』s Bank in London, sir?」 

「Yes.」 

「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』s House.」 

「Yes. We are quite a French House, as well as an English one.」 

「Yes, sir. Not much in the habit of such travelling yourself, I 
think, sir?」 

「Not of late years. It is fifteen years since we—since I—came 
last from France.」 

「Indeed, sir? That was before my time here, sir. Before our 
people』s time here, sir. The George was in other hands at that 

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time, sir.」 

「I believe so.」 

「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?」 

「You might treble that, and say a hundred and fifty, yet not be 
far from the truth.」 

「Indeed, sir!」 

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, dropping 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. 

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 into 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. 

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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』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. 

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. 

He set down his glass untouched. 「This is Mam』selle!」 he said. 

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』s. 

「So soon?」 

Miss Manette had taken some refreshment on the road, and 
required none then, and was extremely anxious to see the 
gentleman from Tellson』s immediately, if it suited his pleasure and 
convenience. 

The gentleman from Tellson』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』s 
apartment. It was a large, dark room, furnished in a funereal 
manner with black horsehair, and loaded with heavy dark tables. 

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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 they were buried, in deep graves of black mahogany, and 
no light to speak of could be expected from them until they were 
dug out. 

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 lifting 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—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—and he made his formal bow to 
Miss Manette. 

「Pray take a seat, sir.」 In a very clear and pleasant young voice; 
a little foreign in its accent, but a very little indeed. 

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「I kiss your hand, miss,」 said Mr. Lorry, with the manners of an 
earlier date, as he made his formal bow again, and took his seat. 

「I received a letter from the Bank, sir, yesterday, informing me 
that some intelligence—or discovery—」 

「The word is not material, miss; either word will do.」 

「—respecting the small property of my poor father, whom I 
never saw—so long dead—」 Mr. Lorry moved in his chair, and 
cast a troubled look towards the hospital procession of Negro 
cupids. As if they had any help for anybody in their absurd 
baskets! 

「—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.」 

「Myself.」 

「As I was prepared to hear, sir.」 

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. 

「I replied to the Bank, sir, that as it was considered necessary, 
by those who knew, 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』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.」 

「I was happy,」 said Mr. Lorry, 「to be entrusted with the charge. 
I shall be more happy to execute it.」 

「Sir, I thank you indeed. I thank you very gratefully. It was told 

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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.」 

「Naturally,」 said Mr. Lorry. 「Yes—I—」 After a pause, he 
added, again settling the crisp flaxen wig at the ears. 

「It is very difficult to begin.」 

He did not begin, but, in his indecision, met her glance. The 
young forehead lifted itself into that singular expression—but it 
was pretty and characteristic, besides being singular—and she 
raised her hand, as if with an involuntary action she caught at, or 
stayed some passing shadow. 

「Are you quite a stranger to me, sir?」 

「Am I not?」 Mr. Lorry opened his hands, and extended them 
outwards with an argumentative smile. 

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: 

「In your adopted country, I presume, I cannot do better than 
address you as a young English lady, Miss Manette?」 

「If you please, sir.」 

「Miss Manette, I am a man of business. I have a business 
charge to acquit myself of. In your reception of it, don』t heed me 
any more than if I was a speaking machine—truly, I am not much 
else. I will, with your leave, relate to you, miss, the story of one of 

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our customers.」 

「Story!」 

He seemed wilfully to mistake the word she had repeated, when 
he added, in a hurry, 「Yes, customers; in the banking business we 
usually call our connexion our customers. He was a French 
gentleman; a scientific gentleman; a man of great acquirements—a 
Doctor.」 

「Not of Beauvais?」 

「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—oh! twenty years.」 

「At that time—I may ask, at what time, sir?」 

「I speak, miss, of twenty years ago. He married—an English 
lady—and I was one of the trustees. His affairs, like the affairs of 
many other French gentlemen and French families, were entirely 
in Tellson』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—」 

「But this is my father』s story, sir; and I begin to think」—the 
curiously roughened forehead was very intent upon him—「that 
when I was left an orphan through my mother』s surviving my 
father only two years, it was you who brought me to England. I am 

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almost sure it was you.」 

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 
hand 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. 

「Miss Manette, it was 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』s House since, and I have been 
busy with the other business of Tellson』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.」 

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. 

「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—Don』t be frightened! How you start!」 

She did, indeed, start. And she caught his wrist with both her 
hands. 

「Pray,」 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: 「pray control your 
agitation—a matter of business. As I was saying—」 Her look so 

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discomposed him that he stopped, wandered, and began anew: 

「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 of 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;—then the 
history of your father would have been the history of this 
unfortunate gentleman, the Doctor of Beauvais.」 

「I entreat you to tell me more, sir.」 

「I will. I am going to. You can bear it?」 

「I can bear anything but the uncertainty you leave me in at this 
moment.」 

「You speak collectedly, and you—are collected. That』s good!」 
(Though his manner was less satisfied than his words.) 「A matter 
of business. Regard it as a matter of business—business that must 
be done. Now if this doctor』s wife, though a lady of great courage 
and spirit, had suffered so intensely from this cause before her 
little child was born—」 

「The little child was a daughter, sir.」 

「A daughter. A—a—matter of business—don』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— 

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No, don』t kneel! In Heaven』s name why should you kneel to me!」 

「For the truth. O dear, good, compassionate sir, for the truth!」 

「A—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.」 

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. 

「That』s right, that』s right. Courage! Business! You have 
business before you; useful business. Miss Manette, your mother 
took this course with you. And when she died—I believe brokenhearted—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.」 

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. 

「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—」 
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. 

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「But he has been—been found. He is alive. Greatly changed, it 
is too probable; almost a wreck, it is possible; though we will hope 
for 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.」 

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, 「I am going to see his Ghost! It will be his Ghost—not 
him!」 

Mr. Lorry quietly chafed the hands that held his arm. 「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.」 

She repeated in the same tone, sunk to a whisper, 「I have been 
free, I have been happy, yet his Ghost has never haunted me!」 

「Only one thing more,」 said Mr. Lorry, laying stress upon it as a 
wholesome means of enforcing her attention: 「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—for a while at all events—out of France. Even I, safe as an 
Englishman, and even Tellson』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 

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comprehended in the one line, 『Recalled to Life』; which may mean 
anything. But what is the matter! She doesn』t notice a word! Miss 
Manette!」 

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. 

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. 

(「I really think this must be a man!」 was Mr. Lorry』s breathless 
reflection, simultaneously with his coming against the wall.) 

「Why, look at you all!」 bawled this figure, addressing the inn 
servants. 「Why don』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』t 
you go and fetch things? I』ll let you know, if you don』t bring 
smelling-salts, cold water, and vinegar, quick, I will.」 

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 「my precious!」 and 「my bird!」 and 
spreading her golden hair aside over her shoulders with great 

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pride and care. 

「And you in brown!」 she said, indignantly turning to Mr. Lorry; 
「couldn』t you tell her what you had to tell her, without frightening 
her to death? Look at her, with her pale face and her cold hands. 
Do you call that being a Banker?」 

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 
「letting them know」 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. 

「I hope she will do well now,」 said Mr. Lorry. 

「No thanks to you in brown, if she does. My darling pretty!」 

「I hope,」 said Mr. Lorry, after another pause of feeble 
sympathy and humility, 「that you accompany Miss Manette to 
France?」 

「A likely thing, too!」 replied the strong woman. 「If it was ever 
intended that I should go across salt water, do you suppose 
Providence would have cast my lot in an island?」 

This being another question hard to answer, Mr. Jarvis Lorry 
withdrew to consider it. 

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Chapter V 

THE WINE SHOP 

Alarge 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. 

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 damned 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』s heads, which were squeezed dry into infants』 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 

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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. 

A shrill sound of laughter and of amused voices—voices of men, 
women, and children—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, and 
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 woman 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. 

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 

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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 night-cap than in it, 
scrawled upon a wall with his fingers dipped in muddy wine-lees— 
BLOOD. 

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. 

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—cold, dirt, sickness, ignorance, and 
want, were the lords in waiting on the saintly presence—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 sign, 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, or anything to eat. Hunger was the inscription 

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on the baker』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 atomies in every farthing porringer of husky chips of 
potato, fried with some reluctant drops of oil. 

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; or 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』s knives and axes were sharp and bright, the 
smith』s hammers were heavy, and the gunmaker』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—when it ran at all: which was only after heavy 

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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. 

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. 

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. 「It』s not my affair,」 said he, 
with a final shrug of the shoulders. 「The people from the market 
did it. Let them bring another.」 

There, his eyes happening to catch the tall joker writing up his 
joke, he called to him across the way: 

「Say, then, my Gaspard, what do you do there?」 

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. 

「What now? Are you a subject for the mad hospital?」 said the 
wine-shop keeper, crossing the road, and obliterating the jest with 

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a handful of mud, picked up for the purpose, and smeared over it. 
「Why do you write in the public streets? Is there—tell me thou—is 
there no other place to write such words in?」 

In his expostulation he dropped his cleaner hand (perhaps 
accidentally, perhaps not) upon the joker』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. 

「Put it on, put it on,」 said the other. 「Call wine, wine; and finish 
there.」 With that advice, he wiped his soiled hand upon the joker』s 
dress, such as it was—quite deliberately, as having dirtied the 
hand on his account; and then re-crossed the road and entered the 
wine-shop. 

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. 

Madame Defarge, his wife, sat in the shop behind the counter 
as he came in. Madame Defarge was a stout woman of about his 

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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 predicted 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 ear-rings. 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. 

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, 「This is our man.」 

「What the devil do you do in that galley there?」 said Monsieur 
Defarge to himself; 「I don』t know you.」 

But, he feigned not to notice the two strangers, and fell into 
discourse with the triumvirate of customers who were drinking at 
the counter. 

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「How goes it, Jacques?」 said one of these three to Monsieur 
Defarge. 「Is all the spilt wine swallowed?」 

「Every drop, Jacques,」 answered Monsieur Defarge. 

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. 

「It is not often,」 said the second of the three, addressing 
Monsieur Defarge, 「that many of these miserable beasts know the 
taste of wine, or of anything but black bread and death. Is it not so, 
Jacques?」 

「It is so, Jacques,」 Monsieur Defarge returned. 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. 

The last of the three now said his say, as he put down his empty 
drinking vessel and smacked his lips. 

「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?」 

「You are right, Jacques,」 was the response of Monsieur 
Defarge. 

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. 

「Hold then! True!」 muttered her husband. 「Gentlemen—my 
wife!」 

The three customers pulled off their hats to Madame Defarge, 
with three flourishes. She acknowledged their homage by bending 

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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. 

「Gentlemen,」 said her husband, who had kept his bright eye 
observantly upon her, 「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,」 
pointing with his hand, 「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!」 

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. 

「Willingly, sir,」 said Monsieur Defarge, and quietly stepped 
with him to the door. 

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. 

Mr. Jarvis Lorry and Miss Manette, emerging from the wine-
shop thus, joined Monsieur Defarge in the doorway to which he 
had directed his other 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 

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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. 

「It is very high; it is a little difficult. Better to begin slowly.」 
Thus, Monsieur Defarge, in a stern voice, to Mr. Lorry, as they 
began ascending the stairs. 

「Is he alone?」 the latter whispered. 

「Alone! God help him, who should be with him!」 said the other, 
in the same low voice. 

「Is he always alone, then?」 

「Yes.」 

「Of his own desire?」 

「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—as he was then, so he is now.」 

「He is greatly changed?」 

「Changed!」 

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』s spirits grew heavier and 
heavier, as he and his two companions ascended higher and 
higher. 

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. 

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Every little habitation within the great foul nest of one high 
building—that is to say, the room or rooms within every door that 
opened on the general staircase—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』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. 

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. 

「The door is locked then, my friend?」 said Mr. Lorry, surprised. 

「Ay. Yes,」 was the grim reply of Monsieur Defarge. 

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「You think it necessary to keep the unfortunate gentleman so 
retired?」 

「I think it necessary to turn the key.」 Monsieur Defarge 
whispered it closer in his ear, and frowned heavily. 

「Why?」 

「Why! Because he has lived so long, locked up, that he would 
be frightened—rave, tear himself to pieces—die—come to I know 
not what harm—if his door was left open.」 

「Is it possible?」 exclaimed Mr. Lorry. 

「Is it possible!」 repeated Defarge, bitterly. 「Yes. And a 
beautiful world we live in, when it is possible, and when many 
other such things are possible, and not only possible, but done— 
done, see you!—under that sky there, every day. Long live the 
Devil. Let us go on.」 

This dialogue had been held in so very low a whisper, that not a 
word of it had reached the young lady』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. 

「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』s well, friend Defarge. Come, now. Business, 
business!」 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, 

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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. 

「I forgot them in the surprise of your visit,」 explained Monsieur 
Defarge. 「Leave us, good boys; we have business here.」 

The three glided by, and went silently down. 

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: 

「Do you make a show of Monsieur Manette?」 

「I show him, in the way you have seen, to a chosen few.」 

「Is that well?」 

「I think it is well.」 

「Who are the few? How do you choose them?」 

「I choose them as real men, of my name—Jacques is my 
name—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.」 

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—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. 

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. 

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He looked back over his shoulder, and beckoned them to enter. 
Mr. Lorry got his arm securely round the daughter』s waist, and 
held her; for he felt that she was sinking. 

「A—a—a—business, business!」 he urged with a moisture that 
was not of business shining on his cheek. 「Come in, come in!」 

「I am afraid of it,」 she answered, shuddering. 

「Of it? What?」 

「I mean of him. Of my father.」 

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 set her down just within the door, and held her, 
clinging to him. 

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. 

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 

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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. 

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Chapter VI 

THE SHOEMAKER 

G ood day!」 said Monsieur Defarge, looking down at the 
white head that bent low over the shoemaking. 
It was raised for a moment, and a very faint voice 
responded to the salutation, as if it were at a distance: 「Good day!」 

「You are still hard at work, I see?」 

After a long silence, the head was lifted for another moment, 
and the voice replied, 「Yes—I am working.」 This time, a pair of 
haggard eyes had looked at the questioner, before the face had 
dropped again. 

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. 

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 

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only visitor they were aware of had stood, was not yet empty. 

「I want,」 said Defarge, who had not removed his gaze from the 
shoemaker, 「to let in a little more light here. You can bear a little 
more?」 

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. 

「What did you say?」 

「You can bear a little more light?」 

「I must bear it, if you let it in.」 (Laying the palest shadow of a 
stress upon the second word.) 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. 

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 

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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. 

「Are you going to finish that pair of shoes today?」 asked 
Defarge, motioning to Mr. Lorry to come forward. 

「What did you say?」 

「Do you mean to finish that pair of shoes today?」 

「I can』t say that I mean to. I suppose so. I don』t know.」 

But, the question reminded him of his work, and he bent over it 
again. 

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. 

「You have a visitor, you see,」 said Monsieur Defarge. 

「What did you say?」 

「Here is a visitor.」 

The shoemaker looked up as before, but without removing a 
hand from his work. 

「Come!」 said Defarge. 「Here is monsieur, who knows a well-
made shoe when he sees one. Show him that shoe you are working 
at. Take it, monsieur.」 

Mr. Lorry took it in his hand. 

「Tell monsieur what kind of shoe it is, and the maker』s name.」 

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There was a longer pause than usual, before the shoemaker 
replied: 「I forget what it was you asked me. What did you say?」 

「I said, couldn』t you describe the kind of shoe, for monsieur』s 
information?」 

「It is a lady』s shoe. It is a young lady』s walking-shoe. It is in the 
present mode. I never saw the mode. I have had a pattern in my 
hand.」 He glanced at the shoe with some little passing touch of 
pride. 

「And the maker』s name?」 said Defarge. 

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』s intermission. The task of recalling him from the vacancy 
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. 

「Did you ask me for my name?」 

「Assuredly I did.」 

「One Hundred and Five, North Tower.」 

「Is that all?」 

「One Hundred and Five, North Tower.」 

With a weary sound that was not a sigh, nor a groan, he bent to 
work again, until the silence was again broken. 

「You are not a shoemaker by trade?」 said Mr. Lorry, looking 
steadfastly at him. 

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 

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the ground. 

「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—」 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. 

「I asked leave to teach myself, and I got it with much difficulty 
after a long while, and I have made shoes ever since.」 

As he held out his hand for the shoe that had been taken from 
him, Mr. Lorry said, still looking steadfastly in his face: 

「Monsieur Manette, do you remember nothing of me?」 

The shoe dropped to the ground, and he sat looking fixedly at 
the questioner. 

「Monsieur Manette」; Mr. Lorry laid his hand upon Defarge』s 
arm; 「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?」 

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 

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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—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. 

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. 

「Have you recognised him, monsieur?」 asked Defarge in a 
whisper. 

「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!」 

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. 

Not a word was spoken, not a sound was made. She stood like a 
spirit, beside him, and he bent over his work. 

It happened, at length, that he had occasion to change the 
instrument in his hand, for his shoemaker』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. 

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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: 

「What is this?」 

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. 

「You are not the gaoler』s daughter?」 

She sighed 「No.」 

「Who are you?」 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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He took her hair into his hand again, and looked closely at it. 「It 
is the same. How can it be! When was it! How was it!」 

As the concentrating expression returned to his forehead, he 
seemed to become conscious that it was in her too. He turned her 
full to the light, and looked at her. 

「She had laid her head upon my shoulder, that night when I 
was summoned out—she had a fear of my going, though I had 
none—and when I was brought to the North Tower they found 
these upon my sleeve. 『You will leave me them? They can never 
help me to escape in the body, though they may in the spirit.』 
Those were the words I said. I remember them very well.」 

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. 

「How was this?—Was it you?」 

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, 「I entreat you, good gentlemen, do 
not come near us, do not speak, do not move!」 

「Hark」 he exclaimed. 「Whose voice was that?」 

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. 

「No, no, no; you are too young, too blooming. It can』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—and He was—before the slow years of the North Tower— 

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ages ago. What is your name, my gentle angel?」 

Hailing his softened tone and manner, his daughter fell upon 
her knees before him, with her appealing hands upon his breast. 

「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!」 

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. 

「If you hear in my voice—I don』t know that it is so, but I hope it 
is—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!」 

She held him closer round the neck, and rocked him on her 
breast like a child. 

「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 

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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!」 

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. 

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—emblem to humanity, of the rest and 
silence into which the storm called Life must hush at last—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. 

「If, without disturbing him,」 she said, raising her hand to Mr. 
Lorry as he stooped over them, after repeated blowings of his 
nose, 「all could be arranged for our leaving Paris at once, so that, 
from the very door, he could be taken away—」 

「But, consider. Is he fit for the journey?」 asked Mr. Lorry. 

「More fit for that, I think, than to remain in this city, so 
dreadful to him.」 

「It is true,」 said Defarge, who was kneeling to look on and hear. 
「More than that; Monsieur Manette is, for all reasons, best out of 

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France. Say, shall I hire a carriage and post-horses?」 

「That』s business,」 said Mr. Lorry, resuming on the shortest 
notice his methodical manners; 「and if business is to be done, I 
had better do it.」 

「Then be so kind,」 urged Miss Manette, 「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.」 

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 carriages 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. 

Then, as the darkness closed in, the daughter laid her head 
down on the hard ground close at her father』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. 

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 his provender, and the lamp he carried, on the shoemaker』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. 

No human intelligence could have read the mysteries of his 
mind, in the scared blank wonder of his face. Whether he knew 

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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』s voice, and 
invariably turned to it when she spoke. 

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』s drawing her arm 
through his, and took—and kept—her hand in both his own. 

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. 

「You remember the place, my father? You remember coming 
up here?」 

「What did you say?」 

But, before she could repeat the question, he murmured an 
answer as if she had repeated it. 

「Remember? No, I don』t remember. It was so very long ago.」 

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, 「One Hundred and Five, North Tower」; and 
when he looked about him, it evidently was for the strong fortress-
walls which had long encompassed him. On their reaching the 

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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』s 
hand and clasped his head again. 

No crowd was about the door; no people were discernible at 
any of the many windows; not even a chance passer-by was in the 
street. An unnatural silence and desertion reigned there. Only one 
soul was to be seen, and that was Madame Defarge—who leaned 
against the door-post, knitting, and saw nothing. 

The prisoner had got into a coach, and his daughter had 
followed him, when Mr. Lorry』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;—and immediately afterwards leaned against the 
door-post, knitting, and saw nothing. 

Defarge got upon the box, and gave the word 「To the Barrier!」 
The postilion cracked his whip, and they clattered away under the 
feeble over-swinging lamps. 

Under the over-swinging lamps—swinging ever brighter in the 
better streets, and ever dimmer in the worse—and by lighted 
shops, gay crowds, illuminated coffee-houses, and theatre-doors, 
to one of the city gates. Soldiers with lanterns, at the guardhouse 
there. 「Your papers, travellers!」 「See here then, Monsieur the 
Officer,」 said Defarge, getting down, and taking him gravely apart, 
「these are the papers of monsieur inside, with the white head. 
They were consigned to me, with him, at the—-」 He dropped his 
voice, there was a flutter among the military lanterns, and one of 

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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. 「It is well. Forward!」 from 
the uniform. 「Adieu!」 from Defarge. And so, under a short grove 
of feebler and feebler over-swinging lamps, out under the great 
grove of stars. 

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— 
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—the old inquiry: 

「I hope you care to be recalled to life?」 

And the old answer: 

「I can』t say.」 

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BOOK THE SECOND


THE GOLDEN
THREAD


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Chapter VII 

FIVE YEARS LATER 

T ellson』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』s (they said) wanted no 
elbow-room, Tellson』s wanted no light, Tellson』s wanted no 
embellishment. Noakes and Co.』s might, or Snooks Brothers』 
might; but Tellson』s, thank Heaven!— Any one of these partners 
would have disinherited his son on the question of rebuilding 
Tellson』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. 

Thus it had come to pass, that Tellson』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』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 

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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 「the 
House,」 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 
banknotes 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 upstairs 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. 

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』s. Death is Nature』s remedy for all things, and why not 
Legislation』s? Accordingly, the forger was put to Death; the 

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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』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—it might almost have been worth 
remarking that the fact was exactly the reverse—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』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. 

Cramped in all kinds of dim cupboards and hutches at 
Tellson』s, the oldest of men carried on the business gravely. When 
they took a young man into Tellson』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. 

Outside Tellson』s—never by any means in it, unless called in— 
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』s, in a stately way, 

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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 Houndsditch, he had received the added 
appellation of Jerry. 

The scene was Mr. Cruncher』s private lodging in Hanging-
sword Alley, Whitefriars: the time, half-past seven of the clock and 
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.) Mr. Cruncher』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 
a-bed 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. 

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: 

「Bust me, if she ain』t at it agin!」 

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. 

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「What!」 said Mr. Cruncher, looking out of bed for a boot. 
「You』re at it agin, are you?」 

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』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. 

「What,」 said Mr. Cruncher, varying his apostrophe after 
missing his mark—「what are you up to, Aggerawayter?」 

「I was only saying my prayers.」 

「Saying your prayers! You』re a nice woman! What do you mean 
by flopping yourself down and praying agin me?」 

「I was not praying against you; I was praying for you.」 

「You weren』t. And if you were, I won』t be took the liberty with. 
Here! your mother』s a nice woman, young Jerry, going a praying 
agin your father』s prosperity. You』ve got a dutiful mother, you 
have, my son. You』ve got a religious mother, you have, my boy: 
going and flopping herself down, and praying that the bread-andbutter may be snatched out of the mouth of her only child.」 

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. 

「And what do you suppose, you conceited female,」 said Mr. 
Cruncher, with unconscious inconsistency, 「that the worth of your 
prayers may be? Name the price that you put your prayers at!」 

「They only come from the heart, Jerry. They are worth no more 
than that.」 

「Worth no more than that,」 repeated Mr. Cruncher. 「They ain』t 

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worth much, then. Whether or no, I won』t be prayed agin, I tell 
you. I can』t afford it. I』m not a going to be made unlucky by your 
sneaking. If you must go flopping yourself down, flop in favour of 
your husband and child, and not in opposition to 』em. If I had had 
any but a unnat』ral wife, and this poor boy had had any but a 
unnat』ral mother, I might have made some money last week 
instead of being counterprayed and countermined and religiously 
circumwented into the worst of luck. B-u-u-ust me!」 said Mr. 
Cruncher, who all this time had been putting on his clothes, 「if I 
ain』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 an eye upon your mother now 
and then, and if you see any signs of more flopping, give me a call. 
For, I tell you,」 here he addressed his wife once more, 「I won』t be 
gone agin, in this matter. I am as rickety as a hackney-coach, I』m 
as sleepy as laudanum, my lines is strained to that degree that I 
shouldn』t know, if it wasn』t for the pain in 』em, which was me and 
which somebody else, yet I』m none the better for it in pocket; and 
it』s my suspicion that you』ve been at it from morning to night to 
prevent me from being the better for it in pocket, and I won』t put 
up with it, Aggerawayter, and what do you say now!」 

Growling, in addition, such phrases as 「Ah! yes! You』re 
religious, too. You wouldn』t put yourself in opposition to the 
interests of your husband and child, would you? Not you!」 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 

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eyes stood close by one another, as his father』s did, kept the 
required watch upon his mother. He greatly disturbed the poor 
woman at intervals, by darting out of his sleeping closet, where he 
made his toilet, with a suppressed cry of 「You are going to flop, 
mother.—Halloa, father!」 and, after raising this fictitious alarm, 
darting in again with an undutiful grin. 

Mr. Cruncher』s temper was not at all improved when he came 
to his breakfast. He resented Mrs. Cruncher』s saying grace with 
particular animosity. 

「Now, Aggerawayter! What are you up to? At it agin?」 

His wife explained that she had merely 「asked a blessing.」 

「Don』t do it!」 said Mr. Cruncher, looking about, as if he rather 
expected to see the loaf disappear under the efficacy of his wife』s 
petitions. 「I ain』t a going to be blest out of house and home. I won』t 
have my wittles blest off my table. Keep still!」 

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』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. 

It could scarcely be called a trade, in spite of his favourite 
description of himself as 「a honest tradesman.」 His stock 
consisted of a wooden stool, made out of a broken-backed chair 
cut down, which stool, young Jerry, walking at his father』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 

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keep the cold and wet from the odd-job-man』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,—and 
was almost as ill-looking. 

Encamped at a quarter before nine, in good time to touch his 
three-cornered hat to the oldest of the men as they passed in to 
Tellson』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. The head of one of the regular 
indoor messengers attached to Tellson』s establishment was put 
through the door, and the word was given: 

「Porter wanted!」 

「Hooray, father! Here』s an early job to begin with!」 

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. 

「Always rusty! His fingers is always rusty!」 muttered young 
Jerry. 「Where does my father get all that iron rust from? He don』t 
get no iron rust here!」 

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Chapter VIII 

A SIGHT 

「Y ou know the Old Bailey well, no doubt?」 said one of 
the oldest of clerks to Jerry the messenger. 
「Ye-es, sir,」 returned Jerry, in something of a 
dogged manner. 「I do know the Bailey.」 

「Just so. And you know Mr. Lorry.」 

「I know Mr. Lorry, sir, much better than I know the Bailey. 
Much better,」 said Jerry, not unlike a reluctant witness at the 
establishment in question, 「than I, as a honest tradesman, wish to 
know the Bailey.」 

「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.」 

「Into the court, sir?」 

「Into the court.」 

Mr. Cruncher』s eyes seemed to get a little closer to one another, 
and to interchange the inquiry, 「What do you think of this?」 

「Am I to wait in the court, sir?」 he asked, as the result of that 
conference. 

「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』s attention, and show him where you stand. Then what you 
have to do is, to remain there until he wants you.」 

「Is that all, sir?」 

「That is all. He wishes to have a messenger at hand. This is to 
tell him you are there.」 

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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: 

「I suppose they』ll be trying Forgeries this morning?」 

「Treason!」 

「That』s quartering,」 said Jerry. 「Barbarous!」 

「It is the law,」 remarked the ancient clerk, turning his 
surprised spectacles upon him. 「It is the law.」 

「It』s hard in the law to spile a man, I think. It』s hard enough to 
kill him, but it』s werry hard to spile him, sir.」 

「Not at all,」 returned the ancient clerk. 「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.」 

「It』s the damp, sir, what settles on my chest and voice,」 said 
Jerry. 「I leave you to judge what a damp way of earning a living 
mine is.」 

「Well, well,」 said the old clerk; 「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.」 

Jerry took the letter, and, remarking to himself with less 
internal deference than he made an outward show of, 「You are a 
lean old one, too,」 made his bow, informed his son, in passing, of 
his destination, and went his way. 

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, 

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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』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 「Whatever is, is right」; 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. 

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—only the former entertainment was 
much the dearer. Therefore, all the Old Bailey doors were well 
guarded—except, indeed, the social doors by which the criminals 
got there, and those were always left wide open. 

After some delay and demur, the door grudgingly turned on its 

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hinges a very little way, and allowed Mr. Jerry Cruncher to 
squeeze himself into court. 

「What』s on?」 he asked, in a whisper, of the man he found 
himself next to. 

「Nothing yet.」 

「What』s coming on?」 

「The Treason case.」 

「The quartering one, eh?」 

「Ah!」 returned the man, with a relish; 「he』ll be drawn on a 
hurdle to be half hanged, and then he』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』ll be cut into quarters. That』s the sentence.」 

「If he』s found Guilty, you mean to say?」 Jerry added, by way of 
proviso. 

「Oh! they』ll find him guilty,」 said the other. 「Don』t you be 
afraid of that.」 

Mr. Cruncher』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』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. 

「What』s he got to do with the case?」 asked the man he had 

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spoken with. 

「Blest if I know,」 said Jerry. 

「What have you got to do with it, then, if a person may 
inquire?」 

「Blest if I know that either,」 said Jerry. 

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. 

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』s cost, to a view of 
him, 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. 

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 

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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. 

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—had there been a chance of 
any one of its savage details being spared—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. 

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 eviladverbiously, revealing to the said French Lewis what forces our 
said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, had in preparation 

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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. 

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. 

Over the prisoner』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』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』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. 

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 

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sat, in that corner of the Judge』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. 

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—as it was now, in a moment, 
on his speaking to his daughter—he became a handsome man, not 
past the prime of life. 

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, 「Who are 
they?」 

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: 

「Witnesses.」 

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「For which side?」 

「Against.」 

「Against what side?」 

「The prisoner』s.」 

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. 

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Chapter IX 

A DISSAPOINTMENT 

Mr. 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 today, 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 re-passing 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』s schemes, and, struck with horror, to disclose them 
to his Majesty』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』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 
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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』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』s servant, and had engendered in him a holy 
determination to examine his master』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』s) brothers and sisters, and honoured him more 
than his (Mr. Attorney-General』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』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』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 

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a loyal jury (as he knew they were), and being a responsible jury 
(as they 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 could never 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』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. 

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. 

Mr. Solicitor-General then, following his leader』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—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. 

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』t precisely remember where it was. What was 

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it? No business of anybody』s. Had he inherited it? Yes, he had. 
From whom? Distant relatives. Very distant? Rather. Ever been in 
prison? Certainly not. Never in a debtor』s prison? Didn』t see what 
that had to do with it. Never in a debtor』s prison?—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 the 
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 again. No motives 
but motives of sheer patriotism? None whatever. 

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—never thought of 
such a thing. He began to have suspicions of the prisoner, and to 

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keep an eye upon him, soon afterwards. In arranging his clothes, 
while travelling, he had seen similar lists in the prisoner』s pockets, 
over and over again. He had taken these lists from the drawer of 
the prisoner』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』t bear it, and had 
given information. He had never been suspected of stealing a 
silver teapot; 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』t call it a particularly curious coincidence; most coincidences 
were curious. Neither did he call it a curious coincidence that true 
patriotism was his only motive too. He was a true Briton, and 
hoped there were many like him. 

The blue-flies buzzed again, and Mr. Attorney-General called 
Mr. Jarvis Lorry. 

「Mr. Jarvis Lorry, are you a clerk in Tellson』s Bank? 

「I am.」 

「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?」 

「It did.」 

「Were there any other passengers in the mail?」 

「Two.」 

「Did they alight on the road in the course of the night?」 

「They did.」 

「Mr. Lorry, look upon the prisoner. Was he one of those two 
passengers?」 

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「I cannot undertake to say that he was.」 

「Does he resemble either of those two passengers?」 

「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.」 

「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?」 

「No.」 

「You will not swear, Mr. Lorry, that he was not one of them?」 

「No.」 

「So at least you say that he may have been one of them?」 

「Yes. Except that I remember them both to have been—like 
myself—timorous of highwaymen, and the prisoner has not a 
timorous air.」 

「Did you ever see a counterfeit of timidity, Mr. Lorry?」 

「I certainly have seen that.」 

「Mr. Lorry, look once more upon the prisoner. Have you seen 
him, to your certain knowledge, before?」 

「I have.」 

「When?」 

「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.」 

「At what hour did he come on board?」 

「At a little after midnight.」 

「In the dead of the night. Was he the only passenger who came 
on board at that untimely hour?」 

「He happened to be the only one.」 

「Never mind about 『happening』, Mr. Lorry. He was the only 

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passenger who came on board in the dead of the night?」 

「He was.」 

「Were you travelling alone, Mr. Lorry, or with any 
companion?」 

「With two companions. A gentleman and lady. They are here.」 

「They are here. Had you any conversation with the prisoner?」 

「Hardly any. The weather was stormy, and the passage long 
and rough, and I lay on a sofa, almost from shore to shore.」 

「Miss Manette!」 

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. 

「Miss Manette, look upon the prisoner.」 

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. 

「Miss Manette, have you seen the prisoner before?」 

「Yes, sir.」 

「Where?」 

「On board of the packet-ship just now referred to, sir, and on 
the same occasion.」 

「You are the young lady just now referred to?」 

「O! most unhappily, I am!」 

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The plaintive tone of her compassion merged into the less 
musical voice of the Judge, as he said something fiercely: 「Answer 
the questions put to you, and make no remark upon them.」 

「Miss Manette, had you any conversation with the prisoner on 
that passage across the Channel?」 

「Yes, sir.」 

「Recall it.」 

In the midst of a profound stillness, she faintly began: 「When 
the gentleman came on board—」 

「Do you mean the prisoner?」 inquired the Judge, knitting his 
brows. 

「Yes, my Lord.」 

「Then say the prisoner.」 

「When the prisoner came on board, he noticed that my father,」 
turning her eyes lovingly to him as he stood beside her, 「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』s state, and I am sure he felt 
it. That was the manner of our beginning to speak together.」 

「Let me interrupt you for a moment. Had he come on board 
alone?」 

「No.」 

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「How many were with him?」 

「Two French gentlemen.」 

「Had they conferred together?」 

「They had conferred together until the last moment, when it 
was necessary for the French gentlemen to be landed in their 
boat.」 

「Had any papers been handed about among them, similar to 
these lists?」 

「Some papers had been handed about among them, but I don』t 
know what papers.」 

「Like these in shape and size?」 

「Possibly, but indeed I don』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.」 

「Now, to the prisoner』s conversation, Miss Manette.」 

「The prisoner was as open in his confidence with me—which 
arose out of my helpless situation—as he was kind, and good, and 
useful to my father. I hope,」 bursting into tears, 「I may not repay 
him by doing him harm today.」 

Buzzing from the blue-flies. 

「Miss Manette, if the prisoner does not perfectly understand 
that you give the evidence which it is your duty to give—which you 
must give—and which you cannot escape from giving—with great 
unwillingness, he is the only person present in that condition. 
Please to go on.」 

「He told me that he was travelling on business of a delicate and 
difficult nature, which might get people into trouble, and that he 

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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.」 

「Did he say anything about America, Miss Manette? Be 
particular.」 

「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』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.」 

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. 

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』s father, Doctor Manette. Who was called accordingly. 

「Doctor Manette, look upon the prisoner. Have you ever seen 
him before?」 

「Once. When he called at my lodgings in London. Some three 

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years, or three years and a half ago.」 

「Can you identify him as your fellow-passenger on board the 
packet, or speak to his conversation with your daughter?」 

「Sir, I can do neither.」 

「Is there any particular and special reason for your being 
unable to do either?」 

He answered, in a low voice, 「There is.」 

「Has it been your misfortune to undergo a long imprisonment, 
without trial, or even accusation, in your native country, Doctor 
Manette?」 

He answered, in a tone that went to every heart, 「A long 
imprisonment.」 

「Were you newly released on the occasion in question?」 

「They tell me so.」 

「Have you no remembrance of the occasion?」 

「None. My mind is a blank, from some time—I cannot even say 
what time—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 unable to say how 
she had become familiar. I have no remembrance of the process.」 

Mr. Attorney-General sat down, and the father and daughter sat 
down together. 

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 

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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』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. 

「You say again you are quite sure that it was the prisoner?」 

The witness was quite sure. 

「Did you ever see anybody very like the prisoner?」 

Not so like (the witness said) as that he could be mistaken. 

「Look well upon that gentleman, my learned friend there,」 
pointing to him who had tossed the paper over, 「and then look 
well upon the prisoner. How say you? Are they very like each 
other?」 

Allowing for my learned friend』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』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 

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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. 

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』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— 
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 him making those 
passages across the Channel—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 politeness likely to pass between any 
young gentleman and young lady so thrown together;—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, 

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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. 

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. 

And now, the jury turned to consider, and the great flies 
swarmed again. 

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 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 

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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, 「I』d hold a half a guinea that he don』t get no 
law-work to do. Don』t look like the sort of one to get any, do he?」 

Yet, this Mr. Carton took in more of the details of the scene 
than he appeared to take in; for now, when Miss Manette』s head 
dropped upon her father』s breast, he was the first to see it, and to 
say audibly: 「Officer! look to that young lady. Help the gentleman 
to take her out. Don』t you see she will fall!」 

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. 

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. 

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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. 

「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』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 you will 
get to Temple Bar long before I can.」 

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. 

「How is the young lady?」 

「She is greatly distressed; but her father is comforting her, and 
she feels the better for being out of court.」 

「I』ll tell the prisoner so. It won』t do for a respectable bank 
gentleman like you to be seen speaking to him publicly, you 
know.」 

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. 

「Mr. Darnay!」 

The prisoner came forward directly. 

「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.」 

「I am deeply sorry to have been the cause of it. Could you tell 
her so for me, with my fervent acknowledgments?」 

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「Yes, I could. I will, if you ask it.」 

Mr. Carton』s manner was so careless as to be almost insolent. 
He stood, half turned from the prisoner, lounging with his elbow 
against the bar. 

「I do ask it. Accept my cordial thanks.」 

「What,」 said Carton, still only half turned towards him, 「do you 
expect, Mr. Darnay?」 

「The worst.」 

「It』s the wisest thing to expect, and the likeliest. But I think 
their withdrawing is in your favour.」 

Loitering on the way out of court not being allowed, Jerry 
heard no more: but left them—so like each other in feature, so 
unlike each other in manner—standing side by side, both reflected 
in the glass above them. 

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. 

「Jerry! Jerry!」 Mr. Lorry was already calling at the door when 
he got there. 

「Here, sir! It』s a fight to get back again. Here I am, sir!」 

Mr. Lorry handed him a paper through the throng. 「Quick! 
Have you got it?」 

「Yes, sir!」 

Hastily written on the paper was the word 「ACQUITTED.」 

「If you had sent the message, 『Recalled to Life,』 again,」 
muttered Jerry, as he turned, 「I should have known what you 

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meant, this time.」 

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. 

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Chapter X 

CONGRATULATORY 

F 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—just released—congratulating him on his escape from 
death. 

It would have been difficult by a far brighter light, to recognize 
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—as on the 
trial—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. 

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 

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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. 

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. 

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: 「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.」 

「You have laid me under an obligation to you for life—in two 
senses,」 said his late client, taking his hand. 

「I have done my best for you, Mr. Darnay; and my best is as 
good as another man』s, I believe.」 

It clearly being incumbent on some one to say, 「Much better,」 
Mr. Lorry said it; perhaps not quite disinterestedly, but with the 
interested object of squeezing himself back again. 

「You think so?」 said Mr. Stryver. 「Well! you have been present 
all day, and you ought to know. You are a man of business, too.」 

「And as such,」 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—「as such I will appeal to 
Doctor Manette, to break up this conference and order us all to 

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our homes. Miss Lucie looks ill, Mr. Darnay has had a terrible day, 
we are worn out.」 

「Speak for yourself, Mr. Lorry,」 said Stryver; 「I have a night』s 
work to do yet. Speak for yourself.」 

「I speak for myself,」 answered Mr. Lorry, 「and for Mr. Darnay, 
and for Miss Lucie, and—Miss Lucie, do you not think I may speak 
for us all?」 He asked her the question pointedly, and with a glance 
at her father. 

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. 

「My father,」 said Lucie, softly laying her hand on his. 

He slowly shook the shadow off, and turned to her. 

「Shall we go home, my father?」 

With a long breath, he answered 「Yes.」 

The friends of the acquitted prisoner had dispersed, under the 
impression—which he himself had originated—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 tomorrow 
morning』s interest of gallows, pillory, whipping-post, and 
branding-iron, should re-people 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. 

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 

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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. 

「So, Mr. Lorry! Men of business may speak to Mr. Darnay 
now?」 

Nobody had made any acknowledgement of Mr. Carton』s part 
in the day』s proceedings; nobody had known of it. He was 
unrobed, and was none the better for it in appearance. 

「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.」 

Mr. Lorry reddened, and said, warmly, 「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.」 

「I know, I know,」 rejoined Mr. Carton, carelessly. 「Don』t be 
nettled, Mr. Lorry. You are as good as another, I have no doubt: 
better, I daresay.」 

「And indeed, sir,」 pursued Mr. Lorry, not minding him, 「I 
really don』t know what you have to do with the matter. If you』ll 
excuse me, as very much your elder, for saying so, I really don』t 
know that it is your business.」 

「Business! Bless you, I have no business,」 said Mr. Carton. 

「It is a pity you have not, sir.」 

「I think so, too.」 

「If you had,」 pursued Mr. Lorry, 「perhaps you would attend to 
it.」 

「Lord love you, no!—I shouldn』t,」 said Mr. Carton. 

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「Well, sir!」 cried Mr. Lorry, thoroughly heated by his 
indifference, 「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.—Chair there!」 

Perhaps a little angry with himself, as well as with the barrister, 
Mr. Lorry bustled into the chair, and was carried off to Tellson』s. 
Carton, who smelt of port wine, and did not appear to be quite 
sober, laughed then, and turned to Darnay: 

「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?」 

「I hardly seem yet,」 returned Charles Darnay, 「to belong to this 
world again.」 

「I don』t wonder at it; it』s not so long since you were pretty far 
advanced on your way to another. You speak faintly.」 

「I begin to think I am faint.」 

「Then why the devil don』t you dine? I dined, myself, while 
those numskulls were deliberating which world you should belong 
to—this, or some other. Let me show you the nearest tavern to 
dine well at.」 

Drawing his arm through his own, he took him down Ludgatehill 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 

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manner upon him. 

「Do you feel, yet, that you belong to this terrestrial scheme 
again, Mr. Darnay?」 

「I am frightfully confused regarding time and place; but I am so 
far mended as to feel that.」 

「It must be an immense satisfaction!」 

He said it bitterly, and filled up his glass again: which was a 
large one. 

「As to me, the greatest desire I have, is to forget that I belong to 
it. It has no good in it for me—except wine like this—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.」 

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. 

「Now your dinner is done,」 Carton presently said, 「why don』t 
you call a health, Mr. Darnay; why don』t you give your toast?」 

「What health? What toast?」 

「Why, it』s on the tip of your tongue. It ought to be, it must be, 
I』ll swear it』s there.」 

「Miss Manette, then!」 

「Miss Manette, then!」 

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. 

「That』s a fair young lady to hand to a coach in the dark, Mr. 
Darnay!」 he said, filling his new goblet. 

A slight frown and a laconic, 「Yes,」 were the answer. 

「That』s a fair young lady to be pitied by and wept for by! How 

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does it feel? Is it worth being tried for one』s life, to be the object of 

such sympathy and compassion, Mr. Darnay?」 

Again Darnay answered not a word. 

「She was mightily pleased to have your message, when I gave it 
to her. Not that she showed she was pleased, but I suppose she 
was.」 

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. 

「I neither want any thanks, nor merit any,」 was the careless 
rejoinder. 「It was nothing to do, in the first place; and I don』t know 
why I did it, in the second. Mr. Darnay, let me ask you a question.」 

「Willingly, and a small return for your good offices.」 

「Do you think I particularly like you?」 

「Really, Mr. Carton,」 returned the other, oddly disconcerted, 「I 
have not asked myself the question.」 

「But ask yourself the question now.」 

「You have acted as if you do; but I don』t think you do.」 

「I don』t think I do,」 said Carton. 「I begin to have a very good 
opinion of your understanding.」 

「Nevertheless,」 pursued Darnay, rising to ring the bell, 「there 
is nothing in that, I hope, to prevent my calling the reckoning, and 
our parting without ill-blood on either side.」 

Carton rejoining, 「Nothing in life!」 Darnay rang. 「Do you call 
the whole reckoning?」 said Carton. On his answering in the 
affirmative, 「Then bring me another pint of this same wine, 
drawer, and come and wake me at ten.」 

The bill being paid, Charles Darnay rose and wished him good 

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night. Without returning the wish, Carton rose too, with 
something of a threat of defiance in his manner, and said: 「A last 
word, Mr. Darnay: you think I am drunk?」 

「I think you have been drinking, Mr. Carton.」 

「Think? You know I have been drinking.」 

「Since I must say so, I know it.」 

「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.」 

「Much to be regretted. You might have used your talents 
better.」 

「May be so, Mr. Darnay; may be not. Don』t let your sober face 
elate you, however; you don』t know what it may come to. Good 
night!」 

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. 

「Do you particularly like the man?」 he muttered, at his own 
image; 「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!」 

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 

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down upon him. 

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Chapter XI 

THE JACKAL 

T 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. 

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』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 gardenful 
of flaring companions. 

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 

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advocate』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』 ends in the morning. 

Sydney Carton, idlest and most unpromising of men, was 
Stryver』s great ally. What the two drank together, between Hilary 
term and Michaelmas, might have floated a king』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. 

「Ten o』clock, sir,」 said the man at the tavern, whom he had 
charged to wake him—「ten o』clock, sir.」 

「What』s the matter?」 

「Ten o』clock, sir.」 

「What do you mean? Ten o』clock at night?」 

「Yes, sir. Your honour told me to call you.」 

「Oh! I remember. Very well, very well.」 

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』s Bench-walk and Paper-buildings, turned into 

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the Stryver chambers. 

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. 

「You are a little late, Memory,」 said Stryver. 

「About the usual time; it may be a quarter of an hour later.」 

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. 

「You have had your bottle, I perceive, Sydney.」 

「Two tonight I think. I have been dining with the day』s client; 
or seeing him dine—it』s all one!」 

「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?」 

「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.」 

Mr. Stryver laughed till he shook his precocious paunch. 

「You and your luck, Sydney! Get to work, get to work.」 

Sullenly enough, the jackal loosened his dress, went into an 
adjoining room, and came back with a large jug of cold water, a 

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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, 「Now I 
am ready!」 

「Not much boiling down to be done tonight, Memory,」 said Mr. 
Stryver, gaily, as he looked among his papers. 

「How much?」 

「Only two sets of them.」 

「Give me the worst first.」 

「There they are, Sydney. Fire away!」 

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 paperbestrewn 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—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 head-gear as 
no words can describe; which were made the more ludicrous by 
his anxious gravity. 

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, 

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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 
clock struck three in the morning. 

「And now we have done, Sydney, fill a bumper of punch,」 said 
Mr. Stryver. 

The jackal removed the towels from his head, which had been 
steaming again, shook himself, yawned, shivered, and complied. 

「You were very sound, Sydney, in the matter of those crown 
witnesses today. Every question told.」 

「I always am sound; am I not?」 

「I don』t gainsay it. What has roughened your temper? Put some 
punch to it and smooth it again.」 

With a deprecatory grunt, the jackal again complied. 

「The old Sydney Carton of old Shrewsbury School,」 said 
Stryver, nodding his head over him as he reviewed him in the 
present and the past, 「the old seesaw Sydney. Up one minute and 
down the next; now in spirits and now in despondency!」 

「Ah!」 returned the other sighing: 「Yes! The same Sydney, with 
the same luck. Even then, I did exercise for other boys, and 
seldom did my own.」 

「And why not?」 

「God knows. It was my way, I suppose.」 

He sat, with his hands in his pockets and his legs stretched out 
before him, looking at the fire. 「Carton,」 said his friend, squaring 
himself at him with a bullying air, as if the fire-grate had been the 

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furnace in which sustained endeavour was forged, and one 
delicate thing to be done for the old Sydney Carton of old 
Shrewsbury School was to shoulder him into it, 「your way is, and 
always was, a lame way. You summon no energy and purpose. 
Look at me.」 

「Oh, botheration!」 returned Sydney, with a lighter and more 
good-humoured laugh, 「don』t you be moral!」 

「How have I done what I have done?」 said Stryver; 「how do I 
do what I do?」 

「Partly through paying me to help you, I suppose. But it』s not 
worth 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.」 

「I had to get into the front rank; I was not born there, was I?」 

「I was not present at the ceremony; but my opinion is you 
were,」 said Carton. At this, he laughed again, and they both 
laughed. 

「Before Shrewsbury, and at Shrewsbury, and ever since 
Shrewsbury,」 pursued Carton, 「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』t get much good of, you 
were always somewhere and I was always—nowhere.」 

「And whose fault was that?」 

「Upon my soul, I am not sure that it was not yours. You were 
always driving and riving and shouldering and pressing, to that 
restless degree that I had no chance for my life but in rust and 
repose. It』s a gloomy thing, however, to talk about one』s own past, 
with the day breaking. Turn me in some other direction before I 

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go.」 

「Well then! Pledge me to the pretty witness,」 said Stryver, 
holding up his glass. 「Are you turned in a pleasant direction?」 

Apparently not, for he became gloomy again. 

「Pretty witness,」 he muttered, looking down into his glass. 「I 
have had enough of witnesses today and tonight: who』s your pretty 
witness?」 

「The picturesque doctor』s daughter, Miss Manette.」 

「She pretty?」 

「Is she not?」 

「No.」 

「Why, man alive, she was the admiration of the whole court?」 

「Rot the admiration of the whole court! Who made the Old 
Bailey a judge of beauty? She was a golden-haired doll!」 

「Do you know, Sydney,」 said Mr. Stryver, looking at him with 
sharp eyes, and slowly drawing a hand across his florid face; 「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?」 

「Quick to see what happened! If a girl, doll or no doll, swoons 
within a yard or two of a man』s nose, he can see it without a 
perspective-glass. I pledge you, but I deny the beauty. And now I』ll 
have no more drink; I』ll get to bed.」 

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 

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had risen far away, and the fine spray of it in its advance had 
begun to overwhelm the city. 

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. 

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. 

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Chapter XII 

HUNDREDS OF PEOPLE 

T he quiet lodgings of Doctor Manette were in a 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 the business-
absorption, Mr. Lorry had become the Doctor』s friend, and the 
quiet street-corner was the sunny part of his life. 

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』s household 
pointed to that time as a likely time for solving them. 

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』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 

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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. 

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. 

There ought to have been a tranquil bark in such an anchorage, 
and there was. The Doctor occupied two floors of a large still 
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—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 
upstairs, 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 

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corner before it, had their own way from Sunday morning unto 
Saturday night. 

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. 

These things were within Mr. Jarvis Lorry』s knowledge, 
thoughts, and notice, when he rang the door-bell of the tranquil 
house in the corner, on the fine Sunday afternoon. 

「Doctor Manette at home?」 

Expected home. 

「Miss Lucie at home?」 

Expected home. 

「Miss Pross at home?」 

Possibly at home, but of a certainty impossible for handmaid to 
anticipate intentions of Miss Pross, as to admission or denial of the 
fact. 

「As I am at home myself,」 said Mr. Lorry, 「I』ll go upstairs.」 

Although the Doctor』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 

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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? 

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』s 
birds, and flowers, and books, and desk, and worktable, and box of 
water-colours; the second was the Doctor』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』s bedroom, and 
there in a corner, stood the disused shoemaker』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. 

「I wonder,」 said Mr. Lorry, pausing in his looking about, 「that 
he keeps that reminder of his sufferings about him!」 

「And why wonder at that?」 was the abrupt inquiry that made 
him start. 

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. 

「I should have thought—」 Mr. Lorry began. 

「Pooh! You』d have thought!」 said Miss Pross; and Mr. Lorry 
left off. 

「How do you do?」 inquired that lady then—sharply, and yet as 
if to express that she bore him no malice. 

「I am pretty well, I thank you,」 answered Mr. Lorry, with 

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meekness; 「how are you?」 

「Nothing to boast of,」 said Miss Pross. 

「Indeed?」 

「Ah! indeed!」 said Miss Pross. 「I am very much put out about 
my Ladybird.」 

「Indeed?」 

「For gracious sake say something else besides 『indeed,』 or you』ll 
fidget me to death,」 said Miss Pross: whose character (dissociated 
from stature) was shortness. 

「Really, then?」 said Mr. Lorry, as an amendment. 

「Really, is bad enough,」 returned Miss Pross, 「but better. Yes, I 
am very much put out.」 

「May I ask the cause?」 

「I don』t want dozens of people who are not at all worthy of 
Ladybird, to come here looking after her,」 said Miss Pross. 

「Do dozens come for that purpose?」 

「Hundreds,」 said Miss Pross. 

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. 

「Dear me!」 said Mr. Lorry, as the safest remark he could think 
of. 

「I have lived with the darling—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—since she was ten years old. And it』s 
really very hard,」 said Miss Pross. 

Not seeing with precision what was very hard, Mr. Lorry shook 
his head; using that important part of himself as a sort of fairy 

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cloak that would fit anything. 

「All sorts of people who are not in the least degree worthy of 
the pet, are always turning up,」 said Miss Pross. 「When you began 
it—」 

「I began it, Miss Pross?」 

「Didn』t you? Who brought her father to life?」 

「Oh! If that was beginning it—」 said Mr. Lorry. 

「It wasn』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』s affections 
away from me.」 

Mr. Lorry knew Miss Pross to be very jealous, but he also knew 
her by this time to be, beneath the surface of her eccentricity, one 
of those unselfish creatures—found only among women—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—we all make 
such arrangements, more or less—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』s. 

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「There never was, nor will be, but one man worthy of 
Ladybird,」 said Miss Pross; 「and that was my brother Solomon, if 
he hadn』t made a mistake in life.」 

Here again: Mr. Lorry』s inquiries into Miss Pross』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』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. 

「As we happen to be alone for the moment, and are both people 
of business,」 he said, when they had got back to the drawing-room 
and had sat down there in friendly relations, 「let me ask you— 
does the Doctor, in talking with Lucie, never refer to the 
shoemaking time, yet?」 

「Never.」 

「And yet keeps that bench and those tools beside him?」 

「Ah!」 returned Miss Pross, shaking her head. 「But I don』t say 
he don』t refer to it within himself.」 

「Do you believe that he thinks of it much?」 

「I do,」 said Miss Pross. 

「Do you imagine—」 Mr. Lorry had begun, when Miss Pross 
took him up short with: 

「Never imagine anything. Have no imagination at all.」 

「I stand corrected; do you suppose—you go so far as to 
suppose, sometimes?」 

「Now and then,」 said Miss Pross. 

「Do you suppose,」 Mr. Lorry went on, with a laughing twinkle 

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in his bright eye, as it looked kindly at her, 「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?」 

「I don』t suppose anything about it but what Ladybird tells me.」 

「And that is—?」 

「That she thinks he has.」 

「Now don』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.」 

「Dull?」 Miss Pross inquired, with placidity. 

Rather wishing his modest adjective away, Mr. Lorry replied, 
「No, no, no. Surely not. To return to business:—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』t approach the topic with you, out of curiosity, but out of 
zealous interest.」 

「Well! To the best of my understanding, and bad』s the best, 
you』ll tell me,」 said Miss Pross, softened by the tone of the 
apology, 「he is afraid of the whole subject.」 

「Afraid?」 

「It』s plain enough, I should think, why he may be. It』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 

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alone wouldn』t make the subject pleasant, I should think.」 

It was a profounder remark than Mr. Lorry had looked for. 
「True,」 said he, 「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.」 

「Can』t be helped,」 said Miss Pross, shaking her head. 「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.」 

Notwithstanding Miss Pross』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. 

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. 

「Here they are!」 said Miss Pross, rising to break up the 

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conference; 「and now we shall have hundreds of people pretty 
soon!」 

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. 

Miss Pross was a pleasant sight, albeit wild, and red, and grim, 
taking off her darling』s bonnet when she came upstairs, 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—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 

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Pross』s prediction. 

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』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』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. 

On Sundays, Miss Pross dined at the Doctor』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—a blue chamber, to which no one but her Ladybird ever 
gained admittance. On this occasion, Miss Pross, responding to 
Ladybird』s pleasant face and pleasant efforts to please her, unbent 
exceedingly; so the dinner was very pleasant, too. 

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』s cupbearer; 

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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. 

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. 

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, 
「a fit of the jerks.」 

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. 

He had been talking all day, on many subjects, and with 
unusual vivacity. 「Pray, Doctor Manette,」 said Mr. Darnay, as they 
sat under the plane-tree—and he said it in the natural pursuit of 
the topic in hand, which happened to be the old buildings of 
London—」have you seen much of the Tower?」 

「Lucie and I have been there; but only casually. We have seen 
enough of it, to know that it teems with interest; little more.」 

「I have been there, as you remember,」 said Darnay, with a 
smile, though reddening a little angrily, 「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.」 

「What was that?」 Lucie asked. 

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「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—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, DIG. 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.」 

「My father,」 exclaimed Lucie, 「you are ill!」 

He had suddenly started up, with his hand to his head. His 
manner and his look quite terrified them all. 

「No, my dear, not ill. There are large drops of rain falling, and 
they made me start. We had better go in.」 

He recovered himself almost instantly. Rain was really falling in 
large drops, and he showed the back of his hand with raindrops 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, 

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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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

「The raindrops are still falling, large, heavy, and few,」 said 
Doctor Manette. 「It comes slowly.」 

「It comes surely,」 said Carton. 

They spoke low, as people watching and waiting mostly do; as 
people in a dark room, watching and waiting for Lightning, always 
do. 

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. 

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「A multitude of people, and yet a solitude,」 said Darnay, when 
they had listened for a while. 

「Is it not impressive, Mr. Darnay?」 asked Lucie. 「Sometimes, I 
have sat here of an evening, until I have fancied—but even the 
shade of a foolish fancy makes me shudder tonight, when all is so 
black and solemn—」 

「Let us shudder too. We may know what it is.」 

「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-by into our lives.」 

「There is a great crowd coming one day into our lives, if that be 
so,」 Sydney Carton struck in, in his moody way. 

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. 

「Are all these footsteps destined to come to all of us, Miss 
Manette, or are we to divide them among us?」 

「I don』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』s.」 

「I take them into mine!」 said Carton. 「I ask no questions and 
make no stipulations. There is a great crowd bearing down upon 
us, Miss Manette, and I see them—by the Lightning.」 He added 

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the last words, after there had been a vivid flash which had shown 
him lounging in the window. 

「And I hear them!」 he added again, after a peal of thunder. 
「Here they come, fast, fierce, and furious!」 

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』s interval in crash, and fire, and rain, until after 
the moon rose at midnight. 

The great bell of Saint Paul』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 footpads, always retained 
Jerry for this service: though it was usually performed a good two 
hours earlier. 

「What a night it has been! Almost a night, Jerry,」 said Mr. 
Lorry, 「to bring the dead out of their graves.」 

「I never see the night myself, master—nor yet I don』t expect 
to—what would do that,」 answered Jerry. 

「Good night, Mr. Carton,」 said the man of business. 「Good 
night, Mr. Darnay. Shall we ever see such a night again, together!」 

Perhaps. Perhaps, see the great crowd of people with its rush 
and roar, bearing down upon them, too. 

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Chapter XIII 

MONSEIGNEUR IN TOWN 

Monseigneur, 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』s chocolate 
could not so much as get into the throat of Monseigneur, without 
the aid of four strong men besides the Cook. 

Yes, it took four men, all four a-blaze 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』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. 

Monseigneur had been out at a little supper last night, where 

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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!— 
always was for England (by way of example), in the regretted days 
of the merry Stuart who sold it. 

Monseigneur had one truly noble idea of general public 
business, which was, to let everything go on its own way; of 
particular public business, Monseigneur had the other truly noble 
idea that it must all go his way—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: 「The earth and the fullness thereof are mine, saith 
Monseigneur.」 

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, 

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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—always excepting superior mankind of the blood of 
Monseigneur, who, his own wife included, looked down upon him 
with the loftiest contempt. 

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— 
howsoever his matrimonial relations conduced to social morality 
was at least the greatest reality among the personages who 
attended at the hotel of Monseigneur that day. 

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—if that could have been 
anybody』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 

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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—and has 
been since—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—forming a goodly half of the polite company— 
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—which does not 
go far towards the realisation of the name of mother—there was 
no such thing known to the fashion. Peasant women kept the 

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unfashionable babies close, and brought them up, and charming 
grandmammas of sixty dressed and supped as at twenty. 

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—thereby 
setting up a highly intelligible finger-post to the Future, for 
Monseigneur』s guidance. Besides these Dervishes, were other 
three who had rushed into another sect, which mended matters 
with a jargon about 「the Centre of Truth:」 holding that Man had 
got out of the Centre of Truth—which did not need much 
demonstration—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—and it did a world of good which never became manifest. 

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; 

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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. 

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 「frizzled, powdered, in a gold-laced coat, pumps, and 
white silk stockings.」 At the gallows and the wheel—the axe was a 
rarity—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』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! 

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—which may have been one among other reasons why the 
worshippers of Monseigneur never troubled it. 

Bestowing a word of promise here and a smile there, a whisper 
on one happy slave and wave of the hand on another, 

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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. 

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. 

「I devote you,」 said this person, stopping at the last door on his 
way, and turning in the direction of the sanctuary, 「to the Devil!」 

With that, he shook the snuff from his fingers as if he had 
shaken the dust from his feet, and quietly walked downstairs. 

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 the face made, it was a handsome face, and 
a remarkable one. 

Its owner went downstairs into the courtyard, got into his 

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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. 

With a wild rattle and clatter, and an inhuman abandonment of 
consideration not easy to be understood in these days, the carriage 
dashed though the 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. 

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』 bridles. 

「What has gone wrong?」 said Monsieur, calmly looking out. 

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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. 

「Pardon, Monsieur the Marquis!」 said a ragged and submissive 
man, 「it is a child.」 

「Why does he make that abominable noise? Is it his child?」 

「Excuse me, Monsieur the Marquis—it is a pity—yes.」 

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. 

「Killed!」 shrieked the man, in wild desperation, extending both 
arms at their length above his head, and staring at him. 「Dead!」 

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. 

He took out his purse. 

「It is extraordinary to me,」 said he, 「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.」 

He threw out a gold coin for the valet to pick up, and all the 

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heads craned forward that all the eyes might look down as it fell. 
The tall man called out again with a most unearthly cry, 「Dead!」 

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. 

「I know all, I know all,」 said the last comer. 「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?」 

「You are a philosopher, you there,」 said the Marquis, smiling. 
「How do they call you?」 

「They call me Defarge.」 

「Of what trade?」 

「Monsieur the Marquis, vendor of wine.」 

「Pick up that, philosopher and vendor of wine,」 said the 
Marquis, throwing him another gold coin, 「and spend it as you 
will. The horses there; are they right?」 

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 
broken 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. 

「Hold!」 said Monsieur the Marquis. 「Hold the horses! Who 
threw that?」 

He looked to the spot where Defarge the vendor of wine had 

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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. 

「You dogs,」 said the Marquis, but smoothly, and with an 
unchanged front, except as to the spots on his nose: 「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.」 

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, 「Go on!」 

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 hidden 
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—when the 
one woman who had stood conspicuous, knitting, still knitted on 

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with the steadiness 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 courses. 

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Chapter XIV 

MONSEIGNEUR IN THE COUNTRY 

Abeautiful 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—a dejected 
disposition to give up, and wither away. 

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—the setting sun. 

The sunset struck so brilliantly into the travelling carriage 
when it gained the hill-top, that its occupant was steeped in 
crimson. 「It will die out,」 said Monsieur the Marquis, glancing at 
his hands, 「directly.」 

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. 

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, 

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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. 

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. 

Few children were to be seen, and no dogs. As to the men and 
women, their choice on earth was stated in the prospect—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. 

Heralded by a courier in advance, and by the cracking of his 
postilion』s 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 

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Frenchmen and English superstition which should survive the 
truth through the best part of a hundred years. 

Monsieur the Marquis cast his eyes over the submissive faces 
that drooped before him, as the like of himself had dropped before 
Monseigneur of the Court—only the difference was, that these 
faces drooped merely to suffer and not to propitiate—when a 
grizzled mender of the roads joined the group. 

「Bring me hither that fellow!」 said the Marquis to the courier. 

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. 

「I passed you on the road?」 

「Monseigneur, it is true. I had the honour of being passed on 
the road.」 

「Coming up the hill, and at the top of the hill, both?」 

「Monseigneur, it is true.」 

「What did you look at so fixedly?」 

「Monseigneur, I looked at the man.」 

He stooped a little, and with his tattered blue cap pointed under 
the carriage. All his fellows stooped to look under the carriage. 

「What man, pig? And why look there?」 

「Pardon, Monseigneur; he swung by the chain of the shoe—the 
drag.」 

「Who?」 demanded the traveller. 

「Monseigneur, the man.」 

「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?」 

「Your clemency, Monseigneur! He was not of this part of the 

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country. Of all the days of my life, I never saw him.」 

「Swinging by the chain? To be suffocated?」 

「With your gracious permission, that was the wonder of it, 
Monseigneur. His head hanging over—like this!」 

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. 

「What was he like?」 

「Monseigneur, he was whiter than the miller. All covered with 
dust, white as a spectre, tall as a spectre!」 

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. 

「Truly, you did well,」 said the Marquis, felicitously sensible 
that such vermin were not to ruffle him, 「to see a thief 
accompanying my carriage, and not open that great mouth of 
yours. Bah! Put him aside, Monsieur Gabelle!」 

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. 

「Bah! Go aside!」 said Monsieur Gabelle. 

「Lay hands on this stranger if he seeks to lodge in your village 
tonight, and be sure that his business is honest, Gabelle.」 

「Monseigneur, I am flattered to devote myself to your orders.」 

「Did he run away, fellow?—Where is that Accursed?」 

The accursed was already under the carriage with some half-
dozen particular friends, pointing out the chain with his blue cap. 

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Some half-dozen other particular friends promptly hauled him 

out, and presented him breathless to Monsieur the Marquis. 

「Did the man run away, Dolt, when we stopped for the drag?」 

「Monseigneur, he precipitated himself over the hillside, head 
first, as a person plunges into the river.」 

「See to it, Gabelle. Go on!」 

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. 

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 dim distance. 

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—his own life, maybe— 
for it was dreadfully spare and thin. 

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. 

「It is you, Monseigneur! Monseigneur, a petition.」 

With an exclamation of impatience, but with his unchangeable 

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face, Monseigneur looked out. 

「How, then! What is it? Always petitions!」 

「Monseigneur. For the love of the great God! My husband, the 
forester.」 

「What of your husband, the forester? Always the same with you 
people. He cannot pay something?」 

「He has paid all, Monseigneur. He is dead.」 

「Well! He is quiet. Can I restore him to you?」 

「Alas, no Monseigneur! But he lies yonder, under a little heap 
of poor grass.」 

「Well?」 

「Monseigneur, there are so many little heaps of poor grass.」 

「Again, well?」 

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—tenderly, caressingly, as if it had been a human 
breast, and could be expected to feel the appealing touch. 

「Monseigneur, hear me! Monseigneur, hear my petition! My 
husband died of want; so many die of want; so many more will die 
of want.」 

「Again, well? Can I feed them?」 

「Monseigneur, the good God knows; but I don』t ask it. My 
petition is, that a morsel of stone or wood, with my husband』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!」 

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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. 

The sweet scents of the summer night rose all around him, and 
rose, as the rain falls, impartially, on the rusty, ragged, and toilworn 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. 

The shadow of a large high-roofed house, and of many 
overhanging 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. 

「Monsieur Charles, whom I expect; is he arrived from 
England?」 

「Monseigneur, not yet.」 

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Chapter XV 

THE GORGON』S HEAD 

It 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』s 
head had surveyed it, when it was finished, two centuries ago. 

Upon 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』s voice there was none, save the falling of the 
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. 

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. 

Avoiding the larger rooms, which were dark and made fast for 

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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 bedchamber 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—the fourteenth 
Louis—was conspicuous in their rich furniture; but, it was 
diversified by many objects that were illustrations of old pages in 
the history of France. 

A supper-table was laid for two, in the third of the rooms; a 
round room, in one of the chateau』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. 

「My nephew,」 said the Marquis, glancing at the supper 
preparation; 「they said he was not arrived.」 

Nor was he; but, he had been expected with Monseigneur. 

「Ah! It is not probable he will arrive tonight; nevertheless, leave 
the table as it is. I shall be ready in a quarter of an hour.」 

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. 

「What is that?」 he calmly asked, looking with attention at the 
horizontal lines of black and stone colour. 

「Monseigneur! That?」 

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「Outside the blinds. Open the blinds.」 

It was done. 

「Well?」 

「Monseigneur, it is nothing. The trees and the night are all that 
are here.」 

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. 

「Good,」 said the imperturbable master. 「Close them again.」 

That was done too, and the Marquis went on with his supper. 
He was halfway 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. 

「Ask who is arrived.」 

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. 

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. 

Monseigneur received him in a courtly manner, but they did 
not shake hands. 

「You left Paris yesterday, sir?」 he said to Monseigneur, as he 
took his seat at table. 

「Yesterday. And you?」 

「I come direct.」 

「From London?」 

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「Yes.」 

「You have been a long time coming,」 said the Marquis, with a 
smile. 

「On the contrary; I come direct.」 

「Pardon me! I mean, not a long time on the journey; a long time 
intending the journey.」 

「I have been detained by」—the nephew stopped a moment in 
his answer—「various business.」 

「Without doubt,」 said the polished uncle. 

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. 

「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.」 

「Not to death,」 said the uncle; 「it is not necessary to say, to 
death.」 

「I doubt, sir,」 returned the nephew, 「whether, if it had carried 
me to the utmost brink of death, you would have cared to stop me 
there.」 

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. 

「Indeed, sir,」 pursued the nephew, 「for anything I know, you 
may have expressly worked to give a more suspicious appearance 
to the suspicious circumstances that surrounded me.」 

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「No, no, no,」 said the uncle, pleasantly. 

「But, however that may be,」 resumed the nephew, glancing at 
him with deep distrust, 「I know that your diplomacy would stop 
me by any means, and would know no scruple as to means.」 

「My friend, I told you so,」 said the uncle, with a fine pulsation 
in the two marks. 「Do me the favour to recall that I told you so, 
long ago.」 

「I recall it.」 

「Thank you,」 said the Marquis—very sweetly in deed. 

His tone lingered in the air, almost like the tone of a musical 
instrument. 

「In effect, sir,」 pursued the nephew, 「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.」 

「I do not quite understand,」 returned the uncle, sipping his 
coffee. 「Dare I ask you to explain?」 

「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.」 

「It is possible,」 said the uncle, with great calmness. 「For the 
honour of the family, I could even resolve to incommode you to 
that extent. Pray excuse me!」 

「I perceive that, happily for me, the Reception of the day before 
yesterday was, as usual, a cold one,」 observed the nephew. 

「I would not say happily, my friend,」 returned the uncle, with 
refined politeness; 「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 

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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—his 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 as far as to say would, but might) 
cause us real inconvenience. All very bad, very bad!」 

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. 

「We have so asserted our station, both in the old time and in 
the modern time also,」 said the nephew, gloomily, 「that I believe 
our name to be more detested than any name in France.」 

「Let us hope so,」 said the uncle. 「Detestation of the high is the 
involuntary homage of the low.」 

「There is not,」 pursued the nephew, in his former tone, 「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.」 

「A compliment,」 said the Marquis, 「to the grandeur of the 
family, merited by the manner in which the family has sustained 

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its grandeur. Hah!」 And he took another gentle little pinch of 
snuff, and lightly crossed his legs. 

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』s 
assumption of indifference. 

「Repression is the only lasting philosophy. The dark deference 
of fear and slavery, my friend,」 observed the Marquis, 「will keep 
the dogs obedient to the whip, as long as this roof,」 looking up to 
it, 「shuts out the sky.」 

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 
ruins. As for the roof he vaunted, he might have found that 
shutting out the sky in a new way—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. 

「Meanwhile,」 said the Marquis, 「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?」 

「A moment more.」 

「An hour, if you please.」 

「Sir,」 said the nephew, 「we have done wrong, and are reaping 
the fruits of wrong.」 

「We have done wrong?」 repeated the Marquis, with an 
inquiring smile, and delicately pointing, first to his nephew, then 

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to himself. 

「Our family; our honourable family, whose honour is of so 
much account to both of us, in such different ways. Even in my 
father』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』s time, when it is equally yours? 
Can I separate my father』s twin-brother, joint inheritor, and next 
successor, from himself?」 

「Death has done that!」 said the Marquis. 

「And has left me,」 answered the nephew, 「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』s lips, and 
obey the last look of my dear mother』s eyes, which implored me to 
have mercy and to redress; and tortured by seeking assistance and 
power in vain.」 

「Seeking them from me, my nephew,」 said the Marquis, 
touching him on the breast with his forefinger—they were now 
standing by the hearth—「you will for ever seek them in vain, be 
assured.」 

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, 「My friend, I will die, perpetuating the 
system under which I have lived.」 

When he had said it, he took a culminating pinch of snuff, and 
put his box in his pocket. 

「Better to be a rational creature,」 he added then, after ringing a 

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small bell on the table, 「and accept your natural destiny. But you 
are lost, Monsieur Charles, I see.」 

「This property and France are lost to me,」 said the nephew, 
sadly; 「I renounce them.」 

「Are they both yours to renounce? France may be, but is the 
property? It is scarcely worth mentioning; but, is it yet?」 

「I had no intention, in the words I used, to claim it yet. If it 
passed to me from you, tomorrow—」 

「Which I have the vanity to hope is not probable.」 

「—or twenty years hence—」 

「You do me too much honour,」 said the Marquis; 「still, I prefer 
that supposition.」 

「—I would abandon it, and live otherwise and elsewhere. It is 
little to relinquish. What is it but a wilderness of misery and ruin!」 

「Hah!」 said the Marquis, glancing round the luxurious room. 

「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.」 

「Hah!」 said the Marquis again, in a well-satisfied manner. 

「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.」 

「And you?」 said the uncle. 「Forgive my curiosity; do you, 
under your new philosophy, graciously intend to live?」 

「I must do, to live, what others of my countrymen, even with 

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nobility at their backs, may have to do some day—work.」 

「In England, for example?」 

「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.」 

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. 

「England is very attractive to you, seeing how indifferently you 
have prospered there,」 he observed then, turning his calm face to 
his nephew with a smile. 

「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.」 

「They say, those boastful English, that it is the Refuge of many. 
You know a compatriot who has found a Refuge there? A Doctor?」 

「Yes.」 

「With a daughter?」 

「Yes.」 

「Yes,」 said the Marquis. 「You are fatigued. Good night!」 

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. 

「Yes,」 repeated the Marquis. 「A Doctor with a daughter. Yes. 
So commences the new philosophy! You are fatigued. Good 
night!」 

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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. 

「Good night!」 said the uncle. 「I look to the pleasure of seeing 
you again in the morning. Good repose! Light Monsieur my 
nephew to his chamber there!—And burn Monsieur my nephew in 
his bed, if you will,」 he added to himself, before he rang his little 
bell again, and summoned his valet to his own bedroom. 

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:— 
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. 

He moved from end to end of his voluptuous bed room, looking 
again at the scraps of the day』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 woman bending over it, and the tall man with his 
arms up, crying, 「Dead!」 

「I am cool now,」 said Monsieur the Marquis, 「and may go to 
bed.」 

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. 

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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. 

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. 

The fountain in the village flowed unseen and unheard, and the 
fountain at the chateau dropped unseen and unheard—both 
melting away, like the minutes that were falling from the spring of 
Time—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. 

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 bedchamber of Monsieur the Marquis, one little bird sang its sweetest 

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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. 

Now, the sun was full up, and movement began in the village. 
Casement windows opened, crazy doors were unbarred, and 
people came forth shivering—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 livestock, 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. 

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. 

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? 

What winds conveyed this hurry to the grizzled mender of 
roads, already at work on the hill-top beyond the village, with his 

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day』s dinner (not much to carry) lying in a bundle that it was 
worth no crow』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. 

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? 

It portended that there was one stone face too many, up at the 
chateau. 

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. 

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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: 

「Drive him fast to his tomb. This, from Jacques.」 

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Chapter XVI 

TWO PROMISES 

More 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』s ledgers, to 
turn cooks and carpenters. As a tutor, whose attainments made 
the student』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, moreover, with 
the circumstances of his country, and those were of ever-growing 
interest. So, with great perseverance and untiring industry, he 
prospered. 

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, 

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his prosperity consisted. 

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. 

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—Charles Darnay』s way—the 
way of the love of a woman. 

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— 
the solid stone chateau which had itself become the mere mist of a 
dream—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. 

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. 

He found the Doctor reading in his armchair at a window. The 
energy which had at once supported him under his old sufferings 
and aggravated their sharpness, had been gradually restored to 

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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. 

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. 

「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.」 

「I am obliged to them for their interest in the matter,」 he 
answered, a little coldly as to them, though very warmly as to the 
Doctor. 「Miss Manette—「 

「Is well,」 said the Doctor, as he stopped short, 「and your return 
will delight us all. She has gone out on some household matters, 
but will soon be home.」 

「Doctor Manette, I knew she was from home. I took the 
opportunity of her being from home, to beg to speak to you.」 

There was a blank silence. 

「Yes?」 said the Doctor, with evident constraint. 「Bring your 
chair here, and speak on.」 

He complied as to the chair, but appeared to find the speaking 
on less easy. 

「I have had the happiness, Doctor Manette, of being so intimate 
here,」 so he at length began, 「for some year and a half, that I hope 

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the topic on which I am about to touch may not—」 He was stayed 
by the Doctor』s putting out his hand to stop him. When he had 
kept it so a little while, he said, drawing it back: 

「Is Lucie the topic?」 

「She is.」 

「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.」 

「It is a tone of fervent admiration, true homage, and deep love, 
Doctor Manette!」 he said deferentially. 

There was another blank silence before her father rejoined: 

「I believe it. I do you justice; I believe it.」 

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. 

「Shall I go on, sir?」 

Another blank. 

「Yes, go on.」 

「You anticipate what I would say, though you can not 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!」 

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: 

「Not that, sir! Let that be! I adjure you, do not recall that!」 

His cry was so like a cry of actual pain, that it rang in Charles 

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Darnay』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. 

「I ask your pardon,」 said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, and 
after some moments. 「I do not doubt your loving Lucie; you may 
be satisfied of it.」 

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: 

「Have you spoken to Lucie?」 

「No.」 

「Nor written?」 

「Never.」 

「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.」 

He offered his hand; but his eyes did not go with it. 

「I know,」 said Darnay, respectfully, 「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— 
how can I fail to know—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 

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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.」 

Her father sat silent, with his face bent down. His breathing 
was a little quickened; but he repressed all other signs of agitation. 

「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—even mine—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!」 

「I believe it,」 answered her father, mournfully. 「I have thought 
so before now. I believe it.」 

「But, do not believe,」 said Darnay, upon whose ear the 
mournful voice struck with a reproachful sound, 「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—if it 
ever had been there—if it ever could be there—I could not now 

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touch this honoured hand.」 

He laid his own upon it as he spoke. 

「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.」 

His touch still lingered on her father』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 evident in his face; 
a struggle with that occasional look which had a tendency in it to 
dark doubt and dread. 

「You speak so feelingly and so manfully, Charles Darnay, that I 
thank you with all my heart, and will open all my heart—or nearly 
so. Have you any reason to believe that Lucie loves you?」 

「None. As yet none.」 

「Is it the immediate object of this confidence, that you may at 
once ascertain that, with my knowledge?」 

「Not even so. I might not have the hopefulness to do it for 
weeks; I might (mistaken or not mistaken) have that hopefulness 
tomorrow.」 

「Do you seek any promise from me?」 

「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.」 

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「Do you seek any promise from me!」 

「I do seek that.」 

「What is it?」 

「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—do not think I have the 
presumption to assume so much—I could retain no place in it 
against her love for her father.」 

「If that be so, do you see what, on the other hand, is involved in 
it?」 

「I understand equally well, that a word from her father in any 
suitor』s favour, would outweigh herself and all the world. For 
which reason, Doctor Manette.」 said Darnay, modestly but firmly, 
「I would not ask that word, to save my life.」 

「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.」 

「May I ask, sir, if you think she is—」 As he hesitated, her father 
supplied the rest. 

「Is sought by any other suitor?」 

「It is what I meant to say.」 

Her father considered a little before he answered: 

「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.」 

「Or both,」 said Darnay. 

「I had not thought of both; I should not think either, likely, You 
want a promise from me. Tell me what it is.」 

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「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.」 

「I give the promise,」 said the Doctor, 「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—Charles Darnay—if there were—」 
The young man had taken his hand gratefully; their hands were 
joined as the Doctor spoke: 

「—any fancies, any reasons, any apprehensions, anything 
whatsoever, new or old, against the man she really loved—the 
direct responsibility thereof not lying on his head—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—Well! This is 
idle talk.」 

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. 

「You said something to me,」 said Doctor Manette, breaking 
into a smile. 「What was it you said to me?」 

He was at a loss how to answer, until he remembered having 
spoken of a condition. Relieved as his mind reverted to that, he 

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answered: 

「Your confidence in me ought to be returned with full 
confidence on my part. My present name, though but slightly 
changed from my mother』s, is not, as you will remember, my own. 
I wish to tell you what that is, and why I am in England.」 

「Stop!」 said the Doctor of Beauvais. 

「I wish it, that I may the better deserve your confidence, and 
have no secret from you.」 

「Stop.」 

For an instant, the Doctor even had his two hands at his ears; 
for another instant, even had his two hands laid on Darnay』s lips. 

「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?」 

「Willingly.」 

「Give me your hand. She will be home directly, and it is better 
she should not see us together tonight, Go! God bless you!」 

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—for Miss Pross had gone straight upstairs—and was 
surprised to find his reading-chair empty. 

「My father!」 she called to him. 「Father dear!」 

Nothing was said in answer, but she heard a low hammering 
sound in the 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, 「What shall I do! What 
shall I do!」 

Her uncertainty lasted but a moment; she hurried back and 
tapped at his door, and softly called to him. The noise ceased at 

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the sound of her voice, and he presently came out to her, and they 
walked up and down together for a long time. 

She came down from her bed to look at him in his sleep that 
night. He slept, heavily, and his tray of shoe-making tools, and his 
old unfinished work, were all as usual. 

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Chapter XVII 

A COMPANION PICTURE 

S ydney,」 said Mr. Stryver, on that selfsame night, or 
morning, to his jackal; 「mix another bowl of punch; I have 
something to say to you,」 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』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. 

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. 

「Are you mixing that other bowl of punch?」 said Stryver the 
portly, with his hands in his waistband, glancing round from the 
sofa where he lay on his back. 

「I am.」 

「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.」 

「Do you?」 

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「Yes. And not for money. What do you say now?」 

「I don』t feel disposed to say much. Who is she?」 

「Guess.」 

「Do I know her?」 

「Guess.」 

「I am not going to guess, at five o』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.」 

「Well then, I』ll tell you,」 said Stryver, coming slowly into a 
sitting posture. 「Sydney, I rather despair of making myself 
intelligible to you, because you are such an insensible dog.」 

「And you,」 returned Sydney, busy concocting the punch, 「are 
such a sensitive and poetical spirit.」 

「Come!」 rejoined Stryver, laughing boastfully, 「though I don』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 you.」 

「You are a luckier, if you mean that.」 

「I don』t mean that. I mean I am a man of more—more—」 

「Say gallantry, while you are about it,」 suggested Carton. 

「Well! I』ll say gallantry. My meaning is that I am a man,」 said 
Stryver, inflating himself at his friend, as he made the punch, 
「who cares more to be agreeable, who takes more pains to be 
agreeable, who knows better how to be agreeable, in a woman』s 
society, than you do.」 

「Go on,」 said Sydney Carton. 

「No; but before I go on,」 said Stryver, shaking his head in his 
bullying way, 「I』ll have this out with you. You』ve been at Dr. 
Manette』s house as much as I have, or more than I have. Why, I 
have been ashamed of your moroseness there! Your manners have 

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been of that silent and sullen and hang-dog kind, that, upon my 
life and soul, I have been ashamed of you, Sydney!」 

「It should be very beneficial to a man in your practice at the 
bar, to be ashamed of anything,」 returned Sydney; 「you ought to 
be much obliged to me.」 

「You shall not get off in that way,」 rejoined Stryver, 
shouldering the rejoinder at him; 「no Sydney, it』s my duty to tell 
you—and I tell you to your face to do you good—that you are a 
devilish ill-conditioned fellow in that sort of society. You are a 
disagreeable fellow.」 

Sydney drank a bumper of the punch he had made, and 
laughed. 

「Look at me!」 said Stryver, squaring himself; 「I have less need 
to make myself agreeable than you have, being more independent 
in circumstances. Why do I do it?」 

「I never saw you do it yet,」 muttered Carton. 

「I do it because it』s politic; I do it on principle. And look at me! I 
get on.」 

「You don』t get on with your account of your matrimonial 
intentions,」 answered Carton, with a careless air; 「I wish you 
would keep to that. As to me—will you never understand that I am 
incorrigible?」 

He asked the question with some appearance of scorn. 

「You have no business to be incorrigible,」 was his friend』s 
answer, delivered in no very soothing tone. 

「I have no business to be, at all, that I know of,」 said Sydney 
Carton. 「Who is the lady?」 

「Now, don』t let my announcement of the name make you 
uncomfortable, Sydney,」 said Mr. Stryver, preparing him with 

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ostentatious friendliness for the disclosure he was about to make, 
「because I know you don』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.」 

「I did?」 

「Certainly; and in these chambers.」 

Sydney Carton looked at his punch and looked at his 
complacent friend; drank his punch and looked at his complacent 
friend. 

「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 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』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.」 

Sydney Carton drank the punch at a great rate; drank it by 
bumpers, looking at his friend. 

「Now you know all about it, Syd,」 said Mr. Stryver. 「I don』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?」 

Carton, still drinking the punch, rejoined, 「Why should I be 
astonished?」 

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「You approve?」 

Carton, still drinking the punch, rejoined, 「Why should I not 
approve?」 

「Well!」 said his friend Stryver, 「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』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 you about your 
prospects. You are in a bad way, you know; you really are in a bad 
way. You don』t know the value of money, you live hard, you』ll 
knock up one of these days, and be ill and poor; you really ought to 
think about a nurse.」 

The prosperous patronage with which he said it, made him look 
twice as big as he was, and four times as offensive. 

「Now let me recommend you,」 pursued Stryver, 「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 
woman』s society, nor understanding of it, nor tact for it. Find out 
somebody. Find out some respectable woman with a little 
property—somebody in the landlady way, or lodging-letting way— 
and marry her, against a rainy day. That』s the kind of thing for 
you. Now think of it, Sydney.」 

「I』ll think of it,」 said Sydney. 

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Chapter XVIII 

THE FELLOW OF DELICACY 

Mr. Stryver having made up his mind to that 
magnanimous bestowal of good fortune on the Doctor』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. 
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—the only grounds ever worth taking 
into account—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. 

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. 

Towards Soho, therefore, Mr. Stryver shouldered his way from 
the Temple, while the bloom of the Long Vacation』s infancy was 
still upon it. Anybody who had seen him projecting himself into 

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Soho while he was yet on St. Dunstan』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. 

His way taking him past Tellson』s, and he both banking at 
Tellson』s and knowing Mr. Lorry as the intimate friend of the 
Manettes, it entered Mr. Stryver』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 was ruled for figures too, and everything 
under the clouds were a sum. 

「Halloa!」 said Mr. Stryver, 「How do you do? I hope you are 
well!」 

It was Stryver』s grand peculiarity that he always seemed too big 
for any place, or space. He was so much too big for Tellson』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. 

The discreet Mr. Lorry said, in a sample tone of the voice he 
would recommend under the circumstances, 「How do you do, Mr. 
Stryver? How do you do, sir?」 and shook hands. There was a 
peculiarity in his manner of shaking hands, always to be seen in 
any clerk at Tellson』s who shook hands with a customer when the 
House pervaded the air. He shook in a self-abnegating way, as one 

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who shook for Tellson & Co. 

「Can I do anything for you, Mr. Stryver?」 asked Mr. Lorry, in 
his business character. 

「Why, no, thank you; this is a private visit to yourself, Mr. 
Lorry; I have come for a private word.」 

「Oh indeed!」 said Mr. Lorry, bending down his ear, while his 
eye strayed to the House afar off. 

「I am going,」 said Mr. Stryver, leaning his arms confidently on 
the desk: whereupon, although it was a large double one, there 
appeared to be not half desk enough for him: 「I am going to make 
an offer of myself in marriage to your agreeable little friend, Miss 
Manette, Mr. Lorry.」 

「Oh dear me!」 cried Mr. Lorry, rubbing his chin, and looking at 
his visitor dubiously. 

「Oh dear me, sir?」 repeated Stryver, drawing back. 「Oh dear 
you, sir? What may your meaning be, Mr. Lorry?」 

「My meaning,」 answered the man of business, 「is, of course, 
friendly and appreciative, and that it does you the greatest credit, 
and—in short, my meaning is everything you could desire. But— 
really you know, Mr. Stryver—」 Mr. Lorry paused, and shook his 
head at him in the oddest manner, as if he were compelled against 
his will to add, internally, 「You know there really is so much too 
much of you!」 

「Well!」 said Stryver, slapping the desk with his contentious 
hand, opening his eyes wider, and taking a long breath, 「if I 
understand you, Mr. Lorry, I』ll be hanged!」 

Mr. Lorry adjusted his little wig at both ears as a means 
towards that end, and bit the feather of a pen. 

「D—n it all, sir!」 said Stryver, staring at him, 「am I not 

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eligible?」 
「Oh dear yes! Yes. Oh yes, you』re eligible!」 said Mr. Lorry. 「If 

you say eligible, you are eligible.」 
「Am I not prosperous?」 asked Stryver. 
「Oh! if you come to prosperous, you are prosperous,」 said Mr. 

Lorry. 
「And advancing?」 
「If you come to advancing, you know,」 said Mr. Lorry, 

delighted to be able to make another admission, 「nobody can 
doubt that.」 
「Then what on earth is your meaning, Mr. Lorry?」 demanded 

Stryver, perceptibly crestfallen. 
「Well! I—Were you going there now?」 asked Mr. Lorry. 
「Straight!」 said Stryver, with a plump of his fist on the desk. 
「Then I think I wouldn』t, if I was you.」 
「Why,」 said Stryver. 「Now, I』ll put you in a corner,」 forensically 

shaking a forefinger at him. 「You are a man of business and bound 
to have a reason. State your reason. Why wouldn』t you go?」 
「Because,」 said Mr. Lorry, 「I wouldn』t go on such an object 

without having some cause to believe that I should succeed.」 
「D—n ME!」 cried Stryver, 「but this beats everything.」 
Mr. Lorry glanced at the distant House, and glanced at the 

angry Stryver. 

「Here』s a man of business—a man of years—a man of 
experience—in a bank,」 said Stryver; 「and having summed up 
three leading reasons for complete success, he says there』s no 
reason at all! Says it with his head on!」 Mr. Stryver remarked 
upon the peculiarity as if it would have been infinitely less 
remarkable if he had said it with his head off. 

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「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,」 said Mr. Lorry, 
mildly tapping the Stryver arm, 「the young lady. The young lady 
goes before all.」 

「Then you mean to tell me, Mr. Lorry,」 said Stryver, squaring 
his elbows, 「that it is your deliberate opinion that the young lady 
at present in question is a mincing Fool?」 

「Not exactly so. I mean to tell you, Mr. Stryver,」 said Mr. Lorry, 
reddening, 「that I will hear no disrespectful word of that young 
lady from any lips; and that if I knew any man—which I hope I do 
not—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』s 
should prevent my giving him a piece of my mind.」 

The necessity of being angry in a suppressed tone had put Mr. 
Stryver』s blood-vessels into a dangerous state when it was his turn 
to be angry; Mr. Lorry』s veins, methodical as their courses could 
usually be, were in no better state now it was his turn. 

「That is what I mean to tell you, sir,」 said Mr. Lorry. 「Pray let 
there be no mistake about it.」 

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: 

「This is something new to me. Mr. Lorry. You deliberately 
advise me not to go up to Soho and offer myself—myself, Stryver 
of the King』s Bench bar?」 

「Do you ask me for my advice, Mr. Stryver?」 

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「Yes, I do.」 

「Very good. Then I give it, and you have repeated it correctly.」 

「And all I can say of it is,」 laughed Stryver with a vexed laugh, 
「that this—ha, ha!—beats everything past, present, and to come.」 

「Now understand me,」 pursued Mr. Lorry. 「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?」 

「Not I!」 said Stryver, whistling. 「I can』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』s new to me, but you are right, I daresay.」 

「What I suppose, Mr. Stryver, I claim to characterise for myself. 
And understand me, sir,」 said Mr. Lorry, quickly flushing again, 「I 
will not—not even at Tellson』s—have it characterised for me by 
any gentleman breathing. 

「There! I beg your pardon!」 said Stryver. 

「Granted. Thank you. Well, Mr. Stryver, I was about to say:—it 
might be painful too 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 

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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?」 

「How long would you keep me in town?」 

「Oh! It is only a question of a few hours. I could go down to 
Soho in the evening, and come to your chambers afterwards.」 

「Then I say yes,」 said Stryver: 「I won』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 tonight. Good morning.」 

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. 

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. 「And now,」 said Mr. 
Stryver, shaking his forensic forefinger at the Temple in general, 
when it was down, 「my way out of this is to put you all in the 
wrong.」 

It was a bit of the art of an Old Bailey tactician, in which he 
found great relief. 「You shall not put me in the wrong, young 
lady,」 said Mr. Stryver; 「I』ll do that for you.」 

Accordingly, when Mr. Lorry called that night as late as ten 

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o』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. 

「Well!」 said that good-natured emissary, after a full half-hour of 
bootless attempts to bring him round to the question. 「I have been 
to Soho.」 

「To Soho?」 repeated Mr. Stryver, coldly. 「Oh, to be sure! What 
am I thinking of!」 

「And I have no doubt,」 said Mr. Lorry, 「that I was right in the 
conversation we had. My opinion is confirmed, and I reiterate my 
advice.」 

「I assure you,」 returned Mr. Stryver, in the friendliest way, 
「that I am sorry for it on your account, and sorry for it on the poor 
father』s account. I know this must always be a sore subject with 
the family; let us say no more about it.」 

「I don』t understand you,」 said Mr. Lorry. 

「I daresay not,」 rejoined Stryver, nodding his head in a 
smoothing and final way; 「no matter, no matter.」 

「But it does matter,」 Mr. Lorry urged. 

「No it doesn』t; I assure you it doesn』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 

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has dropped, because it would have been a bad thing for me in a 
worldly point of view—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.」 

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. 「Make the best of it; my dear sir,」 said Stryver; 
「say no more about it; thank you again for allowing me to sound 
you; good night!」 

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. 

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Chapter XIX 

THE FELLOW OF NO DELICACY 

If 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. 

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 in 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. 

On a day in August, when Mr. Stryver (after notifying to his 
jackal that 「he had thought better of that marrying matter」) 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 

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for the worst, of health for the sickliest, and of youth for the oldest, 
Sydney』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』s door. 

He was shown upstairs, 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. 

「I fear you are not well, Mr. Carton!」 

「No. But the life I lead, Miss Manette, is not conducive to 
health. What is to be expected of, or by, such profligates?」 

「Is it not—forgive me; I had begun the question on my lips—a 
pity to live no better life?」 

「God knows it is a shame!」 

「Then why not change it?」 

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: 

「It is too late for that. I shall never be better than I am. I shall 
sink lower and be worse.」 

He leaned an elbow on her table, and covered his eyes with his 
hand. The table trembled in the silence that followed. 

She had never seen him softened, and was much distressed. He 
knew her to be so, without looking at her, and said: 

「Pray forgive me, Miss Manette. I break down before the 
knowledge of what I want to say to you. Will you hear me?」 

「If it will do you any good, Mr. Carton, if it would make you 
happier, it would make me very glad!」 

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「God bless you for your sweet compassion!」 

He unshaded his face after a little while and spoke steadily. 

「Don』t be afraid to hear me. Don』t shrink from anything I say. I 
am like one who died young. All my life might have been.」 

「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.」 

「Say of you, Miss Manette, and although I know better— 
although in the mystery of my own wretched heart I now better—I 
shall never forget it!」 

She was pale and trembling. He came to her relief with a fixed 
despair of himself which made the inter view unlike any other that 
could have been holden. 

「If it had been possible, Miss Manette, that you could have 
returned the love of the man you see before you—self-flung away, 
wasted, drunken, poor creature of misuse as you know him to be— 
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.」 

「Without it, can I not save you, Mr. Carton? Can I not recall 
you—forgive me again!—to a better course? Can I in no way repay 
your confidence? I know this is a confidence,」 she modestly said, 
after a little hesitation, and in earnest tears, 「I know you would 
say this to no one else. Can I turn it to no good account for 
yourself, Mr. Carton?」 

He shook his head. 

「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 

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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.」 

「Will nothing of it remain? O Mr. Carton, think again! Try 
again!」 

「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—a fire, however, 
inseparable in its nature from myself, quickening nothing, lighting 
nothing, doing no service, idly burning away.」 

「Since it is my misfortune, Mr. Carton, to have made you more 
unhappy than you were before you knew me—」 

「Don』t say that, Miss Manette, for you would have reclaimed 
me, if anything could. You will not be the cause of my becoming 
worse.」 

「Since the state of your mind that you describe, is, at all events, 
attributable to some influence of mine—that is what I mean, if I 
can make it plain—can I use no influence to serve you? Have I no 
power for good, with you, at all?」 

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「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.」 

「Which I entreated you to believe, again and again, most 
fervently, with all my heart, was capable of better things, Mr. 
Carton!」 

「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?」 

「If that will be a consolation to you, yes.」 

「Not even by the dearest one ever to be known to you?」 

「Mr. Carton,」 she answered, after an agitated pause, 「the secret 
is yours, not mine; and I promise to respect it.」 

「Thank you. And again God bless you.」 

He put her hand to his lips, and moved towards the door. 

「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—and shall thank and bless you for it— 
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!」 

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 

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he every day kept down and perverted, that Lucie Manette wept 
mournfully for him as he stood looking back at her. 

「Be comforted!」 he said, 「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.」 

「I will, Mr. Carton.」 

「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—ties 
that will bind you yet more tenderly and strongly to the home you 
so adorn—the dearest ties that will ever grace and gladden you. O 
Miss Manette, when the little picture of a happy father』s face looks 
up in yours, when you see your own bright beauty spring 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!」 

He said, 「Farewell!」 said a last 「God bless you!」 and left her. 

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Chapter XX 

THE HONEST TRADESMAN 

T 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! 

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—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』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. 

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 

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public place, but not being a poet, mused as little as possible, and 
looked about him. 

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 「flopping」 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. 

「Young Jerry,」 said Mr. Cruncher, turning to his offspring, 「it』s 
a buryin』.」 

「Hooroar, father!」 cried Young Jerry. 

The young man 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. 

「What d』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 me!」 said Mr. Cruncher, surveying him. 「Him 
and his hooroars! Don』t let me hear no more of you, or you shall 
feel some more of me. D』ye hear?」 

「I warn』t doing no harm,」 Young Jerry protested, rubbing his 
cheek. 

「Drop it then,」 said Mr. Cruncher; 「I won』t have none of your 
no harms. Get a top of that there seat, and look at the crowd.」 

His son obeyed, and the crowd approached; they were bawling 
and hissing round a dingy hearse and dingy mourning coach, in 

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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: 「Yah! Spies! Tst! Yaha! Spies!」 with many 
compliments too numerous and forcible to repeat. 

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』s. Naturally, therefore, a funeral 
with this uncommon attendance excited him greatly, and he asked 
of the first man who ran against him: 

「What is it, brother? What』s it about?」 

「I don』t know,」 said the man. 「Spies! Yaha! Tst! Spies!」 

He asked another man. 「Who is it?」 

「I don』t know,」 returned the other man, clapping his hands to 
his mouth, nevertheless, and vociferating in a surprising heat and 
with the greatest ardour, 「Spies! Yaha! Tst, tst! Spi-ies!」 

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. 

「Was He a spy?」 asked Mr. Cruncher. 

「Old Bailey spy,」 returned his informant. 「Yaha! Tst! Yah! Old 
Bailey Spi-i-ies!」 

「Why, to be sure!」 exclaimed Jerry, recalling the Trial at which 
he had assisted. 「I』ve seen him. Dead, is he?」 

「Dead as mutton,」 returned the other, 「and can』t be too dead. 
Have 』em out, there! Spies! Pull 』em out, there! Spies!」 

The idea was so acceptable in the prevalent absence of any 

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idea, that the crowd caught it up with eagerness, and loudly 
repeating the suggestion to have 』em out, and to pull 』em out, 
mobbed the two vehicles so closely that they came to a stop. On 
the crowd』s opening the coach doors, the one mourner scuffled out 
of 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 by a by-street, after shedding his cloak, 
hat, long hatband, white pocket-handkerchief, and other 
symbolical tears. 

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 to 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』s, in the further 
corner of the mourning coach. 

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—advised by the regular 

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driver, who was perched beside him, under close inspection, for 
the purpose—and with a pie-man, 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. 

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. 

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 the rumour, the crowd gradually melted away, and 
perhaps the Guards came, and perhaps they never came, and this 

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was the usual progress of a mob. 

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. 

「Jerry,」 said Mr. Cruncher, apostrophising himself his usual 
way, 「you see that there Cly that day, and you see with your own 
eyes that he was a young 』un and a straight made 』un.」 

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』s. Whether his meditations on 
morality 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—a 
distinguished surgeon—on his way back. 

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. 

「Now, I tell you where it is!」 said Mr. Cruncher to his wife, on 
entering. 「If, as a honest tradesman, my wentures goes wrong 
tonight, I shall make sure that you』ve been praying agin me, and I 
shall work you for it just the same as if I seen you do it.」 

The dejected Mrs. Cruncher shook her head. 

「Why, you』re at it afore my face!」 said Mr. Cruncher, with signs 
of angry apprehension. 

「I am saying nothing.」 

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「Well, then; don』t meditate nothing. You might as well flop as 
meditate. You may as well go again me one way as another. Drop 
it altogether.」 

「Yes, Jerry.」 

「Yes, Jerry,」 repeated Mr. Cruncher sitting down to tea. 「Ah! It 
is yes, Jerry. That』s about it. You may say yes, Jerry.」 

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. 

「You and your yes, Jerry,」 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. 「Ah! I think so. I believe you.」 

「You were going out tonight?」 asked his decent wife, when he 
took another bite. 

「Yes, I am.」 

「May I go with you, father?」 asked his son, briskly. 

「No, you mayn』t. I』m a going—as your mother knows—a 
fishing. That』s where I』m going to. Going a fishing.」 

「Your fishing-rod gets rayther rusty; don』t it, father?」 

「Never you mind.」 

「Shall you bring any fish home, father?」 

「If I don』t, you』ll have short commons, tomorrow,」 returned 
that gentleman, shaking his head; 「that』s questions enough for 
you; I ain』t a going out, till you』ve been long a-bed.」 

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 

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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. 

「And mind you!」 said Mr. Cruncher. 「No games tomorrow! 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』t. I』m your Rome, you 
know.」 

Then he began grumbling again: 

「With you flying into the face of your own wittles and drink! I 
don』t know how scarce you mayn』t make the wittles and drink 
here, by your flopping tricks and your unfeeling conduct. Look at 
your boy: he is your』n, ain』t he? He』s as thin as a lath. Do you call 
yourself a mother, and not know that a mother』s first duty is to 
blow her boy out?」 

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. 

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 

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earlier watches of the night with solitary pipes, and did not start 
upon his excursion until one o』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. 

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. 

Impelled by a laudable ambition to study the art and mystery of 
his father』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. 

Within half an hour from the first starting, they were beyond 
the winking lamps, and the more than winking watchman, and 
were out upon a lonely road. Another fisherman was picked up 
here—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 in two. 

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 

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shadow of bank and wall the three turned out of the road, and up a 
blind lane, of which the wall—there, risen to some eight or ten feet 
high—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— 
listening perhaps. Then they moved away on their hands and 
knees. 

It was now Young Jerry』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—it 
was a large churchyard that they were in—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. 

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』s. 

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 

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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. 

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— 
perhaps taking his arm—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』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. 

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 

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holding Mrs. Cruncher by the ears, and knocking the back of her 

head against the headboard of the bed. 

「I told you I would,」 said Mr. Cruncher, 「and I did.」 

「Jerry, Jerry, Jerry!」 his wife implored. 

「You oppose yourself to the profit of the business,」 said Jerry, 
「and me and my partners suffer. You was to honour and obey; 
why the devil don』t you?」 

「I try to be a good wife, Jerry,」 the poor woman protested, with 
tears. 

「Is it being a good wife to oppose your husband』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?」 

「You hadn』t taken to the dreadful business then, Jerry.」 

「It』s enough for you,」 retorted Mr. Cruncher, 「to be the wife of 
a honest tradesman, and not occupy your female mind with 
calculations when he took to his trade or when he didn』t. A 
honouring and obeying wife would let his trade alone altogether. 
Call yourself a religious woman? If you』re a religious woman, give 
me a irreligious one! You have no more nat』ral sense of duty than 
the bed of this here Thames river has of a pile, and similarly it 
must be knocked into you.」 

The altercation was conducted in a low tone of voice, and 
terminated in the honest tradesman』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. 

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. 

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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. 

Young Jerry, walking with the stool under his arm at his 
father』s side along sunny and crowded Fleet Street, was a very 
different Young Jerry from him of the previous night, running 
home through the darkness and solitude from his grim pursuer. 
His cunning was fresh with the day, and his qualms were gone 
with the night—in which particulars it is not improbable that he 
had compeers in Fleet Street and the City of London, that fine 
morning. 

「Father,」 said Young Jerry, as they walked along: taking care to 
keep at arm』s length and to have the stool well between them: 
「what』s a Resurrection-Man?」 

Mr. Cruncher came to a stop on the pavement before he 
answered, 「How should I know?」 

「I thought you knowed everything, father,」 said the artless boy. 

「Hem! Well,」 returned Mr. Cruncher, going on again, and 
lifting off his hat to give his spikes free play. 「he』s a tradesman.」 

「What』s his goods, father?」 asked the brisk Young Jerry. 

「His goods,」 said Mr. Cruncher, after turning it over in his 
mind, 「is a branch of Scientific goods.」 

「Persons』 bodies, ain』t it, father?」 asked the lively boy. 

「I believe it is something of that sort,」 said Mr. Cruncher. 

「Oh, father, I should so like to be a Resurrection-Man when I』m 
quite growed up!」 

Mr. Cruncher was soothed, but shook his head in a dubious and 
moral way. 「It depends on how you dewelop your talents. Be 
careful to dewelop your talents, and never to say no more than you 

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can help to nobody, and there』s no telling at the present time what 
you may not come to be fit for.」 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: 「Jerry, you honest 
tradesman, there』s hope wot that boy will yet be a blessing to you, 
and a recompense to you for his mother.」 

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Chapter XXI 

KNITTING 

T here had been earlier drinking than usual in the wine-
shop of Monsieur Defarge. As early as six o』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. 

This had been the third morning in succession, on which there 
had been early drinking at the wine-shop of Monsieur Defarge. It 
had been 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. 

Notwithstanding an unusual flow of company, the master of the 
wine-shop was not visible. He was not missed; for, nobody who 

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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. 

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』s palace 
to the criminal』s gaol. Games at cards languished, players at 
dominoes musingly built towers with them, drinkers drew figures 
on the table with spilt drops of wine, Madame Defarge herself 
picked out the pattern on her sleeve with her toothpick, and saw 
and heard something invisible and inaudible a long way off. 

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. 

「Good day, gentlemen!」 said Monsieur Defarge. 

It may have been a signal for loosening the general tongue. It 
elicited an answering chorus of 「Good day!」 

「It is bad weather, gentlemen,」 said Defarge, shaking his head. 

Upon which, every man looked at his neighbour, and then all 

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cast down their eyes and sat silent. Except one man, who got up 
and went out. 

「My wife,」 said Defarge aloud, addressing Madame Defarge: 「I 
have travelled certain leagues with this good mender of roads, 
called Jacques. I met him—by accident—a day and a half』s journey 
out of Paris. He is a good child, this mender of roads, called 
Jacques. Give him to drink, my wife!」 

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』s counter. A 
third man got up and went out. 

Defarge refreshed himself with a draught of wine—but, he took 
less than was given to the stranger, as being himself a man to 
whom it was no rarity—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. 

「Have you finished your repast, friend?」 he asked, in due 
season. 

「Yes, thank you.」 

「Come, then! You shall see the apartment that I told you you 
could occupy. It will suit you to a marvel.」 

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—formerly the garret where a white-haired 
man sat on a low bench, stooping forward and very busy, making 
shoes. 

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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. 

Defarge closed the door carefully, and spoke in a subdued 
voice: 

「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!」 

The mender of roads, blue cap in hand, wiped his swarthy 
forehead with it, and said, 「Where shall I commence, monsieur?」 

「Commence,」 was Monsieur Defarge』s not unreasonable reply, 
「at the commencement.」 

「I saw him then, messieurs,」 began the mender of roads, 「a 
year ago this running summer, underneath the carriage of the 
Marquis, hanging by the chain. Be hold 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 hanged by the chain—like 
this.」 

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. 

Jacques One struck in, and asked if he had ever seen the man 
before? 

「Never,」 answered the mender of roads, recovering his 
perpendicular. 

Jacques Three demanded how he afterwards recognised him 
then? 

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「By his tall figure,」 said the mender of roads, softly, and with 
his finger at his nose. 「When Monsieur the Marquis demands that 
evening, 『Say, what is he like?』 I make response, 『Tall as a 
spectre.』」 

「You should have said, short as a dwarf,」 returned Jacques 
Two. 

「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, 『To 
me! Bring that rascal!』 My faith, messieurs, I offer nothing.」 

「He is right there, Jacques,」 murmured Defarge, to him who 
had interrupted. 「Go on!」 

「Good!」 said the mender of roads with an air of mystery. 「The 
tall man is lost, and he is sought—how many months? Nine, ten, 
eleven?」 

「No matter, the number,」 said Defarge. 「He is well hidden, but 
at last he is unluckily found. Go on!」 

「I am again at work upon the hillside, 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—tied to his 
sides—like this!」 

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. 

「I stand aside, messieurs, by my heap of stones, to see the 
soldiers and their prisoner pass (for it is a solitary road, that, 

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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—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 hillside once again, as on the 
evening when he and I first encountered, close to the same spot!」 

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. 

「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. 『Come on!』 says the chief of that company, 
pointing to the village, 『bring him fast to his tomb!』 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—like this!」 

He imitated the action of a man』s being impelled forward by the 
butt-ends of muskets. 

「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 

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sees the prison gate open in the darkness of the night—and 
swallow him—like this!」 

He opened his mouth 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, 「Go on, Jacques.」 

「All the village,」 pursued the mender of roads, on tiptoe and in 
a low voice, 「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.」 

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』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. 

「Go on, Jacques,」 said Defarge. 

「He remains up there in his iron cage some days. The village 

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looks at him by stealth, for it is afraid. But 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 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.」 

「Listen then, Jacques,」 Number One of that name sternly 
interposed. 「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.」 

「And once again listen, Jacques!」 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—that 
was neither food nor drink; 「the guard, horse and foot, 
surrounded the petitioner, and struck him blows. You hear?」 

「I hear, messieurs.」 

「Go on then,」 said Defarge. 

「Again; on the other hand, they whisper at the fountain,」 
resumed the countryman, 「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 

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tenants—serfs—what you will—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.」 

「Listen once again then, Jacques!」 said the man with the 
restless hand and the craving air. 「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—to the last. 
Jacques, prolonged until nightfall, when he had lost two legs and 
an arm, and still breathed! And it was done—why, how old are 
you?」 

「Thirty-five,」 said the mender of roads, who looked sixty. 

「It was done when you were more than ten years old; you might 
have seen it.」 

「Enough!」 said Defarge, with grim impatience. 「Long live the 
Devil! Go on.」 

「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 

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raised a gallows forty feet high, poisoning the water.」 

The mender of roads looked through rather than at the low 
ceiling, and pointed as if he saw the gallows somewhere in the sky. 

「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—tied so, with a tight string, making him look almost 
as if he laughed.」 He suggested it, by creasing his face with his two 
thumbs, from the corners of his mouth to his ears. 「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—and is left hanging, 
poisoning the water.」 

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. 

「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—seemed to strike across the earth, messieurs, to where the 
sky rests upon it!」 

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. 

「That』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 

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riding and now walking, through the rest of yesterday and through 
last night. And here you see me!」 

After a gloomy silence, the first Jacques said, 「Good! You have 
acted and recounted faithfully. Will you wait for us a little, outside 
the door?」 

「Very willingly,」 said the mender of roads, whom Defarge 
escorted to the top of the stairs, and, leaving seated there, 
returned. 

The three had risen, and their heads were together when he 
came back to the garret. 

「How say you, Jacques?」 demanded Number One. 「To be 
registered?」 

「To be registered, as doomed to destruction,」 returned Defarge. 

「Magnificent!」 croaked the man with craving, 「The chateau, 
and all the race?」 inquired the first. 

「The chateau and all the race,」 returned Defarge. 
「Extermination.」 

The hungry man repeated, in a rapturous croak, 「Magnificent!」 
and began gnawing another finger. 

「Are you sure,」 asked Jacques Two, of Defarge, 「that no 
embarrassment can rise 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—or, I ought to say, 
will she?」 

「Jacques,」 returned Defarge, drawing himself up, 「if madame 
my wife undertook to keep the register in her memory alone, she 
would not lose a word of it—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 

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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.」 

There was a murmur of confidence and approval, and then the 
man who hungered, asked: 「Is this rustic to be sent back soon? I 
hope so. He is very simple; is he not a little dangerous?」 

「He knows nothing,」 said Defarge; 「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—the 
King, the Queen, and Court; let him see them on Sunday.」 

「What?」 exclaimed the hungry man, staring. 「Is it a good sign, 
that he wishes to see Royalty and Nobility?」 

「Jacques,」 said Defarge; 「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.」 

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. 

Worse quarters than Defarge』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 connexion 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 

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lady might pretend next; and he felt assured that if she should 
take 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. 

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. 

「You work hard, madame,」 said a man near her. 

「Yes,」 answered Madame Defarge; 「I have a good deal to do.」 

「What do you make, madame?」 

「Many things.」 

「For instance—」 

「For instance,」 returned Madame Defarge, composedly, 
「shrouds.」 

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』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 intoxicating, 

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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』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. 

「Bravo!」 said Defarge, clapping him on the back when it was 
over, like a patron; 「you are a good boy!」 

The mender of roads was now coming to himself, and was 
mistrustful of having made a mistake in his late demonstrations; 
but no. 

「You are the fellow we want,」 said Defarge, in his ear; 「you 
make these fools believe that it will last for ever. Then, they are 
the more insolent, and it is the nearer ended.」 

「Hey!」 cried the mender of roads, reflectively; 「that』s true.」 

「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.」 

Madame Defarge looked superciliously at the client, and 
nodded in confirmation. 

「As to you,」 said she, 「you would shout and shed tears for 
anything, if it made a show and a noise. Say! Would you not?」 

「Truly, madame, I think so. For the moment.」 

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「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?」 

「Truly yes, Madame.」 

「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 feather: 
would you not?」 

「It is true, madame.」 

「You have seen both dolls and birds today,」 said Madame 
Defarge, with a wave of her hand towards the place where they 
had last been apparent; 「now go home!」 

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Chapter XXII 

STILL KNITTING 

Madame 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—had a faint and bare existence there, as its 
people had—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 Monseigneur the Marquis 
petrified, a skinny finger would not have pointed to it for a minute, 

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before they all started away among the moss and leaves, like the 
more fortunate hares who could find a living there. 

Chateau and hut, stone face and dangling figure, the red stain 
on the stone floor, and the pure water in the village well— 
thousands of acres of land—a whole province of France—all 
France itself—lay under the night sky, concentrated into a faint 
hairbreadth 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. 

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. 

When Saint Antoine had again enfolded the Defarges in his 
dusky wings, and they, having finally alighted near the Saint』s 
boundaries, were picking their way on foot through the black mud 
and offal of his streets, Madame Defarge spoke to her husband: 

「Say then, my friend; what did Jacques of the police tell thee?」 

「Very little tonight, 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.」 

「Eh well!」 said Madame Defarge, raising her eye brows with a 

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cool business air. 「It is necessary to register him. How do they call 

that man?」 

「He is English.」 

「So much the better. His name?」 

「Barsad,」 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. 

「Barsad,」 repeated madame. 「Good. Christian name?」 

「John.」 

「John Barsad,」 repeated madame, after murmuring it once to 
herself. 「Good. His appearance; is it known?」 

「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.」 

「Eh, my faith. It is a portrait!」 said madame, laughing. 「He 
shall be registered tomorrow.」 

They turned into the wine-shop, which was closed (for it was 
midnight), and where Madame Defarge immediately took her post 
at her desk, counting 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, 

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indeed, as to the business and his domestic affairs, he walked up 
and down through life. 

The night was hot, and the shop, close shut and surrounded by 
so foul a neighbourhood, was ill-smelling. Monsieur Defarge』s 
olfactory sense was by no means delicate, but the stock of wine 
smelt 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. 

「You are fatigued,」 said madame, raising her glance as she 
knotted the money. 「There are only the usual odours.」 

「I am a little tired,」 her husband acknowledged. 

「You are a little depressed too,」 said madame, whose quick 
eyes had never been so intent on the accounts, but they had had a 
ray or two for him. 「Oh, the men, the men!」 

「But my dear!」 began Defarge. 

「But my dear!」 repeated madame, nodding firmly; 「but my 
dear! You are faint of heart tonight, my dear!」 

「Well, then,」 said Defarge, as if a thought were wrung out of his 
breast, 「it is a long time.」 

「It is a long time,」 repeated his wife; 「and when is it not a long 
time? Vengeance and retribution require a long time; it is the 
rule.」 

「It does not take a long time to strike a man with lightning,」 
said Defarge. 

「How long,」 demanded madame, composedly, 「does it take to 
make and store the lightning? Tell me.」 

Defarge raised his head thoughtfully, as if there were 
something in that too. 

「It does not take a long time,」 said madame. 「for an earthquake 

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to swallow a town. Eh well! Tell me how long it takes to prepare 

the earthquake?」 

「A long time, I suppose,」 said Defarge. 

「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.」 

She tied a knot with flashing eyes, as if it throttled a foe. 

「I tell thee,」 said madame, extending her right hand, for 
emphasis, 「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 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.」 

「My brave wife,」 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, 「I do not question 
all this. But it has lasted a long time, and it is possible—you know 
well, my wife, it is possible—that it may not come, during our 
lives.」 

「Eh well! How then?」 demanded madame, tying another knot, 
as if there were another enemy strangled. 

「Well!」 said Defarge, with a half complaining and half 
apologetic shrug. 「We shall not see the triumph.」 

「We shall have helped it,」 returned madame, with her extended 
hand in strong action. 「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—」 Then madame, with her teeth set, 

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tied a very terrible knot indeed. 

「Hold!」 cried Defarge, reddening a little as if he felt charged 
with cowardice; 「I too, my dear, will stop at nothing.」 

「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—not 
shown—yet always ready.」 

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. 

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!—perhaps they thought as much at Court that sunny summer 
day. 

A figure entering at the door threw a shadow on Madame 
Defarge which she felt to be a new one. She laid down her 

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knitting, and began to pin her rose in her head-dress, before she 
looked at the figure. 

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. 

「Good day, madame,」 said the newcomer. 

「Good day, monsieur.」 

She said it aloud, but added to herself, as she resumed her 
knitting: 「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!」 

「Have the goodness to give me a little glass of old cognac, and a 
mouthful of cool fresh water, madame.」 

Madame complied with a polite air. 

「Marvellous cognac this, madame!」 

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. 

「You knit with great skill, madame.」 

「I am accustomed to it.」 

「A pretty pattern too!」 

「You think so?」 said madame, looking at him with a smile. 

「Decidedly. May one ask what it is for?」 

「Pastime,」 said madame, still looking at him with a smile, while 
her fingers moved nimbly. 

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「Not for use?」 

「That depends. I may find a use for it one day. If I do—well,」 
said madame, drawing a breath and nodding her head with a stern 
kind of coquetry, 「I』ll use it!」 

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. 

「John,」 thought madame, checking off her work as her fingers 
knitted, and her eyes looked at the stranger. 「Stay long enough, 
and I shall knit 『Barsad』 before you go. 

「You have a husband, madame?」 

「I have.」 

「Children?」 

「No children.」 

「Business seems bad?」 

「Business is very bad; the people are so poor.」 

「Ah, the unfortunate, miserable people! So oppressed, too—as 
you say.」 

「As you say,」 madame retorted, correcting him, and deftly 
knitting an extra something into his name that boded him no good. 

「Pardon me; certainly it was I who said so, but you naturally 
think so. Of course.」 

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「I think?」 returned madame, in a high voice. 「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 we 
think of, and it gives us, from morning to night, enough to think 
about, without embarrassing our heads concerning others. I think 
for others? No, no.」 

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』s little counter, and occasionally sipping his 
cognac. 

「A bad business this, madame, of Gaspard』s execution. Ah! the 
poor Gaspard!」 With a sigh of great compassion. 

「My faith!」 returned madame, coolly and lightly, 「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.」 

「I believe,」 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: 「I believe there is 
much compassion and anger in this neighbourhood, touching the 
poor fellow? Between ourselves.」 

「Is there?」 asked madame, vacantly. 

「Is there not?」 

「—Here is my husband!」 said Madame Defarge. 

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, 「Good day, Jacques!」 Defarge stopped short, and stared at 
him. 

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「Good day, Jacques!」 the spy repeated; with not quite so much 
confidence, or quite so easy a smile under the stare. 

「You deceive yourself, monsieur,」 returned the keeper of the 
wine-shop. 「You mistake me for another. That is not my name. I 
am Ernest Defarge.」 

「It is all the same,」 said the spy, airily, but discomfited too: 
「good day!」 

「Good day!」 answered Defarge, drily. 

「I was saying to madame, with whom I had the pleasure of 
chatting when you entered, that they tell me there is—and no 
wonder!—much sympathy and anger in Saint Antoine, touching 
the unhappy fate of poor Gaspard.」 

「No one has told me so,」 said Defarge, shaking his head. 「I 
know nothing of it.」 

Having said it, he passed behind the little counter, and stood 
with his hand on the back of the wife』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. 

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. 

「You seem to know the quarter well; that is to say, better than I 
do?」 observed Defarge. 

「Not at all, but I hope to know it better. I am so profoundly 
interested in its miserable inhabitants.」 

「Hah!」 muttered Defarge. 

「The pleasure of conversing with you, Monsieur Defarge, 

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recalls to me,」 pursued the spy, 「that I have the honour of 

cherishing some interesting associations with your name.」 

「Indeed!」 said Defarge, with much indifference. 

「Yes, indeed. When Dr. 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?」 

「Such is the fact, certainly,」 said Defarge. He had had it 
conveyed to him, in an accidental touch of his wife』s elbow as she 
knitted and warbled, that he would do best to answer, but always 
with brevity. 

「It was to you,」 said the spy, 「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?—in a little wig—Lorry—of 
the bank of Tellson and Company—over to England.」 

「Such is the fact,」 repeated Defarge. 

「Very interesting remembrances!」 said the spy. 「I have known 
Dr. Manette and his daughter, in England.」 

「Yes?」 said Defarge. 

「You don』t hear much about them now?」 said the spy. 

「No,」 said Defarge. 

「In effect,」 madame struck in, looking up from her work and 
her little song, 「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—we, 
ours—and we have held no correspondence.」 

「Perfectly so, madame,」 replied the spy. 「She is going to be 
married.」 

「Going?」 echoed madame. 「She was pretty enough to have 
been married long ago. You English are cold, it seems to me.」 

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「Oh! You know I am English.」 

「I perceive your tongue is,」 returned madame, 「and what the 
tongue is, I suppose the man is.」 

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: 

「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』Aulnais is the name of his mother』s family.」 

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. 

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. 

「Can it be true,」 said Defarge, in a low voice, looking down at 

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his wife as he stood smoking with his hand on the back of her 
chair: 「what he has said of Mam』selle Manette?」 

「As he has said it,」 returned madame, lifting her eyebrows a 
little, 「it is probably false. But it may be true.」 

「If it is—」 Defarge began, and stopped. 

「If it is?」 repeated his wife. 

「—And if it does come, while we live to see it triumph—I hope, 
for her sake, Destiny will keep her husband out of France.」 

「Her husband』s destiny,」 said Madame Defarge, with her usual 
composure, 「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.」 

「But it is very strange—now, at least, is it not very strange」— 
said Defarge, rather pleading with his wife to induce her to admit 
it, 「that, after all our sympathy for Monsieur her father, and 
herself, her husband』s name should be proscribed under your 
hand at this moment, by the side of that infernal dog』s who has 
just left us?」 

「Stranger things than that will happen when it does come,」 
answered madame. 「I have them both here, of a certainty; and 
they are both here for their merits; that is enough.」 

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. 

In the evening, at which season of all others Saint Antoine 
turned himself inside out, and sat on doorsteps and window-

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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—there were many like her—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. 

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. 

Her husband smoked at his door, looking after her with 
admiration. 「A great woman,」 said he, 「a strong woman, a grand 
woman, a frightfully grand woman!」 

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. 

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Chapter XXIII 

ONE NIGHT 

N 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. 

Lucie was to be married tomorrow. She had reserved this last 
evening for her father, and they sat alone under the plane-tree. 

「You are happy, my dear father?」 

「Quite, my child.」 

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. 

「And I am very happy tonight, dear father. I am deeply happy 
in the love that Heaven has so blessed—my love for Charles, and 
Charles』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—」 Even as it was, she could not command her voice. 

In the sad moonlight, she clasped him by the neck, and laid her 

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face upon his breast. In the moonlight which is always sad, as the 
light of the sun itself is—as the light called human life is—at its 
coming and its going. 

「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 know it well, but do you 
know it? In your own heart, do you feel quite certain?」 

Her father answered, with a cheerful firmness of conviction he 
could scarcely have assumed, 「Quite sure, my darling! More than 
that,」 he added, as he tenderly kissed her: 「my future is far 
brighter, Lucie, seen through your marriage, than it could have 
been—nay, than it ever was—without it.」 

「If I could hope that, my father!—」 

「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—」 She moved her hand towards his lips, but he 
took it in his, and repeated the word. 

「—wasted, my child—should not be wasted, struck aside from 
the natural order of things—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?」 

「If I had never seen Charles, my father, I should have been 
quite happy with you.」 

He smiled at her unconscious admission that she would have 
been unhappy without Charles, having seen him; and replied: 

「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 

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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.」 

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. 

「See!」 said the Doctor of Beauvais, raising his hand towards 
the moon. 「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.」 He added in his inward and pondering 
manner, as he looked at the moon, 「It was twenty either way, I 
remember, and the twentieth was difficult to squeeze in.」 

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. 

「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』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 

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never know his father』s story; who might even live to weigh the 
possibility of his father』s having disappeared of his own will and 
act. Whether it was a daughter who would grow to be a woman.」 

She drew closer to him, and kissed his cheek and his hand. 

「I have pictured my daughter, to myself, as perfectly forgetful 
of me—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.」 

「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.」 

「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.—What did I say just 
now?」 

「She knew nothing of you. She cared nothing for you.」 

「So! But on other moonlight nights, when the sadness and the 
silence have touched me in a different way—have affected me with 
something as like a sorrowful sense of peace, as any emotion that 
had pain for its foundations could—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?」 

「The figure was not; the—the—image; the fancy?」 

「No. That was another thing. It stood before my disturbed 

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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—as you have—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.」 

His collected and calm manner could not prevent her blood 
from running cold, as he thus tried to anatomise his old condition. 

「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.」 

「I was that child, my father. I was not half so good, but in my 
love that was I.」 

「And she showed me her children,」 said the Doctor of 
Beauvais, 「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.」 

「I am that child, I hope, my father. O my dear, my dear, will you 
bless me as fervently tomorrow?」 

「Lucie, I recall these old troubles in the reason that I have 
tonight for loving you better than words can tell, and thanking 
God for my great happiness. My thoughts, when they were wildest, 

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never rose near the happiness that I have known with you, and 
that we have before us.」 

He embraced her, solemnly commended her to Heaven, and 
humbly thanked Heaven for having bestowed her on him. By-andby, they went into the house. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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 

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an unseen assailant, was not to be beheld in all the wide 
dominions of sleep, that night. 

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. 

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Chapter XXIV 

NINE DAYS 

T he marriage-day was shining brightly, and they were 
ready outside the closed door of the Doctor』s room, where 
he was speaking with Charles Darnay. They were ready to 
go to church; the beautiful bride, Mr. Lorry, and Miss Pross—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. 

「And so,」 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; 「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!」 

「You didn』t mean it,」 remarked the matter-of-fact Miss Pross, 
「and therefore how could you know it? Nonsense!」 

「Really? Well; but don』t cry,」 said the gentle Mr. Lorry. 

「I am not crying,」 said Miss Pross; 「you are.」 

「I, my Pross?」 (By this time, Mr. Lorry dared to be pleasant 
with her, on occasion.) 

「You were, just now; I saw you do it, and I don』t wonder at it. 
Such a present of plate as you have made 』em, is enough to bring 
tears into anybody』s eyes. There』s not a fork or a spoon in the 
collection,」 said Miss Pross, 「that I didn』t cry over, last night after 

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the box came, till I couldn』t see it.」 

「I am highly gratified,」 said Mr. Lorry, 「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!」 

「Not at all!」 From Miss Pross. 

「You think there never might have been a Mrs. Lorry?」 asked 
the gentleman of that name. 

「Pooh!」 rejoined Miss Pross; 「you were a bachelor in your 
cradle.」 

「Well!」 observed Mr. Lorry, beamingly adjusting his little wig, 
「that seems probable, too.」 

「And you were cut out for a bachelor,」 pursued Miss Pross, 
「before you were put in your cradle.」 

「Then, I think,」 said Mr. Lorry, 「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,」 drawing his arm 
soothingly round her waist, 「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』s shall go to the wall 
(comparatively speaking) before him. And when, at the fortnight』s 
end, he comes to join you and your beloved husband, on your 
other fortnight』s trip in Wales, you shall say that we have sent him 

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to you in the best health and in the happiest frame. Now, I hear 
Somebody』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.」 

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. 

The door of the Doctor』s room opened, and he came out with 
Charles Darnay. He was so deadly pale—which had not been the 
case when they went in together—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. 

He gave his arm to his daughter, and took her downstairs 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. 

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』s hand, which were newly released 
from the dark obscurity of one of Mr. Lorry』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』s white 
locks in the Paris garret, were mingled with them again in the 
morning sunlight, on the threshold of the door at parting. 

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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, 「Take her, Charles! She is yours!」 

And her agitated hand waved to them from a chaise window, 
and she was gone. 

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. 

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 upstairs, Mr. 
Lorry was reminded of Defarge the wine-shop keeper, and the 
starlight ride. 

「I think,」 he whispered to Miss Pross, after anxious 
consideration, 「I think we had best not speak to him just now, or 
at all disturb him. I must look in at Tellson』s; so I will go there at 
once and come back presently. Then, we will take him a ride in the 
country, and dine there, and all will be well.」 

It was easier for Mr. Lorry to look in at Tellson』s, than to look 
out of Tellson』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』s rooms, he was stopped by 
a low sound of knocking. 「Good God!」 he said, with a start. 
「What』s that?」 

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Miss Pross, with a terrified face, was at his ear. 「O me, O me! 
All is lost!」 cried she, wringing her hands. 「What is to be told to 
Ladybird? He doesn』t know me, and is making shoes!」 

Mr. Lorry said what he could to calm her, and went himself into 
the Doctor』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. 

「Doctor Manette. My dear friend, Doctor Manette!」 

The Doctor looked at him for a moment—half inquiringly, half 
as if he were angry at being spoken to—and bent over his work 
again. 

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—impatiently—as if in some sense of having been 
interrupted. 

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? 

「A young lady』s walking shoe,」 he muttered, without looking 
up. 「It ought to have been finished long ago. Let it be.」 

「But, Doctor Manette. Look at me!」 

He obeyed, in the old mechanically submissive manner, without 
pausing in his work. 

「You know me, my dear friend? Think again. This is not your 
proper occupation. Think, dear friend!」 

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 

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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—as though he were 
trying to reconcile some doubts in his mind. 

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. 

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』s case. 

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』s 
for the first time in his life, and took his post by the window in the 
same room. 

He was not long in discovering that it was worse than useless to 
speak to him, since, on being pressed, he became worried. He 

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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. 

Doctor Manette took what was given him to eat and drink, and 
worked on, that first day, until it was too dark to see—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: 

「Will you go out?」 

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: 

「Out?」 

「Yes; for a walk with me. Why not?」 

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, 「Why not?」 
The sagacity of the man of business perceived an advantage here, 
and determined to hold it. 

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. 

On this second day, Mr. Lorry saluted him cheerfully by his 

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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』s friendly heart to 
believe that he looked up oftener, and that he appeared to be 
stirred by some perception of inconsistencies surrounding him. 

When it fell dark again, Mr. Lorry asked him as before: 

「Dear Doctor, will you go out?」 

As before, he repeated, 「Out?」 

「Yes; for a walk with me. Why not?」 

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』s return, he slipped away to his bench. 

The time went very slowly on, and Mr. Lorry』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. 

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 hands 
had been a little out at first, was growing dreadfully skilful, and 

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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. 

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Chapter XXV 

AN OPINION 

W 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 
slumber had overtaken him when it was dark night. 

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』s room and looking in, he perceived that the 
shoemaker』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. 

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? 

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 Dr. Manette』s consulting-room, and to be debating 
these points outside the Doctor』s bedroom door in the early 

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morning. 

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 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. 

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. 

So far as it was possible to comprehend him without 
overstepping those delicate and gradual approaches which Lorry 
felt to be the only safe advance, he at first supposed that his 
daughter』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. 

Therefore, when the breakfast was done and cleared away, and 
he and the Doctor were left together, Mr. Lorry said, feelingly: 

「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 

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better information it may be less so.」 

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. 

「Dr. Manette,」 said Mr. Lorry, touching him affectionately on 
the arm, 「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—and 
above all, for his daughter』s, my dear Manette.」 

「If I understand,」 said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, 「some 
mental shock—?」 

「Yes!」 

「Be explicit,」 said the Doctor. 「Spare no detail.」 

Mr. Lorry saw that they understood one another, and 
proceeded. 

「My dear Manette, it is the case of an old and prolonged shock, 
of great acuteness and severity to the affections, the feelings, the— 
the—as you express it—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—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,」 
he paused and took a deep breath—「a slight relapse.」 

The Doctor, in a low voice, asked, 「Of how long duration?」 

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「Nine days and nights.」 

「How did it show itself? I infer,」 glancing at his hands again, 
「in the resumption of some old pursuit connected with the 
shock?」 

「That is the fact.」 

「Now, did you ever see him,」 asked the Doctor, distinctly and 
collectedly, though in the same low voice, 「engaged in that pursuit 
originally?」 

「Once.」 

「And when the relapse fell on him, was he in most respects—or 
in all respects—as he was then?」 

「I think in all respects.」 

「You spoke of his daughter. Does his daughter know of the 
relapse?」 

「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.」 

The Doctor grasped his hand, and murmured, 「That was very 
kind. That was very thoughtful!」 Mr. Lorry grasped his hand in 
return, and neither of the two spoke for a little while. 

「Now, my dear Manette,」 said Mr. Lorry, at length in his most 
considerate and most affectionate way. 「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? 

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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. But I don』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.」 

Doctor Manette sat meditating after these earnest words were 
spoken, and Mr. Lorry did not press him. 

「I think it probable,」 said the Doctor, breaking silence with an 
effort, 「that the relapse you have described, my dear friend, was 
not quite unforeseen by its subject.」 

「Was it dreaded by him?」 Mr. Lorry ventured to ask. 

「Very much.」 He said it with an involuntary shudder. 

「You have no idea how such an apprehension weighs on the 
sufferer』s mind, and how difficult—how almost impossible—it is, 
for him to force himself to utter a word upon the topic that 
oppresses him.」 

「Would he,」 asked Mr. Lorry, 「be sensibly relieved if he could 
prevail upon himself to impart that secret brooding to any one, 
when it is on him?」 

「I think so. But it is, as I told you, next to impossible. I even 
believe it—in some cases—to be quite impossible.」 

「Now,」 said Mr. Lorry, gently laying his hand on the Doctor』s 
arm again, after a short silence on both sides, 「to what would you 
refer this attack?」 

「I believe,」 returned Doctor Manette, 「that there had been a 
strong and extraordinary revival of the train of thought and 

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remembrance that was the first cause of the malady. Some intense 
associations of the 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—say, under 
certain circumstances—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.」 

「Would he remember what took place in the relapse?」 asked 
Mr. Lorry with natural hesitation. 

The Doctor looked desolately round the room, shook his head, 
and answered, in a low voice, 「Not at all.」 

「Now, as to the future,」 hinted Mr. Lorry. 

「As to the future,」 said the Doctor, recovering firmness, 「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 the worst was over.」 

「Well, well! That』s good comfort. I am thankful!」 said Mr. 
Lorry. 

「I am thankful!」 repeated the Doctor, bending his head with 
reverence. 

「There are two other points,」 said Mr. Lorry, 「on which I am 
anxious to be instructed. I may go on?」 

「You cannot do your friend a better service.」 The Doctor gave 
him his hand. 

「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 

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many things. Now, does he do too much?」 

「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.」 

「You are sure that he is not under too great a strain?」 

「I think I am quite sure of it.」 

「My dear Manette, if he were overworked now—」 

「My dear Lorry, I doubt if that could easily be. There has been 
a violent stress in one direction, and it needs a counterweight.」 

「Excuse me, as a persistent man of business. Assuming, for a 
moment, that he was overworked; it would show itself in some 
renewal of this disorder?」 

「I do not think so. I do not think,」 said Doctor Manette with the 
firmness of self-conviction, 「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.」 

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 

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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. 

「The occupation resumed under the influence of this passing 
affliction so happily recovered from,」 said Mr. Lorry, clearing his 
throat, 「we will call Blacksmith』s work, Blacksmith』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?」 

The Doctor shaded his forehead with his hand, and beat his foot 
nervously on the ground. 

「You do not find it easy to advise me?」 said Mr. Lorry. 「I quite 
understand it to be a nice question. And yet I think—」 And there 
he shook his head, and stopped. 

「You see,」 said Doctor Manette, turning to him after an uneasy 
pause, 「it is very hard to explain, consistently, the innermost 
workings of this poor man』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 

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strikes to the heart of a lost child.」 

He looked like his allusion as he raised his eyes to Mr. Lorry』s 
face. 

「But may not—mind! I ask for information, as a plodding man 
of business who only deals with such material objects as guineas, 
shillings, and banknotes—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?」 

There was another silence. 

「You see, too,」 said the Doctor, tremulously, 「it is such an old 
companion.」 

「I would not keep it,」 said Mr. Lorry, shaking his head; for he 
gained in firmness as he saw the Doctor disquieted. 「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』s sake, my dear Manette!」 

Very strange to see what a struggle there was within him! 

「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.」 

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. 

On the night of the day on which he left the house, Mr. Lorry 

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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』s bench to pieces, while Miss Pross held the candle as 
if she were assisting at a murder—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. 

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Chapter XXVI 

A PLEA 

W 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. 

He watched his opportunity of taking Darnay aside into a 
window, and of speaking to him when no one overheard. 

「Mr. Darnay,」 said Carton, 「I wish we might be friends.」 

「We are already friends, I hope.」 

「You are good enough to say so, as a fashion of speech; but, I 
don』t mean any fashion of speech. Indeed, when I say I wish we 
might be friends, I scarcely mean quite that, either.」 

Charles Darnay—as was natural—asked him, in all good 
humour and good-fellowship, what he did mean? 

「Upon my life,」 said Carton, smiling, 「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—than usual?」 

「I remember a certain famous occasion when you forced me to 
confess that you had been drinking.」 

「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』t be 

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alarmed; I am not going to preach.」 

「I am not at all alarmed. Earnestness in you, is anything but 
alarming to me.」 

「Ah!」 said Carton, with a careless wave of his hand, as if he 
waved that away. 「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.」 

「I forgot it long ago.」 

「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.」 

「If it was a light answer,」 returned Darnay, 「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?」 

「As to the great service,」 said Carton, 「I am bound to avow to 
you, when you speak of it in that way, that it was mere 
professional claptrap. I don』t know that I cared what became of 
you, when I rendered it.—Mind! I say when I rendered it; I am 
speaking of the past.」 

「You make light of the obligation,」 returned Darnay, 「but I will 
not quarrel with your light answer.」 

「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』ll tell you so.」 

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「I prefer to form my own opinion, without the aid of his.」 

「Well! At any rate you know me as a dissolute dog, who has 
never done any good, and never will.」 

「I don』t know that you 『never will.』」 

「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 a 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 daresay, to know that I had it.」 

「Will you try?」 

「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?」 

「I think so, Carton, by this time.」 

They shook hands upon it, and Sydney turned away. Within a 
minute afterwards, he was, to all outward appearance, as 
unsubstantial as ever. 

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. 

He had no idea that this could dwell in the thoughts of his fair 

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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. 

「We are thoughtful tonight!」 said Darnay, drawing his arm 
about her. 

「Yes, dearest Charles,」 with her hands on his breast, and the 
inquiring and attentive expression fixed upon him; 「we are rather 
thoughtful tonight, for we have something on our mind tonight.」 

「What is it, my Lucie?」 

「Will you promise not to press one question on me, if I beg you 
not to ask it?」 

「Will I promise? What will I not promise to my Love?」 

What, indeed, with his hand putting aside the golden hair from 
the cheek, and his other hand against the heart that beat for him! 

「I think, Charles, poor Mr. Carton deserves more consideration 
and respect than you expressed for him tonight.」 

「Indeed, my own? Why so?」 

「That is what you are not to ask me! But I think—I know—he 
does.」 

「If you know it, it is enough. What would you have me do, my 
Life?」 

「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.」 

「It is a painful reflection to me,」 said Charles Darnay, quite 
astounded, 「that I should have done him any wrong. I never 
thought this of him.」 

「My husband, it is so. I fear he is not to be reclaimed; there is 

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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.」 

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. 

「And, O my dearest Love!」 she urged, clinging nearer to him, 
laying her head upon his breast, and raising her eyes to his, 
「remember how strong we are in our happiness, and how weak he 
is in his misery!」 

The supplication touched him home. 「I will always remember 
it, dear Heart. I will remember it as long as I live.」 

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—and the words would not have parted from his lips for the 
first time—「God bless her for her sweet compassion!」 

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Chapter XXVII 

ECHOING FOOTSTEPS 

Awonderful 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 on the tranquilly resounding 
corner, listening to the echoing footsteps of years. 

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—hopes, 
of a love as yet unknown to her: doubts, of her remaining upon 
earth, to enjoy that new delight—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. 

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』s laugh, and the Divine friend of children, to whom in 
her trouble she had confided hers, seemed to take her child in His 

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arms, as He took the child of old, and made it a sacred joy to her. 

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』s step was strong and prosperous among 
them; her father』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! 

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, 「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!」 those were not tears all of agony that 
wetted his young mother』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』s face. O Father, blessed words! 

Thus, the rustling of an Angel』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—like the breathing of a summer sea 
asleep upon a sandy shore—as the little Lucie, comically studious 
at the task of the morning, or dressing a doll at her mother』s 
footstool, chattered in the tongues of the Two Cities that were 
blended in her life. 

The echoes rarely answered to the actual tread of Sydney 

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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. 

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—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. 「Poor Carton! Kiss 
him for me!」 

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』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. 

These three young gentlemen, Mr. Stryver, exuding patronage 
of the most offensive quality from every pore, had walked before 

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him like three sheep to the quiet corner in Soho, and had offered 
as pupils to Lucie』s husband: delicately saying, 「Halloa! here are 
three lumps of bread-and-cheese towards your matrimonial picnic, 
Darnay!」 The polite rejection of the three lumps of bread-andcheese 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 『catch』 him, and on the diamond-cutdiamond arts in himself, madam, which had rendered him 『not to 
be caught.』 Some of his King』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—which is surely such an incorrigible 
aggravation of an originally bad offence, as to justify any such 
offender』s being carried off to some suitably retired spot, and 
there hanged out of the way. 

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』s tread came, and those of her own 
dear father』s, always active and self-possessed, and those of her 
dear husband』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 

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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 「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?」 

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』s sixth birthday, that they began to have an 
awful sound, as of a great storm in France with a dreadful sea 
rising. 

On a night in mid-July, one thousand seven hundred and 
eighty-nine, Mr. Lorry came in late, from Tellson』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. 

「I began to think,」 said Mr. Lorry, pushing his brown wig back, 
「that I should have to pass the night at Tellson』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.」 

「That has a bad look,」 said Darnay. 

「A bad look, you say, my dear Darnay? Yes, but we don』t know 
what reason there is in it. People are so unreasonable! Some of us 
at Tellson』s are getting old, and we really can』t be troubled out of 
the ordinary course without due occasion.」 

「Still,」 said Darnay, 「you know how gloomy and threatening 

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the sky is.」 

「I know that, to be sure,」 assented Mr. Lorry, trying to 
persuade himself that his sweet temper was soured, and that he 
grumbled, 「but I am determined to be peevish after my long day』s 
botheration. Where is Manette?」 

「Here he is,」 said the Doctor, entering the dark room at the 
moment. 

「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?」 

「No; I am going to play backgammon with you, if you like,」 said 
the Doctor. 

「I don』t think I do like, if I may speak my mind. I am not fit to 
be pitted against you tonight. Is the teaboard still there, Lucie? I 
can』t see.」 

「Of course, it has been kept for you.」 

「Thank ye, my dear. The precious child is safe in bed?」 

「And sleeping soundly.」 

「That』s right; all safe and well! I don』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.」 

「Not a theory; it was a fancy.」 

「A fancy, then, my wise pet,」 said Mr. Lorry, patting her hand. 
「They are very numerous and very loud, though, are they not? 
Only hear them!」 

Headlong, mad, and dangerous footsteps to force their way into 

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anybody』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. 

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. 

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—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. 

As a whirlpool of boiling waters has a centre point, so, all this 
raging circled round Defarge』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 

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strove in the thickest of the uproar. 

「Keep near to me, Jacques Three,」 cried Defarge; 「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?」 

「Eh, well! Here you see me!」 said madame, composed as ever, 
but not knitting today. Madame』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. 

「Where do you go, my wife?」 

「I go,」 said madame, 「with you at present. You shall see me at 
the head of women, by-and-by.」 

「Come then!」 cried Defarge, in a resounding voice. 「Patriots 
and friends, we are ready! The Bastille!」 

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 begun. 

Deep ditches, double drawbridge, massive stone walls, eight 
great towers, cannon, muskets, fire and smoke. Through the fire 
and through the smoke—in the fire and in the smoke, for the sea 
cast him up and against a cannon, and on the instant he became a 
cannonier—Defarge of the wine-shop worked like a manful 
soldier, two fierce hours. 

Deep ditch, single drawbridge, massive stone walls, eight great 
towers, cannon, muskets, fire and smoke. One drawbridge down! 
「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 

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Devils—which you prefer—work!」 Thus Defarge of the wine-shop, 
still at his gun, which had long grown hot. 

「To me, women!」 cried madame his wife, 「What! We can kill as 
well as the men when the place is taken!」 And to her, with a shrill 
thirsty cry, trooping women variously armed, but all armed alike 
in hunger and revenge. 

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 waggon-
loads 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. 

A white flag from within the fortress, and a parley—this dimly 
perceptible through the raging storm, nothing audible in it— 
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! 

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 

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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. 

「The Prisoners!」 

「The Records!」 

「The secret cells!」 

「The instruments of torture!」 

「The Prisoners!」 

Of all these cries, and ten thousand incoherencies, 「The 
Prisoners!」 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—a man with a grey head, who had 
a lighted torch in his hands—separated him from the rest, and got 
him between himself and the wall. 

「Show me the North Tower!」 said Defarge. 「Quick!」 

「I will faithfully,」 replied the man, 「if you will come with me. 
But there is no one there.」 

「What is the meaning of One Hundred and Five, North 
Tower?」 asked Defarge. 「Quick!」 

「The meaning, monsieur?」 

「Does it mean a captive, or a place of captivity? Or do you mean 
that I shall strike you dead?」 

「Kill him!」 croaked Jacques Three, who had come close up. 

「Monsieur, it is a cell.」 

「Show it me!」 

「Pass this way, then.」 

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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』s arm as he held by the 
turnkey』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. 

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. 

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—「One Hundred and Five, North Tower!」 

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 

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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. 

「Pass that torch slowly along these walls, that I may see them,」 
said Defarge to the turnkey. 

「Stop!—Look here, Jacques!」 

「A. M.!」 creaked Jacques Three, as he read greedily. 

「Alexandre Manette,」 said Defarge in his ear, following the 
letters with his swart forefinger, deeply engrained with 
gunpowder. 「And here he wrote 『a poor physician.』 And it was he, 
without doubt, who scratched a calendar on this stone. What is 
that in your hand? A crowbar? Give it me!」 

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. 

「Hold the light higher!」 he said, wrathfully, to the turnkey. 
「Look among those fragments with care, Jacques. And see! Here 
is my knife,」 throwing it to him; 「rip open that bed, and search the 
straw. Hold the light higher, you!」 

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. 

「Nothing in the wood, and nothing in the straw, Jacques?」 

「Nothing.」 

「Let us collect them together, in the middle of the cell. So! 

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Light them, you!」 

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. 

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』s blood (suddenly of some 
value, after many years of worthlessness) be unavenged. 

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』s. 「See, there is my husband!」 she cried, pointing him 
out. 「See Defarge!」 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—long ready— 
hewed off his head. 

The hour was come when Saint Antoine was to execute his 
horrible idea of hoisting up men for lamps to show what he could 

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be and do. Saint Antoine』s blood was up, and the blood of tyranny 
and domination by the iron hand was down—down on the steps of 
the Hotel de Ville where the governor』s body lay—down on the 
sole of the shoe of Madame Defarge where she had trodden on the 
body to steady it for mutilation. 「Lower the lamp yonder!」 cried 
Saint Antoine, after glaring round for a new means of death; 「here 
is one of his soldiers to be left on guard!」 The swinging sentinel 
was posted, and the sea rushed on. 

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. 

But, in the ocean of faces where every fierce and furious 
expression was in vivid life, there were two groups of faces—each 
seven in number—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 
wandering 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—not an abolished—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 「THOU 
DIDST IT!」 

Seven prisoners released, seven gory heads on pikes, the keys 

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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,—such, and suchlike, 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』s wine-
shop door, they are not easily purified when once stained red. 

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Chapter XXVIII 

THE SEA STILL RISES 

Haggard Saint Antoine 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』s mercies. The lamps across his streets had 
a portentously elastic swing with them. 

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: 「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?」 
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. 

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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. 

「Hark!」 said The Vengeance. 「Listen, then! Who comes?」 

As if a train of powder laid from the outermost bound of the 
Saint Antoine Quarter to the wine-shop door, had been suddenly 
fired, a fast-spreading murmur came rushing along. 

「It is Defarge,」 said madame. 「Silence, patriots!」 

Defarge came in breathless, pulled off a red cap he wore, and 
looked around him. 「Listen, everywhere!」 said madame again. 
「Listen to him!」 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. 

「Say then, my husband. What is it?」 

「News from the other world!」 

「How then?」 cried madame, contemptuously. 「The other 
world?」 

「Does everybody here recall old Foulon, who told the famished 
people that they might eat grass, and who died, and went to Hell?」 

「Everybody!」 from all throats. 

「The news is of him. He is among us!」 

「Among us!」 from the universal throat again. 「And dead?」 

「Not dead! He feared us so much—and with reason—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 

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Hotel de Ville, a prisoner. I have said that he had reason to fear us. 
Say all! Had he reason?」 

Wretched old sinner of more than three score 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. 

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. 

「Patriots!」 said Defarge, in a determined voice, 「are we ready?」 

Instantly Madame Defarge』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. 

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 

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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. 

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』s bosom but a few old crones and the wailing 
children. 

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. 

「See!」 cried madame, pointing with her knife. 「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!」 Madame put her knife under her arm, and clapped her 

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hands as at a play. 

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』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. 

At length the sun rose so high that it struck a kindly ray as of 
hope or protection, directly down upon the old prisoner』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! 

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—Madame Defarge had but 
followed and turned her hand in one of the ropes with which he 
was tied—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—when the cry 
seemed to go up, all over the city, 「Bring him out! Bring him to the 
lamp!」 

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 

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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—as a cat might have done to a 
mouse—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. 

Nor was this the end of the day』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』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—would have torn him out of the breast of an army to 
bear Foulon company—set his head and heart on pikes, and 
carried the three spoils of the day, in Wolf-procession through the 
streets. 

Not before dark night did the men and women come back to the 
children, wailing and breadless. Then, the miserable bakers』 shops 
were beset by long files of them, patiently waiting to buy bad 

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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. 

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 
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. 

It was almost morning, when Defarge』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: 

「At last it is come, my dear!」 

「Eh well!」 returned madame. 「Almost.」 

Saint Antoine slept, the Defarges slept; even The Vengeance 
slept with her starved grocer, and the drum was at rest. The 
drum』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』s bosom. 

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Chapter XXIX 

FIRE RISES 

T 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 high way 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—beyond this: that it would 
probably not be what he was ordered. 

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—all worn out. 

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 

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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. 

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—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, chiseled, and otherwise beautified and beautifying 
features of Monseigneur. 

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—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. 

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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. 

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: 

「How goes it, Jacques?」 

「All well, Jacques.」 

「Touch then!」 

They joined hands, and the man sat down on the heap of stones. 

「No dinner?」 

「Nothing but supper now,」 said the mender of roads, with a 
hungry face. 

「It is the fashion,」 growled the man. 「I meet no dinner 
anywhere.」 

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. 

「Touch then.」 It was the turn of the mender of roads to say it 
this time, after observing these operations. They again joined 
hands. 

「Tonight?」 said the mender of roads. 

「Tonight,」 said the man, putting the pipe in his mouth. 

「Where?」 

「Here.」 

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 

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a pigmy charge of bayonets, until the sky began to clear over the 
village. 

「Show me!」 said the traveller then, moving to the brow of the 
hill. 

「See!」 returned the mender of roads, with extended finger. 
「You go down here, and straight through the street, and past the 
fountain—」 

「To the Devil with all that!」 interrupted the other, rolling his 
eye over the landscape. 「I go through no streets and past no 
fountains. Well?」 

「Well! About two leagues beyond the summit of that hill above 
the village.」 

「Good. When do you cease to work?」 

「At sunset.」 

「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?」 

「Surely.」 

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. 

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 

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rough medley dress of homespun 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, guardhouses, 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. 

The man slept on indifferent to showers of hail and intervals of 
brightness, to sunshine on his face and shadow, to the pattering 
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. 

「Good!」 said the sleeper, rising on his elbow. 「Two leagues 
beyond the summit of the hill?」 

「About.」 

「About. Good!」 

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, 

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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-by. 

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. 

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 

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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. 

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』s door. 「Help, Gabelle! 
Help, every one!」 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. 「It must be forty 
feet high,」 said they, grimly; and never moved. 

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. 「Help, gentleman 
officers! The chateau is on fire; valuable objects may be saved 
from the flames by timely aid! Help, help!」 The officers looked 
towards the soldiers who looked at the fire; gave no orders; and 
answered with shrugs and biting of lips, 「It must burn.」 

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 

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moment of reluctance and hesitation on that functionary』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. 

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. 

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. 

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—though it was but a 
small instalment of taxes, and no rent at all, that Gabelle had got 

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in those latter days—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 
house-top 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. 

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. 

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 

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of the gallows that would turn to water and quench it, no 
functionary, by any stretch of mathematics, was able to calculate 
successfully. 

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Chapter XXX 

DRAWN TO THE LOADSTONE ROCK 

In such risings of fire and risings of sea—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—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. 

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. 

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』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. 

The shining Bull』s Eye of the Court was gone, or it would have 

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been the mark for a hurricane of national bullets. It had never 
been a good eye to see with—had long had the mote in it of 
Lucifer』s pride, Sardanapalus』s luxury, and a mole』s blindness— 
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 『suspended,』 when the 
last tidings came over. 

The August of the year one thousand seven hundred and 
ninety-two was come, and Monseigneur was by this time scattered 
far and wide. 

As was natural, the headquarters and great gathering-place of 
Monseigneur, in London, was Tellson』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』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』s, were always to be heard of there by their 
needy brethren. To which it must be added that every newcomer 
from France reported himself and his tidings at Tellson』s, almost 
as a matter of course. For such variety of reasons, Tellson』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』s sometimes wrote 
the latest news out in a line or so and posted it in the Bank 

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windows, for all who ran through Temple Bar to read. 

On a steamy, 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. 

「But, although you are the youngest man that ever lived,」 said 
Charles Darnay, rather hesitating, 「I must still suggest to you—」 

「I understand. That I am too old?」 said Mr. Lorry. 

「Unsettled weather, a long journey, uncertain means of 
travelling, a disorganised country, a city that may not be even safe 
for you.」 

「My dear Charles,」 said Mr. Lorry, with cheerful confidence, 
「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』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』s, after all 
these years, who ought to be?」 

「I wish I were going myself,」 said Charles Darnay, somewhat 
restlessly, and like one thinking aloud. 

「Indeed! You are a pretty fellow to object and advise!」 
exclaimed Mr. Lorry. 「You wish you were going yourself? And you 
a Frenchman born? You are a wise counsellor.」 

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「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,」 he spoke here in his former 
thoughtful manner, 「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—」 

「When you were talking to Lucie,」 Mr. Lorry repeated. 「Yes. I 
wonder you are not ashamed to mention the name of Lucie! 
Wishing you were going to France at this time of day!」 

「However, I am not going,」 said Charles Darnay, with a smile. 
「It is more to the purpose that you say you are.」 

「And I am in plain reality. The truth is, my dear Charles,」 Mr. 
Lorry glanced at the distant House, and lowered his voice, 「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 today or sacked tomorrow! Now, a judicious selection from 
these, with the least possible delay, and the burying of them, or 
otherwise getting of them out of harm』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』s knows this and 
says this—Tellson』s, whose bread I have eaten these sixty years— 
because I am a little stiff about the joints? Why, I am a boy, sir, to 
half a dozen old codgers here!」 

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「How I admire the gallantry of your youthful spirit, Mr. Lorry.」 

「Tut! Nonsense, sir!—And my dear Charles,」 said Mr. Lorry, 
glancing at the House again, 「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.」 

「And do you really go tonight?」 

「I really go tonight, for the case has become too pressing to 
admit of delay.」 

「And do you take no one with you?」 

「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. No body will suspect Jerry of being anything but 
an English bulldog, or of having any design in his head but to fly at 
anybody who touches his master.」 

「I must say again that I heartily admire your gallantry and 
youthfulness.」 

「I must say again, nonsense, nonsense! When I have executed 
this little commission, I shall, perhaps, accept Tellson』s proposal to 
retire and live at my ease. Time enough, then, to think about 
growing old.」 

This dialogue had taken place at Mr. Lorry』s usual desk, with 
Monseigneur swarming within a yard or two of it, boastful of what 

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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 one 
only harvest ever known under the skies that had not been sown— 
as if nothing had ever been done, or omitted to be done, that had 
led to it—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. 

Among the talkers, was Stryver, of the King』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. 

The House approached Mr. Lorry, and laying a soiled and 

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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—the 
more quickly because it was his own right name. The address, 
turned into English, ran: 

「Very pressing. To Monsieur heretofore the Marquis St. 
Evremonde, of France. Confided to the cares of Messrs. Tellson 
and Co., Bankers, London, England.」 

On the marriage morning, Dr. Manette had made it his one 
urgent and express request to Charles Darnay, that the secret of 
his name should be—unless he, the Doctor, dissolved the 
obligation—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. 

「No,」 said Mr. Lorry, in reply to the House; 「I have referred it, I 
think, to everybody now here, and no one can tell me where this 
gentleman is to be found.」 

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』s desk. He held the letter out inquiringly; and Monseigneur 
looked at it, in the person of this 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. 

「Nephew, I believe—but in any case degenerate successor—of 
the polished Marquis who was murdered,」 said one. 「Happy to say 
I never knew him.」 

「A craven who abandoned his post,」 said another—this 
Monseigneur had been got out of Paris, legs uppermost and half 

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suffocated, in a load of hay—「some years ago.」 

「Infected with the new doctrines,」 said a third, eyeing the 
direction through his glass in passing; 「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.」 

「Hey?」 cried the blatant Stryver. 「Did he though? Is that the 
sort of fellow? Let us look at his infamous name. D—n the fellow!」 

Darnay, unable to restrain himself any longer, touched Mr. 
Stryver on the shoulder, and said: 

「I know the fellow.」 

「Do you, by Jupiter?」 said Stryver. 「I am sorry for it.」 

「Why?」 

「Why, Mr. Darnay? D』ye hear what he did? Don』t ask why, in 
these times.」 

「But I do ask why?」 

「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』ll answer you. I am sorry because I believe there 
is contamination in such a scoundrel. That』s why.」 

Mindful of the secret, Darnay with great difficulty checked 
himself, and said: 「You may not understand the gentleman.」 

「I understand how to put you in a corner, Mr. Darnay,」 said 
Bully Stryver, 「and I』ll do it. If this fellow is a gentleman, I don』t 
understand him. You may tell him so, with my compliments. You 

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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,」 said Stryver, looking all round, 
and snapping his fingers, 「I know something of human nature, 
and I tell you that you』ll never find a fellow like this fellow, 
trusting himself to the mercies of such precious proteges. No, 
gentlemen; he』ll always show 』em a clean pair of heels very early in 
the scuffle, and sneak away.」 

With these 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. 

「Will you take charge of the letter?」 said Mr. Lorry. 「You know 
where to deliver it?」 

「I do.」 

「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?」 

「I will do so. Do you start for Paris from here?」 

「From here, at eight.」 

「I will come back to see you off.」 

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: 

「Prison of the Abbaye, Paris.
「June 21, 1792.
「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


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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—razed to the ground. 

「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 have remitted the imposts they have 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? 

「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! 

「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! 

「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. 

「Your afflicted, 「GABELLE」 

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The latent uneasiness in Darnay』s mind was roused to vigorous 
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 
passers-by. 

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. 

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:—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 

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that might impeach him for it. 

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—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— 
and no doubt he had put the fact in plea and proof, for his own 
safety, so that it could not but appear now. 

This favoured the desperate resolution Charles Darnay had 
begun to make, that he would go to Paris. 

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 

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those, had followed Gabelle』s letter: the appeal of an innocent 
prisoner, in danger of death, to his justice, honour, and good 
name. 

His resolution was made. He must go to Paris. 

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. 

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 toward 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. 

He walked to and fro, with thoughts very busy, until it was time 
to return to Tellson』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. 

A carriage with post-horses was ready at the Bank door, and 

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Jerry was booted and equipped. 

「I have delivered that letter,」 said Charles Darnay to Mr. Lorry. 
「I would not consent to your being charged with any written 
answer, but perhaps you will take a verbal one?」 

「That I will, and readily,」 said Mr. Lorry, 「if it is not 
dangerous.」 

「Not at all. Though it is to a prisoner in the Abbaye.」 

「What is his name?」 said Mr. Lorry, with his open pocketbook 
in his hand. 

「Gabelle.」 

「Gabelle. And what is the message to the unfortunate Gabelle 
in prison?」 

「Simply, 『that he has received the letter, and will come.』」 

「Any time mentioned?」 

「He will start upon his journey tomorrow night.」 

「Any person mentioned?」 

「No.」 

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. 「My love to Lucie, and 
to little Lucie,」 said Mr. Lorry at parting, 「and take precious care 
of them till I come back.」 Charles Darnay shook his head and 
doubtfully smiled, as the carriage rolled away. 

That night—it was the fourteenth of August—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 

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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. 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-by (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. 

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. 『For the love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the 
honour of your noble name!』 was the poor prisoner』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. 

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BOOK THE
THIRD


THE TRACK OF A
STORM


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Chapter XXXI 

IN SECRET 

T 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. 

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』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 

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being forwarded to his destination in a cage, he could not have felt 
his freedom more completely gone. 

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. 

Nothing but the production of the afflicted Gabelle』s letter from 
his prison of the Abbaye would have got him on so far. His 
difficulty at the guardhouse 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. 

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. 

「Emigrant,」 said the functionary, 「I am going to send you on to 
Paris, under an escort.」 

「Citizen, I desire nothing more than to get to Paris, though I 
could dispense with the escort.」 

「Silence!」 growled a red-cap, striking at the coverlet with the 
butt-end of his musket. 「Peace, aristocrat!」 

「It is as the good patriot says,」 observed the timid functionary. 
「You are an aristocrat, and must have an escort—and must pay for 
it.」 

「I have no choice,」 said Charles Darnay. 

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「Choice! Listen to him!」 cried the same scowling red-cap. 「As if 
it was not a favour to be protected from the lamp-iron!」 

「It is always as the good patriot says,」 observed the functionary. 
「Rise and dress yourself, emigrant.」 

Darnay complied, and was taken back to the guardhouse, 
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』clock in the morning. 

The escort were two mounted patriots in red caps and 
tricoloured cockades, armed with national muskets and sabres, 
who rode one on either side of him. 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. 

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 

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of an individual case that was not yet stated, and of 
representations, confirmable by the prisoner in the Abbaye, that 
were not yet made. 

But when they came to the town of Beauvais—which they did 
at eventide, when the streets were filled with people—he could not 
conceal from himself that the aspect of affairs was very alarming. 
An ominous crowd gathered to see him dismount at the posting 
yard, and many voices called out loudly, 「Down with the 
emigrant!」 

He stopped in the act of swinging himself out of his saddle, and, 
resuming it as his safest place, said: 

「Emigrant, my friends! Do you not see me here, in France, of 
my own will?」 

「You are a cursed emigrant,」 cried a farrier, making at him in a 
furious manner through the press, hammer in hand; 「and you are 
a cursed aristocrat!」 

The postmaster interposed himself between this man and the 
rider』s bridle (at which he was evidently making), and soothingly 
said, 「Let him be; let him be! He will be judged at Paris.」 

「Judged!」 repeated the farrier, swinging his hammer. 「Ay! and 
condemned as a traitor.」 At this the crowd roared approval. 

Checking the postmaster, who was for turning his horse』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: 

「Friends, you deceive yourselves, or you are deceived. I am not 
a traitor.」 

「He lies!」 cried the smith. 「He is a traitor since the decree. His 
life is forfeit to the people. His cursed life is not his own!」 

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At that 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』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. 

「What is this decree that the smith spoke of?」 Darnay asked the 
postmaster, when he had thanked him, and stood beside him in 
the yard. 

「Truly, a decree for selling the property of emigrants.」 

「When passed?」 

「On the fourteenth.」 

「The day I left England!」 

「Everybody says it is but one of several, and that there will be 
others—if there are not already—banishing all emigrants, and 
condemning all to death who return. That is what he meant when 
he said your life was not your own.」 

「But there are no such decrees yet?」 

「What do I know!」 said the postmaster, shrugging his 
shoulders; 「there may be, or there will be. It is all the same. What 
would you have?」 

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 

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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. 

Daylight at last found them before the wall of Paris. The barrier 
was closed and strongly guarded when they rode up to it. 

「Where are the papers of this prisoner?」 demanded a resolute-
looking man in authority, who was summoned out by the guard. 

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. 

「Where,」 repeated the same personage, without taking any 
heed of him whatever, 「are the papers of this prisoner?」 

The drunken patriot had them in his cap, and produced them. 
Casting his eyes over Gabelle』s letter, the same personage in 
authority showed some disorder and surprise and looked at 
Darnay with a close attention. 

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 

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the former; and that while ingress into the city for peasants』 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 tricolour cockade were universal, both among 
men and women. 

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. 

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 guardhouse, 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. 

「Citizen Defarge,」 said he to Darnay』s conductor, as he took a 
slip of paper to write on. 「Is this the emigrant Evremonde?」 

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「This is the man.」 

「Your age, Evremonde?」 

「Thirty-seven.」 

「Married, Evremonde?」 

「Yes.」 

「Where married?」 

「In England.」 

「Without doubt. Where is your wife, Evremonde?」 

「In England.」 

「Without doubt. You are consigned, Evremonde, to the prison 
of La Force.」 

「Just Heaven!」 exclaimed Darnay. 「Under what law, and for 
what offence?」 

The officer looked up from his slip of paper for a moment. 

「We have new laws, Evremonde, and new offences, since you 
were here.」 He said it with a hard smile, and went on writing. 

「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?」 

「Emigrants have no rights, Evremonde,」 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, 「In secret.」 

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. 

「Is it you,」 said Defarge, in a low voice, as they went down the 
guardhouse steps and turned into Paris, 「who married the 

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daughter of Doctor Manette, once a prisoner in the Bastille that is 

no more?」 

「Yes,」 replied Darnay, looking at him with surprise. 

「My name is Defarge, and I keep a wine-shop in the Quarter 
Saint Antoine. Possibly you have heard of me.」 

「My wife came to your house to reclaim her father? Yes!」 

The word 『wife』 seemed to serve as a gloomy reminder to 
Defarge, to say with sudden impatience, 「In the name of that 
sharp female newly-born, and called La Guillotine, why did you 
come to France?」 

「You heard me say why, a minute ago. Do you not believe it is 
the truth?」 

「A bad truth for you,」 said Defarge, speaking with knitted 
brows, and looking straight before him. 

「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?」 

「None.」 Defarge spoke, always looking straight before him. 

「Will you answer me a single question?」 

「Perhaps. According to its nature. You can say what it is.」 

「In this prison that I am going to so unjustly, shall I have some 
free communication with the world outside?」 

「You will see.」 

「I am not to be buried there, prejudiced, and without any 
means of presenting my case?」 

「You will see. But, what then? Other people have been 
similarly buried in worse prisons, before now.」 

「But never by me, Citizen Defarge.」 

Defarge glanced darkly at him for answer, and walked on in a 

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steady and set silence. The deeper he sank into this silence, the 
fainter hope there was—or so Darnay thought—of his softening in 
any slight degree. He, therefore, made haste to say: 

「It is of the utmost importance to me (you know, Citizen, even 
better than I do, of how much importance), that I should be able to 
communicate to Mr. Lorry of Tellson』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?」 

「I will do,」 Defarge doggedly rejoined, 「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.」 

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』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. 

That he had fallen among far greater dangers than those which 

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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 『sharp 
female newly-born, and called La Guillotine,』 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? 

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 him 
into a dreary prison courtyard, he arrived at the prison of La 
Force. 

A man with a bloated face opened the strong wicket, to whom 
Defarge presented 「The Emigrant Evremonde.」 

「What the Devil! How many more of them!」 exclaimed the man 
with the bloated face. 

Defarge took his receipt without noticing the exclamation, and 
withdrew, with his two fellow-patriots. 

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「What the Devil, I say again!」 exclaimed the gaoler, left with his 
wife. 「How many more!」 

The gaoler』s wife, being provided with no answer to the 
question, merely replied, 「One must have patience, my dear!」 
Three turnkeys who entered responsive to a bell she rang, echoed 
the sentiment, and one added, 「For the love of Liberty」; which 
sounded in that place like an inappropriate conclusion. 

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! 

「In secret, too,」 grumbled the gaoler, looking at the written 
paper. 「As if I was not already full to bursting!」 

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. 

「Come!」 said the chief, at length taking up his keys, 「come with 
me, Emigrant.」 

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. 

In the instinctive association of prisoners with shameful crime 
and disgrace, the newcomer recoiled from this company. But the 

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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. 

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 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. 

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—with the apparitions of the 
coquette, the young beauty, and the mature woman delicately 
bred—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! 

「In the name of the assembled companions in misfortune,」 said 
a gentleman of courtly appearance and address, coming forward, 
「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?」 

Charles Darnay roused himself, and gave the required 

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information, in words as suitable as he could find. 

「But I hope,」 said the gentleman, following the chief gaoler 
with his eyes, who moved across the room, 「that you are not in 
secret?」 

「I do not understand the meaning of the term, but I have heard 
them say so.」 

「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.」 Then he added, raising his voice, 「I 
grieve to inform the society—in secret.」 

There was a murmur of commiseration as Charles Darnay 
crossed the room to a grated door where the gaoler awaited him, 
and many voices—among which, the soft and compassionate 
voices of women were conspicuous—gave him good wishes and 
encouragement. He turned at the grated door, to render the 
thanks of his heart; it closed under the gaoler』s hand; and the 
apparitions vanished from his sight for ever. 

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. 

「Yours,」 said the gaoler. 

「Why am I confined alone?」 

「How do I know!」 

「I can buy pen, ink, and paper?」 

「Such are not my orders. You will be visited, and can ask then. 
At present, you may buy your food, and nothing more.」 

There were in the cell, a chair, a table, and a straw mattress. As 

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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, 「Now am I left, as if I were dead.」 Stopping then, 
to look down at the mattress, he turned from it with a sick feeling, 
and thought, 「And here in these crawling creatures is the first 
condition of the body after death.」 

「Five paces by four and a half, five paces by four and a half, five 
paces by four and a half.」 The prisoner walked to and fro in his 
cell, counting its measurements, and the roar of the city arose like 
muffled drums with a wild swell of voices added to them. 「He 
made shoes, he made shoes, he made shoes.」 The prisoner 
counted the measurement again, and paced faster, to draw his 
mind with him from that latter repetition. 「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』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.」 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—that it still rolled in like muffled drums, 
but with the wail of voices that he knew, in the swell that rose 
above them. 

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Chapter XXXII 

THE GRINDSTONE 

Tellson』s Bank, established in the Saint Germain Quarter of 
Paris, was in a wing of a large house, approached by a 
court-yard 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』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. 

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 
drawing Republic One and Indivisible, of Liberty, Equality, 
Fraternity, or Death, Monseigneur』s house had been first 
sequestrated, and then confiscated. For, all things move so fast, 
and decree following 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』s 
house, and had marked it with the tricolour, and were drinking 
brandy in its state apartments. 

A place of business in London like Tellson』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 

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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』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』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. 

What money would be drawn out of Tellson』s henceforth, and 
what would lie there, lost and forgotten; what plate and jewels 
would tarnish in Tellson』s hiding-places, while the depositors 
rusted in prisons, and when they should have violently perished; 
how many accounts with Tellson』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—a shade of horror. 

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 

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him, so that he did his duty. On the opposite side of the courtyard, 
under a colonnade, was extensive standing for carriages—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 to 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 the 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. 

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. 

「Thank God,」 said Mr. Lorry, clasping his hands, 「that no one 
near and dear to me is in this dreadful town tonight. May He have 
mercy on all who are in danger!」 

Soon afterwards the bell at the great gate sounded, and he 
thought, 「They have come back!」 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. 

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 watching it, 
when his door suddenly opened, and two figures rushed in, at 
sight of which he fell back in amazement. 

Lucie and her father! Lucie with her arms stretched out to him, 

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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. 

「What is this?」 cried Mr. Lorry, breathless and confused. 
「What is the matter? Lucie! Manette! What has happened? What 
has brought you here? What is it?」 

With the look fixed upon him, in her paleness and wildness, she 
panted out in his arms, imploringly, 「O my dear friend! My 
husband!」 

「Your husband, Lucie?」 

「Charles.」 

「What of Charles?」 

「Here.」 

「Here, in Paris?」 

「Has been here some days—three or four—I don』t know how 
many—I can』t collect my thoughts. An errand of generosity 
brought him here unknown to us; he was stopped at the barrier, 
and sent to prison.」 

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 court-yard. 

「What is that noise?」 said the Doctor, turning towards the 
window. 

「Don』t look!」 cried Mr. Lorry. 「Don』t look out! Manette, for 
your life, don』t touch the blind!」 

The Doctor turned, with his hand upon the fastening of the 
window, and said, with a cool, bold smile: 

「My dear friend, I have a charmed life in this city. I have been a 

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Bastille prisoner. There is no patriot in Paris—in Paris? In 
France—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.—What is that noise?」 
His hand was again upon the window. 

「Don』t look!」 cried Mr. Lorry, absolutely desperate. 「No, Lucie, 
my dear, nor you!」 He got his arm around her, and held her. 
「Don』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?」 

「La Force!」 

「La Force! Lucie, my child, if ever you were brave and 
serviceable in your life—and you were always both—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 tonight; you cannot possibly stir 
out. I say this, because what I must bid you to do for Charles』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.」 

「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.」 

The old man kissed her, and hurried her into his room, and 
turned the key; then came hurrying back to the Doctor, and 

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opened the window and partly opened the blind, and put his hand 
upon the Doctor』s arm, and looked out with him into the courtyard. 

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 rushed in to work at the grindstone; it had 
evidently been set up there for their purpose, as in a convenient 
and retired spot. 

But such awful workers, and such awful work! 

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, the 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』s lace and silk and ribbon, with the stain 

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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 wrist 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;—eyes which any unbrutalised beholder would 
have given twenty years of life, to petrify with a well directed gun. 

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』s ashy face. 

「They are,」 Mr. Lorry whispered the words, glancing fearfully 
around at the locked room, 「murdering the prisoners. If you are 
sure of what you say; if you really have the power you think you 
have—as I believe you have—make yourself known to these devils, 
and get taken to La Force. It may be too late, I don』t know, but let 
it not be a minute later!」 

Doctor Manette pressed his hand, hastened bareheaded out of 
the room, and was in the court-yard when Mr. Lorry regained the 
blind. 

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 minutes 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 

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shoulder, hurried out with cries—「Live the Bastille prisoner! Help 
for the Bastille prisoner』s kindred in La Force! Room for the 
Bastille prisoner in front there! Save the prisoner Evremonde at 
La Force!」 and a thousand answering shouts. 

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. 

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! 

Twice more in the darkness the bell at the great gate sounded, 
and the irruption was repeated, and the grindstone whirled and 
spluttered. 「What is it?」 cried Lucie, affrighted. 「Hush! The 
soldiers』 swords are sharpened there,」 said Mr. Lorry. 「The place 
is national property now, and used as a kind of armoury, my love.」 

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 

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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. 

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. 

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 Chapter XXXIII 

THE SHADOW 

O ne of the first considerations which arose in the business 
mind of Mr. Lorry when business hours came round, was 
this:—that he had no right to imperil Tellson』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』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. 

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. 

Noon coming, and the Doctor not returning, and every minute』s 
delay tending to compromise Tellson』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. 

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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. 

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. 

「Your servant,」 said Mr. Lorry. 「Do you know me?」 

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: 

「Do you know me?」 

「I have seen you somewhere.」 

「Perhaps at my wine-shop?」 

Much interested and agitated, Mr. Lorry said: 「You come from 
Doctor Manette?」 

「Yes, I come from Doctor Manette.」 

「And what says he? What does he send me?」 

Defarge gave into his anxious hand, an open scrap of paper. It 
bore the words in the Doctor』s writing: 

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. 

It was dated from La Force, within an hour. 

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「Will you accompany me,」 said Mr. Lorry, joyfully relieved after 
reading this note aloud, 「to where his wife resides?」 

「Yes,」 returned Defarge. 

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 court-yard. There they found two women; one 
knitting. 

「Madame Defarge, surely!」 said Mr. Lorry, who had left her in 
exactly the same attitude some seventeen years ago. 

「It is she,」 observed her husband. 

「Does Madame go with us?」 inquired Mr. Lorry, seeing that 
she moved as they moved. 

「Yes. That she may be able to recognise the faces and know the 
persons. It is for their safety.」 

Beginning to be struck by Defarge』s manner, Mr. Lorry looked 
dubiously at him, and led the way. Both the women followed; the 
second woman being The Vengeance. 

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—little thinking what it 
had been doing near him in the night, and might, but for a chance, 
have done for him. 

DEAREST—Take courage. I am well, and your father has 
influence around me. You cannot answer this. Kiss our child for 
me. 

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 

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one of the hands that knitted. It was a passionate, loving, thankful, 
womanly action, but the hand made no response—dropped cold 
and heavy, and took to its knitting again. 

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. 

「My dear,」 said Mr. Lorry, striking in to explain; 「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—that she may identify them. I believe,」 said Mr. 
Lorry, rather halting in his reassuring words, as the stony manner 
of all the three impressed itself upon him more and more, 「I state 
the case, Citizen Defarge?」 

Defarge looked gloomily at his wife, and gave no other answer 
than a gruff sound of acquiescence. 

「You had better, Lucie,」 said Mr. Lorry, doing all he could to 
propitiate, by tone and manner, 「have the dear child here, and our 
good Pross. Our good Pross, Defarge, is an English lady, and 
knows no French.」 

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, 
「Well, I am sure, Boldface! I hope you are pretty well!」 She also 
bestowed a British cough on Madame Defarge; but, neither of the 
two took much heed of her. 

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「Is that his child?」 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. 

「Yes, Madame,」 answered Mr. Lorry; 「this is our poor 
prisoner』s darling daughter, and only child.」 

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. 

「It is enough, my husband,」 said Madame Defarge. 「I have seen 
them. We may go.」 

But the suppressed manner had enough of menace in it—not 
visible and presented, but indistinct and withheld—to alarm Lucie 
into saying, as she laid her appealing hand on Madame Defarge』s 
dress: 

「You will be good to my poor husband. You will do him no 
harm. You will help me to see him if you can?」 

「Your husband is not my business here,」 returned Madame 
Defarge, looking down at her with perfect composure. 「It is the 
daughter of your father who is my business here.」 

「For my sake, then, be merciful to my husband. For my child』s 
sake! She will put her hands together and pray you to be merciful. 
We are more afraid of you than of these others.」 

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. 

「What is that your husband says in that little letter?」 asked 

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Madame Defarge, with a lowering smile. 「Influence; he says 
something touching influence?」 

「That my father,」 said Lucie, hurriedly taking the paper from 
her breast, but with her alarmed eyes on her questioner and not 
on it, 「has much influence around him.」 

「Surely it will release him!」 said Madame Defarge. 「Let it do 
so.」 

「As a wife and mother,」 cried Lucie most earnestly, 「I implore 
you to have pity on me and not 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!」 

Madame Defarge looked, coldly as ever, at the suppliant, and 
said, turning to her friend The Vengeance: 

「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 their 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?」 

「We have seen nothing else,」 returned The Vengeance. 

「We have borne this a long time,」 said Madame Defarge, 
turning her eyes again upon Lucie. 「Judge you! Is it likely that the 
trouble of one wife and mother would be much to us now?」 

She resumed her knitting and went out. The Vengeance 
followed. Defarge went last, and closed the door. 

「Courage, my dear Lucie,」 said Mr. Lorry, as he raised her. 
「Courage, courage! So far all goes well with us—much, much 
better than it has of late gone with many poor souls. Cheer up, and 

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have a thankful heart.」 

「I am not thankless, I hope, but that dreadful woman seems to 
throw a shadow on me and on all my hopes.」 

「Tut, tut!」 said Mr. Lorry; 「what is this despondency in the 
brave little beast? A shadow indeed! No substance in it, Lucie.」 

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. 

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 Chapter XXXIV 

CALM IN STORM 

Doctor 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. 

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 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. That, hereupon he had ascertained, 

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through the registers on the table, that his son-in-law was among 
the living prisoners, and had pleaded hard to the Tribunal—of 
whom some members were asleep and some awake, some dirty 
with murder and some clean, some sober and some not—for his 
life and liberty. That, in the first frantic greetings lavished on 
himself as a notable sufferer under the over-thrown 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. 

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 found him in the 

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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—had made a litter for 
him and escorted him carefully from the spot—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. 

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 dreadful experiences would revive the old 
danger. 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』s husband, and deliver him. 「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!」 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. 

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 

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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』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. 

This new life of the Doctor』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』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. 
「All curious to see,」 thought Mr. Lorry, in his amiably shrewd 
way, 「but all natural and right; so, take the lead, my dear friend, 

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and keep it; it couldn』t be in better hands.」 

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』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 
seashore. What private solicitude could rear itself against the 
deluge of the Year One of Liberty—the deluge rising from below, 
not falling from above, and with the windows of Heaven shut, not 
opened! 

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—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 

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misery, to turn it grey. 

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—the figure of the sharp female 
called La Guillotine. 

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 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. 

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 

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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』s own 
Temple every day. 

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 
have Lucie』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 victim, 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. 

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Chapter XXXV 

THE WOOD-SAWYER 

O 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』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;—the last, much the easiest 
to bestow, O Guillotine! 

If the suddenness of her calamity, and the whirling wheels of 
the time, had stunned the Doctor』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. 

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 

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cheated herself into the show of a belief that they would soon be 
reunited—the little preparations for his speedy return, the setting 
aside of his chair and his books—these, and the solemn prayer at 
night for one dear prisoner especially, among the many unhappy 
souls in prison and the shadow of death—were almost the only 
outspoken reliefs of her heavy mind. 

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: 「Nothing can happen to him without my 
knowledge, and I know that I can save him, Lucie.」 

They had not made the round of their changed life many weeks, 
when her father said to her, on coming home one evening: 

「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—which depends on many uncertainties and 
incidents—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.」 

「Oh show me the place, my father, and I will go there every 
day.」 

From that time, in all weathers, she waited there two hours. As 
the clock struck two, she was there, and at four she turned 

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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. 

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. 

「Good day, citizeness.」 

「Good day, citizen.」 

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. 

「Walking here again, citizeness?」 

「You see me, citizen!」 

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. 

「But it』s not my business,」 said he. And went on sawing his 
wood. 

Next day he was looking out for her, and accosted her the 
moment she appeared. 

「What! Walking here again, citizeness?」 

「Yes, citizen.」 

「Ah! A child too! Your mother, is it not, my little citizeness?」 

「Do I say yes, mamma?」 whispered little Lucie, drawing close 
to her. 

「Yes, dearest.」 

「Yes, citizen.」 

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「Ah, But it』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!」 

The billet fell as he spoke, and he threw it into a basket. 

「I call myself the Samson of the firewood guillotine. See here 
again! Loo, loo, loo; Loo, loo, loo! And off her head comes! Now, a 
child. Tickle, tickle; Pickle, pickle! And off its head comes. All the 
family!」 

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. 

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. 「But it』s not my business!」 he would generally 
say at those times, and would briskly fall to his sawing again. 

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. 

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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! 

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 「Little 
Sainte Guillotine」—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. 

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 which 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 

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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』s hands, 
clutched at one another』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—a something, once innocent, delivered over to all devilry—a 
healthy pastime changed into a means of angering the blood, 
bewildering the senses, and stealing 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』s head thus distracted, 
the delicate foot mincing in this slough of blood and dirt, were 
types of the disjointed time. 

This was the Carmagnole. As it passed, leaving Lucie 
frightened and bewildered in the doorway of the wood-sawyer』s 
house, the feathery snow fell as quietly and lay as white and soft, 
as if it had never been. 

「O my father!」 for he stood before her when he lifted up the 
eyes she had momentarily darkened with her hand; 「such a cruel, 

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bad sight.」 

「I know, my dear, I know. I have seen it many times. Don』t be 
frightened. Not one of them would harm you.」 

「I am not frightened for myself, my father. But when I think of 
my husband, and the mercies of these people—」 「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. You may 
kiss your hand towards the highest shelving roof.」 

「I do so, father, and I send him my Soul with it!」 

「You cannot see him, my poor dear?」 

「No, father,」 said Lucie, yearning and weeping as she kissed 
her hand, 「no.」 

A footstep in the snow. Madame Defarge. 「I salute you, 
citizeness,」 from the Doctor. 「I salute you, citizen.」 This in 
passing. Nothing more. Madame Defarge gone, like a shadow over 
the white road. 

「Give me your arm, my love. Pass from here with an air of 
cheerfulness and courage, for his sake. That was well done」; they 
had left the spot; 「it shall not be in vain. Charles is summoned for 
tomorrow.」 

「For tomorrow!」 

「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 
tomorrow, and removed to the Conciergerie; I have timely 
information. You are not afraid?」 

She could scarcely answer, 「I trust in you.」 

「Do so implicitly. Your suspense is nearly ended, my darling; he 

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shall be restored to you within a few hours; I have encompassed 
him with every protection. I must see Lorry.」 

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. 

「I must see Lorry,」 the Doctor repeated, turning her another 
way. 

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』s had 
in keeping, and to hold his peace. 

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! 

Who could that be with Mr. Lorry—the owner of the riding-coat 
upon the chair—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: 
「Removed to the Conciergerie, and summoned for tomorrow?」 

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 Chapter XXXVI 

TRIUMPH 

T 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 
「Come out and listen to the Evening Paper, you inside there!」 
「Charles Evremonde, called Darnay!」 
So at last began the Evening Paper at La Force. 

When a name was called, its owner stepped apart into a spot 
reserved for those who were announced as being thus fatally 
recorded. Charles Evremonde, called Darnay, had reason to know 
the usage; he had seen hundreds pass away so. 

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. 

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 

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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 lockup 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—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. 

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』s name was 
called. All the fifteen were condemned, and the trials of the whole 
occupied an hour and a half. 

「Charles Evremonde, called Darnay,」 was at length arraigned. 

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 

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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 two men there, unconnected with the 
Tribunal, who wore their usual clothes, and had not assumed the 
coarse garb of the Carmagnole. 

Charles Evremonde, 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. 

「Take off his head!」 cried the audience. 「An enemy to the 
Republic!」 

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? 

Undoubtedly it was. 

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Was he not an emigrant then? What did he call himself? 

Not an emigrant, he hoped, within the sense and spirit of the 
law. 

Why not? the President desired to know. 

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—he submitted before the word emigrant in 
the present acceptation by the Tribunal was in use—to live by his 
own industry in England, rather than on the industry of the 
overladen people of France. 

What proof had he of this? 

He handed in the name of two witness; Theophile Gabelle, and 
Alexandre Manette. 

But he had married in England? the President reminded him. 

True, but not an English woman. 

A citizeness of France? 

Yes. By birth. 

Her name and family? 

「Lucie Manette, only daughter of Doctor Manette, the good 
physician who sits there」 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. 

On these few steps of his dangerous way, Charles Darnay had 
set his foot according to Doctor Manette』s reiterated instructions. 
The same cautious counsel directed every step that lay before him, 
and had prepared every inch of his road. 

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The President asked, why had he returned to France when he 
did, and not sooner? 

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』s life, and to bear his testimony, at whatever personal 
hazard, to the truth. Was that criminal in the eyes of the Republic? 

The populace cried enthusiastically, 「No!」 and the President 
rang his bell to quiet them. Which it did not, for they continued to 
cry 「No!」 until they left off, of their own will. 

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』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. 

The doctor had taken care that it should be there—had assured 
him that it would be there—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—in fact, had rather passed out of the Tribunal』s patriotic 
remembrance—until three days ago; when he had been 
summoned before it, and had been set at liberty on the Jury』s 
declaring themselves satisfied that the accusation against him was 

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answered, as to himself, by the surrender of the citizen 
Evremonde, called Darnay. 

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—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. 

At every vote (the Jurymen voted aloud and individually), the 
populace set up a shout of applause. All the voices were in the 
prisoner』s favour, and the President declared him free. 

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 three, 
with the second predominating. No sooner was the acquittal 

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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. 

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—a raised finger— 
and they all added in words, 「Long live the Republic!」 

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, 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. 

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 

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this car of triumph, not even the Doctor』s entreaties could prevent 
his being carried to his home on men』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. 

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 court-yard 
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. 

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 court-yard 
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』s bank, and over the bridge, 
the Carmagnole absorbed them every one and whirled them away. 

After grasping the Doctor』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 hands round his neck; and after embracing the ever 
zealous and faithful Pross who lifted her; he took his wife in his 

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arms, and carried her up to their rooms. 

「Lucie! My own! I am safe.」 

「O dearest Charles, let me thank God for this on my knees as I 
have prayed to Him.」 

They all reverently bowed their heads and hearts. When she 
was again in his arms, he said to her— 「And now speak to your 
father, dearest. No other man in all this France could have done 
what he has done for me.」 

She laid her head upon her father』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. 「You must not be weak, my darling,」 he 
remonstrated; 「don』t tremble so. I have saved him.」 

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 Chapter XXXVII 

A KNOCK AT THE DOOR 

Ihave saved him.」 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. 

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. 

Her father, cheering her, showed a compassionate superiority 
to this woman』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. 

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 

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this account, and partly to avoid a domestic spy, they kept no 
servant; the citizen and citizeness who acted as porters at the 
court-yard 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. 

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』s name, therefore, duly 
embellished the door-post 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 Evremonde, called Darnay. 

In the universal fear and distrust that darkened the time, all the 
usual harmless ways of life were changed. In the Doctor』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. 

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 associations 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 

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knew no more of that 「nonsense」 (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 shop-keeper 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. 

「Now, Mr. Cruncher,」 said Miss Pross, whose eyes were red 
with felicity; 「if you are ready, I am.」 

Jerry hoarsely professed himself at Miss Pross』s service. He had 
worn all his rust off long ago, but nothing would file his spiky head 
down. 

「There』s all manner of things wanted,」 said Miss Pross, 「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.」 

「It will be much the same to your knowledge, miss, I should 
think,」 retorted Jerry, 「whether they drink your health or the Old 
Un』s.」 

「Who』s he?」 said Miss Pross. 

Mr. Cruncher, with some diffidence, explained himself as 
meaning 「Old Nick』s.」 

「Ha!」 said Miss Pross, 「it doesn』t need an interpreter to explain 
the meaning of these creatures. They have but one, and it』s 
Midnight Murder, and Mischief.」 「Hush, dear! Pray, pray, be 
cautious!」 cried Lucie. 

「Yes, yes, yes, I』ll be cautious,」 said Miss Pross; 「but I may say 
among ourselves, that I do hope there will be no oniony and 

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tobaccoy 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』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?」 

「I think you may take that liberty,」 the Doctor answered, 
smiling. 

「For gracious sake, don』t talk about Liberty; we have quite 
enough of that,」 said Miss Pross. 

「Hush, dear! Again?」 Lucie remonstrated. 

「Well, my sweet,」 said Miss Pross, nodding her head 
emphatically, 「the short and the long of it is, that I am a subject of 
His Most Gracious Majesty King George the Third」; Miss Pross 
curtseyed at the name; 「and as such, my maxim is, Confound their 
politics, Frustrate their knavish tricks, On him our hopes we fix, 
God save the King!」 

Mr. Cruncher in an access of loyalty, growlingly repeated the 
words after Miss Pross, like somebody at church. 

「I am glad you have so much of the Englishman in you, though 
I wish you had never taken that cold in your voice,」 said Miss 
Pross, approvingly. 「But the question, Doctor Manette. Is there」— 
it was the good creature』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—「is there any prospect yet, of our getting out of 
this place?」 

「I fear not yet. It would be dangerous for Charles yet.」 

「Heigh-ho-hum!」 said Miss Pross, cheerfully repressing a sigh 
as she glanced at her darling』s golden hair in the light of the fire, 

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「then we must have patience and wait; that』s all. We must hold up 
our heads and fight low, as my brother Solomon used to say. Now, 
Mr. Cruncher!—Don』t you move, Ladybird!」 

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. 

「What is that?」 she cried, all at once. 

「My dear!」 said her father, stopping in his story, and laying his 
hand on hers, 「command yourself. What a disordered state you 
are in! The least thing—nothing—startles you! You, your father』s 
daughter!」 

「I thought, my father,」 said Lucie, excusing herself. with a pale 
face and in a faltering voice, 「that I heard strange feet upon the 
stairs.」 

「My love, the staircase is as still as Death.」 

As he said the word, a blow was struck upon the door. 

「Oh father, father. What can this be! Hide Charles. Save him!」 

「My child,」 said the Doctor, rising, and laying his hand upon 
her shoulder, 「I have saved him. What weakness is this, my dear! 
Let me go to the door.」 

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 

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four rough men in red caps, armed with sabres and pistols, 

entered the room. 

「The Citizen Evremonde, called Darnay,」 said the first. 

「Who seeks him?」 answered Darnay. 

「I seek him. We seek him. I know you, Evremonde; I saw you 
before the Tribunal today. You are again the prisoner of the 
Republic.」 

The four surrounded him where he stood with his wife and 
child clinging to him. 

「Tell me how and why I am again a prisoner?」 

「It is enough that you return straight to the Conciergerie, and 
will know tomorrow. You are summoned for tomorrow.」 

Dr. 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: 

「You know him, you have said. Do you know me?」 

「Yes, I know you, Citizen Doctor.」 

「We all know you, Citizen Doctor,」 said the other three. 

He looked abstractedly from one to another, and said, in a 
lower voice, after a pause: 

「Will you answer this question to me then? How does this 
happen?」 

「Citizen Doctor,」 said the first, reluctantly, 「he has been 
denounced to the Section of Saint Antoine. This citizen,」 pointing 
out the second who had entered, 「is from Saint Antoine.」 

The citizen here indicated nodded his head, and added: 

「He is accused by Saint Antoine.」 

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「Of what?」 asked the Doctor. 

「Citizen Doctor,」 said the first, with his former reluctance, 「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. Evremonde, we 
are pressed.」 

「One word,」 the Doctor entreated. 「Will you tell me who 
denounced him?」 

「It is against rule,」 answered the first; 「but you can ask Him of 
Saint Antoine here.」 

The Doctor turned his eyes upon that man. Who moved 
uneasily on his feet, rubbed his beard a little, and at length said: 

「Well! Truly it is against rule. But he is denounced—and 
gravely—by the Citizen and Citizeness Defarge. And by one 
other.」 

「What other?」 

「Do you ask, Citizen Doctor?」 

「Yes.」 

「Then,」 said he of Saint Antoine, with a strange look, 「you will 
be answered tomorrow. Now, I am dumb!」 

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Chapter XXXVIII 

A HAND AT CARDS 

Happily 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 that Army, or got undeserved 
promotion in it! Better for him that his beard had never grown, for 
the National Razor shaved him close. 

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 

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Pross resorted to The Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, 
attended by her cavalier. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

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—though it 
seemed on his own separate and individual account—was in a 

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state of the greatest wonder. 

「What is the matter?」 said the man who had caused Miss Pross 
to scream; speaking in a vexed, abrupt voice (though in a low 
tone), and in English. 

「Oh, Solomon, dear Solomon!」 cried Miss Pross, clapping her 
hands again. 「After not setting eyes upon you or hearing of you for 
so long a time, do I find you here!」 

「Don』t call me Solomon. Do you want to be the death of me?」 
asked the man, in a furtive, frightened way. 

「Brother, brother!」 cried Miss Pross, bursting into tears. 「Have 
I ever been so hard with you that you ask me such a cruel 
question?」 

「Then hold your meddlesome tongue,」 said Solomon, 「and 
come out, if you want to speak to me. Pay for your wine, and come 
out. Who』s this man?」 

Miss Pross, shaking her loving and dejected head at her by no 
means affectionate brother, said through her tears, 「Mr. 
Cruncher.」 

「Let him come out too,」 said Solomon. 「Does he think me a 
ghost?」 

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. 

「Now,」 said Solomon, stopping at the dark street corner, 「what 
do you want?」 

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「How dreadfully unkind in a brother nothing has ever turned 
my love away from!」 cried Miss Pross, 「to give me such a greeting, 
and show me no affection.」 

「There. Con-found it! There,」 said Solomon, making a dab at 
Miss Pross』s lips with his own. 「Now are you content?」 

Miss Pross only shook her head and wept in silence. 

「If you expect me to be surprised,」 said her brother Solomon, 
「I am not surprised; I knew you were here; I know of most people 
who are here. If you really don』t want to endanger my existence— 
which I half believe you do—go your ways as soon as possible, and 
let me go mine. I am busy. I am an official.」 

「My English brother Solomon,」 mourned Miss Pross, casting 
up her tear-fraught eyes, 「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—」 

「I said so!」 cried her brother, interrupting. 「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!」 

「The gracious and merciful Heavens forbid!」 cried Miss Pross. 
「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.」 

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! 

He was saying the affectionate word, however, with a far more 

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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: 

「I say! Might I ask the favour? As to whether your name is John 
Solomon, or Solomon John?」 

The official turned towards him with a sudden distrust. He had 
not previously uttered a word. 

「Come!」 said Mr. Cruncher. 「Speak out, you know.」 (Which, by 
the way, was more than he could do himself) 「John Solomon, or 
Solomon John? She calls you Solomon, and she must know, being 
your sister. And I know you』re John, you know. Which of the two 
goes first? And regarding that name of Pross, likewise. That 
warn』t your name over the water.」 

「What do you mean?」 

「Well, I don』t know all I mean, for I can』t call to mind what your 
name was, over the water.」 

「No?」 

「No. But I』ll swear it was a name of two syllables.」 

「Indeed?」 

「Yes. T』other one』s was one syllable. I know you. You was a spy-
witness at the Bailey. What, in the name of the Father of Lies, own 
father to yourself, was you called at that time?」 

「Barsad,」 said another voice, striking in. 

「That』s the name for a thousand pound!」 cried Jerry. 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』s elbow as negligently as he might have stood at the Old 

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Bailey itself. 

「Don』t be alarmed, my dear Miss Pross. I arrived at Mr. Lorry』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.」 

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— 「I』ll tell you,」 said Sydney. 「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.」 

「What purpose?」 the spy asked. 

「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—at the office of Tellson』s Bank, for 
instance?」 

「Under a threat?」 

「Oh! Did I say that?」 

「Then, why should I go there?」 

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「Really, Mr. Barsad, I can』t say, if you can』t.」 

「Do you mean that you won』t say, sir?」 the spy irresolutely 
asked. 

「You apprehend me very clearly, Mr. Barsad. I won』t.」 

Carton』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. 

「Now, I told you so,」 said the spy, casting a reproachful look at 
his sister; 「if any trouble comes of this, it』s your doing.」 

「Come, come, Mr. Barsad!」 exclaimed Sydney. 「Don』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?」 

「I』ll hear what you have got to say. Yes, I』ll go with you.」 

「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』s with 
us. Are we ready? Come then!」 

Miss Pross recalled soon afterwards, and to the end of her life 
remembered, that as she pressed her hands on Sydney』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』s friendly reassurances, adequately to heed what she 
observed. 

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They left her at the corner of the street, and Carton led the way 
to Mr. Lorry』s, which was within a few minutes』 walk. John 
Barsad, or Solomon Pross, walked at his side. 

Mr. Lorry had just finished his dinner, and was sitting before a 
cheery little log or two of fire—perhaps looking into their blaze for 
the picture of that younger elderly gentleman from Tellson』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. 

「Miss Pross』s brother, sir,」 said Sydney. 「Mr. Barsad.」 

「Barsad?」 repeated the old gentleman, 「Barsad? I have an 
association with the name—and with the face.」 

「I told you you had a remarkable face, Mr. Barsad,」 observed 
Carton, coolly. 「Pray sit down.」 

As he took a chair himself, he supplied the link that Mr. Lorry 
wanted, by saying to him with a frown, 「Witness at that trial.」 Mr. 
Lorry immediately remembered, and regarded his new visitor 
with an undisguised look of abhorrence. 

「Mr. Barsad has been recognised by Miss Pross as the 
affectionate brother you have heard of ,」 said Sydney, 「and has 
acknowledged the relationship. I pass to worse news. Darnay has 
been arrested again.」 

Struck with consternation, the old gentleman exclaimed, 「What 
do you tell me! I left him safe and free within these two hours, and 
am about to return to him!」 

「Arrested for all that. When was it done, Mr. Barsad?」 

「Just now, if at all.」 

「Mr. Barsad is the best authority possible, sir,」 said Sydney, 
「and I have it from Mr. Barsad』s communication to a friend and 

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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.」 

Mr. Lorry』s business eye read in the speaker』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. 

「Now, I trust,」 said Sydney to him, 「that the name and 
influence of Doctor Manette may stand him in as good stead 
tomorrow—you said he would be before the Tribunal again 
tomorrow, Mr. Barsad?—」 「Yes; I believe so.」 

「—In as good stead tomorrow as today. But it may not be so. I 
own to you, I am shaken, Mr. Lorry, by Doctor Manette』s not 
having had the power to prevent this arrest.」 

「He may not have known of it beforehand,」 said Mr. Lorry. 

「But that very circumstance would be alarming, when we 
remember how identified he is with his son-in-law.」 

「That』s true,」 Mr. Lorry acknowledged, with his troubled hand 
at his chin, and his troubled eyes on Carton. 

「In short,」 said Sydney, 「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』s life 
here is worth purchase. Any one carried home by the people 
today, 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.」 

「You need have good cards, sir,」 said the spy. 

「I』ll run them over. I』ll see what I hold,—Mr. Lorry, you know 

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what a brute I am; I wish you』d give me a little brandy.」 

It was put before him, and he drank off a glassful—drank off 
another glassful—pushed the bottle thoughtfully away. 

「Mr. Barsad,」 he went on, in the tone of one who really was 
looking over a hand at cards: 「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』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』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』s a card 
not to be beaten. Have you followed my hand, Mr. Barsad?」 

「Not to understand your play,」 returned the spy, somewhat 
uneasily. 

「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』t hurry.」 

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. 

「Look over your hand carefully, Mr. Barsad. Take time.」 

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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—not because he was not 
wanted there; our English reasons for vaunting our superiority to 
secrecy and spies are of very modern date—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』s wine-shop; had received 
from the watchful police such heads of information concerning 
Doctor Manette』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 

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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. 

「You scarcely seem to like your hand,」 said Sydney, with the 
greatest composure. 「Do you play?」 

「I think, sir,」 said the spy, in the meanest manner, as he turned 
to Mr. Lorry, 「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 am a 
spy, and that it is considered a discreditable station—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?」 

「I play my Ace, Mr. Barsad,」 said Carton, taking the answer on 
himself, and looking at his watch, 「without any scruple, in a very 
few minutes.」 

「I should have hoped, gentlemen both,」 said the spy, always 
striving to hook Mr. Lorry into the discussion, 「that your respect 
for my sister—」 「I could not better testify my respect for your 
sister than by finally relieving her of her brother,」 said Sydney 
Carton. 

「You think not, sir?」 

「I have thoroughly made up my mind about it.」 

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,—who was a mystery to wiser and honester men than he,— 
that it faltered here and failed him. While he was at a loss, Carton 
said, resuming his former air of contemplating cards: 

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「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?」 

「French. You don』t know him,」 said the spy. quickly. 

「French, eh?」 replied Carton, musing, and not appearing to 
notice him at all, though he echoed his word. 「Well, he may be.」 

「Is, I assure you,」 said the spy; 「though it』s not important.」 

「Though it』s not important,」 repeated Carton, in the same 
mechanical way—「though it』s not important—No, it』s not 
important. No. Yet I know the face.」 

「I think not. I am sure not. It can』t be,」 said the spy. 

「It—can』t—be,」 muttered Sydney Carton, retrospectively, and 
filling his glass (which fortunately was a small one) again. 「Can』t— 
be. Spoke good French. Yet like a foreigner, I thought.」 

「Provincial,」 said the spy. 

「No. Foreign!」 cried Carton, striking his open hand on the 
table, as a light broke clearly on his mind. 「Cly! Disguised, but the 
same man. We had that man before us at the Old Bailey.」 

「Now, there you are hasty, sir,」 said Barsad, with a smile that 
gave his aquiline nose an extra inclination to one side; 「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.」 

Here, Mr. Lorry became aware, from where he sat, of a most 

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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』s head. 

「Let us be reasonable,」 said the spy, 「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』s 
burial, which I happen to have carried in my pocket-book,」 with a 
hurried hand he produced and opened it, 「ever since. There it is. 
Oh, look at it, look at it! You may take it in your hand; it』s no 
forgery.」 

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. 

Unseen by the spy, Mr. Cruncher stood at his side, and touched 
him on the shoulder like a ghostly bailiff. 

「That there Roger Cly, master,」 said Mr. Cruncher, with a 
taciturn and iron-bound visage. 「So you put him in his coffin?」 

「I did.」 

「Who took him out of it?」 

Barsad leaned back in his chair, and stammered. 「What do you 
mean?」 

「I mean,」 said Mr. Cruncher, 「that he warn』t never in it. No! 
Not he! I』ll have my head took off, if he was ever in it.」 

The spy looked around at the two gentlemen; they both looked 
in unspeakable astonishment at Jerry. 

「I tell you,」 said Jerry, 「that you buried paving-stones and 
earth in that there coffin. Don』t go and tell me that you buried Cly. 

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It was a take-in. Me and two more knows it.」 

「How do you know it?」 

「What』s that to you? Ecod!」 growled Mr. Cruncher, 「it』s you I 
have got an old grudge agin, is it, with your shameful impositions 
upon tradesmen! I』d catch hold of your throat and choke you for 
half a guinea.」 

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. 

「At another time, sir,」 he returned, evasively, 「the present time 
is ill-conwenient for explainin』. 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』ll either catch 
hold of his throat and choke him for half a guinea」; Mr. Cruncher 
dwelt upon this as quite a liberal offer; 「or I』ll out and announce 
him.」 

「Humph! I see one thing,」 said Carton. 「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—a 
certain Guillotine card! Do you play?」 

「No!」 returned the spy. 「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 

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wonder of wonders to me.」 

「Never you trouble your head about this man,」 retorted the 
contentious Mr. Cruncher; 「you』ll have trouble enough with giving 
your attention to that gentleman. And look here! Once more!」— 
Mr. Cruncher could not be restrained from making rather an 
ostentatious parade of his liberality—「I』d catch hold of your throat 
and choke you for half a guinea.」 

The Sheep of the prisons turned from him to Sydney Carton, 
and said, with more decision, 「It has come to a point. I go on duty 
soon, and can』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?」 

「Not very much. You are a turnkey at the Conciergerie?」 

「I tell you once for all, there is no such thing as an escape 
possible,」 said the spy firmly. 

「Why need you tell me what I have not asked? You are a 
turnkey at the Conciergerie?」 

「I am sometimes.」 

「You can be when you choose?」 

「I can pass in and out when I choose.」 

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: 

「So far, we have spoken before these two, because it was as well 

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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.」 

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Chapter XXXIX

 THE GAME MADE 

W 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』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』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. 

「Jerry,」 said Mr. Lorry. 「Come here.」 

Mr. Cruncher came forward sideways, with one of his shoulders 
in advance of him. 

「What have you been, besides a messenger?」 

After some cogitation, accompanied with an intent look at his 
patron, Mr. Cruncher conceived the luminous idea of replying, 
「Agricultooral character.」 

「My mind misgives me much,」 said Mr. Lorry, angrily shaking 
a forefinger at him, 「that you have used the respectable and great 
house of Tellson』s as a blind, and that you have had an unlawful 
occupation of an infamous description. If you have, don』t expect 
me to befriend you when you get back to England. If you have, 

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don』t expect me to keep your secret. Tellson』s shall not be imposed 
upon.」 

「I hope, sir,」 pleaded the abashed Mr. Cruncher, 「that a 
gentleman like yourself wot I』ve had the honour of odd jobbing till 
I』m grey at it, would think twice about harming of me, even if it 
wos so—I don』t say it is, but even if it wos. And which it is to be 
took into account that if it wos, it wouldn』t, even then, be all o』 one 
side. There』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』t pick up his fardens—fardens! no, nor yet his half 
fardens—half fardens! no, nor yet his quarter—a banking away 
like smoke at Tellson』s, and a cocking their medical eyes at that 
tradesman on the sly, going in and out to their own carriages—ah! 
equally like smoke, if not more so. Well, that 』ud be imposing too, 
on Tellson』s. For you cannot sarse the goose and not the gander. 
And here』s Mrs. Cruncher, or leastways wos in the Old England 
times, and would be tomorrow, if cause given, a floppin agin the 
business to that degree as is ruinating—stark ruinating! Whereas 
them medical doctors』 wives don』t flop—catch 』em at it! Or, if they 
flop, their floppin goes in favour of more patients, and how can 
you rightly have one without the t』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』t get much by it, even if it wos so. And wot little man did 
get, would never prosper with him, Mr. Lorry. He』d never have no 
good of it; he』d want all along to be out of the line, if he could see 
his way out, being once in—even if it wos so.」 

「Ugh!」 cried Mr. Lorry, rather relenting, nevertheless. 「I am 
shocked at the sight of you.」 

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「Now, what I would humbly offer to you, sir,」 pursued Mr. 
Cruncher, 「even if it wos so, which I don』t say it is—」 「Don』t 
prevaricate,」 said Mr. Lorry. 

「No, I will not, sir,」 returned Mr. Cruncher, as if nothing were 
further from his thoughts or practice—「which I don』t say it is— 
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 was so, which I still don』t say it is (for I 
will not prewaricate to you, sir) let that there boy keep his father』s 
place, and take care of his mother; don』t blow upon that boy』s 
father—do not do it, sir—and let that father go into the line of the 
reg』lar diggin』, and make amends for what he would have undug— 
if it wos so—by diggin』 of 』em in with a will, and with conwictions 
respectin』 the futur』 keepin』 of 』em safe. That, Mr. Lorry,」 said Mr. 
Cruncher, wiping his forehead with his arm, as an announcement 
that he had arrived at the peroration of his discourse, 「is wot I 
would respectfully offer to you, sir. A man don』t see all this here a 
goin』 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』 his serious thoughts of things. And 
these here would be mine, if it wos so, entreatin』 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』 it back.」 

「That at least is true,」 said Mr. Lorry. 「Say no more now. It 
may be that I shall yet stand your friend, if you deserve it, and 
repent in action—not in words. I want no more words.」 

Mr. Cruncher knuckled his forehead, as Sydney Carton and the 

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spy returned from the dark room. 「Adieu, Mr. Barsad,」 said the 
former; 「our arrangement thus made, you have nothing to fear 
from me.」 

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? 

「Not much. If it should go ill with the prisoner, I have ensured 
access to him, once.」 

Mr. Lorry』s countenance fell. 

「It is all I could do,」 said Carton. 「To propose too much would 
be to put this man』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.」 

「But access to him,」 said Mr. Lorry, 「if it should go ill before 
the Tribunal, will not save him.」 

「I never said it would.」 

Mr. Lorry』s eyes gradually sought the fire; his sympathy with 
his darling, and the heavy disappointment of this second arrest, 
gradually weakened them; he was an old man now, overborne 
with anxiety of late, and his tears fell. 

「You are a good man and a true friend,」 said Carton, in an 
altered voice. 「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.」 

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. 

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「To return to poor Darnay,」 said Carton. 「Don』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 worst, to 
convey to him the means of anticipating the sentence.」 

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. 

「She might think a thousand things,」 Carton said, 「and any of 
them would only add to her trouble. Don』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 tonight.」 

「I am going now, directly.」 

「I am glad of that. She has such a strong attachment to you and 
reliance on you. How does she look?」 

「Anxious and unhappy, but very beautiful.」 

「Ah!」 

It was a long, grieving sound, like a sigh—almost like a sob. It 
attracted Mr. Lorry』s eyes to Carton』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 
hillside 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 

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embers of the flaming log, when it had broken under the weight of 

his foot. 

「I forgot it,」 he said. 

Mr. Lorry』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』 faces fresh in his mind, he 
was strongly reminded of that expression. 

「And your duties here have drawn to an end, sir?」 said Carton, 
turning to him. 

「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.」 

They were both silent. 

「Yours is a long life to look back upon, sir?」 said Carton, 
wistfully. 

「I am in my seventy-eighth year.」 

「You have been useful all your life; steadily and constantly 
occupied; trusted, respected, and looked up to?」 

「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.」 

「See what a place you fill at seventy-eight. How many people 
will miss you when you leave it empty!」 

「A solitary old bachelor,」 answered Mr. Lorry, shaking his 
head. 「There is nobody to weep for me.」 

「How can you say that! Wouldn』t She weep for you? Wouldn』t 
her child?」 

「Yes, yes, thank God. I didn』t quite mean what I said.」 

「It is a thing to thank God for; is it not?」 

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「Surely, surely.」 

「If you could say, with truth, to your own solitary heart, tonight, 
『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!』 your seventy-eight years would be seventy-eight 
heavy curses; would they not?」 

「You say truly, Mr. Carton; I think they would be.」 

Sydney turned his eyes again upon the fire, and, after a silence 
of a few moments, said: 

「I should like to ask you:—Does your childhood seem far off? 
Do the days when you sat at your mother』s knee, seem days of very 
long ago?」 

Responding to his softened manner, Mr. Lorry answered: 

「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 have 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.」 

「I understand the feeling!」 exclaimed Carton, with a bright 
flush. 「And you are the better for it?」 

「I hope so.」 

Carton terminated the conversation here, by rising to help him 
on with his outer coat. 「But you,」 said Mr. Lorry, reverting to the 
theme, 「you are young.」 

「Yes,」 said Carton. 「I am not old, but my young way was never 

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the way to age. Enough of me.」 

「And of me, I am sure,」 said Mr. Lorry. 「Are you going out?」 

「I』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』t be uneasy; I shall reappear in the morning. You go to the 
Court tomorrow?」 

「Yes, unhappily.」 

「I shall be there, but only as one of the crowd. My Spy will find 
a place for me. Take my arm, sir.」 

Mr. Lorry did so, and they went down-stairs and out in the 
streets. A few minutes brought them to Mr. Lorry』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. 「She came out here,」 
he said, looking about him, 「turned this way, must have trod on 
these stones often. Let me follow in her steps.」 

It was ten o』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. 

「Good night, citizen,」 said Sydney Carton, pausing in going by; 
for the man eyed him inquisitively. 

「Good night, citizen.」 

「How goes the Republic?」 

「You mean the Guillotine. Not ill. Sixty-three today. 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!」 

「Do you often go to see him—」 「Shave? Always. Every day. 

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What a barber! You have seen him at work?」 

「Never.」 

「Go and see him when he has a good batch. Figure this to 
yourself, citizen; he shaved the sixty-three today, in less than two 
pipes. Less than two pipes. Word of honour!」 

As the grinning little man held out the pipe he was smoking to 
explain how he timed the execution, Carton was so sensible of a 
rising desire to strike the life out of him, that he turned away. 

「But you are not English,」 said the wood-sawyer, 「though you 
wear English dress?」 

「Yes,」 said Carton, pausing again, and answering over his 
shoulder. 

「You speak like a Frenchman.」 

「I am an old student here.」 

「Aha, a perfect Frenchman! Good night, Englishman.」 

「Good night, citizen.」 

「But go and see that droll dog,」 the little man persisted, calling 
after him. 「And take a pipe with you!」 

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—much dirtier than usual, for the best public thoroughfares 
remained uncleansed in those times of terror—he stopped at a 
chemist』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. 

Giving this citizen, too, good night, as he confronted him at his 
counter, he laid the scrap of paper before him. 「Whew」; the 

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chemist whistled softly, as he read it. 「Hi! hi, hi!」 

Sydney Carton took no heed, and the chemist said: 

「For you, citizen?」 

「For me.」 

「You will be careful to keep them separate, citizen. You know 
the consequences of mixing them?」 

「Perfectly.」 

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. 「There is nothing 
more to do,」 said he, glancing upward at the moon, 「until 
tomorrow. I can』t sleep.」 

It was 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. 

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』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. 「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.」 

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 tomorrow』s victims then awaiting their doom in 

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the prisons, and still of tomorrow』s and tomorrow』s, the chain of 
association that brought the words home, like a rusty old ship』s 
anchor from the deep, might have been easily found. He did not 
seek it, but repeated them and went on. 

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. 

Few coaches were abroad, for riders in coaches were liable to 
be suspected, and gentility hid his 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. 

「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.」 

Now, that the streets were quiet and the night wore on, the 

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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. 

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』s dominion. 

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. 

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.—「Like me!」 

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 
blindness and errors, ended in the words, 「I am the resurrection 
and the life.」 

Mr. Lorry was already out when he got back, and it was easy to 

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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. 

The court was all astir and a-buzz, when the black sheep— 
whom many fell away from in dread—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. 

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. 

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. 

Every eye was turned to the jury. The same determined patriots 
and good republicans as yesterday and the day before, and 
tomorrow 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 Saint Antoine. The whole jury, as a 
jury of dogs empanelled to try the deer. 

Every eye then turned to the five judges and the public 

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prosecutor. No favourable leaning in that quarter today. 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. 

Charles Evremonde, 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 Evremonde, called Darnay, in 
right of such proscription, absolutely Dead in Law. 

To this effect, in as few or fewer words, the Public Prosecutor. 

The President asked, was the Accused openly denounced or 
secretly? 

「Openly, President.」 

「By whom?」 

「Three voices. Ernest Defarge, wine vendor of Saint Antoine.」 

「Good.」 

「Therese Defarge, his wife.」 

「Good.」 

「Alexandre Manette, physician.」 

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. 

「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 

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I denounce the husband of my child?」 

「Citizen Manette, be tranquil. To fail in submission of 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.」 

Loud acclamations hailed this rebuke. The President rang his 
bell, and with warmth resumed. 

「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!」 

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. 

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』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. 

「You did good service at the taking of the Bastille, citizen?」 

「I believe so.」 

Here an excited woman screeched from the crowd: 「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!」 

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, 

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shrieked, 「I defy that bell!」 wherein she was likewise much 
commended. 

「Inform the Tribunal of what you did that day. within the 
Bastille, citizen.」 

「I knew,」 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; 「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. That 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.」 

「Let it be read.」 

In the dead silence and stillness—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—the paper was read as follows. 

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Chapter XL 

THE SUBSTANCE OF THE SHADOW

「I 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. 

「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—that my memory is 
exact and circumstantial—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. 

「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』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 

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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. 

「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. 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. 

「『You are Doctor Manette?』 said one. 

「『I am.』 「『Doctor Manette, formerly of Beauvais,』 said the other; 
『the young physician, originally an expert surgeon, who within the 
last year or two has made a rising reputation in Paris?』 
「『Gentlemen,』 I returned, 『I am that Doctor Manette of whom you 
speak so graciously.』 「『We have been to your residence,』 said the 
first, 『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?』 「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. 

「『Gentlemen,』 said I, 『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.』 「The reply to this was made by 
him who had spoken second. 『Doctor, your clients are people of 
condition. As to the nature of the case, our confidence in your skill 

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assures us that you will ascertain it for yourself better than we can 
describe it. Enough. Will you please enter the carriage?』 「I could 
do nothing but comply, and I entered it in silence. They both 
entered after me—the last springing in, after putting up the steps. 
The carriage turned about, and drove on at its former speed. 

「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. When I make the broken marks that follow here, I leave 
off for the time, and put my paper in its hiding place. 

「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—I did not estimate the distance at that time, but 
afterwards when I traversed it—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. 

「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. 

「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 

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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. 

「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』s dress. On one of them, which was a fringed scarf for a 
dress ceremony, I saw the armorial bearings of a Noble, and the 
letter E. 

「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. 

「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, 『My husband, my father, and my brother!』 
and then counted up to twelve, and said, 『Hush!』 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, 『My 
husband, my father, and my brother!』 and would count up to 
twelve, and say 『Hush!』 There was no variation in the order, or the 
manner. There was no cessation, but the regular moment』s pause, 
in the utterance of these sounds. 

「『How long,』 I asked, 『has this lasted?』 

「To distinguish the brothers, I will call them the elder and the 

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younger; by the elder, I mean, him who exercised the most 
authority. It was the elder who replied, 『Since about this hour last 
night.』 

「『She has a husband, a father, and a brother?』 

「『A brother.』 

「『I do not address her brother?』 

「He answered with great contempt, 『No.』 

「『She has some recent association with the number twelve?』 

「The younger brother impatiently rejoined, 『With twelve 
o』clock.』 

「『See, gentlemen,』 said I, still keeping my hands upon her 
breast, 『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.』 

「The elder brother looked to the younger, who said haughtily, 
『There is a case of medicines here』; and brought it from a closet, 
and put it on the table. 

「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. 

「『Do you doubt them?』 asked the younger brother. 

「『You see, monsieur, I am going to use them,』 I replied, and said 
no more. 

「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 

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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—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, 『My husband, my father, and my brother!』 the counting up to 
twelve, and 『Hush!』 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』s 
breast had this much soothing influence, that for minutes at a time 
it tranquilised the figure. It had no effect upon the cries; no 
pendulum could be more regular. 

「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: 

「『There is another patient.』 

「I was startled, and asked, 『Is it a pressing case?』 

「『You had better see,』 he carelessly answered; and took up a 
light. 

「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, faggots 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 

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the tenth year of my captivity, as I saw them all that night. 

「On some hay on the ground, with a cushion thrown under his 
head, lay a handsome peasant boy—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. 

「『I am a doctor, my poor fellow,』 said I. 『Let me examine it.』 

「『I do not want it examined,』 he answered; 『let it be.』 「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. 

「『How has this been done, monsieur?』 said I. 

「『A crazed young common dog! A serf! Forced my brother to 
draw upon him, and has fallen by my brother』s sword—like a 
gentleman.』 

「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. 

「The boy』s eyes had slowly moved to him as he had spoken, and 
they now slowly moved to me. 

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「『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—have 
you seen her, Doctor?』 

「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. 

「I said, 『I have seen her.』 

「『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—that 
man』s who stands there. The other is his brother, the worst of a 
bad race.』 

「It was with the greatest difficulty that the boy gathered bodily 
force to speak; but, his spirit spoke with a dreadful emphasis. 

「『We were so robbed by that man who stands there, as all we 
common dogs are by those superior Beings—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—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 

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die out!』 「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. 

「『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—our dog-hut, as that man would 
call it. She had not been married many weeks, when that man』s 
brother saw her and admired her, and asked that man to lend her 
to him—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?』 

「The boy』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』s all negligent 
indifference; the peasant』s, all trodden-down sentiment, and 
passionate revenge. 

「『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—if he could find food—he 
sobbed twelve times, once for every stroke of the bell, and died on 
her bosom.』 「Nothing human could have held life in the boy but 

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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. 

「『Then, with that man』s permission and even with his aid, his 
brother took her away; in spite of what I know she must have told 
his brother—and what that is, will not be long unknown to you, 
Doctor, if it is now—his brother took her away—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』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 his vassal. Then, I tracked the brother 
here, and last night climbed in—a common dog, but sword in 
hand.—Where is the loft window? It was somewhere here?』 

「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. 

「『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—thrust at me with all his skill for 
his life.』 

「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』s. In another place. lay an old sword that seemed 
to have been a soldier』s. 

「『Now, lift me up, Doctor; lift me up. Where is he?』 

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「『He is not here,』 I said, supporting the boy, and thinking that 
he referred to the brother. 

「『He! Proud as these Nobles are, he is afraid to see me. Where 
is the man who was here? Turn my face to him.』 

「I did so, raising the boy』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. 

「『Marquis,』 said the boy, turned to him with his eyes opened 
wide, and his right hand raised, 『in the days when all these things 
are to be answered for, I summon you and yours, 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.』 

「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. 

「When I returned to the bedside of the young woman, I found 
her raving in precisely the same order and continuity. I knew that 
this might last for many hours, and that it would probably end in 
the silence of the grave. 

「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 『My husband, my 
father, and my brother! One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, 

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eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve! Hush!』 「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-by 
she sank into a lethargy, and lay like the dead. 

「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. 

「『Is she dead?』 asked the Marquis, whom I will still describe as 
the elder brother, coming booted into the room from his horse. 

「『Not dead,』 said I; 『but like to die.』 

「『What strength there is in these common bodies!』 he said, 
looking down at her with some curiosity. 

「『There is prodigious strength,』 I answered him. 『in sorrow and 
despair.』 

「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, 『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.』 

「I listened to the patient』s breathing, and avoided answering. 

「『Do you honour me with your attention, Doctor?』 

「『Monsieur,』 said I, 『in my profession, the communications of 

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patients are always received in confidence.』 I was guarded in my 
answer, for I was troubled in my mind with what I had heard and 
seen. 

「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. 

「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. 

「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. 

「I had no opportunity of asking her any questions, 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—the thought 
passed through my mind—I were dying too. 

「I always observed that their pride bitterly resented the 
younger brother』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 

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consideration that this was highly degrading to the family, and 
was ridiculous. As often as I caught the younger brother』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. 

「My patient died, two hours before midnight—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 dropped gently 
on one side, and all her earthly wrongs and sorrows ended. 

「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. 

「『At last she is dead?』 said the elder, when I went in. 

「『She is dead,』 said I. 

「『I congratulate you, my brother,』 were his words as he turned 
round. 

「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. 

「『Pray excuse me,』 said I. 『Under the circumstances, no.』 

「They exchanged looks, but bent their heads to me as I bent 
mine to them, and we parted without another word on either side. 

「I am weary, weary, weary—worn down by misery; I cannot 
read what I have written with this gaunt hand. 

「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 

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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. 

「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. 

「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. 

「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. Evremonde. 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. 

「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』s share in it, and my being resorted to. She 

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did not know that the girl was dead. Her hope had been, she said 
in great distress, to show her, in secret, a woman』s sympathy. Her 
hope had been to avert the wrath of Heaven from a House that had 
long been hateful to the suffering many. 

「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. 

「These scraps of paper fail me. One was taken from me, with a 
warning yesterday. I must finish my record today. 

「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. 

「『For his sake, Doctor,』 she said, pointing to him in tears. 『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—it is little beyond 
the worth of a few jewels—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.』 「She kissed 
the boy, and said, caressing him, 『It is for thine own dear sake. 
Thou wilt be faithful, little Charles?』 The child answered her 
bravely, 『Yes!』 I kissed her hand, and she took him in her arms, 

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and went away caressing him. I never saw her more. 

「As she had mentioned her husband』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. 

「That night, the last night of the year, towards nine o』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—O 
my wife, beloved of my heart! My fair young English wife!—we 
saw the man, who was supposed to be at the gate. standing silent 
behind him. 

「An urgent case in the Rue St. Honore, he said. It would not 
detain me, he had a coach in waiting. 

「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 to 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. 

「If it had pleased God 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—so much as to let me know by a word whether alive 
or dead—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, 

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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.」 

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. 

Little need, in the 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. 

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』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. 

「Much influence around him, has that Doctor?」 murmured 

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Madame Defarge, smiling to The Vengeance. 「Save him now, my 
Doctor, save him!」 

At every juryman』s vote, there was a roar. Another and another. 
Roar and roar. 

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! 

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 ChapterXLI 

DUSK 

The 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. 

The judges having to take part in a public demonstration out of 
doors, the tribunal adjourned. The quick noise and movement of 
the court』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. 

「If I might touch him! If I might embrace him once! O, good 
citizens, if you would have so much compassion for us!」 

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, 「Let 
her embrace him then; it is but a moment.」 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. 

「Farewell, dear darling of my soul. My parting blessing on my 
love. We shall meet again, where the weary are at rest!」 

They were her husband』s words, as he held her to his bosom. 

「I can bear it, dear Charles. I am supported from above: don』t 

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suffer for me. A parting blessing for our child.」 

「I send it to her by you. I kiss her by you. I say farewell to her 
by you.」 

「My husband. No! A moment!」 He was tearing himself apart 
from her. 「We shall not be separated long. I feel that this will 
break my heart by-and-by; 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.」 

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: 

「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!」 

Her father』s only answer was to draw his hands through his 
white hair, and wring them with a shriek of anguish. 

「It could not be otherwise,」 said the prisoner. 「All things have 
worked together as they have fallen out. It was the always-vain 
endeavour to discharge my poor mother』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!」 

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 

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even a comforting smile. As he went out at the prisoners』 door, she 
turned, laid her head lovingly on her father』s breast. tried to speak 
to him, and fell at his feet. 

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—that had a flush of pride in it. 

「Shall I take her to a coach? I shall never feel her weight.」 

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. 

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. 

「Don』t recall her to herself,」 he said, softly, to the latter, 「she is 
better so. Don』t revive her to consciousness, while she only faints.」 

「Oh, Carton, Carton, dearCarton!」 criedlittleLucie. springing 
up and throwing her arms passionately round him, in a burst of 
grief. 「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?」 

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. 

「Before I go,」 he said, and paused—「I may kiss her?」 

It was remembered afterwards that when he bent down and 

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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, 「A life you love.」 

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: 

「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?」 

「Nothing connected with Charles was concealed from me. I had 
the strongest assurances that I should save him; and I did.」 He 
returned the answer in great trouble, and very slowly. 

「Try them again. The hours between this and tomorrow 
afternoon are few and short, but try.」 

「I intend to try. I will not rest a moment.」 

「That』s well. I have known such energy as yours do great things 
before now—though never,」 he added. with a smile and a sigh 
together, 「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.」 

「I will go,」 said Doctor Manette, 「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—But stay! There is a celebration in the 
streets, and no one will be accessible until dark.」 

「That』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 

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have seen these dread powers, Doctor Manette?」 

「Immediately after dark, I should hope. Within an hour or two 
from this?」 

「It will be dark soon after four. Let us stretch the hour or two. If 
I go to Mr. Lorry』s at nine, shall I hear what you have done, either 
from our friend or from yourself?」 

「Yes.」 

「May you prosper!」 

Mr. Lorry followed Sydney to the outer door, and, touching him 
on the shoulder as he was going away, caused him to turn. 

「I have no hope,」 said Mr. Lorry, in a low and sorrowful 
whisper. 

「Nor have I.」 

「If any one of these men, or all of these men, were disposed to 
spare him—which is a large supposition; for what is his life, or any 
man』s to them!—I doubt if they durst spare him after the 
demonstration in the court.」 

「And so do I. I heard the fall of the axe in that sound.」 

Mr. Lorry leaned his arm upon the door-post and bowed his 
face upon it. 

「Don』t despond,」 said Carton, very gently; 「don』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 
『his life was wantonly thrown away or wasted,』 and that might 
trouble her.」 

「Yes, yes, yes,」 returned Mr. Lorry, drying his eyes, 「you are 
right. But he will perish; there is no real hope.」 

「Yes. He will perish: there is no real hope,」 echoed Carton. And 
he walked with a settled step, down-stairs. 

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 Chapter XLII 

DARKNESS 

S ydney Carton paused in the street, not quite decided where 
to go. 「At Tellson』s banking-house at nine,」 he said, with a 
musing face. 「Shall I do well, in the meantime, 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!」 

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. 「It is best,」 he said, finally resolved, 
「that these people should know there is such a man as I here.」 
And he turned his face towards Saint Antoine. 

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』s hearth like a man who had done with 
it. 

It was as late as seven o』clock when he awoke refreshed, and 
went out into the streets again. As he passed along towards Saint 

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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』s, and went in. 

There happened to be no customers 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. 

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. 

He repeated what he had already said. 

「English?」 asked Madame Defarge, inquisitively raising her 
dark eyebrows. 

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. 「Yes, madame, yes. I am English!」 

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, 「I swear to you, like 
Evremonde!」 

Defarge brought him the wine, and gave him Good Evening. 

「How?」 

「Good evening.」 

「Oh! Good evening, citizen,」 filling his glass. 「Ah! and good 

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wine. I drink to the Republic.」 

Defarge went back to the counter, and said, 「Certainly, a little 
like.」 Madame sternly retorted, 「I tell you a good deal like.」 
Jacques Three pacifically remarked, 「He is so much in your mind, 
see you, madame.」 The amiable Vengeance added, with a laugh. 
「Yes, my faith! And you are looking forward with so much 
pleasure to seeing him once more tomorrow!」 

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. 

「It is true what madame says,」 observed Jacques Three. 「Why 
stop? There is great force in that. Why stop?」 

「Well, well,」 reasoned Defarge, 「but one must stop somewhere. 
After all, the question is still where?」 

「At extermination,」 said madame. 

「Magnificent!」 croaked Jacques Three. The Vengeance, also, 
highly approved. 

「Extermination is good doctrine, my wife,」 said Defarge, rather 
troubled; 「in general, I say nothing against it. But this Doctor has 
suffered much; you have seen him today; you have observed his 
face when the paper was read.」 

「I have observed his face!」 repeated madame, contemptuously 
and angrily. 「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!」 

「And you have observed, my wife,」 said Defarge, in a 

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deprecatory manner, 「the anguish of his daughter, which must be 
a dreadful anguish to him!」 

「I have observed his daughter,」 repeated madame; 「yes, I have 
observed his daughter, more times than one. I have observed her 
today, 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—!」 She seemed to raise it (the listener』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. 

「The citizeness is superb!」 croaked the Juryman. 

「She is an Angel!」 said The Vengeance, and embraced her. 

「As to thee,」 pursued madame, implacably, addressing her 
husband, 「if it depended on thee—which, happily, it does not— 
thou wouldst rescue this man even now.」 

「No!」 protested Defarge. 「Not if to lift this glass would do it! 
But I would leave the matter there. I say, stop there.」 

「See you then, Jacques,」 said Madame Defarge, wrathfully; 
「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.」 

「It is so,」 assented Defarge, without being asked. 

「In the beginning of the great days, when the Bastille falls, he 
finds this paper of today, 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.」 

「It is so,」 assented Defarge. 

「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 

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and between those iron bars, that I have now a secret to 

communicate. Ask him, is that so.」 

「It is so,」 assented Defarge again. 

「I communicate to him that secret. I smite this bosom with 
these two hands as I smite it now, and I tell him, 『Defarge, I was 
brought up among the fishermen of the seashore, and that peasant 
family so injured by the two Evremonde 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』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!』 Ask him, is that so.」 

「It is so,」 assented Defarge once more. 

「Then tell Wind and Fire where to stop,」 returned madame; 
「but don』t tell me.」 

Both her hearers derived a horrible enjoyment from the deadly 
nature of her wrath—the listener could feel how white she was, 
without seeing her—and both highly commended it. Defarge, a 
weak minority, interposed a few words of the memory of the 
compassionate wife of the Marquis; but only elicited from his own 
wife a repetition of her last reply. 「Tell the Wind and the Fire 
where to stop; not me!」 

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 

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to seize that arm, lift it, and strike under it sharp and deep. 

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』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』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? 

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. 

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? 

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. 

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 questions, for his face told 
them everything. 

「I cannot find it,」 said he, 「and I must have it. Where is it?」 

His head and throat were bare, and, as he spoke with a helpless 

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look straying all around, he took his coat off, and let it drop on the 
floor. 

「Where is my bench? I have been looking everywhere for my 
bench, and I can』t find it. What have they done with my work? 
Time presses: I must finish those shoes.」 

They looked at one another, and their hearts died within them. 

「Come, come!」 said he, in a whimpering miserable way; 「let me 
get to work. Give me my work.」 

Receiving no answer, he tore his hair, and beat his feet upon 
the ground, like a distracted child. 

「Don』t torture a poor forlorn wretch,」 he implored them, with a 
dreadful cry; 「but give me my work! What is to become of us, if 
those shoes are not done tonight?」 

Lost, utterly lost! 

It was so clearly beyond hope to reason with him, or try to 
restore him, that—as if by agreement—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. 

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: 

「The last chance is gone: it was not much. Yes; he had better be 

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taken to her. But, before you go, will you, for a moment, steadily 
attend to me? Don』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—a good one.」 

「I do not doubt it,」 answered Mr. Lorry. 「Say on.」 

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 sickbed in the night. 

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 list of his day』s duties, fell lightly on the 
floor. Carton took it up, and there was a folded paper in it. 「We 
should look at this!」 he said. Mr. Lorry nodded his consent. He 
opened it, and exclaimed, 「Thank GoD!」 

「What is it?」 asked Mr. Lorry, eagerly. 

「A moment! Let me speak of it in its place. First,」 he put his 
hand in his coat, and took another paper from it, 「that is the 
certificate which enables me to pass out of this city. Look at it. You 
see—Sydney Carton, an Englishman?」 

Mr. Lorry held it open in his hand, gazing in his earnest face. 

「Keep it for me until tomorrow. I shall see him tomorrow, you 
remember, and I had better not take it into the prison.」 

「Why not?」 

「I don』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?」 

「Yes!」 

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「Perhaps he obtained it as his last and utmost precaution 
against evil, yesterday. When is it dated? But no matter; don』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.」 

「They are not in danger?」 

「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』s, tonight, 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」—he never mentioned Lucie』s name—「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—and perhaps her child』s—and perhaps her 
father』s—for both have been seen with her at that place. Don』t 
look so horrified. You will save them all.」 

「Heaven grant I may, Carton! But how?」 

「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 tomorrow; 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, 

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and make herself doubly sure. You follow me?」 

「So attentively, and with so much confidence in what you say, 
that for the moment I lose sight,」 touching the back of the Doctor』s 
chair, 「even of this distress.」 

「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 
tomorrow have your horses ready, so that they may be in starting 
trim at two o』clock in the afternoon.」 

「It shall be done!」 

His manner was so fervent and inspiring, that Mr. Lorry caught 
the flame, and was quick as youth. 

「You are a noble heart. Did I say we could depend upon no 
better man? Tell her, tonight, 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』s cheerfully.」 He 
faltered for an instant; then went on as before. 「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』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?」 

「I am sure of it.」 

「I thought so. Quietly and steadily have all these arrangements 
made in the court-yard here, even to the taking of your own seat in 
the carriage. The moment I come to you, take me in, and drive 
away.」 

「I understand that I wait for you under all circumstances?」 

「You have my certificate in your hand with the rest, you know, 

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and will reserve my place. Wait for nothing but to have my place 
occupied, and then for England!」 

「Why, then,」 said Mr. Lorry, grasping his eager but so firm and 
steady hand, 「it does not all depend on one old man, but I shall 
have a young and ardent man at my side.」 

「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.」 

「Nothing, Carton.」 

「Remember these words tomorrow: change the course, or delay 
in it—for any reason—and no life can possibly be saved, and many 
lives must inevitably be sacrificed.」 

「I will remember them. I hope to do my part faithfully.」 

「And I hope to do mine. Now, good-bye!」 

Though he said it with a grave smile of earnestness, and though 
he even put the old man』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 court-yard of the house where the 
afflicted heart—so happy in the memorable time when he had 
revealed his own desolate heart to it—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. 

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 Chapter XLIII 

FIFTY-TWO 

In 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 tomorrow was already set apart. 

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. 

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. 

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 

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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. 

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. 

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. 

He wrote a long letter to Lucie, showing her that he had known 
nothing of her father』s imprisonment, until he had heard of it from 
herself, and that he had been as ignorant as she of his father』s and 
uncle』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— 
fully intelligible now—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』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 

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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—though he added that he knew it 
was needless—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. 

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. 

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. 

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. 

But, it beckoned him back in his sleep, and showed itself in 
shining forms. Free and happy, back in the old house in Soho 

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(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, 「this is the day of my death!」 

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. 

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 no wise 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. 

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 the eccentric action of 

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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. 

Twelve gone for ever. 

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. 

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, 
「There is but another now,」 and turned to walk again. 

Footsteps in the stone passage outside the door. He stopped. 

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: 「He 
has never seen me here; I have kept out of his way. Go you in 
alone; I wait near. Lose no time!」 

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. 

There was something so bright and remarkable in his look, that, 
for the moment, the prisoner misdoubted him to be an apparition 
of his own imagining. But, he spoke, and it was his voice; he took 

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the prisoner』s hand, and it was his real grasp. 

「Of all the people upon earth, you least expected to see me?」 he 
said. 

「I could not believe it to be you. I can scarcely believe it now. 
You are not」—the apprehension came suddenly into his mind—「a 
prisoner?」 

「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—your wife, dear Darnay.」 

The prisoner wrung his hand. 

「I bring you a request from her.」 

「What is it?」 

「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.」 

The prisoner turned his face partly aside. 

「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—take off those 
boots you wear, and draw on these of mine.」 

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. 

「Draw on these boots of mine. Put your hands to them; put 
your will to them. Quick!」 

「Carton, there is no escaping from this place; it never can be 
done. You will only die with me. It is madness.」 

「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. 

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While you do it. let me take this ribbon from your hair, and shake 
out your hair like this of mine!」 

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. 

「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.」 

「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?」 

「It was when you came in.」 

「Steady it again, and write what I shall dictate. Quick, friend, 
quick!」 

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. 

「Write exactly as I speak.」 

「To whom do I address it?」 

「To no one.」 Carton still had his hand in his breast. 

「Do I date it?」 

「No.」 

The prisoner looked up, at each question. Carton standing over 
him with his hand in his breast, looked down. 

「『If you remember,』」 said Carton, dictating, 「『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 

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nature to forget them.』」 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. 

「Have you written 「forget them』?」 Carton asked. 

「I have. Is that a weapon in your hand?」 

「No; I am not armed.」 

「What is it in your hand?」 

「You shall know directly. Write on; there are but a few words 
more.」 He dictated again. 「『I am thankful that the time has come, 
when I can prove them. That I do so is no subject for regret or 
grief.』」 As he said these words with his eyes fixed on the writer, his 
hand slowly and softly moved down close to the writer』s face. 

The pen dropped from Darnay』s fingers on the table, and he 
looked about him vacantly. 

「What vapour is that?」 he asked. 

「Vapour?」 

「Something that crossed me?」 

「I am conscious of nothing; there can be nothing here. Take up 
the pen and finish. Hurry, hurry!」 

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—his hand again in his breast—looked steadily 
at him. 

「Hurry, hurry!」 

The prisoner bent over the paper, once more. 

「『If it had been otherwise』」; Carton』s hand was again watchfully 
and softly stealing down; 「『I never should have used the longer 
opportunity. If it had been otherwise』」; the hand was at the 

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prisoner』s face; 「『I should but have had so much the more to 
answer for. If it had been otherwise—,』」 Carton looked at the pen 
and saw it was trailing off into unintelligible signs. 

Carton』s hand moved back to his breast no more. The prisoner 
sprang up with a reproachful look, but Carton』s hand was close 
and firm to his nostrils, and Carton』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. 

Quickly, but with his 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, 「Enter there! Come in!」 
and the Spy presented himself. 

「You see?」 said Carton, looking up, as he kneeled on one knee 
beside the insensible figure, putting the paper in the breast; 「is 
your hazard very great?」 

「M. Carton,」 the Spy answered, with a timid snap of his fingers, 
「my hazard is not that, in the thick of business here, if you are true 
to the whole of your bargain.」 

「Don』t fear me. I will be true to the death.」 

「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.」 

「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.」 

「You?」 said the Spy nervously. 

「Him, man, with whom I have exchanged. You go out at the 
gate by which you brought me in?」 

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「Of course.」 

「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!」 

「You swear not to betray me?」 said the trembling Spy, as he 
paused for a last moment. 

「Man, man!」 returned Carton, stamping his foot; 「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 court-yard 
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!」 

The Spy withdrew, and Carton seated himself at the table, 
resting his forehead on his hands. The Spy returned immediately, 
with two men. 

「How then?」 said one of them, contemplating the fallen figure. 
「So afflicted to find that his friend has drawn a prize in the lottery 
of Sainte Guillotine?」 

「A good patriot,」 said the other, 「could hardly have been more 
afflicted if the Aristocrat had drawn a blank.」 

They raised the unconscious figure, placed it on a litter they 
had brought to the door, and bent to carry it away. 

「The time is short, Evremonde,」 said the Spy, in a warning 
voice. 

「I know it well,」 answered Carton. 「Be careful of my friend, I 
entreat you, and leave me.」 

「Come, then, my children,」 said Barsad. 「Lift him, and come 

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away!」 

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. 

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, 「Follow me, Evremonde!」 and he 
followed him 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. 

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. 

「Citizen Evremonde,」 she said, touching him with her cold 
hand. 「I am a poor little seamstress, who was with you in La 

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Force.」 

He murmured for answer: 「True. I forget what you were 
accused of ?」 

「Plots. Though the just Heaven knows I am innocent of any. Is 
it likely? Who would think of plotting with a poor little weak 
creature like me?」 

The forlorn smile with which she said it, so touched him, that 
tears started from his eyes. 

「I am not afraid to die, Citizen Evremonde, 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 Evremonde. Such a poor weak little 
creature!」 

As the last thing on earth that his heart was to warm and soften 
to, it warmed and softened to this pitiable girl. 

「I heard you were released, Citizen Evremonde. I hoped it was 
true?」 

「It was. But, I was again taken and condemned.」 

「If I may ride with you, Citizen Evremonde, will you let me hold 
your hand? I am not afraid, but I am little and weak, and it will 
give me more courage.」 

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. 

「Are you dying for him?」 she whispered. 

「And his wife and child. Hush! Yes.」 

「O you will let me hold your brave hand, stranger?」 

「Hush! Yes, my poor sister; to the last.」 

The same shadows that are falling on the prison, are falling in 

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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. 

「Who goes here? Whom have we within? Papers!」 

The papers are handed out, and read. 

「Alexandre Manette. Physician. French. Which is he?」 

This is he; this helpless, inarticulately murmuring, wandering 
old man pointed out. 

「Apparently the Citizen-Doctor is not in his right mind? The 
Revolution-fever will have been too much for him?」 

Greatly too much for him. 

「Hah! Many suffer with it. Lucie. His daughter. French. Which 
is she?」 

This is she. 

「Apparently it must be. Lucie, the wife of Evremonde; is it 
not?」 

It is. 

「Hah! Evremonde has an assignation elsewhere. Lucie, her 
child. English. This is she?」 

She and no other. 

「Kiss me, child of Evremonde. Now, thou hast kissed a good 
Republican; something new in thy family; remember it? Sydney 
Carton. Advocate. English. Which is he?」 

He lies here in this corner of the carriage. He, too, is pointed 
out. 

「Apparently the English advocate is in a swoon?」 

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. 

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「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?」 

「I am he. Necessarily, being the last.」 

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. 

「Behold your papers, Jarvis Lorry, counter-signed.」 

「One can depart, citizen?」 

「One can depart. Forward, my postilions! A good journey!」 

「I salute you, citizens.—And the first danger passed!」 

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. 

「Are we not going too slowly? Can they not be induced to go 
faster?」 asks Lucie, clinging to the old m an. 

「It would seem like flight, my darling. I must not urge them too 
much; it would rouse suspicion.」 

「Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued!」 

「The road is clear my dearest. So far, we are not pursued.」 

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 

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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—hiding—doing anything but 
stopping. 

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. 

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. 

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 gesticulations, and the horses are 
pulled up, almost on their haunches. We are pursued? 

「Ho! Within the carriage there. Speak then!」 

「What is it?」 asks Mr. Lorry, looking out at window. 

「How many did they say?」 

「I do not understand you.」 

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「At the last post. How many to the Guillotine today?」 

「Fifty-two.」 

「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!」 

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. 

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. 

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Chapter XLIV 

THE KNITTING DONE 

In 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. 

「But our Defarge,」 said Jacques Three, 「is undoubtedly a good 
Republican? Eh?」 

「There is no better,」 the voluble Vengeance protested in her 
shrill notes, 「in France.」 

「Peace, little Vengeance,」 said Madame Defarge, laying her 
hand with a slight frown on her lieutenant』s lips, 「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.」 

「It is a great pity,」 croaked Jacques Three, dubiously shaking 
his head, with his cruel fingers at his hungry mouth; 「it is not 
quite like a good citizen; it is a thing to regret.」 

「See you,」 said madame, 「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 Evremonde people are to be exterminated, and 

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the wife and child must follow the husband and father.」 

「She has a fine head for it,」 croaked Jacques Three. 「I have 
seen blue eyes and golden hair there, and they looked charming 
when Samson held them up.」 Ogre that he was, he spoke like an 
epicure. 

Madame Defarge cast down her eyes, and reflected a little. 

「The child also,」 observed Jacques Three, with a meditative 
enjoyment of his words, 「has golden hair and blue eyes. And we 
seldom have a child there. It is a pretty sight!」 

「In a word,」 said Madame Defarge, coming out of her short 
abstraction, 「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.」 

「That must never be,」 croaked Jacques Three; 「no one must 
escape. We have not half enough as it is. We ought to have six 
score a day.」 

「In a word,」 Madame Defarge went on, 「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.」 

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. 

「Touching those signals, little citizen,」 said Madame Defarge, 
sternly, 「that she made to the prisoners; you are ready to bear 
witness to them this very day?」 

「Ay, ay, why not!」 cried the sawyer. 「Every day, in all weathers, 
from two to four, always signalling, sometimes with the little one, 

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sometimes without. I know what I know. I have seen with my 
eyes.」 

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. 

「Clearly plots,」 said Jacques Three. 「Transparently!」 

「There is no doubt of the Jury?」 inquired Madame Defarge, 
letting her eyes turn to him with a gloomy smile. 

「Rely upon the patriotic Jury, dear citizeness. I answer for my 
fellow-Jurymen.」 

「Now, let me see,」 said Madame Defarge, pondering again. 「Yet 
once more! Can I spare this Doctor to my husband? I have no 
feeling either way. Can I spare him?」 

「He would count as one dead,」 observed Jacques Three, in a 
low voice. 「We really have not heads enough; it would be a pity, I 
think.」 

「He was signalling with her when I saw her,」 argued Madame 
Defarge; 「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.」 

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. 

「He must take his chance,」 said Madame Defarge. 「No, I 
cannot spare him! You are engaged at three o』clock; you are going 
to see the batch of today executed.—You?」 

The question was addressed to the wood-sawyer. who hurriedly 
replied in the affirmative: seizing the occasion to add that he was 

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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』s head) of having his small individual fears for 
his own personal safety, every hour in the day. 

「I,」 said madame, 「am equally engaged at the same place. After 
it is over—say at eight tonight—come you to me, in Saint Antoine, 
and we will give information against these people at my Section.」 

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. 

Madame Defarge beckoned the Juryman and The Vengeance a 
little nearer to the door, and there expounded her further views to 
them thus: 

「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.」 

「What an admirable woman; what an adorable woman!」 
exclaimed Jacques Three, rapturously. 「Ah, my cherished!」 cried 
The Vengeance; and embraced her. 

「Take you my knitting,」 said Madame Defarge, placing it in her 
lieutenant』s hands, 「and have it ready for me in my usual seat, 
Keep me my usual chair, Go you there, straight, for there will 

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probably be a greater concourse than usual, today,」 「I willingly 
obey the orders of my Chief,」 said The Vengeance with alacrity, 
and kissing her cheek. 「You will not be late?」 

「I shall be there before the commencement.」 

「And before the tumbrils arrive. Be sure you are there, my 
soul,」 said The Vengeance, calling after her, for she had already 
turned into the street, 「before the tumbrils arrive!」 

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. 

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 seems 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. 

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 

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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 
tomorrow, would she have gone to it with any softer feeling than a 
fierce desire to change places with the man who sent her there. 

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, 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』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』clock in the 
lightest-wheeled conveyance known to that period. 
Unencumbered with luggage, they would soon overtake the coach, 

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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. 

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. 

「Now what do you think, Mr. Cruncher,」 said Miss Pross, 
whose agitation was so great that she could hardly speak, or stand, 
or move, or live: 「what do you think of our not starting from this 
court-yard? Another carriage having already gone from here 
today, it might awaken suspicion.」 

「My opinion, miss,」 returned Mr. Cruncher, 「is as you』re right. 
Likewise wot I』ll stand by you, right or wrong.」 

「I am so distracted with fear and hope for our precious 
creatures,」 said Miss Pross, wildly crying, 「that I am incapable of 
forming any plan. Are you capable of forming any plan, my dear 
good Mr. Cruncher?」 

「Respectin』 a future spear o』 life, miss,」 returned Mr. Cruncher, 
「I hope so. Respectin』 any present use o』 this here blessed old 
head o』 mine, I think not. Would you do me the favour, miss, to 
take notice o』 two promises and wows wot it is my wishes fur to 
record in this here crisis?」 

「Oh, for gracious sake!」 cried Miss Pross, still wildly crying, 
「record them at once, and get them out of the way, like an 

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excellent man.」 

「First,」 said Mr. Cruncher, who was all in a tremble, and who 
spoke with an ashy and solemn visage, 「them poor things well out 
o』 this, never no more will I do it, never no more!」 

「I am quite sure, Mr. Cruncher,」 returned Miss Pross, 「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.」 

「No, miss,」 returned Jerry, 「it shall not be named to you. 
Second: them poor things well out o』 this, and never no more will I 
interfere with Mrs. Cruncher』s floppin』, never no more!」 

「Whatever housekeeping arrangement that may be,」 said Miss 
Pross, striving to dry her eyes and compose herself, 「I have no 
doubt it is best that Mrs. Cruncher should have it entirely under 
her own superintendence. O my poor darlings!」 

「I go so far as to say, miss, moreover,」 proceeded Mr. Cruncher, 
with a most alarming tendency to hold forth as from a pulpit— 
「and let my words be took down and took to Mrs. Cruncher 
through yourself—that wot my opinions respectin』 floppin』 has 
undergone a change, and that wot I only hope with all my heart as 
Mrs. Cruncher may be a-floppin』 at the present time.」 

「There, there, there! I hope she is, my dear man,」 cried the 
distracted Miss Pross, 「and I hope she finds it answering her 
expectations.」 

「Forbid it,」 proceeded Mr. Cruncher, with additional solemnity, 
additional slowness, and additional tendency to hold forth and 
hold out, 「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』t all flop (if it was anyways conwenient) to get 』em 
out o』 this here dismal risk! Forbid it, miss! Wot I say, for-BID it!」 

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This was Mr. Cruncher』s conclusion after a protracted but vain 
endeavour to find a better one. 

And still Madame Defarge, pursuing her way along the streets, 
came nearer and nearer. 

「If we ever get back to our native land,」 said Miss Pross, 「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!」 

Still, Madame Defarge, pursuing her way along the streets, 
came nearer and nearer. 

「If you were to go before,」 said Miss Pross, 「and stop the 
vehicle and horses from coming here, and were to wait somewhere 
for me; wouldn』t that be best?」 

Mr. Cruncher thought it might be best. 

「Where could you wait for me?」 asked Miss Pross. 

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. 

「By the cathedral door,」 said Miss Pross. 「Would it be much 
out of the way, to take me in near the great cathedral door 
between the two towers?」 

「No, miss,」 answered Mr. Cruncher. 

「Then, like the best of men,」 said Miss Pross, 「go to the 
posting-house straight, and make that change.」 

「I am doubtful,」 said Mr. Cruncher, hesitating and shaking his 
head, 「about leaving of you, you see. We don』t know what may 
happen.」 

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「Heaven knows we don』t,」 returned Miss Pross, 「but have no 
fear for me. Take me in at the cathedral, at three o』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!」 

This exordium, and Miss Pross』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. 

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. 

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 i n the room. 

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. 

Madame Defarge looked coldly at her, and said. 「The wife of 
Evremonde; where is she?」 

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It flashed upon Miss Pross』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. 

Madame Defarge』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. 

「You might, from your appearance, be the wife of Lucifer,」 said 
Miss Pross, in her breathing. 「Nevertheless, you shall not get the 
better of me. I am an Englishwoman.」 

Madame Defarge looked at her scornfully, but still with 
something of Miss Pross』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』s 
devoted friend; Miss Pross knew full well that Madame Defarge 
was the family』s malevolent enemy. 

「On my way yonder,」 said Madame Defarge, with a slight 
movement of her hand towards the fatal spot, 「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.」 

「I know that your intentions are evil,」 said Miss Pross, 「and 
you may depend upon it, I』ll hold my own against them.」 

Each spoke in her own language; neither understood the 
other』s words; both were very watchful, and intent to deduce from 

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look and manner, what the unintelligible words meant. 

「It will do her no good to keep herself concealed from me at this 
moment,」 said Madame Defarge. 「Good patriots will know what 
that means. Let me see her. Go tell her that I wish to see her. Do 
you hear?」 

「If those eyes of yours were bed-winches,」 returned Miss Pross, 
「and I was an English four-poster, they shouldn』t loose a splinter 
of me. No, you wicked foreign woman; I am your match.」 

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. 

「Woman imbecile and pig-like!」 said Madame Defarge, 
frowning. 「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!」 This, with an angry explanatory wave 
of her right arm. 

「I little thought,」 said Miss Pross, 「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.」 

Neither of them for a single moment released the other』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. 

「I am a Briton,」 said Miss Pross. 「I am desperate. I don』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』ll not leave a 
handful of that dark hair upon your head, if you lay a finger on 
me!」 

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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. 

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. 「Ha, ha!」 she laughed, 「you poor wretch! What are you 
worth! I address myself to that Doctor.」 Then she raised her voice 
and called out, 「Citizen Doctor! Wife of Evremonde! Child of 
Evremonde! Any person but this miserable fool, answer the 
Citizeness Defarge?」 

Perhaps the following silence, perhaps some latent disclosure 
in the expression on Miss Pross』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. 

「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.」 

「Never!」 said Miss Pross, who understood the request as 
perfectly as Madame Defarge understood the answer. 

「If they are not in that room, they are gone, and can be pursued 
and brought back,」 said Madame Defarge to herself. 

「As long as you don』t know whether they are in that room or 
not, you are uncertain what to do,」 said Miss Pross to herself; 「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.」 

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「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,」 
said Madame Defarge. 

「We are alone at the top of a high house in a solitary court-yard, 
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,」 said Miss Pross. 

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. 

Soon, Madame Defarge』s hands ceased to strike, and felt at her 
encircled waist. 「It is under my arm,」 said Miss Pross, in 
smothered tones, 「you shall not draw it. I am stronger than you, I 
bless Heaven for it. I』ll hold you till one or other of us faints or 
dies!」 

Madame Defarge』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—blinded with smoke. 

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. 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. 

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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. 

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. 

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, and 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. 

「Is there any noise in the streets?」 she asked him. 

「The usual noises,」 Mr. Cruncher replied; and looked surprised 
by the question and by her aspect. 

「I don』t hear you,」 said Miss Pross. 「What do you say?」 

It was in vain for Mr. Cruncher to repeat what he said; Miss 
Pross could not hear him. 「So I』ll nod my head,」 thought Mr. 
Cruncher, amazed, 「at all events she』ll see that.」 And she did. 

「Is there any noise in the streets now?」 asked Miss Pross again, 

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presently. 

Again Mr. Cruncher nodded his head. 

「I don』t hear it.」 

「Gone deaf in a hour?」 said Mr. Cruncher, ruminating, with his 
mind much disturbed; 「wot』s come to her?」 

「I feel,」 said Miss Pross, 「as if there had been a flash and a 
crash, and that crash was the last thing I should ever hear in this 
life.」 

「Blest if she ain』t in a queer condition!」 said Mr. Cruncher, 
more and more disturbed. 「Wot can she have been a takin』, to 
keep her courage up? Hark! There』s the roll of them dreadful 
carts! You can hear that, Miss?」 

「I can hear,」 said Miss Pross, seeing that he spoke to her, 
「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.」 

「If she don』t hear the roll of those dreadful carts, now very nigh 
their journey』s end,」 said Mr. Cruncher, glancing over his 
shoulder, 「it』s my opinion that indeed she never will hear anything 
else in this world.」 

And indeed she never did. 

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 Chapter XLV 

THE FOOTSTEPS DIE OUT FOR EVER 

Along the Paris streets, the death-carts rumble, hollow and 
harsh. Six tumbrils carry the day』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. 

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』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. 「If thou be changed into this shape by the will of 
God,」 say the seers to the enchanted, in the wise Arabian stories, 
「then remain so! But, if thou wear this form through mere passing 
conjuration, then resume thy former aspect!」 Changeless and 
hopeless, the tumbrils roll along. 

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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, 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 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. 

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. 

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 

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bent down, to converse with a mere girI 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. 

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, 「Has he sacrificed me?」 when his face clears, as he 
looks into the third. 

「Which is Evremonde?」 says a man behind him. 

「That. At the back there.」 

「With his hand in the girl』s?」 

「Yes.」 

The man cries, 「Down, Evremonde! To the Guillotine all 
aristocrats! Down, Evremonde!」 

「Hush, hush!」 the Spy entreats him, timidly. 

「And why not, citizen?」 

「He is going to pay the forfeit: it will be paid in five minutes 
more. Let him be at peace.」 

But the man continuing to exclaim, 「Down, Evremonde!」 the 
face of Evremonde is for a moment turned towards him. 
Evremonde then sees the Spy, and looks attentively at him, and 
goes his way. 

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 

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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 foremost chairs, stands The Vengeance, 
looking about for her friend. 

「Therese!」 she cries, in her shrill tones. 「Who has seen her? 
Therese Defarge!」 

「She never missed before,」 says a knitting-woman of the 
sisterhood. 

「No; nor will she miss now,」 cries The Vengeance petulantly. 
「Therese.」 

「Louder,」 the woman recommends. 

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! 

「Bad Fortune!」 cries The Vengeance, stamping her foot in the 
chair, 「and here are the tumbrils! And Evremonde will be 
dispatched 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!」 

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!—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. 

The second tumbril empties and moves on; the third comes up. 

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Crash!—And the knitting-women, never faltering or pausing in 
their work, count Two. 

The supposed Evremonde 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. 

「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 today. I think you were sent 
to me by Heaven.」 

「Or you to me,」 says Sydney Carton. 「Keep your eyes upon me, 
dear child, and mind no other object.」 

「I mind nothing while I hold your hand. I shall mind nothing 
when I let it go, if they are rapid.」 

「They will be rapid. Fear not!」 

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. 

「Brave and generous friend, will you let me ask you one last 
question? I am very ignorant, and it troubles me—just a little.」 

「Tell me what it is.」 

「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』s house in the south country. Poverty parted us, 
and she knows nothing of my fate—for I cannot write—and if I 

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could, how should I tell her! It is better as it is.」 

「Yes, yes, better as it is.」 

「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:—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.」 

「What then, my gentle sister?」 

「Do you think」; the uncomplaining eyes in which there is so 
much endurance, fill with tears, and the lips part a little more and 
tremble: 「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?」 

「It cannot be, my child; there is no Time there, and no trouble 
there.」 

「You comfort me so much! I am so ignorant. Am I to kiss you 
now? Is the moment come?」 

「Yes.」 

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—is gone; the knitting-women count Twenty-
Two. 

「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!」 

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 

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flashes away. Twenty-Three. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

They said of him, about the city that night, that it was the 
peacefullest man』s face ever beheld there. Many added that he 
looked sublime and prophetic. 

One of the most remarkable sufferers by the same axe—a 
woman—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: 

「I see Barsad, and Cly, Defarge, The Vengeance, the Jurymen, 
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, 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. 

「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』 time enriching them with all he 
has, and passing tranquilly to his reward. 

「I see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the hearts 

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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』s soul, than I was in the souls of both. 

「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, foremost of just judges and honoured men, 
bringing a boy of my name, with a forehead that I know and 
golden hair, to this place—then fair to look upon, with not a trace 
of this day』s disfigurement—and I hear him tell the child my story, 
with a tender and a faltering voice. 

「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.」 

The End 

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<<a tale of two cities(雙城記)>> 〔完〕

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