Part 8 - A Tale of Two Cities Audiobook by Charles Dickens (Book 03, Chs 12-15)


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Transcript:
Book the Third: The Track of a Storm Chapter XII.
Darkness
Sydney 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 mean time, to show myself?
I think so.
It is best that these people should know there is such a man as I here; it is a
sound precaution, and may be a necessary preparation.
But care, care, care!
Let me think it out!"
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 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 customer in the shop but Jacques Three, of the restless
fingers and the croaking voice.
This man, whom he had seen upon the Jury, stood drinking at the little counter, in
conversation with the Defarges, man and wife.
The Vengeance assisted in the conversation, like a regular member of the establishment.
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 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 to-
morrow!"
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 to-day; 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 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 to-day, and I have
observed her other days.
I have observed her in the court, and I have observed her in the street by the
prison. Let me but lift my finger--!"
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
to-day, and he brings it home, and in the middle of the night when this place is
clear and shut, we read it, here on this spot, by the light of this lamp.
Ask him, is that so." "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 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 sea-shore, 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 for 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 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 question, 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 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 to-night?"
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 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
sick-bed 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 lists 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 to-morrow.
I shall see him to-morrow, 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!"
"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, to- night, which have presented their danger to
me in strong colours. I have lost no time, and since then, I have
seen the spy.
He confirms me.
He knows that a wood-sawyer, living by the prison wall, is under the control of the
Defarges, and has been rehearsed by Madame Defarge as to his having seen Her"--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 to-morrow; probably
not until two or three days afterwards; more probably a week afterwards.
You know it is a capital crime, to mourn for, or sympathise with, a victim of the
Guillotine.
She and her father would unquestionably be guilty of this crime, and this woman (the
inveteracy of whose pursuit cannot be described) would wait to add that strength
to her case, and make herself doubly sure.
You follow me?"
"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 to-morrow 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 as
quick as youth. "You are a noble heart.
Did I say we could depend upon no better man?
Tell her, to-night, what you know of her danger as involving her child and her
father.
Dwell upon that, for she would lay her own fair head beside her husband'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 courtyard here,
even to the taking of your own seat in the carriage.
The moment I come to you, take me in, and drive away."
"I understand that I wait for you under all circumstances?"
"You have my certificate in your hand with the rest, you know, and will reserve my
place. Wait for nothing but to have my place
occupied, and then for England!"
"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 to-morrow: 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 courtyard 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.
>
Book the Third: The Track of a Storm Chapter XIII.
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
to-morrow 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 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 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 (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 nowise directed by
his will, obtruded themselves over and over again, countless times.
Neither were they connected with fear: he was conscious of no fear.
Rather, they originated in a strange besetting desire to know what to do when
the time came; a desire gigantically disproportionate to the few swift moments
to which it referred; a wondering that was
more like the wondering of some other spirit within his, than his own.
The hours went on as he walked to and fro, and the clocks struck the numbers he would
never hear again.
Nine gone for ever, ten gone for ever, eleven gone for ever, twelve coming on to
pass away.
After a hard contest with that eccentric action of thought which had last perplexed
him, he had got the better of it. He walked up and down, softly repeating
their names to himself.
The worst of the strife was over. He could walk up and down, free from
distracting fancies, praying for himself and for them.
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 first
moment, the prisoner misdoubted him to be an apparition of his own imagining.
But, he spoke, and it was his voice; he took the prisoner'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.
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 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 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
at 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 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?"
"Mr. 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?"
"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 courtyard you know of, place him yourself in the carriage,
show him yourself to Mr. Lorry, tell him yourself to give him no restorative but
air, and to remember my words of last
night, and his promise of last night, and drive away!"
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 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 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 Force."
He murmured for answer: "True. I forget what you were accused of?"
"Plots.
Though the just Heaven knows that I am innocent of any.
Is it likely? Who would think of plotting with a poor
little weak creature like me?"
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 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.
"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, countersigned."
"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 man.
"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 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 gesticulation, 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."
"--At the last post. How many to the Guillotine to-day?"
"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.
>
Book the Third: The Track of a Storm Chapter XIV.
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 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, 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 head," 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 to-day executed.-
-You?"
The question was addressed to the wood- sawyer, who hurriedly replied in the
affirmative: seizing the occasion to add that he was the most ardent of Republicans,
and that he would be in effect the most
desolate of Republicans, if anything prevented him from enjoying the pleasure of
smoking his afternoon pipe in the contemplation of the droll national barber.
He was so very demonstrative herein, that he might have been suspected (perhaps was,
by the dark eyes that looked contemptuously at him out of Madame Defarge'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 to-night-- 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 probably be a greater concourse than usual,
to-day."
"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 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 orphan;
that was insufficient punishment, because they were her natural enemies and her prey,
and as such had no right to live.
To appeal to her, was made hopeless by her having no sense of pity, even for herself.
If she had been laid low in the streets, in any of the many encounters in which she had
been engaged, she would not have pitied herself; nor, if she had been ordered to
the axe to-morrow, would she have gone to
it with any softer feeling than a fierce desire to change places with the man who
sent her there. 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, 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 courtyard?
Another carriage having already gone from here to-day, 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 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 flopping, 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' flopping has undergone a change, and that wot I only
hope with all my heart as Mrs. Cruncher may be a flopping at the present time."
"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!"
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."
"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 in
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?"
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 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!"
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 of 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."
"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 courtyard, we are not likely to
be heard, and I pray for bodily strength to keep you here, while every minute you are
here is worth a hundred thousand guineas to my darling," 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 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.
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, what if it were identified, what
if the door were opened and the remains
discovered, what if she were stopped at the gate, sent to prison, and charged with
murder!
In the midst of these fluttering thoughts, the escort appeared, took her in, and took
her away. "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, presently.
Again Mr. Cruncher nodded his head. "I don't hear it."
"Gone deaf in an 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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Book the Third: The Track of a Storm Chapter XV.
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.
As the sombre wheels of the six carts go round, they seem to plough up a long
crooked furrow among the populace in the streets.
Ridges of faces are thrown to this side and to that, and the ploughs go steadily
onward.
So used are the regular inhabitants of the houses to the spectacle, that in many
windows there are no people, and in some the occupation of the hands is not so much
as suspended, while the eyes survey the faces in the tumbrils.
Here and there, the inmate has visitors to see the sight; then he points his finger,
with something of the complacency of a curator or authorised exponent, to this
cart and to this, and seems to tell who sat
here yesterday, and who there the day before.
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 bent down, to converse with a mere girl who sits on the side of the cart,
and holds his hand.
He has no curiosity or care for the scene about him, and always speaks to the girl.
Here and there in the long street of St. Honore, cries are raised against him.
If they move him at all, it is only to a quiet smile, as he shakes his hair a little
more loosely about his face. He cannot easily touch his face, his arms
being bound.
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 crumble in and close behind the last
plough as it passes on, for all are following to the Guillotine.
In front of it, seated in chairs, as in a garden of public diversion, are a number of
women, busily knitting. On one of the fore-most chairs, stands The
Vengeance, looking about for her friend.
"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 despatched in a wink,
and she not here!
See her knitting in my hand, and her empty chair ready for her.
I cry with vexation and disappointment!"
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.
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 to-day.
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
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 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 Juryman, the Judge, long
ranks of the new oppressors who have risen on the destruction of the old, perishing by
this retributive instrument, before it shall cease out of its present use.
I see a beautiful city and a brilliant people rising from this abyss, and, in
their struggles to be truly free, in their triumphs and defeats, through long years to
come, I see the evil of this time and of
the previous time of which this is the natural birth, gradually making expiation
for itself and wearing out.
"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 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, fore-most of just judges and honoured men, bringing a boy of my name,
with a forehead that I know and golden hair, to this place--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."
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