book the third: the track of a stormchapter viii. a hand at cards happily unconscious of the new calamity athome, miss pross threaded her way along the narrow streets and crossed the river by thebridge of the pont-neuf, reckoning in her mind the number of indispensable purchasesshe had to make. mr. cruncher, with the basket, walked ather side. they both looked to the right and to theleft into most of the shops they passed, had a wary eye for all gregariousassemblages of people, and turned out of their road to avoid any very excited groupof 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 wherethe barges were stationed in which the smiths worked, making guns for the army ofthe republic. woe to the man who played tricks with_that_ army, or got undeserved promotion in it! better for him that his beard had nevergrown, for the national razor shaved him close. having purchased a few small articles ofgrocery, and a measure of oil for the lamp, miss pross bethought herself of the winethey wanted.
after peeping into several wine-shops, shestopped at the sign of the good republican brutus of antiquity, not far from thenational palace, once (and twice) the tuileries, where the aspect of thingsrather took her fancy. it had a quieter look than any other placeof the same description they had passed, and, though red with patriotic caps, wasnot so red as the rest. sounding mr. cruncher, and finding him ofher opinion, miss pross resorted to the good republican brutus of antiquity,attended by her cavalier. slightly observant of the smoky lights; ofthe people, pipe in mouth, playing with limp cards and yellow dominoes; of the onebare-breasted, bare-armed, soot-begrimed
workman reading a journal aloud, and of the others listening to him; of the weaponsworn, or laid aside to be resumed; of the two or three customers fallen forwardasleep, 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 manparted 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 prossuttered a scream, and clapped her hands.
in a moment, the whole company were ontheir feet. that somebody was assassinated by somebodyvindicating a difference of opinion was the likeliest occurrence. everybody looked to see somebody fall, butonly saw a man and a woman standing staring at each other; the man with all the outwardaspect 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 thatit 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 theirsurprise. for, it must be recorded, that not only wasmiss pross lost in amazement and agitation, but, mr. cruncher--though it seemed on hisown separate and individual account--was in a state of the greatest wonder. "what is the matter?" said the man who hadcaused miss pross to scream; speaking in a vexed, abrupt voice (though in a low tone),and in english. "oh, solomon, dear solomon!" cried misspross, clapping her hands again. "after not setting eyes upon you or hearingof 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 youask me such a cruel question?" "then hold your meddlesome tongue," saidsolomon, "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 dejectedhead 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 misspross, exploring the depths of her reticule through her tears with great difficultypaid for her wine. as she did so, solomon turned to thefollowers of the good republican brutus of antiquity, and offered a few words ofexplanation in the french language, which caused them all to relapse into theirformer places and pursuits.
"now," said solomon, stopping at the darkstreet corner, "what do you want?" "how dreadfully unkind in a brother nothinghas ever turned my love away from!" cried miss pross, "to give me such a greeting,and show me no affection." "there. confound 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 insilence. "if you expect me to be surprised," saidher brother solomon, "i am not surprised; i knew you were here; i know of most peoplewho are here.
if you really don't want to endanger myexistence--which i half believe you do--go your ways as soon as possible, and let mego mine. i am busy. i am an official." "my english brother solomon," mourned misspross, casting up her tear-fraught eyes, "that had the makings in him of one of thebest and greatest of men in his native country, an official among foreigners, andsuch foreigners! i would almost sooner have seen the dearboy 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 ownsister. 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, andtell me there is nothing angry or estranged between us, and i will detain you nolonger." good miss pross!
as if the estrangement between them hadcome of any culpability of hers. as if mr. lorry had not known it for afact, years ago, in the quiet corner in soho, that this precious brother had spenther money and left her! he was saying the affectionate word,however, with a far more grudging condescension and patronage than he couldhave 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 unexpectedlyinterposed with the following singular question:
"i say!might i ask the favour? as to whether your name is john solomon, orsolomon john?" the official turned towards him with suddendistrust. he had not previously uttered a word."come!" said mr. cruncher. "speak out, you know." (which, by the way, was more than he coulddo 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'tcall to mind what your name was, over the water.""no?" "no. but i'll swear it was a name of twosyllables." "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 atthat time?"
"barsad," said another voice, striking in. "that's the name for a thousand pound!"cried jerry. the speaker who struck in, was sydneycarton. he had his hands behind him under theskirts of his riding-coat, and he stood at mr. cruncher's elbow as negligently as hemight have stood at the old 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 waswell, or unless i could be useful; i present myself here, to beg a little talkwith your brother.
i wish you had a better employed brotherthan mr. barsad. i wish for your sake mr. barsad was not asheep of the prisons." sheep was a cant word of the time for aspy, under the gaolers. the spy, who was pale, turned paler, andasked him how he dared-- "i'll tell you," said sydney. "i lighted on you, mr. barsad, coming outof the prison of the conciergerie while i was contemplating the walls, an hour ormore ago. you have a face to be remembered, and iremember faces well. made curious by seeing you in thatconnection, and having a reason, to which
you are no stranger, for associating youwith the misfortunes of a friend now very unfortunate, i walked in your direction. i walked into the wine-shop here, closeafter you, and sat near you. i had no difficulty in deducing from yourunreserved conversation, and the rumour openly going about among your admirers, thenature 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 bedangerous, to explain in the street. could you favour me, in confidence, withsome 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?""really, mr. barsad, i can't say, if you can't." "do you mean that you won't say, sir?" thespy irresolutely asked. "you apprehend me very clearly, mr. barsad.i won't." carton's negligent recklessness of mannercame powerfully in aid of his quickness and skill, in such a business as he had in hissecret mind, and with such a man as he had to do with.
his practised eye saw it, and made the mostof it. "now, i told you so," said the spy, castinga 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, imight not have led up so pleasantly to a little proposal that i wish to make for ourmutual 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 yoursister 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 yourescort knows mr. barsad, i will invite him to mr. lorry's with us. are we ready?come then!" miss pross recalled soon afterwards, and tothe end of her life remembered, that as she pressed her hands on sydney's arm andlooked up in his face, imploring him to do no hurt to solomon, there was a braced purpose in the arm and a kind ofinspiration in the eyes, which not only
contradicted his light manner, but changedand raised the man. she was too much occupied then with fearsfor the brother who so little deserved her affection, and with sydney's friendlyreassurances, adequately to heed what she observed. 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, andwas sitting before a cheery little log or two of fire--perhaps looking into theirblaze for the picture of that younger
elderly gentleman from tellson's, who had looked into the red coals at the royalgeorge at dover, now a good many years ago. he turned his head as they entered, andshowed 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--andwith 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 thelink that mr. lorry wanted, by saying to him with a frown, "witness at that trial." mr. lorry immediately remembered, andregarded his new visitor with an undisguised look of abhorrence. "mr. barsad has been recognised by misspross as the affectionate brother you have heard of," said sydney, "and hasacknowledged 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 andbrother sheep over a bottle of wine, that the arrest has taken place. he left the messengers at the gate, and sawthem admitted by the porter. there is no earthly doubt that he isretaken." mr. lorry's business eye read in thespeaker's face that it was loss of time to
dwell upon the point. confused, but sensible that something mightdepend on his presence of mind, he commanded himself, and was silentlyattentive. "now, i trust," said sydney to him, "thatthe name and influence of doctor manette may stand him in as good stead to-morrow--you said he would be before the tribunal again to-morrow, mr. barsad?--" "yes; i believe so.""--in as good stead to-morrow as to-day. but it may not be so. i own to you, i am shaken, mr. lorry, bydoctor 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 bealarming, when we remember how identified he is with his son-in-law." "that's true," mr. lorry acknowledged, withhis troubled hand at his chin, and his troubled eyes on carton. "in short," said sydney, "this is adesperate 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 to-day, may be condemned tomorrow. now, the stake i have resolved to play for,in case of the worst, is a friend in the conciergerie.and the friend i purpose to myself to win, is mr. barsad." "you need have good cards, sir," said thespy. "i'll run them over. i'll see what i hold,--mr. lorry, you knowwhat a brute i am; i wish you'd give me a little brandy."
it was put before him, and he drank off aglassful--drank off another glassful-- pushed the bottle thoughtfully away. "mr. barsad," he went on, in the tone ofone who really was looking over a hand at cards: "sheep of the prisons, emissary ofrepublican committees, now turnkey, now prisoner, always spy and secret informer, so much the more valuable here for beingenglish that an englishman is less open to suspicion of subornation in thosecharacters than a frenchman, represents himself to his employers under a falsename. that's a very good card.
mr. barsad, now in the employ of therepublican french government, was formerly in the employ of the aristocratic englishgovernment, the enemy of france and freedom. that's an excellent card. inference clear as day in this region ofsuspicion, 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 mischiefso 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 thespy, somewhat uneasily. "i play my ace, denunciation of mr. barsadto the nearest section committee. look over your hand, mr. barsad, and seewhat 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 hisdrinking 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."
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 inengland, through too much unsuccessful hard swearing there--not because he was notwanted there; our english reasons for vaunting our superiority to secrecy and spies are of very modern date--he knew thathe had crossed the channel, and accepted service in france: first, as a tempter andan eavesdropper among his own countrymen there: gradually, as a tempter and aneavesdropper among the natives. he knew that under the overthrowngovernment he had been a spy upon saint
antoine and defarge's wine-shop; hadreceived from the watchful police such heads of information concerning doctor manette's imprisonment, release, andhistory, as should serve him for an introduction to familiar conversation withthe defarges; and tried them on madame defarge, and had broken down with themsignally. he always remembered with fear andtrembling, that that terrible woman had knitted when he talked with her, and hadlooked ominously at him as her fingers moved. he had since seen her, in the section ofsaint antoine, over and over again produce
her knitted registers, and denounce peoplewhose lives the guillotine then surely swallowed up. he knew, as every one employed as he wasdid, that he was never safe; that flight was impossible; that he was tied fast underthe shadow of the axe; and that in spite of his utmost tergiversation and treachery in furtherance of the reigning terror, a wordmight bring it down upon him. once denounced, and on such grave groundsas had just now been suggested to his mind, he foresaw that the dreadful woman of whoseunrelenting character he had seen many proofs, would produce against him that
fatal register, and would quash his lastchance of life. besides that all secret men are men soonterrified, here were surely cards enough of one black suit, to justify the holder ingrowing rather livid as he turned them over. "you scarcely seem to like your hand," saidsydney, with the greatest composure. "do you play?" "i think, sir," said the spy, in themeanest manner, as he turned to mr. lorry, "i may appeal to a gentleman of your yearsand benevolence, to put it to this other gentleman, so much your junior, whether he
can under any circumstances reconcile it tohis station to play that ace of which he has spoken. i admit that _i_ am a spy, and that it isconsidered a discreditable station--though it must be filled by somebody; but thisgentleman 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 avery few minutes." "i should have hoped, gentlemen both," saidthe spy, always striving to hook mr. lorry into the discussion, "that your respect formy sister--"
"i could not better testify my respect foryour sister than by finally relieving her of her brother," said sydney carton."you think not, sir?" "i have thoroughly made up my mind aboutit." the smooth manner of the spy, curiously indissonance with his ostentatiously rough dress, and probably with his usualdemeanour, 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:
"and indeed, now i think again, i have astrong impression that i have another good card here, not yet enumerated. that friend and fellow-sheep, who spoke ofhimself as pasturing in the country prisons; who was he?""french. you don't know him," said the spy, quickly. "french, eh?" repeated carton, musing, andnot appearing to notice him at all, though he echoed his word."well; he may be." "is, i assure you," said the spy; "thoughit's not important." "though it's not important," repeatedcarton, 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 idling 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 hisopen 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," saidbarsad, 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 thisdistance 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 ofsaint pancras-in-the-fields. his unpopularity with the blackguardmultitude at the moment prevented my
following his remains, but i helped to layhim in his coffin." here, mr. lorry became aware, from where hesat, of a most remarkable goblin shadow on the wall. tracing it to its source, he discovered itto be caused by a sudden extraordinary rising and stiffening of all the risen andstiff hair on mr. cruncher's head. "let us be reasonable," said the spy, "andlet us be fair. to show you how mistaken you are, and whatan unfounded assumption yours is, i will lay before you a certificate of cly'sburial, which i happened to have carried in my pocket-book," with a hurried hand heproduced and opened it, "ever since.
there it is.oh, look at it, look at it! you may take it in your hand; it's noforgery." here, mr. lorry perceived the reflection onthe wall to elongate, and mr. cruncher rose and stepped forward. his hair could not have been more violentlyon end, if it had been that moment dressed by the cow with the crumpled horn in thehouse that jack built. unseen by the spy, mr. cruncher stood athis 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 round at the two gentlemen;they both looked in unspeakable astonishment at jerry.
"i tell you," said jerry, "that you buriedpaving-stones and earth in that there coffin.don't go and tell me that you buried cly. 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 ihave got a old grudge again, 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, hadbeen lost in amazement at this turn of the
business, here requested mr. cruncher tomoderate 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 wotthat there cly was never in that there coffin. let him say he was, in so much as a word ofone syllable, and i'll either catch hold of his throat and choke him for half aguinea;" mr. cruncher dwelt upon this as quite a liberal offer; "or i'll out andannounce him." "humph!i see one thing," said carton.
"i hold another card, mr. barsad. impossible, here in raging paris, withsuspicion filling the air, for you to outlive denunciation, when you are incommunication with another aristocratic spy of the same antecedents as yourself, who, moreover, has the mystery about him ofhaving 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 withthe outrageous mob, that i only got away from england at the risk of being ducked todeath, and that cly was so ferreted up and down, that he never would have got away atall but for that sham. though how this man knows it was a sham, isa wonder of wonders to me." "never you trouble your head about thisman," retorted the contentious mr. cruncher; "you'll have trouble enough withgiving your attention to that gentleman. and look here! once more!"--mr. cruncher could not berestrained from making rather an ostentatious parade of his liberality--"i'dcatch hold of your throat and choke you for
half a guinea." the sheep of the prisons turned from him tosydney 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, puttingmy head in great extra danger, and i had better trust my life to the chances of arefusal 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 ican 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 notasked? 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 thehearth, 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 that the merits of the cards should not rest solely betweenyou and me. come into the dark room here, and let ushave one final word alone." > book the third: the track of a stormchapter ix. the game made
while sydney carton and the sheep of theprisons 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 receivingthe look, did not inspire confidence; he changed the leg on which he rested, asoften as if he had fifty of those limbs, and were trying them all; he examined his finger-nails with a very questionablecloseness of attention; and whenever mr. lorry's eye caught his, he was taken withthat peculiar kind of short cough requiring the hollow of a hand before it, which is
seldom, if ever, known to be an infirmityattendant on perfect openness of character. "jerry," said mr. lorry."come here." mr. cruncher came forward sideways, withone of his shoulders in advance of him. "what have you been, besides a messenger?" after some cogitation, accompanied with anintent look at his patron, mr. cruncher conceived the luminous idea of replying,"agicultooral character." "my mind misgives me much," said mr. lorry,angrily shaking a forefinger at him, "that you have used the respectable and greathouse of tellson's as a blind, and that you have had an unlawful occupation of aninfamous description.
if you have, don't expect me to befriendyou when you get back to england. if you have, don't expect me to keep yoursecret. 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 tilli'm grey at it, would think twice about harming of me, even if it wos so--i don'tsay it is, but even if it wos. and which it is to be took into accountthat 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 thepresent hour, a picking up their guineas where a honest tradesman don't pick up hisfardens--fardens! no, nor yet his half fardens--half fardens! no, nor yet his quarter--a banking away like smoke attellson's, and a cocking their medical eyes at that tradesman on the sly, a going inand going out to their own carriages--ah! equally like smoke, if not more so. well, that 'ud be imposing, too, ontellson's. for you cannot sarse the goose and not thegander. and here's mrs. cruncher, or leastways wosin the old england times, and would be to-
morrow, if cause given, a floppin' againthe business to that degree as is ruinating--stark ruinating! whereas them medical doctors' wives don'tflop--catch 'em at it! or, if they flop, their floppings goes infavour of more patients, and how can you rightly have one without t'other? then, wot with undertakers, and wot withparish clerks, and wot with sextons, and wot with private watchmen (all awariciousand all in it), a man wouldn't get much by it, even if it wos so. and wot little a man did get, would neverprosper with him, mr. lorry.
he'd never have no good of it; he'd wantall along to be out of the line, if he, could see his way out, being once in--evenif it wos so." "ugh!" cried mr. lorry, rather relenting,nevertheless, "i am shocked at the sight of you." "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.crunches as if nothing were further from his thoughts or practice--"which i don'tsay 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 suchshould be your wishes. if it wos 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 thereg'lar diggin', and make amends for what he would have undug--if it wos so--bydiggin' of 'em in with a will, and with conwictions respectin' the futur' keepin'of 'em safe.
that, mr. lorry," said mr. cruncher, wipinghis forehead with his arm, as an announcement that he had arrived at theperoration of his discourse, "is wot i would respectfully offer to you, sir. a man don't see all this here a goin' ondreadful round him, in the way of subjects without heads, dear me, plentiful enoughfur to bring the price down to porterage and hardly that, without havin' his seriousthoughts 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 thegood 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 inaction--not in words. i want no more words." mr. cruncher knuckled his forehead, assydney carton and the spy returned from the dark room. "adieu, mr. barsad," said the former; "ourarrangement 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 himwhat 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 thisman's head under the axe, and, as he himself said, nothing worse could happen tohim if he were denounced. it was obviously the weakness of theposition. there is no help for it." "but access to him," said mr. lorry, "if itshould 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 his second arrest,gradually weakened them; he was an old man now, overborne with anxiety of late, andhis tears fell. "you are a good man and a true friend,"said carton, in an altered voice. "forgive me if i notice that you areaffected. 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 slipinto his usual manner, there was a true
feeling and respect both in his tone and inhis touch, that mr. lorry, who had never seen the better side of him, was whollyunprepared for. he gave him his hand, and carton gentlypressed it. "to return to poor darnay," said carton. "don't tell her of this interview, or thisarrangement. it would not enable her to go to see him. she might think it was contrived, in caseof the worse, to convey to him the means of anticipating the sentence." mr. lorry had not thought of that, and helooked 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," cartonsaid, "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 hadbetter not see her. i can put my hand out, to do any littlehelpful work for her that my hand can find to do, without that. you are going to her, i hope?she must be very desolate to-night." "i am going now, directly.""i am glad of that.
she has such a strong attachment to you andreliance on you. how does she look?""anxious and unhappy, but very beautiful." "ah!" it was a long, grieving sound, like asigh--almost like a sob. it attracted mr. lorry's eyes to carton'sface, which was turned to the fire. a light, or a shade (the old gentlemancould not have said which), passed from it as swiftly as a change will sweep over ahill-side on a wild bright day, and he lifted his foot to put back one of the little flaming logs, which was tumblingforward. he wore the white riding-coat and top-boots, then in vogue, and the light of the
fire touching their light surfaces made himlook very pale, with his long brown hair, all untrimmed, hanging loose about him. his indifference to fire was sufficientlyremarkable to elicit a word of remonstrance from mr. lorry; his boot was still upon thehot 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 cloudedthe naturally handsome features, and having the expression of prisoners' faces fresh inhis 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 whenlucie came in so unexpectedly, i have at length done all that i can do here. i hoped to have left them in perfectsafety, 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 ofbusiness when a boy." "see what a place you fill at seventy-eight. how many people will miss you when youleave 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 itnot?" "surely, surely." "if you could say, with truth, to your ownsolitary heart, to-night, 'i have secured to myself the love and attachment, thegratitude or respect, of no human creature; i have won myself a tender place in no regard; i have done nothing good orserviceable to be remembered by!' your seventy-eight years would be seventy-eightheavy curses; would they not?"
"you say truly, mr. carton; i think theywould 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 yourchildhood seem far off? do the days when you sat at your mother'sknee, seem days of very long ago?" responding to his softened manner, mr.lorry answered: "twenty years back, yes; at this time of mylife, no. for, as i draw closer and closer to theend, 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 manyremembrances that had long fallen asleep, of my pretty young mother (and i so old!),and by many associations of the days when what we call the world was not so real with me, and my faults were not confirmed inme." "i understand the feeling!" exclaimedcarton, 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 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 longtime, don't be uneasy; i shall reappear in the morning.you go to the court to-morrow?" "yes, unhappily."
"i shall be there, but only as one of thecrowd. my spy will find a place for me.take my arm, sir." mr. lorry did so, and they went down-stairsand out in the streets. a few minutes brought them to mr. lorry'sdestination. carton left him there; but lingered at alittle distance, and turned back to the gate again when it was shut, and touchedit. he had heard of her going to the prisonevery day. "she came out here," he said, looking abouthim, "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 shehad stood hundreds of times. a little wood-sawyer, having closed hisshop, 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 to-day.we shall mount to a hundred soon.
samson and his men complain sometimes, ofbeing exhausted. ha, ha, ha!he is so droll, that samson. such a barber!" "do you often go to see him--""shave? always.every day. 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 shavedthe sixty-three to-day, in less than two
pipes!less than two pipes. word of honour!" as the grinning little man held out thepipe he was smoking, to explain how he timed the executioner, carton was sosensible 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, andanswering 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 littleman persisted, calling after him. "and take a pipe with you!" sydney had not gone far out of sight, whenhe stopped in the middle of the street under a glimmering lamp, and wrote with hispencil on a scrap of paper. then, traversing with the decided step ofone who remembered the way well, several dark and dirty streets--much dirtier thanusual, 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 atortuous, up-hill thoroughfare, by a small, dim, crooked man. giving this citizen, too, good night, as heconfronted him at his counter, he laid the scrap of paper before him."whew!" the 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 givento him. he put them, one by one, in the breast ofhis 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 to- morrow.i can't sleep." it was not a reckless manner, the manner inwhich he said these words aloud under the fast-sailing clouds, nor was it moreexpressive 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 hisroad and saw its end. long ago, when he had been famous among hisearliest competitors as a youth of great promise, he had followed his father to thegrave. his mother had died, years before. these solemn words, which had been read athis father's grave, arose in his mind as he went down the dark streets, among the heavyshadows, with the moon and the clouds sailing on high above him. "i am the resurrection and the life, saiththe lord: he that believeth in me, though
he were dead, yet shall he live: andwhosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die." in a city dominated by the axe, alone atnight, with natural sorrow rising in him for the sixty-three who had been that dayput to death, and for to-morrow's victims then awaiting their doom in the prisons, and still of to-morrow's and to-morrow's,the chain of association that brought the words home, like a rusty old ship's anchorfrom the deep, might have been easily found. he did not seek it, but repeated them andwent on.
with a solemn interest in the lightedwindows where the people were going to rest, forgetful through a few calm hours ofthe horrors surrounding them; in the towers of the churches, where no prayers were said, for the popular revulsion had eventravelled 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 theabounding gaols; and in the streets along which the sixties rolled to a death whichhad become so common and material, that no sorrowful story of a haunting spirit ever
arose among the people out of all theworking of the guillotine; with a solemn interest in the whole life and death of thecity settling down to its short nightly pause in fury; sydney carton crossed theseine again for the lighter streets. few coaches were abroad, for riders incoaches were liable to be suspected, and gentility hid its head in red nightcaps,and put on heavy shoes, and trudged. but, the theatres were all well filled, andthe people poured cheerfully out as he passed, and went chatting home. at one of the theatre doors, there was alittle girl with a mother, looking for a way across the street through the mud.
he carried the child over, and before thetimid arm was loosed from his neck asked her for a kiss. now, that the streets were quiet, and thenight wore on, the words were in the echoes of his feet, and were in the air. perfectly calm and steady, he sometimesrepeated them to himself as he walked; but, he heard them always. the night wore out, and, as he stood uponthe bridge listening to the water as it splashed the river-walls of the island ofparis, 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 thestars, turned pale and died, and for a little while it seemed as if creation weredelivered over to death's dominion. but, the glorious sun, rising, seemed tostrike those words, that burden of the night, straight and warm to his heart inits long bright rays. and looking along them, with reverentlyshaded eyes, a bridge of light appeared to span the air between him and the sun, whilethe river sparkled under it. the strong tide, so swift, so deep, andcertain, was like a congenial friend, in the morning stillness.
he walked by the stream, far from thehouses, and in the light and warmth of the sun fell asleep on the bank. when he awoke and was afoot again, helingered there yet a little longer, watching an eddy that turned and turnedpurposeless, until the stream absorbed it, and carried it on to the sea.--"like me." a trading-boat, with a sail of the softenedcolour of a dead leaf, then glided into his view, floated by him, and died away. as its silent track in the waterdisappeared, the prayer that had broken up out of his heart for a mercifulconsideration of all his poor blindnesses
and errors, ended in the words, "i am theresurrection and the life." mr. lorry was already out when he got back,and it was easy to surmise where the good old man was gone. sydney carton drank nothing but a littlecoffee, ate some bread, and, having washed and changed to refresh himself, went out tothe place of trial. the court was all astir and a-buzz, whenthe black sheep--whom many fell away from in dread--pressed him into an obscurecorner among the crowd. mr. lorry was there, and doctor manette wasthere. she was there, sitting beside her father.
when her husband was brought in, she turneda look upon him, so sustaining, so encouraging, so full of admiring love andpitying tenderness, yet so courageous for his sake, that it called the healthy blood into his face, brightened his glance, andanimated his heart. if there had been any eyes to notice theinfluence of her look, on sydney carton, it would have been seen to be the sameinfluence exactly. before that unjust tribunal, there waslittle or no order of procedure, ensuring to any accused person any reasonablehearing. there could have been no such revolution,if all laws, forms, and ceremonies, had not
first been so monstrously abused, that thesuicidal 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 daybefore, and to-morrow and the day after. eager and prominent among them, one manwith a craving face, and his fingers perpetually hovering about his lips, whoseappearance gave great satisfaction to the spectators. a life-thirsting, cannibal-looking, bloody-minded juryman, the jacques three of st. antoine.the whole jury, as a jury of dogs
empannelled to try the deer. every eye then turned to the five judgesand the public prosecutor. no favourable leaning in that quarter to-day. a fell, uncompromising, murderous business-meaning there. every eye then sought some other eye in thecrowd, and gleamed at it approvingly; and heads nodded at one another, before bendingforward 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 therepublic, aristocrat, one of a family of tyrants, one of a race proscribed, for thatthey had used their abolished privileges to the infamous oppression of the people. charles evremonde, called darnay, in rightof such proscription, absolutely dead in law.to this effect, in as few or fewer words, the public prosecutor. the president asked, was the accused openlydenounced or secretly? "openly, president.""by whom?" "three voices.
ernest defarge, wine-vendor of st.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 wasseen, pale and trembling, standing where he had been seated. "president, i indignantly protest to youthat this is a forgery and a fraud. you know the accused to be the husband ofmy daughter. my daughter, and those dear to her, are fardearer to me than my life.
who and where is the false conspirator whosays that i denounce the husband of my child!" "citizen manette, be tranquil.to fail in submission to the authority of the tribunal would be to put yourself outof 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 withwarmth resumed. "if the republic should demand of you thesacrifice 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 eyeslooking around, and his lips trembling; his daughter drew closer to him. the craving man on the jury rubbed hishands together, and restored the usual hand to his mouth. defarge was produced, when the court wasquiet enough to admit of his being heard, and rapidly expounded the story of theimprisonment, and of his having been a mere boy in the doctor's service, and of the
release, and of the state of the prisonerwhen released and delivered to him. this short examination followed, for thecourt was quick with its work. "you did good service at the taking of thebastille, citizen?" "i believe so." here, an excited woman screeched from thecrowd: "you were one of the best patriots there.why not say so? you were a cannonier that day there, andyou were among the first to enter the accursed fortress when it fell.patriots, i speak the truth!" it was the vengeance who, amidst the warmcommendations of the audience, thus
assisted the proceedings. the president rang his bell; but, thevengeance, warming with encouragement, shrieked, "i defy that bell!" wherein shewas likewise much commended. "inform the tribunal of what you did thatday within the bastille, citizen." "i knew," said defarge, looking down at hiswife, who stood at the bottom of the steps on which he was raised, looking steadily upat 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 onehundred 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 agaoler. i examine it, very closely. in a hole in the chimney, where a stone hasbeen worked out and replaced, i find a written paper.this is that written paper. i have made it my business to examine somespecimens of the writing of doctor manette. this is the writing of doctor manette.
i confide this paper, in the writing ofdoctor manette, to the hands of the president.""let it be read." in a dead silence and stillness--theprisoner under trial looking lovingly at his wife, his wife only looking from him tolook with solicitude at her father, doctor manette keeping his eyes fixed on the reader, madame defarge never taking hersfrom the prisoner, defarge never taking his from his feasting wife, and all the othereyes there intent upon the doctor, who saw none of them--the paper was read, asfollows. book the third: the track of a stormchapter x.
the substance of the shadow "i, alexandre manette, unfortunatephysician, native of beauvais, and afterwards resident in paris, write thismelancholy paper in my doleful cell in the bastille, during the last month of theyear, 1767. i write it at stolen intervals, under everydifficulty. i design to secrete it in the wall of thechimney, where i have slowly and laboriously made a place of concealment forit. some pitying hand may find it there, when iand my sorrows are dust. "these words are formed by the rusty ironpoint with which i write with difficulty in
scrapings of soot and charcoal from thechimney, 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 notedin myself that my reason will not long remain unimpaired, but i solemnly declarethat i am at this time in the possession of my right mind--that my memory is exact and circumstantial--and that i write the truthas i shall answer for these my last recorded words, whether they be ever readby men or not, at the eternal judgment- seat.
"one cloudy moonlight night, in the thirdweek of december (i think the twenty-second of the month) in the year 1757, i waswalking 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 ofresidence in the street of the school of medicine, when a carriage came along behindme, driven very fast. as i stood aside to let that carriage pass,apprehensive that it might otherwise run me down, a head was put out at the window, anda voice called to the driver to stop. "the carriage stopped as soon as the drivercould rein in his horses, and the same voice called to me by my name.i answered.
the carriage was then so far in advance ofme 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 thecarriage door, i also observed that they both looked of about my own age, or ratheryounger, and that they were greatly alike, in stature, manner, voice, and (as far as icould 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 withinthe last year or two has made a rising
reputation in paris?' "'gentlemen,' i returned, 'i am that doctormanette of whom you speak so graciously.' "'we have been to your residence,' said thefirst, 'and not being so fortunate as to find you there, and being informed that youwere 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, soas to place me between themselves and the carriage door. they were armed.i was not.
"'gentlemen,' said i, 'pardon me; but iusually inquire who does me the honour to seek my assistance, and what is the natureof the case to which i am summoned.' "the reply to this was made by him who hadspoken second. 'doctor, your clients are people ofcondition. as to the nature of the case, ourconfidence in your skill assures us that you will ascertain it for yourself betterthan we can describe it. enough. will you please to 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 atits former speed. "i repeat this conversation exactly as itoccurred. i have no doubt that it is, word for word,the same. i describe everything exactly as it tookplace, constraining my mind not to wander from the task. where i make the broken marks that followhere, 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 dampsoft footpath in a garden where a neglected fountain had overflowed, to the door of thehouse. it was not opened immediately, in answer tothe 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 toattract my particular attention, for i had seen common people struck more commonlythan dogs. but, the other of the two, being angrylikewise, struck the man in like manner with his arm; the look and bearing of thebrothers were then so exactly alike, that i then first perceived them to be twinbrothers. "from the time of our alighting at theouter gate (which we found locked, and which one of the brothers had opened toadmit us, and had relocked), i had heard cries proceeding from an upper chamber. i was conducted to this chamber straight,the cries growing louder as we ascended the
stairs, and i found a patient in a highfever 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 armswere bound to her sides with sashes and handkerchiefs. i noticed that these bonds were allportions of a gentleman's dress. on one of them, which was a fringed scarffor a dress of ceremony, i saw the armorial bearings of a noble, and the letter e. "i saw this, within the first minute of mycontemplation of the patient; for, in her restless strivings she had turned over onher face on the edge of the bed, had drawn
the end of the scarf into her mouth, andwas in danger of suffocation. my first act was to put out my hand torelieve her breathing; and in moving the scarf aside, the embroidery in the cornercaught my sight. "i turned her gently over, placed my handsupon her breast to calm her and keep her down, and looked into her face. her eyes were dilated and wild, and sheconstantly 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 wouldpause to listen, and then the piercing
shrieks would begin again, and she wouldrepeat 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 themanner. there was no cessation, but the regularmoment's pause, in the utterance of these sounds."'how long,' i asked, 'has this lasted?' "to distinguish the brothers, i will callthem the elder and the younger; by the elder, i mean him who exercised the mostauthority. it was the elder who replied, 'since aboutthis hour last night.' "'she has a husband, a father, and abrother?'
"'a brother.' "'i do not address her brother?'"he answered with great contempt, 'no.' "'she has some recent association with thenumber twelve?' "the younger brother impatiently rejoined,'with twelve o'clock?' "'see, gentlemen,' said i, still keeping myhands upon her breast, 'how useless i am, as you have brought me! if i had known what i was coming to see, icould 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 acloset, 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 savenarcotic medicines that were poisons in themselves, i would not have administeredany of those. "'do you doubt them?' asked the youngerbrother. "'you see, monsieur, i am going to usethem,' i replied, and said no more. "i made the patient swallow, with greatdifficulty, 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 ofthe bed. there was a timid and suppressed woman inattendance (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 upbefore the windows, to deaden the sound of the shrieks. they continued to be uttered in theirregular succession, with the cry, 'my
husband, my father, and my brother!' thecounting up to twelve, and 'hush!' the frenzy was so violent, that i had notunfastened the bandages restraining the arms; but, i had looked to them, to seethat they were not painful. the only spark of encouragement in thecase, was, that my hand upon the sufferer's breast had this much soothing influence,that for minutes at a time it tranquillised the figure. it had no effect upon the cries; nopendulum could be more regular. "for the reason that my hand had thiseffect (i assume), i had sat by the side of the bed for half an hour, with the twobrothers looking on, before the elder said:
"'there is another patient.' "i was startled, and asked, 'is it apressing case?' "'you had better see,' he carelesslyanswered; and took up a light. "the other patient lay in a back roomacross a second staircase, which was a species of loft over a stable. there was a low plastered ceiling to a partof it; the rest was open, to the ridge of the tiled roof, and there were beamsacross. hay and straw were stored in that portionof the place, fagots for firing, and a heap of apples in sand.i had to pass through that part, to get at
the other. my memory is circumstantial and unshaken.i try it with these details, and i see them all, in this my cell in the bastille, nearthe close of the tenth year of my captivity, as i saw them all that night. "on some hay on the ground, with a cushionthrown under his head, lay a handsome peasant boy--a boy of not more thanseventeen at the most. he lay on his back, with his teeth set, hisright hand clenched on his breast, and his glaring eyes looking straight upward. i could not see where his wound was, as ikneeled on one knee over him; but, i could
see that he was dying of a wound from asharp 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 fromtwenty to twenty-four hours before, but no skill could have saved him if it had beenlooked to without delay. he was then dying fast. as i turned my eyes to the elder brother, isaw him looking down at this handsome boy
whose life was ebbing out, as if he were awounded bird, or hare, or rabbit; not at all as if he were a fellow-creature. "'how has this been done, monsieur?' saidi. "'a crazed young common dog!a serf! forced my brother to draw upon him, and hasfallen 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 itwas inconvenient to have that different order of creature dying there, and that itwould have been better if he had died in
the usual obscure routine of his verminkind. he was quite incapable of any compassionatefeeling about the boy, or about his fate. "the boy's eyes had slowly moved to him ashe had spoken, and they now slowly moved to me. "'doctor, they are very proud, thesenobles; but we common dogs are proud too, sometimes. they plunder us, outrage us, beat us, killus; but we have a little pride left, sometimes.she--have you seen her, doctor?' "the shrieks and the cries were audiblethere, though subdued by the distance.
he referred to them, as if she were lyingin 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 oursisters, 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 whostands there. the other is his brother, the worst of abad race.'
"it was with the greatest difficulty thatthe boy gathered bodily force to speak; but, his spirit spoke with a dreadfulemphasis. "'we were so robbed by that man who standsthere, as all we common dogs are by those superior beings--taxed by him withoutmercy, obliged to work for him without pay, obliged to grind our corn at his mill, obliged to feed scores of his tame birds onour wretched crops, and forbidden for our lives to keep a single tame bird of ourown, 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 andthe shutters closed, that his people should
not see it and take it from us--i say, wewere so robbed, and hunted, and were made so poor, that our father told us it was a dreadful thing to bring a child into theworld, and that what we should most pray for, was, that our women might be barrenand our miserable race die out!' "i had never before seen the sense of beingoppressed, bursting forth like a fire. i had supposed that it must be latent inthe people somewhere; but, i had never seen it break out, until i saw it in the dyingboy. "'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--ourdog-hut, as that man would call it. she had not been married many weeks, whenthat man's brother saw her and admired her, and asked that man to lend her to him--forwhat are husbands among us! he was willing enough, but my sister wasgood and virtuous, and hated his brother with a hatred as strong as mine. what did the two then, to persuade herhusband to use his influence with her, to make her willing?' "the boy's eyes, which had been fixed onmine, slowly turned to the looker-on, and i saw in the two faces that all he said wastrue.
the two opposing kinds of pride confrontingone another, i can see, even in this bastille; the gentleman's, all negligentindifference; the peasant's, all trodden- down sentiment, and passionate revenge. "'you know, doctor, that it is among therights 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 tokeep us in their grounds all night, quieting the frogs, in order that theirnoble sleep may not be disturbed. they kept him out in the unwholesome mistsat 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 thebell, and died on her bosom.' "nothing human could have held life in theboy but his determination to tell all his wrong. he forced back the gathering shadows ofdeath, as he forced his clenched right hand to remain clenched, and to cover his wound. "'then, with that man's permission and evenwith his aid, his brother took her away; in spite of what i know she must have told hisbrother--and what that is, will not be long unknown to you, doctor, if it is now--his
brother took her away--for his pleasure anddiversion, for a little while. i saw her pass me on the road. when i took the tidings home, our father'sheart 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 lastnight 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; theworld was narrowing around him.
i glanced about me, and saw that the hayand 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 athim as to make him draw. let him break into as many pieces as hewill, 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 momentsbefore, on the fragments of a broken sword, lying among the hay.that weapon was a gentleman's. in another place, lay an old sword thatseemed to have been a soldier's. "'now, lift me up, doctor; lift me up.where is he?' "'he is not here,' i said, supporting theboy, 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 againstmy knee.
but, invested for the moment withextraordinary power, he raised himself completely: obliging me to rise too, or icould not have still supported him. "'marquis,' said the boy, turned to himwith his eyes opened wide, and his right hand raised, 'in the days when all thesethings are to be answered for, i summon you and yours, to the last of your bad race, toanswer for them. i mark this cross of blood upon you, as asign that i do it. in the days when all these things are to beanswered for, i summon your brother, the worst of the bad race, to answer for themseparately. i mark this cross of blood upon him, as asign that i do it.'
"twice, he put his hand to the wound in hisbreast, and with his forefinger drew a cross in the air. he stood for an instant with the finger yetraised, and as it dropped, he dropped with it, and i laid him down dead. "when i returned to the bedside of theyoung woman, i found her raving in precisely the same order of continuity. i knew that this might last for many hours,and that it would probably end in the silence of the grave. "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 ofher 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,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 againsitting by her, when she began to falter. i did what little could be done to assistthat opportunity, and by-and-bye she sank
into a lethargy, and lay like the dead. "it was as if the wind and rain had lulledat last, after a long and fearful storm. i released her arms, and called the womanto assist me to compose her figure and the dress she had torn. it was then that i knew her condition to bethat of one in whom the first expectations of being a mother have arisen; and it wasthen that i lost the little hope i had had of her. "'is she dead?' asked the marquis, whom iwill 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 commonbodies!' 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 thenfrowned at them. he moved a chair with his foot near tomine, ordered the woman away, and said in a subdued voice, "'doctor, finding my brother in thisdifficulty with these hinds, i recommended that your aid should be invited. your reputation is high, and, as a youngman 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, andavoided answering. "'do you honour me with your attention,doctor?' "'monsieur,' said i, 'in my profession, thecommunications of patients are always received in confidence.' i was guarded in my answer, for i wastroubled 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 foundboth the brothers intent upon me. "i write with so much difficulty, the coldis so severe, i am so fearful of being detected and consigned to an undergroundcell and total darkness, that i must abridge this narrative. there is no confusion or failure in mymemory; it can recall, and could detail, every word that was ever spoken between meand those brothers. "she lingered for a week. towards the last, i could understand somefew 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 herfamily 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 anyquestion, until i had told the brothers she was sinking fast, and could not liveanother day. until then, though no one was everpresented to her consciousness save the woman and myself, one or other of them hadalways jealously sat behind the curtain at the head of the bed when i was there.
but when it came to that, they seemedcareless what communication i might hold with her; as if--the thought passed throughmy mind--i were dying too. "i always observed that their pridebitterly resented the younger brother's (as i call him) having crossed swords with apeasant, and that peasant a boy. the only consideration that appeared toaffect the mind of either of them was the consideration that this was highlydegrading to the family, and was ridiculous. as often as i caught the younger brother'seyes, their expression reminded me that he disliked me deeply, for knowing what i knewfrom the boy.
he was smoother and more polite to me thanthe elder; but i saw this. i also saw that i was an incumbrance in themind of the elder, too. "my patient died, two hours beforemidnight--at a time, by my watch, answering almost to the minute when i had first seenher. i was alone with her, when her forlornyoung head drooped 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 headsto me as i bent mine to them, and we parted
without another word on either side. "i am weary, weary, weary--worn down bymisery. i cannot read what i have written with thisgaunt hand. "early in the morning, the rouleau of goldwas left at my door in a little box, with my name on the outside.from the first, i had anxiously considered what i ought to do. i decided, that day, to write privately tothe minister, stating the nature of the two cases to which i had been summoned, and theplace to which i had gone: in effect, stating all the circumstances.
i knew what court influence was, and whatthe immunities of the nobles were, and i expected that the matter would never beheard 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 realdanger; but i was conscious that there might be danger for others, if others werecompromised by possessing the knowledge that i possessed. "i was much engaged that day, and could notcomplete my letter that night.
i rose long before my usual time nextmorning to finish it. it was the last day of the year. the letter was lying before me justcompleted, when i was told that a lady waited, who wished to see me. "i am growing more and more unequal to thetask i have set myself. it is so cold, so dark, my senses are sobenumbed, and the gloom upon me is so dreadful. "the lady was young, engaging, andhandsome, 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 hadaddressed 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 noblemanvery lately. "my memory is still accurate, but i cannotwrite the words of our conversation. i suspect that i am watched more closelythan i was, and i know not at what times i may be watched. she had in part suspected, and in partdiscovered, the main facts of the cruel story, of her husband's share in it, and mybeing resorted to.
she did not know that the girl was dead. her hope had been, she said in greatdistress, to show her, in secret, a woman's sympathy. her hope had been to avert the wrath ofheaven from a house that had long been hateful to the suffering many. "she had reasons for believing that therewas 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 myconfidence, 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 to-day. "she was a good, compassionate lady, andnot 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 ofher husband too. when i handed her down to the door, therewas a child, a pretty boy from two to three
years old, in her carriage. "'for his sake, doctor,' she said, pointingto 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 otherinnocent atonement is made for this, it will one day be required of him. what i have left to call my own--it islittle beyond the worth of a few jewels--i will make it the first charge of his lifeto bestow, with the compassion and lamenting of his dead mother, on this
injured family, if the sister can bediscovered.' "she kissed the boy, and said, caressinghim, '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, and went away caressing him.i never saw her more. "as she had mentioned her husband's name inthe faith that i knew it, i added no mention of it to my letter. i sealed my letter, and, not trusting itout 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 isat with my wife--o my wife, beloved of my heart! my fair young english wife!--we saw theman, 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 inwaiting.
"it brought me here, it brought me to mygrave. when i was clear of the house, a blackmuffler was drawn tightly over my mouth from behind, and my arms were pinioned. the two brothers crossed the road from adark corner, and identified me with a single gesture. the marquis took from his pocket the letteri had written, showed it me, burnt it in the light of a lantern that was held, andextinguished the ashes with his foot. not a word was spoken. i was brought here, i was brought to myliving grave.
"if it had pleased _god_ to put it in thehard heart of either of the brothers, in all these frightful years, to grant me anytidings 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 notquite abandoned them. but, now i believe that the mark of the redcross is fatal to them, and that they have no part in his mercies. and them and their descendants, to the lastof their race, i, alexandre manette, unhappy prisoner, do this last night of theyear 1767, in my unbearable agony, denounce to the times when all these things shall beanswered 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 hadnothing articulate in it but blood. the narrative called up the most revengefulpassions of the time, and there was not a head in the nation but must have droppedbefore it. little need, in presence of that tribunaland that auditory, to show how the defarges had not made the paper public, with theother captured bastille memorials borne in procession, and had kept it, biding theirtime. little need to show that this detestedfamily name had long been anathematised by
saint antoine, and was wrought into thefatal register. the man never trod ground whose virtues andservices would have sustained him in that place that day, against such denunciation. and all the worse for the doomed man, thatthe denouncer was a well-known citizen, his own attached friend, the father of hiswife. one of the frenzied aspirations of thepopulace 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 hadhis own head quivered on his shoulders),
that the good physician of the republicwould deserve better still of the republic by rooting out an obnoxious family of aristocrats, and would doubtless feel asacred glow and joy in making his daughter a widow and her child an orphan, there waswild excitement, patriotic fervour, not a touch of human sympathy. "much influence around him, has thatdoctor?" murmured 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, anenemy of the republic, a notorious oppressor of the people.back to the conciergerie, and death within four-and-twenty hours! book the third: the track of a stormchapter xi. dusk the wretched wife of the innocent man thusdoomed to die, fell under the sentence, as if she had been mortally stricken. but, she uttered no sound; and so strongwas the voice within her, representing that
it was she of all the world who must upholdhim in his misery and not augment it, that it quickly raised her, even from thatshock. the judges having to take part in a publicdemonstration out of doors, the tribunal adjourned. the quick noise and movement of the court'semptying itself by many passages had not ceased, when lucie stood stretching out herarms 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 muchcompassion for us!"
there was but a gaoler left, along with twoof 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 herembrace him then; it is but a moment." it was silently acquiesced in, and theypassed her over the seats in the hall to a raised place, where he, by leaning over thedock, 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 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-bye; but i will do my duty while i can,and when i leave her, god will raise up
friends for her, as he did for me." her father had followed her, and would havefallen 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 ofold. we know, now what you underwent when yoususpected my descent, and when you knew it. we know now, the natural antipathy youstrove against, and conquered, for her dear sake.
we thank you with all our hearts, and allour love and duty. heaven be with you!" her father's only answer was to draw hishands 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 theyhave fallen out. it was the always-vain endeavour todischarge my poor mother's trust that first brought my fatal presence near you. good could never come of such evil, ahappier 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 releasedhim, and stood looking after him with her hands touching one another in the attitudeof prayer, and with a radiant look upon her face, in which there was even a comfortingsmile. as he went out at the prisoners' door, sheturned, laid her head lovingly on her father's breast, tried to speak to him, andfell at his feet. then, issuing from the obscure corner fromwhich 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, andsupported her head. yet, there was an air about him that wasnot 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, andlaid her tenderly down in a coach. her father and their old friend got intoit, and he took his seat beside the driver. when they arrived at the gateway where hehad paused in the dark not many hours before, to picture to himself on which ofthe rough stones of the street her feet had
trodden, he lifted her again, and carriedher up the staircase to their rooms. there, he laid her down on a couch, whereher 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, whileshe only faints." "oh, carton, carton, dear carton!" criedlittle lucie, springing up and throwing her arms passionately round him, in a burst ofgrief. "now that you have come, i think you willdo 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 herblooming cheek against his face. he put her gently from him, and looked ather unconscious mother. "before i go," he said, and paused--"i maykiss her?" it was remembered afterwards that when hebent down and touched her face with his lips, he murmured some words. the child, who was nearest to him, toldthem afterwards, and told her grandchildren when she was a handsome old lady, that sheheard him say, "a life you love." when he had gone out into the next room, heturned suddenly on mr. lorry and her father, who were following, and said to thelatter:
"you had great influence but yesterday,doctor manette; let it at least be tried. these judges, and all the men in power, arevery friendly to you, and very recognisant of your services; are they not?" "nothing connected with charles wasconcealed from me. i had the strongest assurances that ishould save him; and i did." he returned the answer in great trouble,and very slowly. "try them again.the hours between this and to-morrow 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 greatthings before now--though never," he added, with a smile and a sigh together, "suchgreat things as this. but try! of little worth as life is when we misuseit, it is worth that effort. it would cost nothing to lay down if itwere not." "i will go," said doctor manette, "to theprosecutor and the president straight, and i will go to others whom it is better notto name. i will write too, and--but stay!
there is a celebration in the streets, andno one will be accessible until dark." "that's true.well! it is a forlorn hope at the best, and notmuch the forlorner for being delayed till dark.i should like to know how you speed; though, mind! i expect nothing!when are you likely to have seen these dread powers, doctor manette?""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 ihear what you have done, either from our friend or from yourself?" "yes.""may you prosper!" mr. lorry followed sydney to the outerdoor, and, touching him on the shoulder as he was going away, caused him to turn. "i have no hope," said mr. lorry, in a lowand sorrowful whisper. "nor have i." "if any one of these men, or all of thesemen, were disposed to spare him--which is a large supposition; for what is his life, orany man's to them!--i doubt if they durst
spare him after the demonstration in thecourt." "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 waswantonly 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 walked with a settled step, down-stairs.