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12. A Man of Class

  Mr. Stryver, having made up his mind to generously give himself to the lucky Doctor's daughter, wanted to tell her of his plan (and by doing so, fill her with happiness) before leaving town for his holiday. If he told her now, then they would have more time to work together on choosing a day for the wedding, either in September or in December.

  He had not a fear in the world that he would lose this case. If he argued with the jury about what it would mean for her in wealth (and that is the only argument ever worth using) it was as good as won. There was not one weak line in his reasoning. He could see himself as a witness, with another lawyer trying to find a hole in his argument. The lawyer would have to give up trying in the end. The jury would not even need a minute to think about it. When the hearing was over, Stryver the Lion was sure that he never had a stronger case.

  With this in mind, Stryver planned to start his holiday by taking Miss Manette to the Gardens, or some other nice place in London and there tell her the good news.

  So he left his place in Temple to shoulder his way to Soho. Anyone watching him as he walked proudly and quickly down the road toward Soho, to the danger of all weaker people in the way, would have seen how safe and strong he was in his belief.

  Because he would be walking past Tellson's on the way, and because he did business there, and because he knew Mr. Lorry was a close friend of the Manettes, it seemed wise to stop in and tell Mr. Lorry the good news that he was taking to Soho. He opened the sticky door with the bad sound in its throat, went down the two steps, pushed past the two old men working in the front, and found Mr. Lorry sitting in a very little room at the back with books full of lines and numbers. The one window in that room had vertical bars on it, like it too should be filled with numbers between the lines.

  "Hello!" said Mr. Stryver. "How do you do? I hope you're well!"

  It was a strange thing about Mr. Stryver, that he always seemed to be too big for any place or space. He was so much too big for Tellsons that the old workers in the farthest corners looked up with a spirit that disagreed with him being there, as if he was squeezing them against the wall. The "House" himself, proudly reading a newspaper some distance away from Stryver, looked over the top of it as he would if Stryver had used his head to hit the man strongly in the stomach.

  Humble Mr. Lorry modestly used the voice that he would have wished Stryver to use as he said, "How do you do, Mr. Stryver? How do you do, sir?” and shook his hand. There is a special way that all of the workers at Tellson's shake hands with the people who come there, making it clear that it is not them that is shaking the hand, but it is Tellson and Company that is doing it.

  "Can I do anything for you, Mr. Stryver?” asked Mr. Lorry in his business-like voice.

  "Why, no thank you; this is a friendly visit, Mr. Lorry. I have come to talk about something quite apart from business."

  "Oh, is that true!" said Mr. Lorry, leaning closer to hear, but with one eye on the "House" off in the distance.

  "I'm going...” said Mr. Stryver, leaning his arms confidently on the desk. It was a big double desk, but when Mr. Stryver did this, it seemed the desk was not half big enough for him. "I'm going to ask your lovely friend, Miss Manette, to marry me, Mr. Lorry."

  "Oh my!" cried Mr. Lorry, rubbing his chin and looking at his visitor without knowing what to say.

  "Oh my, sir?” repeated Stryver, pulling back. "Oh my, sir? What does that mean, Mr. Lorry?"

  "My meaning," answered the man of business, "is, as you must know, friendly and kind, and it does say much about your good name. In short, my meaning is everything you could want. But... really, you know, Mr. Stryver...” Mr. Lorry stopped and shook his head at him in the strangest way, as if he was being forced to secretly add, "You know, there really is much too much of you!"

  "Well!" said Stryver, hitting the desk with his angry hand, opening his eyes wider, and breathing deeply, "if I understand you, Mr. Lorry, I'll be hanged!"

  Mr. Lorry made a little movement to his wig as a way to buy time, and chewed the feather end of his pen.

  "To hell with it, sir!" said Stryver, looking strongly at him. "Am I not good enough?"

  "Oh yes, truly! Yes. Oh yes, you are good enough!" said Mr. Lorry. "If you say good enough, you are good enough."

  "Am I not rich?” asked Stryver.

  "Oh, if it comes to being rich, you are rich," said Mr. Lorry.

  "And getting richer?"

  "If it comes to that," said Mr. Lorry, happy to say so many good things about Mr. Stryver, "everyone knows you're that."

  "Then what on earth is your meaning, Mr. Lorry?” cried Stryver, looking sad.

  "Well, I... Were you going there now?” asked Mr. Lorry.

  "Straight!" said Stryver, banging his fist on the desk.

  "Then I think I would not if I were you."

  "Why?” said Stryver. "Now, I'll put you in a corner," shaking a finger at him like he was a policeman. "You're a man of business, so you must have a reason. Tell me why. Why wouldn't you go?"

  "Because," said Mr. Lorry, "I wouldn't go on such a trip without good reason to believe I would get what I wanted."

  Stryver shouted a few angry words to show his surprise. Mr. Lorry looked quickly toward House, then back at the angry Stryver.

  "Here you are, a man of business, a man of years, knowing much about life, and working in a bank," said Stryver; "and after giving three good reasons for me being able to win my case, now you tell me that there is no reason to win? And you have said this with your head on.” Mr. Stryver said this as if it would be okay for Mr. Lorry to say the same thing with his head off.

  "When I talk about winning or losing, I am talking about how the young woman thinks; and when I speak of reasons to make her agree, I am thinking of reasons that go with her way of thinking. The young woman, my good sir," said Mr. Lorry, softly touching the Stryver arm, "the young woman. She must come first."

  "Then you mean to tell me, Mr. Lorry," said Stryver, with his elbows pointing out, "that you honestly believe the young woman we are talking about is stupid?"

  "That is not true. I mean to tell you, Mr. Stryver," said Mr. Lorry, turning red, "that I will not hear one wrong word against that young woman from any lips; and that if I knew any man -- and I hope I do not -- whose taste was so rough and whose spirit was so strong that he could not hold himself back from saying something bad about her at this desk, not even Tellson's could stop me from giving him a piece of my mind."

  The need to be quiet at the same time that he was angry had been dangerous for Mr. Stryver's arteries when he had heard what Mr. Lorry thought. But now it was Mr. Lorry's turn, and, for all of his quiet ways, his arteries were in no better shape than were Mr. Stryver's.

  "That is what I think about it, sir," said Mr. Lorry. "So I hope you understand me."

  Mr. Stryver had picked up a measuring stick and chewed on it for a time before hitting it lightly on his teeth as he was thinking. In the end, he said:

  "This is something new to me, Mr. Lorry. You clearly said that I should not go up to Soho and give myself -- myself, Stryver of the King's Bench?"

  "Do you want me to help you, Mr. Stryver?"

  "Yes, I do."

  "Very good. I have done that, and you have thrown it back at me."

  "And all I can say of it is," laughed Stryver with an angry laugh, "that this -- ha, ha! -- is worse than anything, past, present, or future."

  "Understand me," went on Mr. Lorry. "As a man of business, I have no right to say anything about this. As a man of business, I know nothing of it. But as an old friend, who has carried Miss Manette in his arms, who is a close friend of Miss Manette and of her father too, and who has great love for them both, I have spoken. Remember that I was not telling you what I think, but what she would think. Do you think I don't know what I'm talking about?"

  "I'm not saying that," said Stryver. "I cannot change the way other people think. I can only think
clearly for myself. But there are some people who I thought were smart, and now you are telling me that they are foolish. What you are saying surprises me, but I agree, that you know them better than me."

  "What I have said was in my own words, Mr. Stryver. And understand me, sir," said Mr. Lorry quickly turning red again, "I will not -- not even in Tellson's -- let any man breathing put his words into my mouth."

  "Okay! I'm sorry!" said Stryver. "Please forgive me."

  "I forgive you. Thank you. Now, Mr. Stryver, what I was about to say: It could be embarrassing for you to find that you are wrong about what will happen. It could be embarrassing for Doctor Manette to have the job of telling you that. It could be very hard for Miss Manette to have the job of telling you No. But you know how close I am with the family. If you like, without saying that I am acting for you, I could ask a few questions to find out for sure what her thinking would be on this. If you still want to ask her, you could do it; but if I find out that it will not work, and if you believe me, it could save all of you a lot of pain. What do you think?"

  "How long would you keep me waiting?"

  "Oh, it would only be a few hours. I could go down to Soho tonight and come to your place after I finish."

  "Then I agree," said Stryver. "I won't go yet. I'm not so enthusiastic that I can't wait that long. So I agree, and I will be looking for you tonight. Good morning."

  Then Mr. Stryver turned and exploded out of the bank, making such a wind on the way, that it took all of the strength of the two old men working behind the counter to stay on their feet as they bowed to him on his way out. Those two old men bowed so often that people must have believed that they never stopped bowing, even when the office was empty.

  The lawyer was smart enough to know that the banker would not have gone so far as to say what he had said if he was not sure of it. He was not prepared for the sour medicine that he had to swallow, but he swallowed it all the same. "And now," said Mr. Stryver, shaking his lawyer's finger at the world in general, when the medicine was down, "my way out of this is to put you all in the wrong."

  It was part of the art that this Old Bailey lawyer used in his job. "You'll not put me in the wrong, young woman," said Mr. Stryver; "I'll be the one to do that to you."

  And so, when Mr. Lorry came by that night, as late as ten o'clock, Mr. Stryver, with books and papers everywhere, seemed to have forgotten all about the subject they had been talking about that morning. He even showed surprise when he saw Mr. Lorry at the door, and seemed to be very busy with many other things.

  "Well!" said the friendly visitor, after a full half-hour of trying to bring the talk around to what he was there for. "I have been to Soho."

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

  "And I am very sure," said Mr. Lorry, "that I was right in what I said to you. My feeling has been proved, and so I repeat what I have already said before."

  "I promise you," returned Mr. Stryver, in the friendliest way, "that I am sorry for you and sorry for her poor father. I know this must always be a sore subject for the family, and I will say no more about it."

  "I don't understand," said Mr. Lorry.

  "I shouldn't think you would," answered Stryver, shaking his head softly, as if it would smooth everything over. "It's not important. Don't worry about it."

  "But it is important," Mr. Lorry argued.

  "No, it isn't, I tell you. I believed that there was some smartness where there was none. I thought there was some desire to get ahead when it was not there. You have protected me without anyone being hurt. Young women have done foolish things like this before, and they have ended up poor and alone because of it. I am sad for her that it is dropped, because there was to be nothing in it for me. For myself, I am glad that it is dropped for the same reason. But it has not hurt me. I have not said anything to her, and, between ourselves, I am not sure, after thinking about it, that I should ever have even thought to help her. Mr. Lorry, you cannot control the pride and foolishness of stupid young women; don't even try, or you will always be failing. Now, please, say no more about it. I tell you, I feel sad for others, but for myself, I have no problem with it. I owe you much for having helped me. You know the young woman better than I do, and you were right, it never would have worked."

  Mr. Lorry was so surprised, that he looked quite stupidly at Mr. Stryver, who was shouldering him toward the door, at the same time that he talked like he was being very generous, kind, and friendly toward someone who had done wrong. "Make the best of it, my good friend," said Stryver. "Say no more about it. Thank you again for helping me. Good night!"

  Mr. Lorry was out into the night before he knew where he was. Mr. Stryver was lying on his couch, smiling at the roof.

  13. A Man of No Class

  If there was ever a time when Sydney Carton looked good, it was not during times when he visited with Doctor Manette. During the past year he had visited many times, and he had always been the same sour, lazy, quiet person, with no interest in others. He could speak well if he had wanted to, but the cloud of selfish interest that travelled with him wherever he went was almost never cut through by the light to whatever was hiding inside of him.

  And yet he did care for something, if nothing more than the stones that made up the streets and footpaths around the house in Soho. Many nights, when the wine stopped making him happy, he would walk around without clear direction on the streets of Soho. Many mornings, when the sun was close to coming up, he was out there all alone. And he was often still there when the first light of the sun was competing with the shapes and colours of the tallest buildings in the city. It may be that those quiet times helped him to remember better things, things he would forget and never find if he was not in that special part of the city. Of late, his bed in Temple Court was seeing less and less of him. Often after only a few minutes on the bed, he would get up and go like a ghost off to Soho.

  One day in August, when Mr. Stryver (after telling his wild dog that he "had thought better of that marrying plan") had taken his high class ways to another town, and when the picture and smell of flowers in the city streets had in them the ability to help the worst of people (making the sick feel well again, and the old feel young again), Sydney's feet were still walking on those stones in Soho. From being one who could never stay with a thing long enough to finish it, his feet seemed to take on a new mind, a mind that took him to the Doctor's door.

  He was taken up the steps to where Lucie was working alone on some papers. It was always difficult for her to relax around him, and so she was embarrassed to have him there sitting in a chair near her table. But when she looked up at his face as they were each saying hello, she could see a change in it.

  "I'm afraid you are not well, Mr. Carton!"

  "No, I'm not. But the way I live, Miss Manette, is not a healthy way. What more can you look for in one who has wasted his life as I have?"

  "Is it not... Forgive me, for asking this without thinking. Is it not wrong to live such a life?"

  "God knows it is!"

  "They why not change it?"

  Looking kindly at him again, she was surprised and hurt to see that there were tears in his eyes. They were in his voice too, as he answered:

  "It is too late for that. I will never be better than I am. I will only sink lower and grow worse."

  He leaned an elbow on the table and covered his eyes with his hands. They both said nothing, but the table was shaking.

  She had never seen this soft side of him, and she did not know what to do or say. He understood this, without looking at her, and so he said:

  "Please forgive me, Miss Manette. I am like this because of what I want to say to you. Will you hear me out?"

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

  "God bless you for your sweet spirit!"

  He uncovered his face after a
little while and spoke clearly.

  "Don't be afraid to hear me. Don't pull back from anything I say. I am like one who died young. All my life has been wasted."

  "No, Mr. Carton. I am sure that the best part of it is still to come. I am sure that you can be much much more than you are now."

  "I hear what you are saying, Miss Manette. I know better. In the secret place of my awful heart, I know better. But I will never forget what you have just said."

  "If it had been possible, Miss Manette, for you to return the love of the man who is in front of you now... a man who has wasted his life and destroyed his body through alcohol -- he would know, even now, that the happiness he would feel from that would not have stopped him from making you sad, embarrassing you, destroying you, and pulling you down with him. I know that there is no reason for you to feel that kind of love for me. I do not ask for that, and I even thank God that you cannot."

  "But isn't there a way that I can help you without that, Mr. Carton? Can't I call you back -- Forgive me again! -- to a better way? Is there nothing I can do to thank you for being honest with me just now? I know that what you have said was said in confidence," she said humbly after waiting a short while before saying it, with sincere tears in her eyes. "I know you would not say this to anyone else. Can I turn it to something good for yourself, Mr. Carton?"

  He shook his head.

  "To nothing. No, Miss Manette, to nothing. If you will listen just for a little longer, you will have done for me all that you can do. I want you to know that you have been the last dream of my soul. I have not been so far gone that I could not see in you and your father and in this home that you have built up together, something that lifted my spirit from the darkness that I had thought I was buried in. Since meeting you, I have heard old voices that I thought I would never hear again, calling on me to remember the good times, and to not give up hope for better ones to come. There have been whispers encouraging me to feel sorry about my actions, and thoughts about starting over, shaking off the lazy and selfish ways of the past, returning to the fight for all that is good. But it is all a dream, a dream that ends in nothing and leaves the sleeper where he was. But I want you to know that you are the one who put these thoughts into my head."

  "Will nothing at all come of it? Oh, Mr. Carton, please try again!"

  "No, Miss Manette. Through it all, I have known that I am not able to live up to those dreams. On top of that, I have selfishly wanted you to know how much effect your spirit has had on me, cold ashes that I am. You have started a fire in me, a fire which will help no one, but a fire all the same."

  "Since I have made you, Mr. Carton, sadder than you were before you knew me..."

  "Don't say that, Miss Manette! If anyone could have saved me, it would have been you. You're not the reason I will grow worse."

  "Since the feelings you have now are in some way the effect of knowing me -- That is what I mean, if I can make myself clear. -- can I not use my power to help you in some way? Do I have no power for good with you at all?"

  "The most good that I could possibly do, Miss Manette, is what I have come here to do. Let me remember through what I have left of my awful life, that I opened up to you alone of all people with the truth about myself, and that you were able to feel sorry for me."

  "Remember too that I begged you again and again with all my heart, to believe you are able to do better than this, Mr. Carton!"

  "Do not beg me any more, Miss Manette. I know myself better than you, and I know what I am able to do and what I am not able to do. I am sorry to have made you feel sad. I will finish quickly. Will you let me believe, when I remember this day, that the last time I opened my heart to someone it was to someone with a perfect and innocent spirit, and that she would never share it with anyone?"

  "If that is what you want, I will do it. Yes."

  "Not even to the one you come to love most in this world?"

  "Mr. Carton," she answered, after fighting with this thought for a few seconds, "the secret is yours, not mine. I promise to keep it."

  "Thank you, and again, God bless you."

  He put her hand to his lips and moved toward the door.

  "Do not fear, Miss Manette, that I will ever tell anyone about this meeting. I will never say one word about it again. If I were dead, I could not be quieter about it. And in the hour of my death I will remember this one thing as holy -- and I will thank you and bless you for it -- that my last act of honesty was made to you, and that you carry kindly in your heart my name with all my wrongs and sadness. Apart from this, may your heart be filled with light and happiness!"

  He was so different to how he had ever seemed, and it was so sad to think of how much he had thrown away, and how much he forced out of his mind each day, that Lucie Manette cried deeply for him as he stood looking back at her.

  "Do not be sad!" he said. "I am not worth such feelings, Miss Manette. An hour or two from now, and the low friends and the low actions that I hate, but give in to, will make me of less worth than any poor soul that walks the streets. Do not be sad! But, inside myself I will always be toward you what I am now, even if on the outside I go back to acting like I did before. The second last thing I ask of you is that you believe what I have just said."

  "I will, Mr. Carton."

  "And the very last thing I ask is this, and with it I will take a visitor away from you who is so opposite to you, and who is separated from you by a space that can never be bridged. There is no point in saying it, I know, but it comes up out of my soul. For you, and for anyone whom you love, I would do anything. If my work was of a better kind that it could be used, at any cost, to help you, I would pay any price to help you or those you love. Try to remember me, at some quiet times, as deeply sincere in this one thing. The time will come, and it will not be long in coming, when new ropes will tie you even more closely to the home that you have made so beautiful. They will be the most loving ropes, and they will fill your heart with happiness. So, Miss Manette, when the picture of a happy father's face looks up at you, and you see yourself growing again in a little child at your feet, think from time to time that there is a man who would give his life to keep a life you love beside you!"

  He said "Goodbye!" and a last "God bless you!" and he left.

  14. An Honest Worker

  Before the eyes of Mr. Jerry Cruncher, sitting on his little chair in Fleet Street, with his ugly son beside him, there moved, every day, long lines of vehicles and people. Who could sit on anything in Fleet Street during the busy hours of the day and not lose their ability to think or hear clearly just from watching those two great lines of movement, one going east, and one going west!

  With a piece of straw in his mouth, Mr. Cruncher watched the two rivers of opposite movement like some uneducated farmer watching a little river on his land, for fear that it would dry up. But for Jerry, there was no thought that the movement would ever dry up. And he would have felt bad if it did, because from those two rivers he made a little money each day. He would lead shy women (most of them fat and old) from Tellson's side of the rivers safely across to the opposite side. In the short time that he was with these women, he would always show so much interest in them and be so moved by knowing them that he would say he wanted to have a drink to their good health, and they would give him money to be used to do it.

  It happened one day that there were so few people on the street and so few women running late, and his money was so low that he started to think that Mrs. Cruncher must be throwing herself down on her knees again. And just then he looked up to see a strange group of people coming down Fleet Street. It was some kind of a funeral, and it seemed that there was a crowd of people who were angry about it.

  "Young Jerry," said Mr. Cruncher, turning to his son, "it's a burying."

  "Hooray, father!" cried young Jerry.

  For his father there was a secret meaning behind this shout, and he did not like it. So he hit the young man o
n the ear.

  "What do you mean? What are you hooraying at? What are you trying to say to your father, you waste of a boy! This one boy is getting to be too many for me!" said Mr. Cruncher, looking young Jerry over. "Him and his hoorays! Don't let me hear no more of you, or you'll feel some more of me. You hear?"

  "I weren't doing no hurt," young Jerry argued, rubbing his cheek.

  "Drop it then," said Mr. Cruncher. "I won't have none of your no hurts. Get a top of that there seat and look at the crowd."

  His son obeyed him, and the crowd came closer. They were shouting and making other angry noises around two dirty old coaches, one carrying the body, and one carrying only one friend of the dead person, dressed as one does when going to a funeral. The man in the second coach did not seem to be happy with what was happening, as more and more people moved around the coach, putting him down, making faces, and shouting out: "Go on! Selling secrets! Yeah, treason!" There were many other words that were too rough to print here.

  Funerals were always interesting to Mr. Cruncher. He would always take special interest when one passed Tellson's. So one could understand that this one, with a wild crowd around it was of special interest. He asked the first man to reach him:

  "What is it, brother? What's it about?"

  "I don't know," returned the other man, putting his hands to his mouth all the same, and shouting with a surprising heat and the greatest feeling, "Treason, yeah! How awful!"

  At length, another man, with more information about the case pushed into him, and from this person, he learned that the funeral was for one Roger Cly.

  "Was he guilty of treason?” asked Mr. Cruncher.

  "Old Bailey, treason, yes," returned the man. "How awful! Away with him! Old Bailey, treason!"

  "What do you know!" Jerry said in surprise. "I've seen him before. Dead, is he?"

  "Dead as meat," returned the other, "and he can't be too dead for that too. Pull him out, there! Both of them! Pull them out!"

  What he was asking for was better than any other plan that the crowd had (because they had none), and so the people crowded around the two vehicles until they could no longer move. They too started shouting, "Pull them out! Pull them out!"

  When they opened the door of the second coach, the man in it jumped out and was in their hands for a very short time. He was so alert and made such good use of that time that he was soon running up a side street, after losing his coat, hat, hand scarf, and other things that show one has come to cry at a funeral.

  The people happily destroyed these pieces of his clothes, while the shop owners quickly closed up their shops. In those days, a crowd like this would stop at nothing, and it was feared by all. They had already opened the coach with the body in it when one of the smarter people in the crowd came up with a different plan: They would make a party out of burying it! Again, because there were so few thinkers there, any plan was happily received. Eight people jumped into the coach, with a dozen more outside it. As many as were able climbed on top of the coach with the body in it. One of the first ones inside the empty coach was Jerry Cruncher, who was careful to hide his messy head of hair from Tellson's by pushing into the far side of the coach.

  The men driving the coach, who were there to do the burying, disagreed with these changes in the plans, but the river, being dangerously near, and someone from the crowd saying that the cold water in it could be used to bring some better thinking on the part of the drivers, it was not long before they changed their mind. The new plan called for a man who cleans chimneys to drive the first coach, with the real driver beside him to show the way. A man who sells pies was the new driver of the second coach, again with the real driver beside him. Before the group had moved far down the street they came to a man with a bear that could dance and do tricks. He and the bear were added to the crowd, and the bear, a black one, added a special touch to make the movement even more interesting.

  So, with much beer drinking, pipe smoking, song singing, and many jokes about how sad they were, the wild crowd moved on, adding ever more people as they went, and forcing shops to close their doors and windows as they went. They were going to a church called Saint Pancras in the Fields. After some time they reached their target. They all forced their way into the burying ground and buried the body in their own way, to finish off their party.

  With the job finished, and the crowd looking for other entertainment, another smart member (or maybe the same one as before) believed it would be fun to take hold of people on the street and say that they too had been found guilty of treason, just for the fun of scaring them. In this way, they ran after and roughly handled dozens of innocent people who had never been near the Old Bailey. From this it was easy for the wild crowd to change their sport to one of breaking windows, and then to breaking into pubs. At last, a few hours later, after a few summer houses had been pulled down and some fences broken to make weapons for the worst members of the crowd, word moved through the crowd that the police were coming. On hearing this, the crowd melted away, piece by piece. It is unclear if the police were coming or not, but this is the pattern for most such crowds.

  Mr. Cruncher did not join in the other sports. Instead, he stayed behind in the church yard, to talk to and encourage the men who had been driving the coach before the trouble started. The place seemed to make him relax. He was able to get a pipe at a pub near there, and he smoked it while looking in through the bars on the fence around it, seriously studying the place where Roger Cly had been buried.

  "Jerry," said Mr. Cruncher to himself as he often did, "you seed that there Cly that day in court, and you seed with your own eyes that he was a young one, and well made too."

  Having finished his pipe and thought a little longer, he turned back, wanting to be at his place in front of Tellson's before closing time. It is not clear if his thinking about right and wrong had made him sick, or if he was not sick at all, or if he just wanted to visit an important man, but on his way home he stopped in to see an important doctor who he often visited.

  Young Jerry had shown great interest in filling in for his father; he reported that no jobs had come up during that time. The bank closed, the very old men who worked there came out, the time was marked, and Mr. Cruncher and his son went home to tea.

  "Now, I tell you where it is!" said Mr. Cruncher to his wife, on coming in. "If, as a honest worker my work goes wrong tonight, I will know that you have been praying against me, and I'll work you for it just the same as if I seen you do it."

  Mrs. Cruncher shook her head sadly.

  "Why, you're at it before my face!" said Mr. Cruncher, with signs of angry worry.

  "I'm saying nothing."

  "Well, then, don't think nothing. You might as well drop as think. You may as well go against me one way as another. Stop them both."

  "Yes, Jerry."

  "Yes, Jerry," repeated Mr. Cruncher sitting down to eat. "Ah! It is Yes, Jerry. That's about it. You may say Yes, Jerry."

  Mr. Cruncher had no clear meaning in what he was saying, but he used her own words, as people often do, to let her see that he did not think they were good enough.

  "You and your Yes, Jerry," said Mr. Cruncher, taking a bite out of his bread and butter, and acting like he was adding something very special to it by picking up a very little piece that fell in the plate. "Ah! I think so. I believe you."

  "You were going out tonight?” asked his good wife, when he took another bite.

  "Yes, I am."

  "Can I go with you, father?” his son asked quickly.

  "No, you may not. I'm a going, as your mother knows, fishing.

  "There's a lot of rust on your fishing stick, is there not, father?”

  "Never you mind."

  "Will you be bringing fish home, father?"

  "If I don't, you'll have little to help you tomorrow," returned the man, shaking his head. "Anyway, that's questions enough for you. I'm not going out until long after you go to bed."
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br />   For what was left of the night, he kept a very careful watch over Mrs. Cruncher, keeping her busy with his angry talk, to stop her from thinking any prayers that could be used to hurt his plans. He encouraged his son to keep her busy with talk too, and made her life hard by saying anything bad that he could think of about her, just so she would not have time to think or pray. The most religious person could not show more faith in the power of prayer than he did in the way he feared his wife praying. It was like a person who does not believe in ghosts being afraid of a ghost story.

  "And mind you!" said Mr. Cruncher. "No games tomorrow! If I, as an honest worker, am able to bring home a piece or two of meat, I'll have none of your not touching it and eating only bread. If I, as an honest worker, am able to buy a little beer, I'll have none of you saying that you only want water. When you go to Rome, do as Rome does. Rome will be an ugly friend to you if you don't. I'm your Rome, you know."

  Then he returned to talking about his problems.

  "With you flying in the face of your own food and drink! I don't know how hard you will make it for us to get food and drink here, by your dropping tricks and your cruel actions. Look at your boy: he is yours, isn't he? He's as thin as a stick. Do you call yourself a mother and not know that a mother's first job is to fill her boy out?"

  This touched young Jerry's heart, who pushed his mother to do her first job, and whatever else she did or did not do, above all things to give special interest to that first job of a mother, so kindly and wisely pointed to by his other parent.

  This is how the evening went with the Cruncher family, until young Jerry was told to go to bed, and his mother was given the same rule. They both obeyed. Mr. Cruncher got through the first part of the night smoking pipes, and did not start his trip until one in the morning. About that time, he got up from his chair, took a key out of his pocket, opened a locked cabinet, and brought out a bag, a strong iron bar of a good size to carry, a rope and chain, and other things like that to be used to do his 'fishing'. Pulling these things around himself in a way that was easy to carry, he said one more angry word to Mrs. Cruncher, put out the light, and left.

  Young Jerry, who had not taken his clothes off when he went to bed, left a short time after his father. Under cover of darkness, he moved out of the room, down the steps, and out into the streets. He had no worries about getting back into the house later, because many people lived in it, and the door was always open.

  Pushed on by a deep interest in knowing the secrets of his father's honest work, young Jerry stayed as close to walls and door openings as his eyes were to each other. He stayed close enough to see his loved parent without being seen himself. His loved parent had not gone far before he was joined by another disciple of Izaak Walton, and the two walked on together.*

  (*Izaak Walton wrote a book on fishing at that time.)

  In less than half an hour they were on an open road, past the winking eyes of lanterns and the more than winking eyes of the watchmen. Out here, another "fisherman" joined the first two so quietly that young Jerry could have believed that the second man had changed to two by magic.

  The three went on, and young Jerry went on, until the three stopped where the ground on one side of the road was much higher than the road itself. There was a low brick wall on the high ground, with a low iron fence on top of that. The three turned up a narrow road leading to the side, where the low wall grew to be eight or ten feet high. Hiding at the corner, young Jerry saw, by the light of the moon, the shape of his loved parent climbing over an iron gate. He was soon over, and then the second fisherman got over, and then the third. They all dropped softly on the ground inside the gate, and lay there for a while, maybe listening. Then they moved away on their hands and knees.

  It was now young Jerry's turn to move up to the gate, which he did. He looked in through the bars to see the three fishermen moving on all fours through some long grass! The white stones marking where people were buried there -- for this was a big church burying ground -- looked like ghosts watching the men. And the church tower looked over it all like a giant ghost. The men had not moved far before they stopped and stood up. And then they started to fish.

  They fished with a spade at first. A short while later, the loved parent pulled out another tool. Whatever tools they used, they worked hard with them, until the ringing of the church bell filled young Jerry with such fear that he turned and ran, with his hair sticking up as much as his father's.

  The great interest he had held for so long about what his father did when he went out at night soon stopped him in his run, and led him back to the gate. When he looked in, he could see that they were still fishing, but that they now had a bite. There were sounds of movement down below, and they were bent over as if pulling at something very heavy down in the hole. Little by little the weight broke away from the dirt that was still holding it down, and came to where young Jerry could see it. He knew what it would be, but when he saw his loved parent about to force it open, he became so filled with fear about what he would see that he ran off again and never stopped until he had run a mile or more.

  Even then he would not have stopped for anything less important than breathing, it being a race with a ghost that he was running, and a race he wanted badly to finish in one piece. He could picture in his mind the box with the body in it standing up on its narrow end and jumping along after him as he ran. Always he could see it moving close behind him, and at times going by beside him, maybe reaching out to take hold of his arm. It was not a runner to let get near him. It was a devil that could be in many places at the same time too, so that at the same time that he believed it was running behind him, he also stayed out of the dark side roads for fear it would be hiding in them and would drop quickly on him like a wild kite without a tail. It was hiding in the openings for doors at the side of the road too. And in any shadows on the road, where it would lie on its back trying to make him fall over it. All this time it was still running after him, and getting closer and closer, so that when the boy reached his own door he had reason for being half dead. Even then it would not leave him, but followed him up to his room, jumping from step to step. It moved into the bed beside him, and was lying heavily on his chest when he fell asleep.

  Sometime between the first sign of light and the sun coming up, young Jerry was pulled from his troubled sleep by the sound of his father in the family room. Something had gone wrong, or so that is what young Jerry was thinking from seeing his father holding Mrs. Cruncher by the ears and hitting her head against the board at the head of their bed.

  "I told you I would," said Mr. Cruncher, "and I did."

  "Jerry, Jerry, Jerry!" his wife begged.

  "You put yourself against me making anything from my business," said Jerry, "and when you do that, me and the men I work with lose out. You was to love and obey; why the Devil don't you?"

  "I try to be a good wife, Jerry," the poor woman argued with tears.

  "Is it being a good wife to fight against his business? Is it loving your husband to hate his business? Is it obeying your husband to not obey him on things to do with his business?"

  "You hadn't taken to that awful business back then, Jerry."

  "It's enough for you," answered back Mr. Cruncher, "to be the wife of an honest worker, and not fill your female mind with thoughts about when he started his business or when he didn't. A loving and obeying wife would let his business alone. Call yourself a religious woman do you? If you're a religious woman, then give me one who isn't religious. You have no more feeling for what a wife should do than the bottom of this Thames River has for a building. In both cases, such a thing has to be knocked into place."

  The argument was all done in a quiet voice, and ended with the honest worker kicking off his clay covered boots, and lying down on the floor. After taking a secret look at him lying on his back with his rust covered hands under his head for a pillow, his son lay himself back down too, and fell asleep again.
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  There was no fish for breakfast and not much of anything else either. Mr. Cruncher was angry, and kept the cover of an iron pot beside him to throw if he needed to stop Mrs. Cruncher from praying over the food. He was clean and dressed in time to head off with his son for what most people believed was his "honest work".

  Young Jerry, walking with the seat under his arm at his father's side along sunny crowded Fleet Street, was a very different Young Jerry from the boy who ran home through the darkness the night before, in fear of the awful ghost that was running after him. His mind was sharp with the new day, and his fears from the night before were gone, two things that made him much like others walking down Fleet Street in London on that beautiful morning.

  "Father," said young Jerry as they walked along, being careful to keep distance between himself and his father, with the chair between them, "What is a Dig it Up Man?"

  Mr. Cruncher came to a stop before he answered. "How should I know?"

  "I thought you knowed everything, father," said his rough son.

  "Hmm, well!" returned Mr. Cruncher, moving on again, and lifting his hat to let his rough hair fall out. "He's a worker."

  "What's he make, father?” asked the sharp young Jerry.

  "What he makes," said Mr. Cruncher, after turning it over in his mind, "is things to be used by scientists."

  "Persons' bodies, isn't it, father?” asked the bright boy.

  "I believe it is something like that," said Mr. Cruncher.

  "Oh father, I would so like to be a Dig it Up Man when I'm quite growed up!"

  Mr. Cruncher relaxed. But he shook his head like someone preaching about right and wrong. "It will rest on what you do with your abilities. Learn to never say no more than what you can help to nobody. Do this and there is no telling now what you may come to be then.” As young Jerry raced ahead to put the chair in place for his father, Mr. Cruncher added to himself, "Jerry, you honest worker, there's hope that the boy may one day be a blessing to you, and make up for the troubles his mother has brought."

  15. Knitting

  The drinking had started earlier than most days at Mr. Defarge's wine shop. As early as six in the morning sickly yellow faces had looked in through the windows and been able to see other faces inside bending over glasses of wine. Mr. Defarge sold a watered down wine at the best of times, but there was even more water in the glasses at this time. From the look on the faces of the people drinking there, it was a sour wine too, because they were not smiling. An air of laughing and singing was not jumping out of Mr. Defarge's grape juice on this morning; instead, only a slow burning fire could be seen hiding behind the drinks.

  This had been the third morning in as many days that the drinkers had come there so early. It had started on Monday, and this was now Wednesday. There was more thinking than drinking happening, and many men had come to listen and whisper who could not have paid one coin for the drinks, not even to save their soul. But they had as much interest in what was happening as they would have had if they could buy whole barrels of wine. They moved from seat to seat and corner to corner, swallowing talk instead of drinks, with greedy looks on their faces.

  For all the people there, the owner of the shop was nowhere to be seen. But the people there were not looking for him. No one asked about him, and no one was surprised to see only Madam Defarge in her seat, watching over the wine sales with a bowl of small coins in front of her, which were as rough and knocked about as the people from whose poor pockets they had come.

  It may be that spies had visited the wine shop at that time. If they had, they would have seen that other interests had stopped. Such people were always looking for secrets, from the prisons to the home of the king himself. Card games had stopped. The people playing dominoes were now building little houses with them as they talked of other things. Drinkers would draw shapes on the table in the little wine that fell from their glasses. Madam Defarge herself picked at the pattern on her sleeve with a little stick, and saw and heard something far off in the distance that others could not see or hear.

  It was like this, in Saint Antoine's wine shop, for the whole morning. It was noon when two men, covered with dust, walked through Saint Antoine's streets, under the saint's hanging lanterns. One was Mr. Defarge, and the other a road worker in a blue hat. Thirsty and dirty, the two men came into the wine shop. Their coming had started a fire inside Saint Antoine, a fire that moved from face to face at most doors and windows. Yet no one followed them, and no one said a word when they came into the shop. But they did all turn to look and listen.

  "Good day, friends!" said Mr. Defarge.

  Maybe it was a sign for them to talk, because he received many Good days in return.

  "The weather's not good at all," said Defarge, shaking his head.

  On hearing this, they all looked at one another and then down at the floor, without saying anything. All but one man, who stood up and walked out.

  "My wife," said Defarge to Mrs. Defarge, but loudly enough for the others to hear: "I have travelled a few miles with this good road worker, called Jack. I met him, by accident, a day and a half's travel outside of Paris. He is a good boy, this road worker, called Jack. Give him a drink, wife!"

  A second man stood up and left. Madam Defarge put wine before the road worker called Jack, who took off his blue hat to the crowd, and had a drink. Inside his shirt, he carried rough dark bread. He ate it between drinks, and sat there chewing and drinking near Madam Defarge's counter. A third man stood and went out.

  Mr. Defarge poured himself some wine too, but not as much as he had given to the stranger, for whom the drink was very special. He stood waiting for the man from the village to finish his breakfast.

  He looked at no one and no one looked at him, not even Madam Defarge, who was now hard at work knitting.

  "Have you finished your meal?” he asked after some time.

  "Yes, thank you."

  "Come, then! You can see the room that I said you would stay in. You will be very happy with it."

  Out of the wine shop, into the street; out of the street into the yard; out of the yard and up some steep steps. Out of the steps and into a little room under the roof -- a room where a white-haired man had sat in the past, on a low bench, leaning forward and busily making shoes.

  No white-haired man was there now; but the three men were there, the ones who had left the wine shop one by one. Between them and the white-haired man far off in London, was that hole in the wall through which they had looked in at him in the past.

  Defarge closed the door carefully and spoke in a quiet voice.

  "Jack One, Jack Two, Jack Three! This is the witness I, Jack Four, went to meet. He'll tell you all you need to know. Speak, Jack Five!"

  The road worker, blue hat in hand, rubbed it on his dark forehead and said, "Where should I start, sir?

  "Start," was Mr. Defarge's wise answer, "at the start."

  "I saw him then, sirs," started the road worker, "a year ago this summer, under the Marquis' coach, hanging by the chain. Here is how he looked. I was finished for the day, with the sun going to bed, and the Marquis' coach was going very slowly up the hill. He was hanging from the chain -- like this."

  Again the road worker went through the story, which he should have known perfectly by now from having told it so many times over the past year in his village.

  Jack One cut in and asked if he'd ever seen the man before.

  "Never," answered the road worker, returning to the vertical.

  Jack Three asked how he later knew who the man was.

  "By how tall he was," said the road worker softly, and with his finger against his nose. "When Sir the Marquis asked later that night, 'Say, what is he like?' I answered 'Tall as a king'."

  "You should have said short as a dwarf," returned Jack Two.

  "But what did I know? He had not done anything yet, and he had never told me of his plan. Look! If I had known that, I would not have said anyt
hing. Sir the Marquis could point at me, standing near our little fountain, and say, 'To me! Bring that man!' And believe me, sirs, I would have said nothing."

  "He's right there, Jack," Mr. Defarge said to the one who had questioned the road worker.

  "Good!" said the road worker, looking like he did not know what was happening. "The tall man was gone, and they looked for him -- how many months? Nine, ten, eleven?"

  "The number is not important," said Defarge. "He had been hiding well, but in the end it was just his bad luck that he was found. Go on!"

  "I was again at work on the side of the hill, and the sun was again about to go to bed. There I was putting my tools together to walk down to my house in the village below, where it is already dark, when I lift my eyes and see coming over the hill six soldiers. In the middle of them is a tall man with his arms tied -- to his sides -- like this!"

  With the help of his always ready hat, he acted the part of a man with his elbows tied together behind him.

  "So I stand to the side, sirs, by my pile of stones, to watch the soldiers and their prisoner go by (for it is a quiet road, that, where anything of interest is well worth stopping for), and at first, as they were coming toward me, I see no more than that they are six soldiers and a tall man tied up, and that they are almost black to me, with a red border on the side where the sun was going down behind them. Also, I see their shadows going out on the ground and up against the cliff on the opposite side of the road, like giants. And I see that they are covered with dust, and that the dust moves with them as they come, step, step, step! But when they get quite close to me, I see who the tall man is, and he sees me and knows who I am. Ah, but he would have been happy to throw himself over the side of the hill on the down side of the road again, as he had done on the evening when I first saw him, close to that same place!"

  The labourer talked like he was there now, and it was clear that he could see it clearly in his mind; maybe he had not seen much in his life.

  "I do not let the soldiers know that I know who the tall man is; he does not show the soldiers that he knows me; we do it, and we know it, with our eyes. 'Come on!' says the leader of the group, pointing to the village. 'Bring him quickly to his death!' and they bring him faster. I follow. His arms are sore from being tied so tightly, his timber shoes are big and slow, and he is crippled. Because he is crippled, and slow, they drive him forward with their guns -- like this!"

  He acts the part of a man being forced forward by the timber end of their guns.

  "As they go down the hill like crazy men running a race, he falls. They laugh and pick him up again. His face is bleeding and covered in dust, but he cannot touch it. And they laugh at that too. They bring him into the village, and all the village run out to look. They take him out past the windmill and up to the prison. All the village see the prison gates open in the darkness of the night -- and swallow him -- like this!"

  He opened his mouth wide as he could, and shut it loudly as his teeth hit together. Seeing that he didn't want to destroy the effect by opening it again, Defarge said, "Go on, Jack."

  "All the village," the road worker went on, standing up on his toes, and speaking in a low voice, "falls back; all the village whispers by the fountain; all the village sleeps; all the village dreams of that sad one behind the locks and bars of the prison on the steep rocky hill, never to come out of it, but to die. In the morning, with my tools on my shoulder, eating my piece of black bread as I go, I do a walk around the prison on my way back to work. There I see him, high up, behind the bars of his high iron cage, still covered in blood and dust, and looking out. He has no free hand to wave to me. It is too dangerous for me to call out to him. He looks at me like he is a dead man."

  Defarge and the other three looked darkly at each other. The looks on all of their faces are dark, controlled, and full of hate as they listened to the story coming from this man from the country. The spirit of all of them, while secret, was one of strength too. They had the air of a rough court; Jack One and Two sitting on the old mattress, each with his chin resting on his hand and his eyes on the road worker; Jack Three, equally interested, on one knee behind them, with his hand always moving across the nerves around his mouth and nose; and Defarge standing between them and the story teller, whom he had put in the light of the window, looking first from him to them and then from them to him.

  "Go on, Jack," said Defarge.

  "He stays up there in his iron cage for some days. The village looks at him secretly, for it is afraid. But from a distance, it looks up at the prison on the steep rocks; and in the evening, when the work of the day is finished and they come together by the fountain, all faces are turned toward the prison. In the past, they were always looking toward the building where news and mail were received, but now they looked toward the prison. They whisper at the fountain that while it is said that he will die, it is going to wait on someone in Paris who is saying that the man was angry because of the death of his child. They say that someone is asking the King himself. What do I know? It's possible. Maybe yes, maybe no."

  "Listen to this, Jack," Number One of that name seriously put in. "A letter was given to the King and to the Queen. All of us here, apart from you, saw the King take it, in his coach, on the street, sitting beside the Queen. It's Defarge, whom you see, who, in danger of losing his life, ran out in front of the horses with the letter in his hand."

  "And hear this too, Jack!" said Number Three, who was down on one knee, his fingers still moving over his face like he was hungry for something, but not for food or drink. "The guards, on horse and on foot, circled around Defarge and hit him. You hear?"

  "I hear, sirs."

  "Go on then," said Defarge.

  "On the other hand, they whisper at the fountain," the man from the country went on, "that he was brought to our part of the country to be killed, and that nothing will stop it. They even whisper that because he has killed Sir, and because Sir is the father of his workers, he will be killed as one who has killed his own father. One old man says that his right hand, holding the knife, will be burned off before his face. He says that, into cuts that will be made in his arms, his chest, and his legs, there'll be poured hot oil, melted metal, and other chemicals. And in the end, his body will be pulled into four parts by four strong horses. That old man says all this was done to a prisoner who tried to kill King Louis Fifteen. But how do I know if he is telling the truth? I have no schooling."

  "Listen again, Jack!" said the man with a hand moving over his face. "The name of that prisoner was Damiens, and it was all done in open day, in the open streets of this city of Paris, and the worst thing about the crowd of people who came to watch was that rich, well-dressed women who were enthusiastic about staying until the end -- until the end, Jack, after it was dark, when he had lost two legs and an arm, and still breathed! Yes, it happened… years ago. How old are you?"

  "Thirty-five," said the road worker, who looked sixty.

  "It happened when you were more than ten years old. You could have seen it."

  "Enough!" said Defarge seriously. "Long live the Devil. Go on."

  "Well, some whisper this, and some whisper that. They speak of nothing else; even the fountain seems to dance to their music. At last, on Sunday night when all the village is asleep, soldiers come down from the prison, hitting the end of their guns on the stones of the little street. Workers dig, workers hammer, soldiers laugh and sing. In the morning, by the fountain there is a hanging stage forty feet high, poisoning the water."

  The road worker looked not at the roof, but through it, and pointed like he could see the hanging stage somewhere in the sky.

  "All work is stopped. We all come together there. Nobody leads the cows out; the cows are there with us. At noon, the drums sound. Soldiers have walked into the prison during the night and they come with him now, tied as before, and with a ball of cloth in his mouth, tied like this, with a tight string, making him look almost
like he was laughing.” He showed them by using his hands to pull the corners of his mouth up toward his ears. "On the top of the stage is the knife he had used to kill the Marquis, standing on its handle. He is hanged there, forty feet high -- and is left hanging there, poisoning the water."

  They looked at one another as he rubbed his face with his blue hat. Just telling the story had started him sweating.

  "It's awful, sirs. How can the women and children get water? Who can go there to talk in the evening under the shadow of his body hanging up there? When I left the village on Monday evening, as the sun was going down, the shadow of that body reached across the church, the windmill, the prison -- it seemed to go across the whole earth, sirs, to where the sky meets the ground!"

  The hungry man chewed one of his fingers as he looked at the other three, and his finger shook with the feeling that was on him.

  "That's all, sirs. I left as the sun went down (like I had been warned to do), and I walked on, that night and half of the next day, until I met (as I was warned I would) this friend. With him, I came on, now riding and now walking, through the rest of yesterday and through last night. And here you see me!"

  "After a dark, sad minute with no one saying a word, the first Jack said, "Good! Your actions and your story have been good. Will you wait for us for a little while, outside the door?"

  "I would be glad to," said the road worker, and Defarge led him to the top of the steps where he sat and waited while Defarge returned to talk with the others.

  The three were standing and their heads were close together when Defarge came back into the room.

  "What do you say, Jack?” asked Number One. "Do we add this name to the list?"

  "Add him, to be destroyed," returned Defarge.

  "Wonderful!" said the hungry man.

  "The castle and all the family?” asked the first?

  "The castle and all the family," said Defarge. "Destroy them."

  The hungry man repeated with great happiness, "Wonderful!" and started chewing on another finger.

  "Are you sure," asked Jack Two of Defarge, "that no trouble will come from the way we keep the list? I know it's safe, because no one apart from ourselves can read it; but will we always be able to read it... or I should say, will she?"

  "Jack," returned Defarge, pulling himself up tall, "If my wife had tried to keep the list in her mind alone she would not lose a word of it, not even part of a word. But knitted in her own language, it will always be as clear as the sun. Trust Madam Defarge. It would be easier for the weakest person that has ever lived to kill himself than to have even one letter of his name or of his evil actions fall from the list that Madam Defarge is knitting."

  There were words of agreement, and then the hungry man asked, "Is this country labourer to be sent back soon? I hope so. He is very stupid, and I think that makes him a little dangerous."

  "He knows nothing," said Defarge, "at least nothing more than would have him hanged from the same height. Let him stay with me. I will take care of him, and put him back on the road to his home. He wants to see how the rich live -- the King, the Queen, and the Court. Let him see them on Sunday."

  "What?” shouted the hungry man with his eyes wide open in surprise. "You think it is a good sign that he wants to see the King's family and other rich people?"

  "Jack," said Defarge, "carefully show a cat milk if you want it to thirst for it. And carefully show a dog the animal that it must kill if you want it to bring it down one day."

  Nothing more was said, and the road worker, who was already asleep on the top step, was encouraged to lay himself down on the mattress in the room and have a rest. He needed no pushing, and was soon asleep.

  For a slave like that poor labourer, there were many worse rooms in Paris that he could have stayed at, and so he was happy with it, apart from a strange fear he had of Mrs. Defarge. Madam Defarge herself sat knitting at her counter all day, showing no interest in the road worker that could mark him as being part of something secret. The way she was able to do that made him shake in his timber shoes each time he looked at her. In himself he was thinking that if she could show no sign of what he knew she knew, she could just as easily say that he killed someone and have him killed in return without any show of emotion.

  So when Sunday came, the road worker was not happy (even if he said he was) to have Madam Defarge coming with her husband and himself to Versailles. It was equally troubling to have her knitting in the coach all the way there. And on top of that it was worrying to have Madam Defarge in the crowd, still with her knitting in her hands, in the afternoon when they waited to see the coach that would bring the King and Queen through the streets.

  "You work hard, Madam," said a man near her.

  "Yes," answered Madam Defarge. "I have much to do."

  "What do you make, Madam?"

  "Many things."

  "Like what?"

  "Like," returned Madam Defarge quietly, "cloths to cover dead bodies."

  The man quickly moved away from her, and the road worker used his little blue hat to cool his face, feeling that things were too close and too hot there in that crowd. If he needed a King and a Queen to lift his spirits, he soon had them, as the big-faced King and his beautiful Queen came by in their golden coach, followed by the most important people from their court... a crowd of laughing women and beautiful men, in jewelry and expensive cloth, and powder and all of them, male and female, with proudly beautiful looks that showed they had no interest in anyone but themselves. The road worker was so full of all that he was seeing that he could not control himself. He cried Long live the King! Long live the Queen! Long live everybody and everything! like he had never heard of all the Jacks and their beliefs. Then there were gardens, fountains, beautiful open walking places, green grass by a river, more King and Queen, more beautiful men and women, and more Long live them all! until he was moved to tears with all the emotion. Through all this, which lasted a good three hours, there were others around him shouting too, and Defarge kept his hand on his neck, as if holding him back from flying at the people he was worshipping, and hurting them.

  "Very good!" said Defarge when it was over. "You're a good boy!"

  The road worker was, at this time, starting to think that he had acted in a way that would make the Jacks angry; but this word from Mr. Defarge encouraged him.

  "You are the man we want," said Defarge in his ear. "You make these stupid people believe they will be loved forever; and when they do, then they act even more selfishly, not knowing that this is the very thing that will bring them to their end."

  "Hey!" cried the road worker, thinking about what Defarge had said. "That's true."

  "These stupid people know nothing. While they hate you and would kill you and a hundred like you before they would lose even one of their horses or dogs, they only know what your voice tells them. Let it trick them a little longer. It cannot trick them too much."

  Madam Defarge looked without feeling or interest at the man and moved her head to show she agreed.

  "As for you," she said, "you would shout and cry for anything if it made a show and a noise, would you not?"

  "To be honest, Madam, I think so. At least for now."

  "If you were given a big pile of dolls and you were to tear them to pieces for what you could get from them, you would take the ones that were the richest, and the ones with the most beautiful clothes. Tell us! Wouldn't you do that?"

  "Yes, truly, Madam."

  "Yes, and if you were given many different birds, and you were to tear them to pieces, for what you could get from them, you would take the ones with the most beautiful feathers first, would you not?"

  "It's true, Madam."

  "You have seen both dolls and birds today," said Madam Defarge with a wave of her hand toward the place where they had earlier been watching the King and Queen. "Now, go home!"

  16. Still Knitting

  Madam Defarge and her husband returned hap
pily to the heart of Saint Antoine, while one man on his own, and wearing a blue hat, walked through the night and through the dust over the many tiring miles toward that point where the castle of Sir the Marquis, now dead and buried, listened to the whispering trees. The stone faces of the castle now had so much time to listen to the trees and to the fountain, that the few thin people from the village who, in looking for weeds to eat or dry sticks to burn, came close enough to see the big open yard and the wide stone steps at the front of the castle, left knowing full well that the stone faces had changed in an important way. The saying in the village -- a weak saying like that of the people who lived there -- was that when the knife went into Sir the Marquis, the faces changed from being proud to being angry and hurt. It went on to say that when that man was hanged from forty feet above the fountain, the look on the statues changed to show cruel happiness at what had happened to him; and they would stay that way forever. In the stone face over the great window of the bedroom where the killing took place, there were found two little concave marks on each side of the nose (like Sir the Marquis had), which nobody could remember it having before. And at those times when two or three of the poor village people left the crowd to go and look at the stone statue of Sir the Marquis, a thin finger would not have pointed to it for a minute before they all ran into the forest in fear, like the lucky rabbits who were able to live there.

  Castle and poor little house, stone face and hanging body, red blood on the stone floor and clean water in the village fountain... that whole part of the country -- or, if you like, all of France itself -- was only as big as a hair, from side to side, in the light of the night sky. That is how the whole world is, with all of its best and worst, when measured by the size of just one star. And just as scientists can take a piece of light and break it down into the different colours in it, so some other greater Mind may be able to read in the little light coming from this earth of ours, every thought and act, every good spirit and bad spirit, for every person living on it.

  The Defarges, husband and wife, moved slowly, under the light of the stars, in that coach they had paid to ride in, toward the gate of Paris. There was the same old stop at the guard house, where a soldier would hold a lantern up to see them and ask them questions. Mr. Defarge stepped out, knowing one or two of the soldiers there, and one of the police. The policeman he knew very well, and he hugged him warmly.

  When Saint Antoine had again folded his dark wings around the Defarges, and they, having left the coach at a stop near the border of Saint Antoine, were picking their way on foot through the black mud and rubbish of his streets, Madam Defarge spoke to her husband:

  "Tell me, my friend, what did Jack the policeman tell you?"

  "Very little tonight, but all that he knows. There is a new secret policeman working in our part of town who is trying to find information for the government. There may be others, but there is at least one."

  "Oh well!" said Madam Defarge, lifting her eyebrows with a cool business air, "We will need to add him to the list. How do you say his name?"

  "He is English."

  "So much the better. His name?"

  "Barsad," said Defarge, making it sound French by the way he said it. And then he gave her the letters for it.

  "Barsaid," repeated Madam. "Good. And his Christian name?"

  "John."

  "John Barsad," repeated Madam, after saying it softly to herself first. "Good. And do you know what he looks like?"

  "Age, about forty; about five feet nine; black hair; dark skin for a white man; on the whole good-looking; dark eyes; thin, long face; nose like that of an eagle, but not straight, having a strange bend toward his left cheek; and a look of one with evil plans."

  "Oh, my God! It is as good as a picture!" said Madam, laughing. "It will all be in the list tomorrow."

  They turned into the wine shop, which was closed, because it was the middle of the night, and Madam Defarge went straight to her place at the desk, counting what little money they had taken in while away, counting the barrels, going through the books and adding some numbers of her own, and in every other way making sure the servant who had been watching the place had done his job well, before he was free to go to bed. Then she poured out the coins in the bowl for a second time and started tying them up in her scarf, in a chain of separate knots, to keep them safe during the night. All this time, Defarge, with his pipe in his mouth, walked up and down, quietly looking on, but never saying anything, which is more or less how he acted toward her in all that they did.

  The night was hot and the shop, being closed and being near very dirty houses, had a bad smell to it. Mr. Defarge was in no way an expert at smells, but the smell of the wine was always stronger than the taste, and the same was true of the whiskey and other stronger drinks that he sold. He tried to blow the mixture of smells away as he put down his smoked-out pipe.

  "You are tired," said Madam, lifting her eyes as she tied the money. "The smells are no worse than at other times."

  "I am a little tired," her husband agreed.

  "You are a little sad too," said Madam, whose fast eyes were never so busy with studying the books that they did not have a look or two for him. "Oh, you're worried about the men!"

  "But my love...” started Defarge.

  "But my love!" repeated Madam, moving her head strongly. "But my love! You are a weak one tonight!"

  "Well, then," said Defarge, as if a thought was being squeezed out of him, "it is taking so long."

  "It is taking a long time," repeated his wife. "And when has it not taken a long time? Paying someone back always takes a long time; it is the rule."

  "It does not take a long time to hit a man with lightning," said Defarge.

  "How long," asked Madam quietly, "does it take to make and save up the lightning? Tell me that."

  Defarge lifted his head to think, as if he could find the answer.

  "It does not take a long time," Madam went on, "for an earthquake to swallow a town; but tell me how long it takes to prepare the earthquake."

  "A long time, I would think," said Defarge.

  "But when it is ready, it happens, and it breaks into pieces everything that stands in its way. Until then, it is always preparing, even when we cannot see or hear it. That is your hope. Keep it in mind."

  She tied some coins into her scarf with a look in her eyes like she was killing someone by squeezing their throat.

  "I tell you," said Madam, reaching out with her right hand to show what she was saying, "that even if it is a long time on the road, it is on the road, and it is coming. I tell you that it never stops and it never turns back. I tell you that it is always coming closer. Look around and think about the lives of all the people we know; think about the faces of all these people; think about the anger that all of the Jacks are working to let loose and are becoming clearer by the hour about how to do that. Can such things go the distance? How stupid of you to think that they cannot!"

  "My brave wife," Defarge returned, standing in front of her with his head bent forward a little, and his hands joined at his back, like a humble student listening to his teacher. "I am not questioning all of this. But it has lasted a long time, and it is possible... you know well, my wife, that it is possible, that it may not come during our lives."

  "So? What then?” said Madam, tying another knot like she was squeezing the throat of another enemy.

  "Well," said Defarge with a spirit that was partly sorry and partly arguing, "we will not be there to see it."

  "But we will have helped it," returned Madam, making a strong movement with her right arm. "Nothing that we do now will be wasted. I believe with all of my heart that we will see it. But even if we do not, even if I knew for sure that we'd not see it, just show me the neck of a rich evil leader, and still I would..."

  Then Madam, with her teeth squeezed tightly together, tied a very awful knot for sure.

  "Wait!" cried Defarge, turning a little red as if he
believed she was saying that he was afraid. "I too, my love, will stop at nothing."

  "Yes, but it is your weakness that at times like this you need to see things happening to keep yourself going. Keep the anger alive with what I have said. When the time comes, you can let loose a tiger and a devil and they will do their work, but for now, keep a chain on them both. Don't show your feelings, but always keep them ready."

  Madam pushed home the seriousness of what she was saying by hitting her little counter with the chain of coins as if she was knocking its brains out, and then putting the heavy scarf under her arm in a sweet way, and quietly saying that it must be time to go to bed.

  At noon the next day this wonderful woman was in her same place in the wine shop knitting away without stopping. There was a red flower lying beside her on the counter, and if she now and then looked at it, it did not in any way take her away from her real interest. There were a few people, drinking or not drinking, standing or seated, around the shop. The day was very hot, and lots of flies were looking in the sticky glasses around Madam for something to drink, only to fall dead at the bottom of them. Their deaths had no effect on the other flies, out walking around, who looked at them in the coolest way (as if they themselves were elephants or some other very different animal with no interest in the deaths of other flies), until they too had died. It is interesting to think about how little thought flies give to such things! It may be that the King and all who were closest to him were acting in the same way that sunny summer day!

  A man coming in the door threw a shadow on Madam Defarge which she felt to be a new one. She put down her knitting and started to put the flower in her head scarf even before looking up at the stranger.

  Interestingly, the second Madam Defarge picked up the flower, people stopped talking, and one by one they started to leave the wine shop.

  "Good day, Madam," said the visitor.

  "Good day, sir."

  That much she said out loud; but to herself she added, "Age, about forty; about five feet nine; black hair, dark skin for a white man, on the whole good-looking; dark eyes, thin, long face; nose like that of an eagle, but not straight, having a strange bend toward his left cheek; and the look on his face is one of evil plans. Good day, one and all!"

  "Be good enough to give me a small glass of the strongest old wine you have, and a mouthful of cool clean water, Madam."

  Madam did very nicely what was asked.

  "Very good drink, this, Madam!"

  It was the first time someone had said something so nice about the drink, and Madam Defarge knew enough about its past to know that it was not as he said. All the same, she said that the wine would be glad to hear that, and returned to her knitting. For a few seconds the visitor watched her fingers, and then used the break from talk to look around the shop itself.

  "You are a very good knitter, Madam."

  "I have done a lot of it."

  "A beautiful pattern too!"

  "You think so?” Madam asked with a smile.

  "Very much so. May I ask what it is for?"

  "A way to use my time," said Madam, still looking at him with a smile while her fingers went on moving.

  "Not to be used?"

  "Maybe, and maybe not. I may find a use for it one day. If I do... well,...” said Madam, breathing in and moving her head as part of a serious game she was playing with him, "I'll use it!"

  Strangely, the people of Saint Antoine did not seem to like that red flower on Madam Defarge's head. Two men, who had come in separately, and who were about to buy drinks, when seeing the flower acted like they had been hoping to meet a friend who was not there, and they went away. At the same time, all of the people who had been there when the stranger first came in, were now gone.

  The man working secretly for the government had seen all of this, but he could not work out why it had happened. And they had all left in a way that did not seem to be planned, like it was only by accident that they all chose this time not to be there.

  "JOHN," thought Madam to herself, reading over her work as her fingers knitted, and as her eyes looked at the stranger. "Stay long enough, and I will have knitted BARSAD before you leave."

  "Are you married, Madam?” "Yes."

  "Children?"

  "No children."

  "Is business bad?"

  "Yes, very bad. The people are too poor."

  "Oh the poor sad people! So badly used by the rich, as you say!"

  "No, as you say," Madam answered, quickly knitting in an extra something after his name... something that would not help him in the future.

  "Forgive me, it was I who said it; but surely you think so too, don't you?"

  "I think?” returned Madam in a high voice. "I and my husband have enough to do to keep this wine shop open without thinking. All we think of here is how to live. That is what we think of, and it gives us, from morning to night, enough to think about without confusing our heads with thoughts for others. I should think for others? Oh, no!"

  The man, who was there to pick up anything he could use against them, did not let it show on his face that she had won that one. But he stood, with his elbow leaning on Madam Defarge's little counter, like one who is relaxed and talking about nothing important, while taking a small drink from time to time from his glass of strong wine.

  "A bad business this killing of Gaspard, Madam. Ah, poor Gaspard!" He said this breathing out sadly like he had a great feeling for the man who had been hanged above the fountain.

  "Truly," returned Madam coolly and lightly, "if people use knives in such a way, they must pay for it. He knew before he did it what price he would have to pay; now he has paid the price."

  "I believe," said the man, dropping his soft voice to one that would go with sharing a secret, and using every muscle in his face to show that he was angry about the hanging, and that he was one of those who wanted change, "...I believe there is much love for the poor man, and anger at what happened to him, here in this part of the city. Just between you and me!"

  "Is there?” answered Madam without any feeling. "Is there not?"

  "Oh, here is my husband!" said Madam Defarge.

  As the owner of the wine shop walked in the door, the man working secretly for the government touched his hat and said with a smile, "Good day, Jack!" Defarge stopped where he was, and looked closely at him.

  "Good day, Jack," the man repeated, but not with so much confidence or so much of a smile this time.

  "You have tricked yourself, sir," returned the owner of the shop. "You must have me confused with someone else. That is not my name. My name is Ernest Defarge."

  "It's all the same," said the stranger in a foolish but confused way. "Good day!"

  "Good day," answered Defarge dryly.

  "I was saying to Madam, with whom I was having a nice talk before you came in, that they say there is -- and it does not surprise me -- strong feelings of sadness and anger in Saint Antoine touching the sad death of poor Gaspard."

  "No one has told me about it," said Defarge, shaking his head. "I know nothing of it."

  Having said that, he moved behind the little counter and stood with his hand on the back of his wife's chair, looking over the counter at the man whom they both did not like, and whom they both would have gladly killed.

  The stranger, who knew his business well, did not change his spirit, but emptied his glass of wine, had a little drink of water, and then asked for another glass of wine. Madam Defarge poured it for him, returned to her knitting again, and hummed a little song to herself.

  "You seem to know this part of the city well, that is to say, better than I do," Defarge pointed out.

  "Not at all. But I do hope to know it better. I am deeply interested in the sad people who live here.

  "Ha!" Defarge said to himself.

  "Talking to you, Mr. Defarge, has made me remember," went on the visitor, "that I have some very interesting information that is tied up with your name."
r />   "Really?” said Defarge, showing no interest.

  "Yes, it's true. I know that when Doctor Manette was let out of prison, you, as his old servant, had the job of caring for him. He was brought here. Do you see how much I know about it?"

  "Surely it is what happened," said Defarge. A touch from his wife's elbow as she was knitting was enough to tell him to agree, but to say as little as possible.

  "It was to you," said the man, "that his daughter came; and it was from your care that his daughter took him, helped by a man in a neat brown suit. What was his name? He wears a little wig. Lorry! That's it! From the bank of Tellson's and Company, over in England."

  "Yes?” said Defarge.

  "You don't hear much about them now?” asked the stranger.

  "No," said Defarge.

  "In effect," Madam Defarge put in, looking up from her work and her little song, "we never hear about them at all. We received news that they had arrived safely, and since then maybe a letter or two. But they have taken their road in life, and we have taken ours. We do not write to each other."

  "Perfectly true, Madam," answered the visitor. "She is going to be married."

  "Going to? She was beautiful enough to have been married long before now. It seems to me that you English people are very cold."

  "Oh, so you know that I am English."

  "I can hear it in the way you talk," returned Madam, "and what the tongue says is what the man is."

  He could tell that she did not like him any more for being English, but he made the best of it and turned it to the side with a laugh. After finishing his drink, he added:

  "Yes, Miss Manette is going to be married; but not to anyone from England. She is going to marry one who, like yourself, was born in France. And speaking of Gaspard (Ah, poor Gaspard! It was so cruel!) -- it is a strange piece of news that she is going to marry the nephew of the man whom Gaspard killed. In other words, she is going to marry the new Marquis. He lives in England, without anyone knowing that he is a Marquis. He goes by the name of Charles Darnay now, and not his true name of Evremonde.

  Madam Defarge did not change, as she went on knitting. But the information had an effect on her husband that one could feel. Try as he did, to hide his feelings by using a match to light his pipe, he was worried, and it showed in the shaking of his hands. The stranger would not be doing the job he was sent there for if he did not see this, and remember it later.

  Having hit a sore nerve with this one piece of information, and with no one else coming in for him to question, Mr. Barsad paid for his drink and left, taking time to say very nicely that he looked forward to talking with Mr. and Madam Defarge again sometime. For some minutes after he left, the husband and wife stayed as they were, thinking that he could return.

  "Can it be true," said Defarge in a low voice and looking down at his wife as he stood smoking, with his hand on the back of her chair: "what he said of Miss Manette?"

  "Coming from him," said Madam Defarge, with the confidence she always had, "it is probably false. But it could be true."

  "If it is...” Defarge started, and then stopped.

  "If it is?” repeated his wife.

  "...And if it happens, as we hope, that we live to win our war, I hope, for her, that God will keep her husband out of France."

  "God will lead her husband," said Madam Defarge, with the same confidence, "and take him where he needs to go. God will lead him to the end that is right for him. That is all I know."

  "But it is very strange -- at least for now, is it not very strange," said Defarge, almost begging his wife to see the truth in what he was saying, "that, after all of our love and care for her father, and for her, that her husband's name should now be written under your hand now, next to the name of that dog who has just left us?"

  "Stranger things than that will happen when the time comes," answered Madam. "I have both names here, to be sure, and they are both here for a good reason. That is enough."

  She rolled up her knitting when she had said those words, and then she took the flower out of her head scarf. Either Saint Antoine knew by magic that it was gone, or he had been watching secretly to see it go. Either way, the Saint now had confidence to walk in, and very soon after that, the wine shop was back in business.

  In the evening, when Saint Antoine would turn its in side out, sitting on the steps, leaning out the windows, or standing on the corners of the dirty streets and yards, to breathe the night air, Madam Defarge, with her work in her hand, would often move from place to place and from council to council. She was a kind of missionary -- and there were many like her -- that the world would be better off never to have. All of the women knitted. They knitted things that were of no worth, but the work they were doing was something to make them forget about eating and drinking. Their hands moved in place of their mouths and stomachs. If they stopped, then the pain in their stomachs was too much.

  But, as their fingers moved, their eyes moved too, and their thoughts. And as Madam Defarge moved from group to group, all three moved more quickly and with more anger in every little knot of women that she talked to and left behind.

  Her husband smoked at his door, looking after her with love. "A wonderful woman," he said to himself, "a strong woman, a great woman, a woman great enough to scare anyone!"

  Darkness closed around Saint Antoine, and with it came the ringing of church bells, and the far off sound of the army drums in the buildings where the King and all of his men lived, as the women sat knitting, knitting. Darkness swallowed them up. But another darkness was closing in as surely, and with it, the bells that were now making such a nice sound all over France, would soon be melted into cannons. The sound of the drums would be trying to drown out the shouting of angry voices, on a night as strong as power and wealth, freedom and life. So much was closing in around these knitting women that they too were closing in around something else -- a machine, not yet made, where they would be sitting, knitting, and counting the heads as they dropped.

  17. One Night

  Never did the sun go down more beautifully on the quiet corner in Soho than it did one very special evening when the Doctor and his daughter sat under the big tree together. Never did the moon come up with a nicer smile over London than it did on that same night when it looked down on their faces through the leaves of the big tree in the yard behind their rooms.

  Lucie was to be married the next day. She had saved this evening for her father, and they sat alone under the tree.

  "Are you happy, father?"

  "Yes, very happy, my child."

  They had been there for a long time, but they had said little. When there was enough light to work or read, she had not worked and she had not read to him as she did most nights. This night was too special for either work or reading.

  "I too am very happy tonight, father. I am deeply happy in the love that heaven has blessed me with -- both my love for Charles and his love for me. But if my life were not to still be used for you, and if our being married were to take me even the length of a few streets away from you, I would be sadder now than I could tell you. Even as it is..."

  Even as it was, she could not control her voice enough to finish what she had started.

  In the sad light of the moon, she hugged him by the neck, and put her face on his chest. The light of the moon -- like the light of the sun, and the light of life -- is always sad as it comes and as it goes.

  "Father, my love, can you tell me this one last time, that you are very very sure that no new love of mine and no new service that I must do will ever come between us? For myself I am sure, but I want to know that you are too. In your heart, do you have this confidence?

  Her father answered with such confidence and trust that he could never have been doing it falsely, "Quite sure, my love! And more than that," he added, as he kissed her softly, "my future is even better because of you marrying Charles, than what it could have been... no, than it has ever been, witho
ut it."

  "If I could hope for that, father..."

  "Believe it, my love, for it is true. Think about how clear this truth is. As young and loving as you are, you could not know how much I have worried about you wasting your life."

  She reached her hand toward his lips, but he took it away and repeated the word.

  "Yes, wasted, my child... pulled away from the life that others of your age would live, all because you wanted to care for me. Your love for me could not see how much I have worried about that. But just ask yourself, how could my happiness be perfect when I knew that you were missing out on an important part of life?"

  "If I had never seen Charles, father, I would have been quite happy with you."

  He smiled at how she had said, by accident, that without Charles, her happiness now would not be full, and he answered:

  "But, my child, you did see him. And if it had not been Charles, it would have been someone else. Or if it had not been another, I would have been the reason for you not seeing, and then the dark part of my life would have moved from me to you."

  Apart from when they were in the court, this was the first time that he had ever talked to her about the pain of his past. It was a strange feeling for her to hear this, and she remembered the words for a long time after that.

  "See!" said the Doctor from Beauvais, with his hand reaching up toward the moon. "I have looked at her through the prison window when her light only gave me sadness. I have looked at her when it was such torture to think of her light touching all that I had lost, that I would hit my head against the prison walls, trying to kill myself. I have watched her at times when I had no feeling and almost no life, and the best I could think of was how many horizontal lines I could draw across her, and how many vertical lines I could cross them with.” He added in a voice like he was back there now, "It was twenty each way, I remember. And the last one was difficult to squeeze in."

  The strange feeling she had about hearing him talk of his past grew stronger as he talked on. But there was nothing to make her afraid in the way he was doing it now. He was only using it to say how happy he was now that it was over.

  "I have looked at her a thousand times, thinking about the child who was not yet born when I was taken away. Had it been born alive? Or did it die from what its poor mother went through? Was it a son who would one day fight for his father? (There was a time when all I wanted was to hurt those who had hurt me.) Was it a son who would never know his father's story, who might even grow to believe that his father had chosen to leave him. Or would it be a daughter, who would one day grow into a woman?"

  She moved closer, and kissed his cheek and his hand.

  "I had pictured my daughter, to myself, as knowing nothing about me, and never thinking of me. I thought ahead, through the years of her life, as she grew into a woman, until she one day married a man who would know nothing of me. It would be like I had never lived, and their children would be without any thought of me."

  "My father! Even to hear that you thought about such a daughter who never was real makes me feel like I am that child."

  "You, Lucie? It is because of all you have done to bring me back that I even think such thoughts under the moon here tonight. Now, what was I just saying?"

  "That this daughter knew nothing of you, and she thought nothing of you."

  "Yes. But on other nights when the moon was out and I was feeling more of a sad peace, as any emotion growing out of pain can do, I had thoughts of her coming to me in the prison, and leading me into the liberty that was on the other side of the walls. I would see her often in the light of the moon, just as I see you now, but I could never hold her in my arms. She stood in the space between the door and the little window. But do you understand that this person was not the child that I was just talking about?"

  "You mean that person was not... was not the one you thought about?"

  "No. What I saw was something else. It stood before my confused look, but it never moved. The child that was in my mind was the more real one. I had no way of knowing what she would look like, apart from knowing that she would look like her mother. That other shape looked like her mother too, as you do right now, but it wasn't the same. Do you follow me, Lucie? I don't think you could. I think you would need to have lived as a prisoner alone for many years to understand a thing like this."

  The peace he had in talking about the past at this time made Lucie's blood run cold.

  "At those times when I was at peace, I would think of her coming to lead me to the home where she lived with her husband. It was full of things to make her remember her lost father. My picture was in her room, and I was in her prayers. Her life was busy, happy, and of help to many. But my sad history was part of it all."

  "I was that child, father! I am not half as good, but in my love, that was me."

  "And she showed me her children" said the Doctor from Beauvais. "They had heard of me, and they had been taught to think sadly of me. When going by a prison, they would stay far away from its angry walls, look up at its bars, and speak in whispers. In my thoughts she was never able to keep me free. She would lead me back to the prison after showing me such things. But I would find peace in crying when it was over. I would fall on my knees and bless her."

  "I hope that I am that child, Father. But will you bless me with as much emotion tomorrow?"

  "Lucie, I have remembered those old thoughts in the way I have tonight as a way of loving you better than words can tell, and of thanking God for my great happiness. My thoughts, when they were the wildest, never gave me such happiness as I have now here with you."

  He hugged her, giving her to God, and humbly thanking God for giving her to him. Not long after that, they went into the house.

  No one had been asked to come to the wedding, apart from Mr. Lorry. There was not even another young woman to help Lucie on the day... only sad old Miss Pross. The wedding had made no change in where she lived, because they had been able to rent the rooms above, where they had always believed someone lived whom they never saw. And they wanted nothing more.

  Doctor Manette was very happy as they sat down for something to eat with Miss Pross. He was sad that Charles was not there and half wanted to argue with the foolish belief that the man must not be there on the night before the wedding. He had a special drink for Charles instead.

  It came time for Lucie to go to bed, and so they all separated. But in the middle of the night, Lucie came quietly down the steps to look into her father's room. She was still not fully over her fears for him.

  But everything was in its place, and all was quiet. His white hair was like a picture of peace on the smooth pillow, and his hands were folded together on top of the blanket. She left her candle in a corner, moved over to him without making a sound, and kissed him softly on the lips. Then she leaned over and looked lovingly at him.

  His time in prison had been like rivers cutting many lines in his face. But his strength was such that it had covered many of them, and the change was there even when he was asleep. A more wonderful face, in its quiet, strong, and often secret fight with an invisible enemy, was not to be found in any other sleeping person that night.

  She shyly put her hand on his chest and said a prayer, asking God to help her stay as true to him as her love hoped for and as his pained past needed. Then she pulled back her hand and kissed his lips again before leaving the room. As the sun came up, the shadows of the leaves on the big tree in the yard moved across his face as quietly as her lips had moved in praying for him.

  18. Nine Days

  The wedding day was a very sunny one, and the wedding party were waiting outside the door of the Doctor's room, where he was having one last talk with Charles Darnay. The others were ready to leave for the church: Beautiful Lucie, Mr. Lorry, and Miss Pross. To Miss Pross the wedding had changed little by little in her mind from being a very sad happening to being one that filled her with happiness, apart from her
one belief that her brother Solomon would have been a better husband for Lucie.

  "And so," said Mr. Lorry, who could not get enough of looking at Lucie in her modest but beautiful wedding dress, and who had been moving around her to see it from every direction, "and so it was for this, sweet Lucie, that I brought you across the Channel as a baby! Lord bless me! How little I thought about it at the time! How lightly I thought about what it would mean for Mr. Charles!"

  "You knew nothing about him then," said the down-to-earth Miss Pross, "so how can you even talk about such a thing? Don't be so foolish!"

  "Really? Well, don't cry about it," said Mr. Lorry softly.

  "I'm not the one crying," said Miss Pross. "You are!"

  "I, Miss Pross?” By this time, Mr. Lorry was not afraid to play games with her at times.

  "You were, just now. I saw you. And I'm not surprised. Such a gift as you have given them is enough to make anyone cry. There wasn't a fork or spoon in the box that I did not cry over when your gift arrived last night. I cried until I wasn't able to see them."

  "I thank you very much," said Mr. Lorry. "But the truth is that I did not think such a little gift needed to be secret. Oh no! This is a time that makes a man think about all that he has lost. My, my, my! To think that any time over the past almost fifty years, there could have been a Mrs. Lorry."

  "Not at all," came from Miss Pross.

  "What? You think there never could have been a Mrs. Lorry?" asked the man of that same name.

  "Rubbish!" answered Miss Pross. "From the time you were born you were never cut out to be married."

  "Well," said Mr. Lorry, smiling as he moved his wig just a little, "that may be true."

  "And even before you were born, you were not cut out to be married," said Miss Pross, pushing her point farther.

  "Then I think," said Mr. Lorry, "that it was not fair, and that someone should have asked me before making the pattern for my life. But enough of this! Now, sweet Lucie," he said, putting his arm around her, "I hear them moving in the next room, and Miss Pross and I, as two thinking people, have only a few seconds to say something that you should be happy to hear. We want you to know that you are leaving your father in hands that are as sincere and loving as your own; we will do all we can think of to care for him. Over the next two weeks, while you are in and near Warwickshire, even Tellsons will be of second interest to me. And when, after two weeks, he comes to join you for another two weeks together in Wales, you will be able to say that we have sent him to you in the best health and the happiest spirit. I hear them coming to the door, so let me kiss you as an old man who will never be married, and bless you before he comes and takes you away from me."

  For a second he looked at her beautiful face and the lines on her forehead that had so interested him when he first met her, and then he touched her golden hair with his brown wig as he kissed her with such true, soft love that if it was old, it was only because it was as old as Adam.

  The door of the Doctor's room opened, and he came out with Charles Darnay. He was so deadly white -- which he had not been when they went in together -- that there was no colour at all in his face. But the way he acted had not changed, and it was only Mr. Lorry's wisdom that could see some of the old shadows of fear that had passed over him once again, like a cold wind.

  He gave his arm to his daughter and took her down the steps to the waiting coach, which Mr. Lorry had rented for the day. The others followed in another coach, and soon, in a church near there, with no strangers looking on, Charles Darnay and Lucie Manette were happily married.

  On top of the diamond-like tears that each of the people in that little group brushed away with happy smiles after the wedding, there were real diamonds, very bright and giving off much light, on Lucie's hand. The diamonds had just been freed from a dark corner in one of Mr. Lorry's pockets. They all returned home for breakfast, which went well. Then the golden hair of the daughter and the white hair of the shoemaker, that had met in the little room in Paris, came together again in the light of the morning sun at the door of the house as they were about to separate.

  It was not easy for them to separate, but it was over quickly. Her father made it easier as he softly pulled away from her hug, by saying in a friendly way, "Take her, Charles! She's yours!"

  She waved to him from the window of the coach, and with that, she was gone.

  Because the house was on a quiet corner, and because the wedding was such a small one, there were only the three -- the Doctor, Mr. Lorry, and Miss Pross -- left alone. When they moved out of the sun and into the cool bottom rooms of the house, Mr. Lorry saw that a serious change had come over the Doctor, as if the golden arm outside the jewelry shop had fallen on him.

  It was the Doctor's way to hide his feelings, and so it would be easy to understand some sadness showing now that Lucie was gone, But it was the old look of fear that worried Mr. Lorry, and when Doctor Manette put his hands to his head and walked off into his bedroom with a lost, sad look, after they had climbed the steps to his rooms, it made Mr. Lorry remember the night they had left Mr. Defarge's wine shop with him so many years before.

  "I think," Mr. Lorry whispered to Miss Pross, "that we should not speak to him now, or do anything to stop him. I need to drop in at Tellson's and when I return, we can take him for an outing in the country, eat there, and after that, he should feel better."

  It was easier for Mr. Lorry to drop in at Tellson's than it was to drop out, so he was two hours getting away. When he returned, he climbed the old steps on his own, without the servant leading him. On reaching the Doctor's rooms, he could hear a soft knocking.

  "Good God!" he said in surprise. "What is that?"

  Miss Pross, with a look of fear on her face, whispered in his ear. "Oh me! Oh me! All is lost!" she cried, squeezing her hands together. "What will we say to Ladybird? He doesn't know me, and he's making shoes again!"

  Mr. Lorry said what he could to encourage her, and then he himself went into the bedroom. The bench was turned toward the light, as it had been when he had seen the shoemaker at work before. His head was bent down and he was very busy.

  "Doctor Manette, my good friend! Doctor Manette!"

  The Doctor looked up for a second, half like he was asking a question and half like he was angry at being pulled away from his work. And then he bent over his work again.

  He had taken off his coat, and opened his shirt at the throat, as it used to be when he worked in the prison. Even the old worried look of his face had returned. He worked hard, as if he was in a hurry to finish something that he had been pulled away from.

  Mr. Lorry looked at the work that was in his hand, and saw that it was a woman's shoe of the size and shape that he had been working on when he was in Paris. He picked up another one that had been lying beside him, and asked what it was.

  "A young woman's walking shoe," he said without feeling or even a look. "It should have been finished long ago. Put it down."

  "But, Doctor Manette, look at me."

  He obeyed in the old way of a slave, but did not stop working as he looked up.

  "You know me, my good friend. Think again. This is not what you do for a living. Think, my good friend!"

  Nothing would make him say anything more. He would look up, just for a second or two at a time, when he was asked to do so; but nothing would pull even one word out of him. He worked and worked and worked, without saying a word; and words fell on him like words on a wall or on the air. One little piece of hope that Mr. Lorry could see was that at times he would look up even when he was not asked, like he himself was trying to understand what was happening.

  There were two things that Mr. Lorry believed were important at this time. One was that they must keep this secret from Lucie, and the other was that they must keep it secret from all who knew him. Working together with Miss Pross he was able to meet the second target by telling people that the Doctor was not well, and that he needed a few days of ful
l rest. To help in hiding the secret from his daughter, Miss Pross was to write a letter saying that he had been called away on business, and telling her that he had written a short letter to tell her about it, and that it had gone out with the same mail.

  These steps, which were wise ones to take even if there was never going to be a change, Mr. Lorry took in the hope that Doctor Manette would soon come to himself. If that should happen soon, Mr. Lorry had another plan which he would use if Miss Pross thought it was okay.

  Hoping that Doctor Manette would be better soon, so that he could use this other plan, Mr. Lorry agreed to watch him closely, but to do so without him feeling watched, if possible. So he took time off from Tellson's for the first time ever, so that he could spend all his time in a seat by the window in the same room as Doctor Manette.

  It was not long before he learned that there was no point in trying to talk to the Doctor. Each time he tried, it only worried him more; so he dropped that on the first day and reasoned that it would be best just to be there, saying nothing, but showing by his being there that he was not going to give in to the Doctor's belief that he was back in prison. So he stayed there in his seat by the window, reading and writing, and showing in any friendly way that he could that it was not a prison.

  Doctor Manette took what food and drink were given to him, and then worked on until it was too dark to see, which was half an hour after Mr. Lorry would not have been able to see enough to read or write, not even to save his life. When he put his tools down for the night, Mr. Lorry stood up and asked him:

  "Would you like to go out?"

  He looked down at the floor on each side of himself, in the same old way, looked up, and then repeated in the old, soft voice:

  "Out?"

  "Yes, for a walk with me. Why not?"

  He did not try to answer, and said not one other word either. But Mr. Lorry thought he could see, as the Doctor leaned forward on the bench in the early darkness, with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, that in some cloudy way he was asking himself, "Why not?” The wisdom of this man of business was such that he saw an opening here, and he planned to keep a good hold on it.

  Miss Pross and he each took half of the night in which to look in on the Doctor from the next room from time to time. He walked up and down for a long time before climbing into bed. But when he did, at last, lay down, he quickly fell to sleep. And he was up early in the morning to return to his work.

  On the second day, Mr. Lorry gave him a friendly hello, called him by name, and talked about things that they had been doing over the past few days. He gave no answer, but it could be seen that he heard what was said, and even in his confusion, he was thinking about it. This encouraged Mr. Lorry to then have Miss Pross come into the room at times during the day. When she did, they would quietly talk about Lucie and about her father (who was there to hear it all) in the same way that they would if there was nothing wrong. They did this without any special show of emotion, not for a long time and not so often as to make the old man angry. It lifted Mr. Lorry's spirits to believe that Doctor Manette was looking up more often and could see that what was happening around him was not the same as what was happening inside his head.

  When it was dark, Mr. Lorry asked as he had the night before: "Good Doctor, would you like to go on an outing?"

  As before, he repeated, "Out?

  "Yes, for a walk with me. Why not?"

  This time, when there was no answer, Mr. Lorry left the room, acting like he was really going out. He returned an hour later. During that time, the Doctor had moved to the seat by the window, and was sitting there looking down at the tree in the yard; but when Mr. Lorry returned, he moved quietly back to his bench.

  After that, things moved slowly. Mr. Lorry's hopes grew darker, and his heart heavier as the days went by. The third day came and went, then the fourth, and the fifth. Five days, six days, seven days, eight days, nine days.

  Mr. Lorry passed through this worrying time with his hopes becoming weaker and weaker. But the secret was well kept, and Lucie was happy, knowing nothing of it. Mr. Lorry could not help but see that the shoemaker, whose work had been a little rough at first, was becoming very good at his work, that he had never been so serious about his work, and that his hands had never been so fast and so good at what they were doing as they were in the early evening of the ninth day.

  19. Help from the Doctor

  Being very tired from watching and worrying, Mr. Lorry fell asleep during his early morning watch that night. On the tenth morning he was surprised by the sun coming strongly into the room, because the last thing he remembered was dark night, just before he fell deeply asleep.

  He rubbed his eyes and forced himself more fully awake; but when he had done this, he found it hard to believe he really was awake. For, going to the door of the Doctor's room and looking in, he saw that the shoemaker's bench and tools had been put away again, and that the Doctor himself sat reading at the window. He was wearing his morning clothes, and his face (which Mr. Lorry could clearly see), apart from still being very white, was at peace as he read.

  Even when he was sure that he was awake, Mr. Lorry was in confusion for a short time, thinking that maybe the shoemaking of the past days had been a dream; for didn't his eyes show him his friend wearing the right clothes and doing the right thing for this time of day; and was there any proof in the room that the change that he remembered so strongly had really happened?

  But when he asked himself the question, the answer came just in him being there. How did it happen that he had been sleeping in his clothes on the couch in Doctor Manette's office, and why was he there now asking himself these questions outside the Doctor's bedroom so early in the morning?

  A few minutes later Miss Pross stood whispering at his side. If he needed more proof, her talk would have been it; but by that time, his head was clear and he needed none. He told her that they should wait until it was time for breakfast, and then they could meet the Doctor as if nothing strange had happened. If he looked to be in his right mind, then Mr. Lorry would do what he had been hoping to do, and that was to get help from the Doctor himself.

  Miss Pross agreed to his plan, and that is what they did. Because he had more than enough time to prepare for breakfast, Mr. Lorry came to the table with a nice white shirt and clean pants. The Doctor was told that it was time for breakfast, and he came as he always had done in the past.

  From what they could understand, without being too forward in asking him, it seemed that the Doctor believed his daughter's wedding had taken place only yesterday. A word or two from the others about what day of the week it was and what day of the month it was, said as part of small talk about the day, started the Doctor thinking and counting, and it worried him a little. But in every other way, the Doctor was so much himself that Mr. Lorry chose to get the help that he was looking for. And the help he was looking for was from the Doctor himself.

  When breakfast was finished and cleared away, and he and the Doctor were alone together, Mr. Lorry said, with deep feeling:

  "My good Manette, I need your help, in secret, on a very strange case in which I am deeply interested. I mean only that it is strange for me; maybe for you it will not be strange at all."

  Looking at his hands, which had become coloured by his work with the leather, the Doctor showed signs of being troubled. But he listened well. It was not the first time he had looked at the colour on his hands like that.

  "Doctor Manette," said Mr. Lorry, touching him kindly on the arm, "this case is about a close friend of mine. Please think about it seriously and give me wise answers, for the good of my friend, and, above all, for his daughter... for his daughter, my good Manette."

  "If I understand," said the Doctor, "your friend has been through something that has had an effect on his mind?"

  "Yes!"

  “Tell me clearly," said the Doctor. "Do not leave anything out."

  Mr. Lorry could see tha
t they understood each other, and so he started.

  "My good friend, it is the case of something very difficult that happened a long time ago, very deep and very serious in its effect on his feelings and on his... his... as you say it, his mind. Yes, his mind. It was a great weight that he carried. One cannot say how long he carried it, because I believe he does not even know himself, and there is no other way for me to find out about it. It is a case that he slowly got over, in some way that he himself cannot put into words, as I once heard him say very well himself in front of many people. But he was so fully healed in his mind that he was able to live and work as a very smart and very healthy man who was always adding to what he had learned. But, sadly, there has been," and he stopped to breathe in deeply, "a little return to the old problem."

  The Doctor, in a low voice, asked, "For how long?

  "Nine days and nights."

  "How did it show itself? I am thinking," he said, looking again at his hands, "that he returned to doing something that was a part of the pain in his past?"

  "That's true."

  "Now, did you ever see him," asked the Doctor, clearly and without emotion, but in the same low voice, "engaged in that same action in the past?"

  "Once."

  "And when he returned to doing it, was he in most ways or in all ways the same as he had been in the past?"

  "I think in all ways."

  "You spoke of his daughter. Does his daughter know of what happened?"

  "No. It has been kept from her, and I hope will always be kept from her. It is known only to myself, and to one other person, who is able to keep it secret."

  The Doctor took his hand and said softly, "That was very kind. That was very smart!" Mr. Lorry squeezed his hand in return, and both of them were quiet for a little while.

  "Now, my good Manette," said Mr. Lorry, at length, in his kindest and most loving way, "I am only a businessman, and not able to understand these difficult problems. I do not have the kind of information that is needed; I do not have the know-how; so I need your help. There is no other person on earth whom I could trust as I trust you. Tell me, how does a return to the old problem like this happen? Is there danger of it happening again? Is there a way to stop it from happening again? What should I do if it happens again? How does it happen? What can I do for my friend? No one could ever have wanted so much to help someone as I do for my friend, if only I knew how. I don't know how to start in such a case. If your wisdom, and what you have learned from your work, can point me in the right direction, I might be able to do a lot; but without help, I can do very little. Please talk about it with me; please help me to see it a little more clearly, and teach me how I can help."

  Doctor Manette sat thinking for some time after hearing these deeply moving words. Mr. Lorry did not push him.

  "I think it may be," the Doctor said, forcing himself to say something, "that the return to the past that you have talked about, my good friend, was something that your friend saw coming."

  "Was he afraid of it?” Mr. Lorry asked.

  "Very much.” As he said it, his body shook a little.

  "You cannot know how much such a person would be afraid of it happening again, and how difficult -- almost impossible -- it is for him to say even one word about the thing that troubles him so."

  "Would he," asked Mr. Lorry, "be helped if he could force himself to talk about that secret fear to anyone, when it comes to him?"

  "I think so. But it is, as I have told you, almost impossible. I even believe it, in some cases, to be quite impossible."

  "Now," said Mr. Lorry, softly putting his hand on the Doctor's arm again, after a short time during which both of them were quiet, "what do you think started this return to the past?"

  "I believe," returned Doctor Manette, "that there had been a strong and surprising return to the train of thoughts that were the reason for the problem in the first place. Something which was a part of that past pain was remembered in a very strong way, I think. He probably has been fearing this for some time, maybe knowing that a special time was coming when he would have to face it. He tried to prepare himself for it, but it was not enough. It may even be that what he went through trying to prepare himself made him less able to carry it when the time came."

  "Would he remember what happened during the time when he returned to the past?” asked Mr. Lorry, feeling a little worried that this could be asking too much.

  The Doctor looked around the room with an empty look, shook his head, and answered in a low voice, "Not at all."

  "Now, let's talk about the future," said Mr. Lorry, pointing the way.

  "As to the future," said the Doctor, who returned to his more confident spirit, "I would have great hope. As it pleased Heaven in its kindness to bring him out of this so quickly, I would have great hope. He, giving in to the weight of something he had been afraid of for so long, and then returning to his right mind after the cloud had emptied its storm on him, I would hope that the worst is over."

  "Well, well! That is very encouraging. I am thankful for that!" said Mr. Lorry.

  "I too am thankful!" repeated the Doctor, bending his head as if praying.

  "There are two other points," said Mr. Lorry, "on which I need your help. Can I go on?"

  "You cannot help your friend in any better way.” The Doctor gave him his hand.

  "To the first, then. He studies a lot, and works very hard at it. He does it as part of his job. Do you think that he is doing too much?"

  "I don't think so. It may be the way he is, just wanting to always be busy. Some of it may just be the way he is, and some of it may be because of his past. The less he is busy with healthy things, the more he may be in danger of turning in the other direction. He may have studied himself to see that he needs to be kept busy."

  "Are you sure that he is not pushing himself too hard."

  "I think I am quite sure of it."

  "My good friend Manette, if he did push himself too much now..."

  "My good friend Lorry, I don't think that could easily happen. There has been a strong effect on him in one direction, and he needs an equally strong pull in the other direction."

  "Forgive me for pushing this, but let us say for a minute that he did push himself too hard. Would it lead to him breaking down in the same way again?"

  "I don't think so," said Doctor Manette with strong confidence. "I do not think that anything apart from that one train of thought would bring it back again. I think that from now on, nothing but some very strong surprise along that same line could bring it on again. After what has happened, and after his coming through it, I find it difficult to believe there could be anything new that could happen which would have such an effect. I hope, and I almost believe, that there is nothing left which could do it."

  In some ways he spoke shyly, as one who knew how easy it is for just one small thing to destroy the mind, but in other ways he spoke with confidence, as one who had won that confidence through a hard fight in his own life. Doctor Manette's friend did not want to do anything to destroy that confidence, and so he talked with more enthusiasm than he really felt about how happy he was to hear that. And then he came to his last and most important point. He believed it to be the most difficult of all, and yet, remembering the talk he had had with Miss Pross one Sunday morning, and remembering what he had seen over the last nine days, he knew that he must face it.

  "The work this man was doing when the sickness was on him, and that we are so happy to see he has stopped doing," said Mr. Lorry, clearing his throat, "we can call... shaping metal. Yes, making things from metal. We will say, just as a way of showing what it is that I want to say, that in the past, when he was going through so much pain, he worked with the tools that one uses to make things from metal. Let's say that we were surprised to see him working with those tools again. Isn't it bad that he keeps those tools close to himself?"

  The Doctor stopped the sun from getting in his eyes
by putting his hand on his forehead, and he showed that his nerves were jumping by hitting his foot on the ground.

  "He always keeps those tools near him," said Mr. Lorry, with a worried look at his friend. "Now, wouldn't it be better if he let them go?"

  Still the Doctor, with his hand on his forehead, hit his foot on the ground.

  "You do not find it easy to tell me what to do on this point?” asked Mr. Lorry. "It seems to me to be an easy enough question. And yet I think...” And there he shook his head and stopped.

  "You see," said Doctor Manette, turning to him after a short time during which both of them did not know what to say, "it is very difficult to give a clear answer about the secrets of this poor man's mind. He had at one time wished so strongly for that job, and it was so welcome when it came. I am sure that it took away some of his pain by letting him work on understanding his fingers in place of trying to understand the workings of his brain, and, as he became better at it, by letting him think about the abilities that were under his control in his hands in place of thinking about the ability that the pain in his mind had to control him. Because of this, I believe that he has never been able to think about putting those tools in a place where he could not reach them. Even now, when I think he has more hope than he has ever had, and he can talk about himself with some confidence, the thought of needing those tools and not being able to find them would quickly fill him with fear, much like a child would feel when lost."

  He looked like such a child as he lifted his eyes to look at Mr. Lorry.

  "But isn't it possible... Understand, I'm only asking for my own information, as a businessman who works only with coins and paper money all day... Isn't it possible that having those tools will encourage him to return to the past? If they were gone, my good friend, isn't it possible that the fear would go with them? In short, isn't it only encouraging the fear to keep the tools?"

  There was another time without either of them talking.

  "You see, too," said the Doctor, shaking a little, "those tools are so much like old friends."

  "I would not hang onto them," said Mr. Lorry, shaking his head; for he grew in confidence about his plan when he saw that the Doctor was not so confident. "I would encourage him to let go of them. I just want you to back me up in this. I am sure that it does him no good to have them around. Please! Back me up on this, as an honest man... for the good of his daughter, my friend!"

  It was very strange to see what a fight was going on inside him!

  "For her, then, let it be done; I agree to it. But I would not take it away while he is there. Let it be taken when he is not there; let him find that his old friends are gone after he has been away from them for a while."

  Mr. Lorry happily agreed to that, and the talk was ended. What was left of the day, they used to walk together in the country, and the Doctor was quite well through it all. On the three following days, he stayed perfectly well, and on the fourteenth day he left to join Lucie and her husband. Mr. Lorry told the Doctor what had been done earlier to stop Lucie from worrying about him not writing, and so he wrote a letter to cover for that story, and she did not think there had been anything wrong.

  On the night of the day the Doctor left, Mr. Lorry went into his bedroom with an axe, saw, and hammer, helped by Miss Pross, who carried a light. There, with the doors closed, and in a strange and guilty way, Mr. Lorry broke the shoemaker's bench to pieces, while Miss Pross held the candle as if she was helping to kill someone, for which she, in her very serious way, very much looked the part. The burning of the 'body' (now broken in pieces to make the burning easier) was done in the kitchen fire; and the tools, shoes, and leather were buried in the garden. So evil does it seem to honest minds to destroy something secretly, that Mr. Lorry and Miss Pross, while doing all this, and while cleaning up after they were finished, almost felt and almost looked like they were doing some awful act that was against the law.

  20. A Kindness Asked For

  When the newly married couple returned, the first one to welcome them was Sydney Carton. They had not been home many hours when he came by. He was no better in how he acted or dressed, but there was about him a strange air of control, an air Charles Darnay had never seen in him before.

  He watched and waited for a good time to take Darnay away, to a window seat, so they could talk without anyone hearing.

  "Mr. Darnay," said Carton, "I wish that we could be friends."

  "We already are, I hope."

  "You're kind to say so, but it's just words. I don't mean just in words. To be honest, I don't quite mean real friends either."

  Charles Darnay, as was natural for him, asked him in a joking and friendly way what he could mean by that.

  "On my life," said Carton, smiling, "I find it easier to know in my own mind what I want, than I can say it to yours. But let me try. Do you remember a special night when I was more drunk than... than I am most nights?"

  "I remember a special night when you forced me to say that you had been drinking."

  "I remember it too. The pain of such times is heavy on me, because I can never forget how I acted. I hope at least that much will be remembered of me one day when my life is finished. Don't worry; I'm not going to start preaching!"

  "I am not at all worried. Hearing you speak seriously about something is anything but worrying to me.

  "Ah!" said Carton, with a light wave of his hand, as if he waved that thought away. "On the night in question (one of many nights when I have been too drunk), I was being impossible to get along with, I talked about liking you and not liking you. I wish that you would forget it."

  "I did that a long time ago."

  "Just words again! But, Mr. Darnay, forgetting is not so easy for me, as you make it sound. I have in no way forgotten it, and a light answer does not help me to forget it."

  "If it was a light answer," returned Darnay, "I beg your forgiveness for it. I had no other reason for being light apart from pushing to the side something that I thought was light, and that seems to trouble you too much. I want you to know that on my honest word, I have long since dropped it from my mind. Good heavens, what was there to drop! Did I have nothing more important to remember in the great help that you gave me on that day?"

  "As to the great help," said Carton, "I must tell you the truth, that it was just the empty words of what I do for a living. I don't know that I cared at all about what would happen to you when I said it. Understand that when I talk about having said it, it happened a long time ago."

  "Now you are the one making light of what you did," returned Darnay, "but I will not argue with your light answer."

  "It's the honest truth, Mr. Darnay, trust me! But that is not what I wanted to say. I was speaking about us being friends. Now, you know me. You know that I am not able to do all the higher and better things that others do. Ask Stryver, and he will tell you so."

  "I think it is better for me to work such things out for myself, without his help."

  "Well, all the same, you know me as a dog without much control, who has never done any good, and who never will."

  "I don't know that you never will."

  "But I know, and you can take my word for it. Still, if you could put up with such an awful person, one who has done nothing with his life, coming and going at different times, I would like to be able to visit from time to time. I would be happy if you could think of me as a piece of furniture that can do nothing of worth (and if it was not that we look so much the same, I would say an ugly piece of furniture too) that you keep only because it is an old one that you did not think to throw out. I don't think I would come too often. It is a hundred to one that I would come even four times in a year. But just knowing that I am free to come will make me happy."

  "Please try to come."

  "That is another way of saying that you have agreed to what I have asked. Thank you, Darnay. So can I say that you have asked me to come?"

  "I think so, Carto
n, by this time."

  They shook hands on it, and Sydney moved away from him. A minute later he was, to look at, no different to what he had been in the past.

  When he had left, later that evening, Charles Darnay said something about what Sydney Carton had said when Miss Pross, the Doctor, and Mr. Lorry were there. He said something about Carton being a problem and wasting his life. In short, he was not angry or wanting to hurt him, but he was only saying what anyone could see for themselves if they knew Carton well.

  Darnay never thought that these few words would stay in the mind of his beautiful young wife; but when he joined her later in their rooms, he found her waiting for him with the old lifting of the forehead that was so often her mark.

  "We are in deep thoughts tonight!" he said, hugging her.

  "Yes, Charles," with her hands on his chest, and her questioning eyes fixed on him, "we are thinking very deeply tonight, for we have something to think about."

  "What is it, my Lucie?"

  "Will you promise not to force one question on me if I beg you not to ask it?"

  "Will I promise? What would I not promise to my Love?"

  Yes, what would he not promise, as he pushed the golden hair away from her cheek with one hand and held his other hand against the heart that loved him so much!

  "I think, Charles, that poor Mr. Carton is worth more than the words you used to show your feelings for him tonight."

  "Is that true? The words I used? Why is that?"

  "That is what you mustn't ask. But I think... I know... he is."

  "If you know it, it is enough. What do you want me to do, my Love?"

  "I would ask you, sweet, to be very generous with him always, and very soft on the things he does wrong, even when he is not around to hear what you are saying. I would ask you to believe that he has a heart that he almost never shows, and that there are deep sores in it. My love, I have seen it bleeding."

  "It hurts to think about this," said Charles Darnay, quite surprised, "that I have done him any wrong. I never thought this of him."

  "My husband, it's true. I fear he is not going to change; there is not much hope for him as a person or for him in life now. But I am sure that he could do good things, kind things, even great things."

  She looked so beautiful in her child-like faith in this lost man, that her husband could have looked at her as she was for hours.

  "And oh, my love!" she begged, hugging him closer, laying her head on his chest, and lifting her eyes to him, "remember how strong we are in our happiness, and how weak he is in his sadness!"

  Her prayer touched his heart. "I will always remember it, sweet Heart! I will remember it as long as I live."

  He bent over the golden head and put her red lips to his, and folded her in his arms. If one sad man walking the dark streets that night could have heard the innocent words she had just said, and seen the tears of love that her husband so lovingly kissed away from her soft blue eyes, he too may have cried. And the words he would have cried would not have been said for the first time:

  "God bless her for her sweet love!"

  21. The Sound of Footsteps

  It has already been said that the corner where the Doctor lived was a wonderful place for sound to travel a long way. Always busily pulling the golden thread around her husband, her father, herself, and her old motherly friend and teacher, in a life of quiet happiness, Lucie sat in the quiet house on the peaceful corner, listening to the footsteps of the years as they passed.

  She was a perfectly happy young wife, but at first, there had been times when her work would fall slowly from her hands as her eyes closed. She heard something coming in the sounds, lightly and so far off that she almost could not hear it, and it affected her deeply. Hopes and fears took opposite sides in her... hopes of a love that she did not yet know, and fears that she would not live long enough to see through all the happiness that was to come with it. In with all the sounds was the sound of footsteps beside her body as it was being buried. The thought of her husband being left alone and crying for her came out as tears through her eyes.

  That time passed and a little Lucie came to lay on her breast. Then, in with all the other sounds, there was the sound of baby Lucie's little feet and the sound of her first words. Let louder sounds come; still they did not stop the young mother at the side of her baby's bed from hearing those smaller and quieter sounds. With them came the sunlight of a child's laugh, and Christ, the friend of children. She trusted him with her troubles, and he seemed to take her child in his arms, as he had done in the past, bringing a holy happiness to her.

  Still busily pulling the golden thread that tied them all together, putting her spirit into all of them without ever trying to control them, Lucie heard in the sound of the years nothing but friendly and relaxing sounds. Her husband's step was strong and rich, her father's strong and fair. Miss Pross's step was like that of a wild horse, making sounds with its nose and hitting the ground under the big tree in the garden!

  Even where there were sad sounds in with the others, they were not deep or cruel. When golden hair like her own was lying like that of an angel around the tired face of a little boy, and he said, with a smile, "Daddy and mummy, I am sad to leave you both, and to leave my beautiful sister; but God is calling me and I must go!" they were not all tears of pain that made his young mother's cheeks wet, as the breath left the one she hugged, whom God had given to her for a time. "Let the children come to me, and do not stop them. They see my Father's face.” Oh Father, what blessed words!

  The sound of an angel's wings mixed in with the others. They were not all of this world, but some had in them the touch of heaven. The soft sound of the wind blowing over a little place in the garden where he was buried was part of the sounds too, and Lucie could hear both these sounds in a soft whisper, like the breathing of a summer ocean sleeping on a sandy beach. Over it all little Lucie would look so funny working seriously at some little job, or dressing a doll at her mother's feet, always talking to herself in the languages of the two cities that had come together to make her.

  It was not often that the footsteps of Sydney Carton were part of the sound. Unless asked, he came at most, half a dozen times in a year. He would sit with them through the evening as he had once done so often. He never came full of wine. And one other thing about him was whispered in the sounds, which has been whispered in all true sounds for all time.

  No man ever really loved a woman, lost her, and still loved her with a good heart when she became a wife and a mother, without her children having a strange love for him... like they were feeling sad for him. What good secret feelings are touched in such a case, no sound can tell; but it happens, and it happened here. Carton was the first stranger to whom little Lucie held out her fat arms, and he kept that place with her as she grew. Almost at the last, the little boy had said of him, "Poor Carton! Kiss him for me!"

  Mr. Stryver shouldered his way through the courts, like some great ship forcing itself through rough waters, and he pulled his friend, who was so much help, behind him, like a little boat. As a boat being pulled like that is often forced under the water, so Sydney had a rough time of it. But hard as it is to change, and so much harder for Sydney, who was not worried about what others thought of him, made this the life he was called to live. He gave no more thought to changing from the wild dog who feeds on what the lion leaves than what a real wild dog would think of becoming a lion instead. Stryver was rich. He had married a healthy woman whose husband had died and left her with wealth and three boys. The boys had nothing especially great coming out of them apart from the straight hair on each of their short fat heads.

  Mr. Stryver, trying to show himself to be the best father in the world, had these three young men walk in front of him like three sheep, to the quiet corner in Soho, where he hoped to surprise Lucie's husband by letting him teach them. In his own special way, he said, "Hello! Here are three pieces of bread and cheese for your marr
ied needs, Darnay!" When Darnay quietly said he was not interested in the three pieces of bread and cheese, Mr. Stryver was so filled with anger that it came out later when he taught the young men to watch for the "pride of beggars", like that teacher man. He would often complain to Mrs. Stryver, over his glass of wine, about how Mrs. Darnay had once tried to "catch" him, and how it was only his great ability to see through her that kept him from being caught. Some of his law friends, who at times joined him in drinking his wine and listening to this lie, were able to forgive him for the lie by saying that he had told it so often that he believed it himself. If so, it is such a great sin on top of what was a great sin to start with, that it would only be fair for such a person to be taken off to some quiet place and to be quietly hanged there.

  These were some of the sounds to which Lucie, sometimes thinking seriously, sometimes laughing easily, listened in that corner full of sounds, until her little daughter was six years old. There is no need to say how close to her heart were the sounds of her child's steps, those of her own loved father, who was always a hard worker in control of himself, and of her much loved husband. There was no need to tell of how the smallest sound from their close family was like music to her either. Their home, which she put together with great wisdom and careful use of her money, was more beautiful than many that much richer people had used much more wealth on. And there was no need to tell of the sounds all around her, sweet in her ears, coming from the many times her father had told her that he found her to be a better daughter (if it were possible) married, than if she had not married. And sounds of the many times her husband had said to her that none of her jobs seemed to take away from her love for him and her help to him; and he asked her, "What is the magic secret, my love, of your being everything to all of us, as if there were only one of us, yet you never seem to be in a hurry, or to have too much to do?"

  But there were other sounds, far off in the distance, that quietly talked of danger, all through those years. And it was now, around little Lucie's sixth birthday, that they started to sound quite awful, like a great storm over in France, that was having a dangerous effect on the ocean between them.

  On a night in the middle of July, 1789, Mr. Lorry came in late from Tellson's, and sat himself down by Lucie and her husband in the dark window seat. It was a hot, wild night, and the three of them all remembered the old Sunday night when they had looked at the lightning from the same place.

  "I had started to think," said Mr. Lorry, pushing his brown wig back, "that I would have to spend the night at Tellson's. We have had so much business all day, that it was hard to know where to start, or which way to turn. There is so much fear in Paris just now, that everyone is turning to us! The people we work with do not seem to be able to put their money with us fast enough. It is like a sickness, the way they all feel they must send their wealth to England."

  "That doesn't sound good," said Darnay.

  "Doesn't sound good, you say, my good Darnay? Maybe, but we don't know what the reason is for it. People often do stupid things! Some of us at Tellson's are getting old, and we really cannot be interested in change without a good reason."

  "Too bad," said Darnay, "because you know how dark and dangerous the sky is."

  "I know that, to be sure," agreed Mr. Lorry, trying to make himself believe that he was going to be angry, when he almost never was angry, "but I just want to be difficult after such a hard day at work. So where is Manette?"

  "Here he is," said the Doctor, coming into the dark room at just that second.

  "I am happy to see you're at home. The business and trouble that I have been a part of all day has made me worry without a good reason. You're not going out, I hope?"

  "No. I am going to play a board game with you, if you like," said the Doctor.

  "I don't think I would like to, if I may be honest. I am not in the right spirit to compete against you tonight. Is the tea still out, Lucie? I can't see."

  "It sure is; it has been kept for you."

  "Thank you, my sweet. Is your beautiful child safe in bed?”

  "Yes, and sleeping nicely."

  "Yes, all is safe and well! I know not why anything should not be safe and well here, thank God. But I have been so busy all day, and I am not as young as I was! My tea, my child! Thank you. Now, come and take your place in the circle, and let us sit quietly and listen to the sounds that are part of your beliefs."

  "Not my beliefs; just my foolish thoughts."

  "A foolish thought, then my wise one," said Mr. Lorry, touching her hand. "There are many of them, and they are quite loud, are they not? Listen to them!"

  Angry, dangerous footsteps, out of control, and able to force their way into anyone's life. Footsteps that could not be cleaned again after they had turned red. Footsteps running in far off Saint Antoine, as the little circle sat in that dark London window.

  Saint Antoine had been, that morning, a big dark crowd of hungry people moving from one place to another with many little touches of light showing above the wave of heads, where blades in hands and on the ends of guns moved in the sun. A great shout came up from the throat of Saint Antoine, and uncovered arms reached into the air like the dead branches of trees in a winter wind. All of the fingers were holding tightly to weapons or to something that could be used as a weapon, that grew up from the crowd below the arms, often passed to them from a long way off.

  Who gave them out, where they started, how they moved in one direction and another dozens at a time, over the heads of the crowd like the movement of lightning, no eye in the crowd could say; but guns were being given out, as were bullets, iron and timber bars, knives, axes, every weapon that angry minds could find or make. People who could not find anything else had the job of forcing, with bleeding hands, stones and bricks out of their places in walls. Every heart in Saint Antoine was on fire. Every person living there had stopped thinking of life as important, and was ready with a crazy enthusiasm to give their life for what they wanted.

  As wild water moving in a circle always has a center, so all of this anger circled around Defarge's wine shop, and every drop in that pot of hot water was pulled toward the place where Defarge himself, already dirty with gunpowder and sweat, was telling people what to do, giving out weapons, pushing one man back and pulling another forward, taking a weapon from one to give to another, working and fighting in the middle of the storm.

  "Stay near me, Jack Three," cried Defarge. "And, Jack One and Two, separate and put yourselves at the head of as many of these men as you can. Where is my wife?"

  "Ah! Here I am!" said Madam, relaxed as ever, but not knitting today. Madam's strong right hand was holding an axe, in the place of the softer tools, and in her belt were a gun and a cruel knife.

  "Where will you go, my wife?"

  "I go," said Madam, "with you for now. But before long you will see me at the head of the women."

  "Come, then!" cried Defarge, in a strong voice. "Friends and lovers of our country, we are ready! To the prison!"

  With a shout that sounded as if all the voices in France had been shaped into that hated word, the living ocean moved, wave on wave, and poured across the city to that place. Warning bells were ringing, drums were sounding, and the ocean was storming onto its new beach as the war started.

  Deep ditches, two bridges, big stone walls, eight great towers, cannons, guns, fire, and smoke. Through the fire and through the smoke... in the fire and in the smoke, for the crowd pushed him against a cannon, and just so quickly he became the one using the cannon... Defarge of the wine shop worked like a brave soldier for two angry and wild hours.

  One deep ditch, one bridge, big stone walls, eight great towers, cannons, guns, fire and smoke. One bridge down! "Work, brothers, work! Work, Jack One, Jack Two, Jack One Thousand, Jack Two Thousand, Jack Twenty-five Thousand. In the name of all the angels or devils -- You choose -- work!" It was Defarge of the wine shop, still at his gun, which was quite hot now.


  "Follow me, women!" cried Madam his wife. "What! We can kill as well as the men when the place is taken!" And to her, with a high thirsty cry, came women with many different weapons, but all armed with hunger and hate.

  Cannons, guns, fire and smoke; but still the deep ditch and the one bridge, the big stone walls, and the eight great towers. There were some small breaks in the waves of angry people, made by some being killed or hurt. Flaming weapons and burning torches, smoking carts full of wet straw to hide their movements, hard work at other carts on each side of them, shouts, explosions, angry words, brave actions without end, noise of all kinds, and the sound of the angry ocean of people over it all. But still the deep ditch and that one bridge, and the big stone walls, and the eight great towers, and still Defarge of the wine shop at his gun, now twice as hot after four hours of wild angry work.

  Then a white flag from inside the prison, and a meeting between leaders on both sides -- this almost impossible to see, and not heard at all -- and the wave of people quickly growing wider and higher pushing Defarge of the wine shop over the bridge (now open) past the big stone walls and into the eight great towers, as the people holding them gave up!

  So strong was the movement of the wave of people pouring into the prison that Defarge could not even breathe or turn his head against it, until he finished in the outside yard of the prison. There, against the side of a wall, he was able, at last, to look around and see what was happening. Jack Three was almost at his side. Madam Defarge, still leading some of the women, could be seen in the distance with her knife in her hand. Everywhere was noise and confusion, happy, crazy, wild, and so very loud, and yet nothing that could be understood.

  "The prisoners!" "The papers!"

  "The secret rooms!" "The torture tools!" "The prisoners!"

  Of all their shouts, and ten thousand noises that could not be understood, "The Prisoners!" was the one most taken up by the wave that pushed forward, as if it was an eternity of people like there is in time and space. When the first wave rolled past, taking the prison officers with them, and warning them all of a fast death if they did not show them every secret place, Defarge put his strong hand on the chest of one of them -- a man with a grey head, who had a lighted torch in his hand -- separated him from the others, and put him between himself and the wall.

  "Show me the North Tower!" said Defarge. "Quickly!"

  "I will," answered the man, "if you will just follow me. but there is no one there."

  "What is the meaning of one hundred and five North Tower?” asked Defarge. "Now!"

  "The meaning, sir?"

  "Is it the name of a person or a place? Or do you want us to kill you?"

  "Kill him!" spoke Jack Three, who had come up close.

  "Sir, it is a room for a prisoner."

  "Show it to me!"

  "Come this way, then."

  Jack Three, with the same old hunger, and clearly not happy that the talk had turned away from killing, held Defarge's arm, and Defarge held the guard's. Their three heads had been close together during this, and even then it had been difficult for them to hear each other, so great was the noise of the living ocean as it poured into the prison, and flooded the rooms and walk ways and steps. All around outside too, the wave pushed against the walls with a deep, rough shout, from which at times, some side shouts broke away and jumped into the air on their own, like happens with the water in a wave.

  Through dark sad rooms under the ground, where the light of day had never been, past ugly doors to dark holes and cages, down cave-like steps, and again up steep rough stone and brick steps, more like cliffs than steps, Defarge, the guard, and Jack Three, joined hand to arm, went as quickly as they could. Here and there, mostly at the start, they met people from the flood above, but when they were finished with going down and were climbing up through the tower, they were alone. Shut in here by the thick walls of the tower, the storm inside and outside the prison was softer on the ears, as if the earlier noise had destroyed their ability to hear well.

  The guard stopped at a low door, put a key in the noisy lock, pushed the door slowly open, and said, as they all bent their heads and went in:

  "One hundred and five, North Tower!"

  There was a small, heavily covered window with no glass in it, high in the wall, with a stone wall coming down from the roof in front of it, so that one could only see the sky by bending low and looking up at the window. There was a small chimney with heavy bars across it, a few feet inside, with a pile of ashes from the timber burned in it. There was a small chair without a back, a table, and a bed of straw. There were the four black walls, and a rusted iron ring in one of them.

  "Move that torch slowly across these walls, so I can see them," said Defarge to the guard.

  The man obeyed, and Defarge followed the light closely with his eyes.

  "Stop! Look here, Jack!"

  "A.M.!" said Jack, in a low, rough voice, as he read greedily.

  "Alexander Manette," said Defarge in his ear, following the letters with his dark first finger, that was deeply coloured by the gunpowder he had been using. "And here he wrote 'a poor doctor'. And it was he, for sure, who scratched a calendar on this stone. What is that in your hand? An iron bar? Give it to me!"

  He still had in his hand the long stick he had used to light the cannon. He quickly gave that tool for the other one, and turning on the chair and table broke them to pieces with a few hits.

  "Hold the light higher!" he said angrily to the guard. "Look through that rubbish with care, Jack. Look! Here is my knife," throwing it to him. "Cut open that bed and look through the straw. Hold the light higher, you!"

  With an angry look at the guard he climbed up into the fireplace and, looking up the chimney, hit and scratched at its side with the iron bar, and worked at the iron bars across it too. In a few minutes, some dust and broken bricks came dropping down, which he turned his face to get away from. In that, and in the rubbish of the fireplace, and in the hole in the chimney that his weapon had found its way, he reached with a careful touch.

  "Nothing in the timber and nothing in the straw, Jack?"

  "Nothing."

  "Let us put them together in the middle of the room. Good! Now light them, you!"

  The guard put a light to the little pile, which burned high and hot. Bending again to come out at the low door, they left it burning and returned to the prison yard. They seemed, little by little, to receive back their ability to hear as they climbed down, until they were back in the angry flood once again.

  They found the storm of people moving one way and another as the crowd looked for Defarge himself. Saint Antoine wanted to have its wine shop owner at the front of those guarding the governor of the prison -- the one who had been shooting people to stop them from breaking into the prison. Without Defarge they could not make the governor walk to the Hotel de Ville to be judged. Without him, the governor would break free, and he would not be forced to pay for the people's blood (which was now of some worth after so many years when it had not been important at all).

  In all the noise and emotion that circled this serious old officer, who was easy to tell from the others by his grey uniform with red ropes and other things on it, there was only one person who was not moving, and she was a woman. "See, there is my husband!" she cried, pointing to him. "See Defarge!" She stood without moving, close to the serious old officer, and stayed close to him through the streets, as Defarge and the others carried him along. She stayed close to him without moving when he was close to where they were going, and the hits had started coming at him from behind. She stayed close to him without moving as the rain of hits from weapons and hands that had been held back for so long fell more and more heavily. She was so close to him when he dropped dead under it that, moving quickly, she put her own foot on his neck, and with her cruel knife -- that had been ready for such a long time -- she cut off his head.

  The time had come when Saint Antoine was going to really ha
ng people up as lanterns, to show what he could be and do. Saint Antoine's blood was up, and the blood of cruel leaders with iron hands was down -- down on the steps of the Hotel de Ville where the governor's body lay... down under the sole of Madam Defarge's shoe, that had been used to keep him from moving during the cutting off of his head. "Lower the lantern out there!" cried Saint Antoine, after looking around for a new way to kill.

  "Here is one of his soldiers to be left to guard the prison!" The hanging head was put up, and the ocean of people moved on.

  It was an ocean of black dangerous waters and of wave against wave, with no one yet knowing how deep it was or how strong it was. An ocean that would not be stopped, made up of storming shapes, angry voices, and faces made hard in the fires of pain, until there was not the smallest mark of love on any of them.

  But in the ocean of faces, where every angry look was so full of life, there were two groups of faces -- each seven in number -- so very opposite to the others that there was never an ocean that had any more surprising broken ships on it. Seven faces of prisoners, just freed by the storm that had broken into the rooms where they were to die, were carried high above the crowd. They were all scared, all lost, all surprised and confused, as if the Last Day had come, and as if those happy people around them were lost spirits. Seven other faces were there, carried even higher. These were seven dead faces, whose half closed eyes were waiting for the Last Day. Faces without life, having a look of fear on them that had stopped -- but had not been taken away. The eyes were yet to open and the lips, now without blood in them, were yet to say, "YOU DID IT!"

  Seven prisoners freed, seven blood-covered heads on sticks, the keys of the awful building with eight strong towers, some letters and other things left by past prisoners, long dead from broken hearts... these, and things like them, the loud footsteps carried through the streets of Paris in the middle of July, 1789. Now, Heaven stop the foolish thoughts of Lucie Darnay, and keep those feet far out of her life! For they are wild, crazy, and dangerous; and in the years so long after the breaking of the barrel at Defarge's wine shop door, they are not easily cleaned after they turn red.

  22. The Storm Grows

  Tired old Saint Antoine had had only one happy week in which to make its hard bread softer with brotherly hugs and shouts of happiness before Madam Defarge was back at her counter, looking over the people in the shop. She had no flower on her head, for the Jacks had become, even in one short week, no longer ready to trust the Saint to care for them. The lanterns across his streets had a way of changing directions very quickly.

  Madam Defarge, with her arms folded, sat in the morning light and heat, looking out on the wine shop and the street. In both there were little groups of people doing nothing, dirty and poor; but now they had a proud sign of power sitting on top of their pain. The oldest broken hat hanging on the poorest head now said, "I know how hard it has been for me, the wearer of this hat, to stay alive; but do you know how easy it is for me now to take another person's life?” Every thin, uncovered arm, that had been without work before, now had one job it could always do; it could hit out. The fingers of the knitting women had become evil now, just from knowing that they could kill. There was a change in the way Saint Antoine looked; his face had been hammered for hundreds of years, and the last finishing touches from the hammers had made a very big change.

  Madam Defarge sat looking at it with the kind of controlled happiness that was needed from the manager of the Saint Antoine women. One of her sisters knitted beside her. The short, fat wife of a hungry food seller and the mother of two children as well, this leader had already been given the proud name of The Punisher.

  "Listen!" said The Punisher. "Listen, then! Who is coming?"

  As if a line of gunpowder, poured from the farthest border of Saint Antoine to the door of the wine shop, had been fired with a match, the sound of talking came just that quickly down the line.

  "It is Defarge," said Madam. "Be quiet brothers and sisters!"

  Defarge came in, breathing heavily, pulled off a red hat that he had been wearing, and looked around him.

  "Listen, all of you!" said Madam again. "Listen to him!" Defarge stood, breathing deeply in front of a wall of open mouths and eyes filled with interest. They were looking in from outside the door, as those inside the shop jumped to their feet to hear too.

  "Tell us, my husband. What is it?"

  "News from the other world!"

  "How's that?” cried Madam angrily. "The other world?"

  "Does everyone here remember old Foulon, who told the hungry people that they could eat grass, and who died and went to hell?"

  "We all do!" from all their throats.

  "The news is about him. He's in town!"

  "In town?” from the throat of all again. "And dead?"

  "Not dead! He was so afraid of us -- and with good reason -- that he started a story that he had died, and there was a big funeral for him. But they have found him alive, hiding in the country, and they have brought him here. I just saw him, on his way to the Hotel de Ville as a prisoner. I said that he had good reason to fear us. So tell me. Did he?"

  That poor old sinner of more than 70 years, if he had never known before that he had reason to fear them, he would have known it in his heart of hearts if he had heard their answering cry.

  They all were very quiet for a short time after that. Defarge and his wife looked deeply at each other. The Punisher bent over and the sound of a drum could be heard as she moved it at her feet behind the counter.

  "Countrymen!" said Defarge, in a strong voice, "are we ready?"

  In a second Madam Defarge's knife was in her belt. The drum was sounding in the street as if it and a drummer had come together by magic. And The Punisher, making awful shouts and throwing her arms around her head like all the forty punishers of the Greek and Roman religions, was running from house to house to move the women into action.

  The men were bad enough, in the blood-thirsty way that they looked out the windows, grabbing whatever weapons they could find, and running down into the street; but the women were enough to scare the bravest person. From whatever house jobs they had been doing, from their children, from their old parents, and from the sick, all of whom they left sitting on the ground, hungry and without clothes, they ran out with their hair flying in every direction, pushing themselves and others, through wild cries and actions, to a measure of hate that was almost crazy. Evil Foulon is a prisoner, my sister! Old Foulon is a prisoner, my mother! Law-breaker Foulon is a prisoner, my daughter! Then, twenty more would run into the middle of these, hitting their breasts and tearing their hair and crying loudly, Foulon is alive! Foulon, who told the people who were dying from hunger to eat grass. Foulon who told my old father to eat grass when I had no bread to give him! Foulon who told my baby to drink grass when my breasts were dry from hunger. Oh mother of God, this Foulon! Oh Heaven, our pain! Hear me, my dead baby, and my thin father: I promise on my knees, on these stones, to pay Foulon back for what he did to you! Husbands and brothers and young men, give us the blood of Foulon. Give us his head! Give us his heart! Give us the body and soul of Foulon. Tear him to pieces, and dig him into the ground, so grass can grow from him! With these cries, numbers of the women, whipped up into a blind anger, ran around hitting and tearing at their own friends until they fainted from all this emotion, and would have been walked on by the crowd if their men had not stopped the others from stepping on them.

  For all this, not one minute was wasted; not even a second! This Foulon was at the Hotel de Ville; he could be freed. It must never happen. Saint Antoine knew all that he had done to hurt him! So men and women, armed with weapons, left Saint Antoine so quickly, pulling others with them with such force, that in less than fifteen minutes there was not one person left in the heart of Saint Antoine apart from a few old women and the crying children.

  By that time people were crowding into the court where this ugly, evil old
man was. There was not enough room, so they filled the yard and streets outside. The Defarges, husband and wife, The Punisher, and Jack Three were at the front, quite near to Foulon.

  "See!" cried Madam, pointing with her knife. "See the evil old man tied with ropes. That was very smart to tie a pile of grass on his back. Ha, ha! Well done! Let him eat it now!" Madam put her knife under her arm, and hit her hands together to show that she liked the entertainment of it all.

  The people closest behind her told the people behind them what had made Madam so happy, and they told others until even out on the streets people were clapping at how funny it was. In the same way, over the next two or three hours of boring talk and thousands of words, each time Madam Defarge would show that she wanted things to move more quickly, seconds later the people outside would be agreeing with her. This happened even more quickly after some of the men were able, by some wonderful ability, to climb the outside walls of the building and look in from the windows, where they could see what was happening and then pass the word on to the crowd outside the building.

  After some time, the sun was so high that it came through the window straight on the head of the old prisoner, making it look like he had some hope of being protected. That was too much for the crowd to put up with. The wall between the crowd, as weak as dust, had lasted for a surprisingly long time, but in a second it was gone, and Saint Antoine had the prisoner!

  Even at the back of the crowd, everyone knew when it happened. Defarge simply jumped a table and a short timber wall before folding the poor man in a deadly hug. Madam Defarge just followed and grabbed one of the ropes with which he was tied. The Punisher and Jack Three were not yet up with them, and the men in the windows had not yet dropped to the floor in the court room, like wild birds from their high nests, when the cry went up all over the city, "Bring him out! Bring him to the lanterns!"

  Down, up, then head first down the steps. Now on his knees, now on his feet, now on his back. Pulled and hit at, and not able to breathe with all of the grass and straw that was being pushed into his face by hundreds of hands. Cut, hit, fighting to breathe, bleeding, and always begging for mercy. Now hurting from their angry hits and kicks, with a small open space cleared around him by people wanting to give everyone room to look. Now, like a dead tree branch being pulled through a forest of legs, he was pulled to the nearest street corner where one of the deadly lanterns was hanging. There, Madam Defarge took the ropes off him, like a cat might do with a mouse, and quietly looked on while the crowd prepared for the kill, and while he begged for mercy. The women, filled with hate, cried out through it all, and the men shouted for him to be killed with grass in his mouth. Once they pulled his body up on the lantern rope and it broke. They caught him, crying. Again they did the same thing. Then the rope was kind to him, and held him up until he was dead. His head was soon on a stick, with enough grass in his mouth to make all of Saint Antoine dance.

  And this was not the end of the day's evil work. Saint Antoine so shouted and danced his angry blood up that it exploded again when, near the end of the day, they learned that the old man's son-in-law, another enemy of the people, was coming into Paris with five hundred soldiers on horseback as part of the guard that was travelling with him. Saint Antoine wrote the son-in-law’s sins on burning pieces of paper, grabbed him (He would have cut him out of the heart of an army if needed, to put him with Foulon.) put his head on one stick and his heart on another and carried the three rewards In a line through the streets.

  It was after dark when the men and women came back to their children, who were crying and hungry. Long lines of them went to the bread shops where they patiently waited to buy bad bread. While they waited with weak and empty stomachs, they passed the time by hugging each other to show their happiness for the happenings of the day, and by going over them all again as they talked. Little by little these lines of dirty poor people died out, and then rough candles were lighted in high windows, and thin fires were made in the streets, where neighbours cooked together before eating their food in front of their doors.

  The food was poor, and there was little of it. There was no meat, and not much of anything else to put on the bread. But just being together in what they were doing added some happiness to the poor food. Fathers and mothers, who had received their strength from the actions in the worst part of the day, now played quietly with their hungry children. Lovers, with such a world around them and in front of them, loved and hoped.

  It was almost morning when the last group of people left Defarge's wine shop, and Mr. Defarge said to Madam, his wife, in a rough, tired voice, while locking the door:

  "At last it has come, my love!"

  "Eh, well," returned Madam, "almost".

  Saint Antoine went to sleep, the Defarges went to sleep; even The Punisher went to sleep with her hungry husband, and the drum was at rest. The voice of the drum was the only one in Saint Antoine that had not been changed by the blood and hurry of the day. The Punisher, whose job it was to keep the drum, could have picked it up at any time and forced the same words out of it as had been said before the prison had been attacked, or before old Foulon had been killed. On the other hand, the voices of the men and women in Saint Antoine, were sore and rough.

  23. The Fire Grows

  A change had come over the village with a fountain in the middle of it, the one where the road worker would leave each day to go and hammer out enough stones for the highway to buy himself a little bread to hold his poor hungry body and his poor uneducated soul together. The prison on the cliff was not of so much interest now as it had been in the past. There were soldiers to guard it, but not many; and there were officers to guard the soldiers, but not one of them knew what his men would really do if a serious problem came up, apart from knowing that it would probably not be what they were told to do.

  Far and wide, the land received rain, but it gave little in return. Every green leaf, every blade of grass and every grain was as rough and poor as the people who lived there. It was all leaning over, sad, broken, and hurting. Houses, fences, animals, men, women, children, and the land they lived on -- all used up.

  Local leaders (often very good men on their own) were a blessing to the country, giving a nice touch to all that was done by the government, as they would be rich men who lived good lives and much more. But, as a group, these men had in some way brought things to where they were now. It is strange how the world, which had been made just for these leaders, should have been so quickly destroyed by them. Surely there must have been something wrong with the way God planned it! But that is how it was. The last drop of blood had been forced out of the rocks, and the turn of the screw on the instruments of torture had taken from the land until there was nothing more to get, and now the leaders were starting to run from the awful effects of their own selfish lives.

  But this is not the change that had come over the village and many other villages like it. For many years, the leaders had squeezed what they could from the villages and almost never visited the people apart from when they were out hunting, at times hunting for people, and at times hunting for wild animals, for whom they had cleared the trees from much of the land, leaving it empty and dead. No, the change that had come over the villages was in the looks on the strange faces of the poor, and the change was not that they were without (in this one village) the beautiful rich face of Sir.

  In these times, the road worker worked alone in the dust, not often thinking about how he had been made from dust, and how he would one day return to the dust, because he was too busy thinking about how little he had for food that night, and how much more he would eat if he had the money. In these times, as he lifted his eyes from his quiet work, and looked out over the road, he would see someone coming on foot, something that in other days did not often happen, but which now happened a lot. As the walker came closer, the poor labourer would see, without surprise, that it was a man with long rough hair, an almost wild look, tall --
in timber shoes that would not be comfortable even for a road worker -- serious, rough, dark, covered in the mud and dust of many highways, wet from the rain that flooded many low places on the road, carrying leaves and seeds in his clothes from where he had been sleeping under the trees on the way.

  Such a man came up to him, like a ghost, at noon one hot but cloudy July day, as he was sitting on his pile of stones under a low cliff on the side of the road, to hide from the hail that had been falling.

  The man looked at him, looked at the village at the bottom of the hill, at the windmill, and at the prison on the cliff. When he had marked out these places in his uneducated mind, he said in an accent that the road worker could only just understand:

  "How goes it, Jack?"

  "All is well, Jack."

  "Shake then!"

  They shook hands, and the man sat down on the stone pile.

  "No dinner?"

  "Nothing but a little before I go to bed these days," said the road worker with a hungry look on his face.

  "It is the same everywhere I go," the man said angrily.

  He took out a dirty old pipe, filled it, lighted it by hitting a piece of metal against a piece of stone that he carried with him, and then breathed in on the pipe until it started to burn well. That is when he quickly dropped something into it from between his thumb and finger. A flame jumped up from it and then died down into a very little cloud of smoke.

  "Shake then.” It was the road worker’s turn to say it this time, after watching the man light his pipe. They again shook hands.

  "Tonight?” asked the road worker.

  "Tonight," said the man, putting the pipe in his mouth. "Where?"

  "Here."

  He and the road worker sat on the pile of stones looking at each other without talking. The hail was falling between them like very small knives, until the sky started to clear over the village.

  "Show me!" said the traveller then, moving to the very top of the hill, where it looked down on the village.

  "See!" returned the road worker, pointing. "You go down here and straight through the street, past the fountain..."

  "To the devil with all that!" the other cut in, moving his eyes over the country below them. "I go through no streets and past no fountains. Okay?"

  "Okay! What you want is six miles past the top of that hill on the other side of the village."

  "Good. When do you finish your work?"

  "When the sun goes down."

  "Will you wake me up before you go home? I have walked through two nights without resting. When I finish my pipe I will sleep like a child. Can you wake me?"

  "Sure."

  The traveller finished his pipe, put it inside his shirt, pulled off his big timber shoes, and lay down on his back on the pile of stones. He was soon deeply asleep.

  As the labourer went about his dirty work, and the hail clouds rolled away, showing strong lines of sunlight that lighted up different parts of the land, the little man (who was wearing a red hat now, in place of his blue one) seemed very interested in the man lying on the pile of stones. He looked that way so often that he was not able to use his tools well, and one could see that he was not getting much real work done. The sleeping man's sun-browned face, the long black hair and beard, the rough red wool hat, the mix of hand- made cloth and animal skins, the big body, made thin by a hard life, and the angry look on his lips even when he was sleeping, all interested the road worker. The traveller had walked a long way, and his feet were sore, his ankles rubbed and bleeding. His big shoes, filled with leaves and grass, had been heavy to carry over the many long miles, and his clothes had many holes in them, like the sores on his own body. Bending down near him, the road worker tried to see if there was a secret weapon in his shirt, but he could not, because the man kept his arms folded strongly over his chest when sleeping. Strong cities with walls, guards, gates, big ditches, and bridges over them that could be lifted and dropped, seemed easy to break when measured against this man. And when the worker lifted his eyes to look out at the sky, he could see in his mind's eye, other men like this, men who would let nothing stop them, going to important places all over France.

  The man did not wake either when hail fell or when the sun came through, until the sun was low in the west, and the sky was filled with colour. Then the road worker, having brought his tools together for the walk down to the village, went to wake him.

  "Good!" said the sleeper, lifting himself up on one elbow. "Six miles past the top of that hill?” he asked.

  "About."

  "About. Good!"

  The road worker went home, with dust moving ahead of him as the wind chose, and he was soon at the fountain, squeezing himself in between thin cows that had been brought there to drink. It was almost like he was whispering to the cows too as he whispered to others in the village. When the people had finished what little food they had that night, they did not go quietly to bed as they did most nights. Instead, they came out into the open again, and stayed there. A strange movement of whispers was on them all; and on top of that, when they came together at the fountain after dark, they all started looking in the same direction, at the sky there. Mr. Gabelle, the Marquis' leader in that place, started to worry. He went alone to the top of his house and looked at the sky in that direction too. Hiding behind his chimney, he looked down at the faces in the dark by the fountain below, and he sent word to the man who cared for the church building to be ready to ring the warning bell soon.

  The night grew later. The trees around the old castle, separating it from the rest of the world, moved as the wind grew stronger, as if they were trying to destroy the building in the darkness of the night. Up the steps, the rain itself hit wildly against the great front door, like a runner with news to wake up the people sleeping inside. Little pieces of the wind moved through the rooms, around the old spears and knives on the walls, and sadly up the steps, where it shook the curtains of the bed where the last Marquis used to sleep. From east, west, north, and south, through the trees, four rough men with heavy steps were breaking small branches and pushing flat the grass as they moved carefully toward the castle's yard, where four lanterns were lighted. Then they each moved off in a different direction before all was black once again.

  But not for long. Soon the castle started to make itself seen by some light of its own, as if it was a light. Then a line of light could be seen moving behind the walls, showing through windows and other openings. It grew bigger and stronger. Then, from twenty big windows, flames came out, and the stone faces of the castle, awake now, were looking out from a fire.

  There was some talk outside the house, from the few people who were still there, and someone put a saddle on a horse and went off on it. In the darkness, the horse was pushed on through the rain, not stopping until it reached Mr. Gabelle's door, near the village fountain.

  "Help, Gabelle! Everyone, help!"

  The warning bell started ringing, but no one came to help. The road worker and two hundred and fifty of his friends, stood with their arms folded at the fountain, looking at the fire in the sky. "It must be forty feet high," they said angrily; and they never moved.

  The rider from the castle, and the tired horse ran through the village and up the hill leading to the prison. At the gate, a group of officers were watching the fire. At some distance from them were a group of soldiers. "Help, men... officers! The castle is on fire. We can still save some important things from the fire if we hurry! Help, help!" The officers looked toward the soldiers who looked at the fire. They said nothing to the soldiers, but answered the rider by biting their lips and lifting there shoulders. "It must burn."

  As the rider raced down the hill again, the village was also starting to light up. The road worker and his two hundred and fifty friends, acting as one, had raced into their houses and were putting candles in every window. Because people were so poor, they needed to get most of their candles from Mr. Gabelle, but when he wo
uld not give them candles, the road worker, who had always been very humble to such leaders, had said that coaches could be used to make a fire if needed, and they could cook the man's horses with the fire if they so chose.

  The castle was left to flame and burn. In the noise of the fire, a red-hot wind coming as if from hell itself, seemed to be blowing the building away. The stone faces looked like they were in great pain. When big pieces of timber and stone fell, the face with two little marks on each side of its nose, was, at first covered. But it soon worked its way out of the smoke again, like it was the face of the cruel Marquis, burning to death and fighting with the fire as he died.

  The castle burned. The closest trees, touched by the fire coming from the castle, also burned and died. Trees at a distance, set on fire by the four angry men, became an even bigger circle of fire and smoke around the burning building. Metal melted in the stone lake of the castle fountain after the water dried up. Containers of water at the top of the four towers, that were there to be used in stopping a fire, were of no effect against the fire, as four great walls of flame ate them up. Big tears in the wall branched out like a chemical action moving quickly from one atom to another. Birds, caught by surprise, only had time to turn before the heat killed them and they fell into the burning building below them. Four angry shapes moved away, east, west, north, and south, along the dark roads toward new targets, helped on their way by the light they had helped to make. The people in the village had control of the bell now, having done away with the man whose job it was to ring it, and they were now ringing it to show their happiness.

  Not only that, but the village, drunk with hunger, fire, and bell-ringing, and thinking that Mr. Gabelle was the one behind the taxes... forgetting that not many taxes were paid in those last days, because the people were too poor to pay anything... was in a hurry to talk with him about it, and made a circle around his house, asking for him to come out and talk. Seeing this, Mr. Gabelle put heavy bars across his door, and chose instead to talk to himself. The end effect of this talking was that he returned to the roof of his house behind his chimney. This time he was thinking (because he was a little man and still wanted to hurt those who were planning to hurt him) that he would throw himself head first from there, hoping to kill one or two people in the crowd below as he himself died.

  It must have been a long night for Mr. Gabelle up there, with the burning castle for his candle, and the bell and hits on his door for music. And it was made worse by the lantern rope the crowd had put up in front of his gate. The village clearly wanted to hang him in place of the lantern. It would have been a very difficult time, spending a whole summer night so close to the black ocean, ready as Mr. Gabelle was, to take that jump into it! But the sun came up at last with the candles of the village burning out and the people happily leaving. Mr. Gabelle came down, carrying his life with him for a while.

  In other villages, less than a hundred miles away, in the light of other fires, there were government leaders who were not as lucky, not that night and not on other nights. For them, when the sun came up, it found them hanging over streets that had once been at peace, in villages where they had been born and where they had lived all their lives. Also, there had been other people from towns and villages who had not been as lucky as the road worker and his friends in this village. The government leaders had been able in those towns and villages to turn the soldiers against the people and they were the ones hanging from ropes in the morning light. The angry shapes did not stop moving, east, west, north, and south. It made no difference who was hanged; the fires still burned. No government leader, even those expert in numbers, could tell how high the hanging stage would need to be to stop that fire.

  24. Pulled Toward the Rock

  In such a growing fire and growing storm -- the solid earth being shaken by the movements of an angry ocean which grew higher and higher without ever falling back, and bringing fear to those on the beach -- three years of such weather followed. Three more birthdays for little Lucie had been added by the golden thread to the happy cloth of her home life.

  Many days and nights had the people living in that house listened to footsteps on the corner, with hearts that stopped when they heard the sound of crowds. The steps had come to be, in their minds, the steps of an angry crowd that had been turned into wild animals by all that they had been through before then. They carried a red flag to mark the danger that covered their country.

  French Sirs, as a class, had stopped worrying about people liking or not liking them. They were so not wanted in France that there was danger of them being forced out of the country and out of life itself. Like the man who wanted badly to see the devil and then ran in fear when it happened, so the rich class, after saying the Lord's Prayer backwards for so many years, and doing many other things to bring evil on themselves, no sooner saw what was coming from their actions before they were running in fear of it.

  The sharp "eye" of the Court was now gone. If it had stayed, a storm of bullets that it had never seen coming in the past would have tried to put it out anyway. The things that kept it from seeing well were the pride of the devil, the greed of a king like Sardanapalus,* and the blindness of an animal that spends all of its time under the ground. All the same, the eye was now gone. The Court, from that very special circle at the center to the most evil people on the farthest borders, was now gone too. The king and queen and their family were gone. The latest news from France was that they had been taken in their castle and "stopped".

  (*Sardanapalus was a past king of Assyria.)

  August of the year 1792 had come, and the French Sirs were by this time running in all directions.

  As anyone might think, the place where any of these Sirs would want to go in London would be to Tellson's Bank. They say that spirits return to the place where their bodies were most often, and a Sir without money would go to the place where his money had most often been. It was also the place where the smartest people from France would come soon after arriving in England. Another reason for these people on the run to be there was that Tellson's was a generous house, and would often help rich old friends who had lost their wealth. And the last reason is that those from the rich class who had seen the storm coming, and knew what it would mean, had put their money in Tellson's before it happened, and now their hungry brothers would come there to ask them for help. All this added up to every new person coming from France stopping in at Tellson's with the latest news of what was happening back home. For all of these reasons, Tellson's was at that time almost like a French newspaper. So many people knew this and so many would come there for more information, that Tellson's would sometimes write a line or two of the latest news and put it in the bank windows for anyone going through Temple Bar to read.

  One wet afternoon, Mr. Lorry sat at his desk and Charles Darnay stood leaning on it as he talked in a quiet voice. The room where people had come in the past to talk to the "House" was now more than full. It was about half an hour before closing time.

  "Even if you were the youngest man who ever lived," said Charles Darnay, with some fear, "I must still say to you..."

  "I understand. You think I am too old?” said Mr. Lorry.

  "Bad weather, a long trip, difficult travel, a country without leaders, a city that may not even be safe for you..."

  "My good man," said Mr. Lorry with friendly confidence, "you have touched on some of the reasons for my going... not for my staying away. It is safe enough for me. Who would be interested in an old man who is almost eighty now, when there are much better people for them to fight with? As for it having no leaders, that is the very reason why we need to send someone from our House here to our House there... someone who knows the city and the business that needs to be done, and someone whom Tellson's can trust. As for the bad weather and a rough, long trip... if, after all these years, I were not prepared to go through a little trouble for Tellson's, who should?"

  "I wish I were goin
g myself," said Charles Darnay like he was talking to himself.

  "Is that right? And you think I should listen to one who talks like that?” Mr. Lorry said in surprise. "You wish you were going yourself? And you, who were born over there? Do you call that good thinking?"

  "My good Mr. Lorry, it is because I was born over there that the thought (which I did not mean for you to hear) has gone through my mind so often. One cannot stop thinking, having some understanding for what the people have been through, and having left something with them," he said, deep in thought now, "that I should be listened to, and that I might be able to show you that you should not go. Only last night, after you had left us, when I was talking to Lucie..."

  "When you were talking to Lucie," Mr. Lorry repeated. "Yes, I am surprised that you would even say her name! Wishing that you were going to France at this time of day!"

  "But I am not going," said Charles Darnay with a smile. "What is more important is that you say you are."

  "Because I am. It's as easy as that. The truth is, Charles," Mr. Lorry said as he looked at the "House" in the distance and dropped his voice, "you could never understand how difficult it is for us to do business at this time, and the danger that goes with our books and papers over there. Only God knows what it would do to so many people if some of our papers were taken or destroyed; and that could happen at any time, you know; for who can say that Paris will not be burned down today or tomorrow? Quickly taking the most important papers and burying them or in some other way making them safe is something that only I could do. Should I hold back when Tellson's knows this and says this... Tellson's, whose bread I have been eating for sixty years... just because I am a little sore in my joints? Why I am only a boy, sir, if put next to some of the really old men around here!"

  "I think very highly of your brave young spirit, Mr. Lorry."

  "Don't be foolish, sir! My good friend," said Mr. Lorry, looking at the "House" again, "you should know that getting things out of Paris at this time (It makes no difference what it is.) is almost impossible. The papers we received today... I should not be telling this to anyone, so please don't say a word about it to anyone... came here in the hands of some very brave men. Each one was only a hair away from losing his head as he crossed the border. Any other time our papers would move to and from France as easily as they move here in England; but now everything is stopped.

  "And do you really want to go tonight?"

  "I must, for the business is too important to wait any longer.”

  "Will you take no one with you?"

  "Many have been named to go with me, but I will have nothing to say to any of them. I plan to take Jerry. He has protected me on my walks to your place each Sunday for years now, and I am used to him. Nobody will think he is anything more than an English friend, there to protect me from anyone who tries to touch me."

  "I have to say again that I think you are very brave and very young at heart."

  "And I have to say again that such talk is foolishness! When I have finished this little job, I may agree to stop working and take some rest. Then I can think about growing old."

  This talk had taken place at Mr. Lorry's desk, with high class Frenchmen moving around only a few feet away, and talking about what they would one day do to those who had turned them into refugees. It was the way of the rich, both in France and in England, to talk about this awful change as if it was the only fruit in the world that did not grow from a planted seed... as if nothing had ever been done (or not been done) that could have had such an effect... as if no one had ever seen the poor millions in France and all that could have been done to make their life better, and as if no one had ever seen or said, years before, in words that could be easily understood, what was going to happen. Such hot air, together with talk by these same high class people about putting things back the way they were, as if it were possible, was enough to make anyone who knew the truth and was not crazy jump into an argument with them. This talk all around his ears, like a sickness inside his head, made it difficult for Charles Darnay to sit still and say nothing.

  One of the talkers was Stryver, who was doing well in the courts, and, because of that, was talking loudly here at Tellson's: telling the high class French men about how he would destroy the working class and live well without them. He had other plans too, but they were about as smart as saying that one could put an end to eagles by putting salt on all their tails. Darnay had a special feeling of anger when he heard Stryver talking, and he was pulled between leaving and speaking up, when things happened in such a way as to make up his mind for him.

  The "House" came and put a dirty, closed letter on Mr. Lorry's desk, asking if he had been able to find the person whose name was on it. The letter was so close to Darnay on the desk that he could see the name, and see that it was his own real name: "The Marquis Evremonde, of France".

  On the morning of the day he had married Lucie, Doctor Manette had strongly asked Charles Darnay to never tell anyone his secret without the Doctor agreeing to it first. No other person knew his real name... not Lucie, and not Mr. Lorry.

  "No," said Mr. Lorry, to the "House". "I have taken it around to all the people here, and not one can tell me where I can find this man."

  Because the clock said it was almost time for the bank to close, all the Sirs were moving by Mr. Lorry's desk on their way out of the bank. He held the letter out, and one by one they each had something bad to say, in French or in English, about the awful Marquis whose name was on the envelope.

  "Nephew, I believe, of the wonderful Marquis who was killed," said one. "Happy to say I never knew him."

  "Ran away from his job," said another. The man saying this had, himself, secretly left Paris by hiding in a wagon under a pile of straw.

  "This new teaching has been his work," said a third. "He tried to fight his uncle, the last Marquis, left the land when it became his, and then let the beggars take it over. They'll pay him back now. I hope they kill him."

  "Is that true?” cried the big-mouthed Stryver. "What kind of person would do that? Let me see his name. To hell with this man!"

  Darnay, not able to hold himself back any longer touched Stryver on the shoulder and said, "I know the man."

  "Do you, by God?” said Stryver. "I'm sad to hear that. Did you hear what he did? There is no good reason for doing that in times like these."

  "And why do you say that?"

  "I'll tell you again, Mr. Darnay, I'm sorry for you. Sorry that you would even ask the question. Here is a man, who, touched by the evilest teaching that was ever known, left his land to the worst people on earth, people who would kill anyone. And you ask me why I am sorry that a man who teaches young people knows him? Okay, I will answer you. I think that the evil from one person can rub off onto another. That's why."

  Remembering the secret he had promised to keep, Darnay tried hard to control himself, as he said, "You may not understand the man."

  "I understand how to put you in a corner, Mr. Darnay," said Stryver the Pusher, "and I'll do it. If this man is of high class, then I don't understand him. You can tell him that for me. Tell him too, that if he was prepared to give all that belonged to him to this rough crowd, then why isn't he there leading them now?” Then, looking around at the others in the bank, he said, "Men, I know something about people, and I can tell you that you will never find a person who trusts the people he helps enough to become one of them. No, men, he'll always turn and run before the fight starts."

  With those words, and a wave of his hand, Mr. Stryver shouldered his way out into Fleet street, with his hearers loudly saying how much they agreed with him. Mr. Lorry and Charles Darnay were left alone in the bank when they had gone.

  "Will you take over the letter?” asked Mr. Lorry. "Do you know where to find the man?"

  "I do."

  "Can you tell him that we think it came here because they believed we would know where he was, and that it has been here
for a long time?"

  "I'll do that. Will you be leaving for Paris straight from here.” "Yes, from here, at eight."

  "I'll come back to see you off."

  Angry with himself, with Stryver, and with most other men, Darnay made his way into a quiet place in Temple, opened the letter, and read it. This is what it said:

  Prison of the Abbey, Paris.

  June 12, 1792.

  Sir, the new Marquis, after being in danger of my life at the hands of the village, I have been very roughly taken a long way, on foot, to Paris. My house has been destroyed, burned to the ground.

  They say I am in prison, Sir, and will come before the court, and will be killed (without your generous help) because I have hurt the people of France by acting against them for a man who ran away from France. They can't see that I was trying to help them and not hurt them, as you had asked me to do. I have told them that, before they took your land, I had already forgiven the taxes that they had not paid, and I had asked for no more rent; but they do not listen. They only say that I have acted for a man who ran away, and they ask, 'Where is he?'

  Oh, most loving Marquis, Sir, where is that man who left? I cry in my sleep, 'Where is he?' I ask God, 'Will he not come to save me?' No answer. Oh, Sir the Marquis, I send my sad cry across the water, hoping it may reach your ears through the bank of Tellson's that I know has a branch in Paris!

  For the love of heaven, of what is fair and generous, for the good of your great name, I beg you, Sir, the new Marquis, to help liberate me. All I did was to be true to you. Please Sir, the new Marquis, be true to me!

  From this awful prison here, where each hour brings me closer to death, I send you, Sir, the sad news of where I am.

  Your hurting one,

  Gabelle.

  The thoughts that had been in the back of Darnay's mind before this were brought to life by the letter. What had happened to an old servant, who was also a good servant, whose only wrong was to obey him and his family, looked him so strongly in the face that, as he walked one way and the other in the Temple, thinking about what to do, he almost wanted to hide his face from the people walking by.

  He knew very well that his feeling about the awful way his uncle had died, his anger against his uncle, and the voice of his conscience against taking up his uncle's job had all made him act too quickly. He knew very well that, in his love for Lucie, leaving the rich class in France (something he had wanted to do for some time) was hurried and not well thought out. He knew that he should have stayed to be sure that it was done right. He had wanted to do that too, but it had never happened.

  The happiness of his English home, the need to be always busy, the fast changes in France, which would force one week's plans to be changed the next, had all worked together to stop him from finishing the job he had started. He knew things were not right, but he had not followed through and put them right. He had watched things change until it was too late to act. The rich were leaving France by every road and highway now, their land taken from them, their homes destroyed, and their names rubbed out. He knew all of this as well as any of the new leaders in France knew it, the ones who might now take action against him for doing nothing.

  But he had not hurt anyone, he had put no one in prison, and he was far from taking too much money from the people because he had, in truth, taken none. He had left for a country where he would not be special, and where he was forced to work for himself if he wanted to eat. Mr. Gabelle had been put in control of the land on the understanding that he was to help the people, and to give them what little there was to give, timber for heat in the winter and food from the land in the summer. He had put it in writing to Mr. Gabelle, and surely Gabelle must have shown those papers to the court by now.

  All of this gave Charles Darnay more confidence to believe that a trip to Paris would put an end to Mr. Gabelle's problems.

  Like the old story of the ship owner who was forced by the storm close to a rock that acted like a magnet to pull his ship into it, Charles Darnay was being pulled, by every thought in his head, more and more toward Paris. His secret worry had been that the wrong targets were being set by the wrong people in his own sad country, and that he, knowing what was needed, should be there trying to do something to stop the killings, and to push for more mercy in the way they acted toward the people they were fighting against. With this feeling half covered and half making him feel guilty, he had come to the point where he judged his actions by those of the brave old man who had tried so hard to obey him. When doing that (which showed himself to be wrong) he remembered the words of his uncle, which had hurt so much at the time, and those of Stryver, which, even if they were very rough, had also hurt for other reasons. And then he had read Gabelle's letter: an innocent prisoner, in danger of death, asking for help in the belief that Charles Darnay would do what was right.

  His mind was made up. He must go to Paris.

  Yes. The Rock was pulling him like a magnet, and he had no choice but to sail on until he hit it. He knew nothing of the Rock, because he saw little danger. The good spirit in what he had started, even if he had not finished it, made him believe that others in France would see him as a friend. Then, that strong love for doing good, which tricks so many good minds, made a false picture in his mind, and he started to see himself as being able to control the war that was running so wild there now.

  As he moved here and there with his thoughts, he started thinking that both Lucie and her father must not know of his plan until after he had gone. Then Lucie would not have to go through the pain of saying goodbye, and her father, always in pain if he remembered the dangers of his past, would be better off to learn about his action in one hit, without thinking about all that could go with it. He gave little thought to how much Lucie's father's fears about remembering his past had added to his confusion about what to do; but it did have some effect on what he ended up doing.

  He moved here and there with his thoughts until it was time to return to Tellson's and say goodbye to Mr. Lorry. As soon as he arrived in Paris, he would find this old friend; but he must not say anything to him about his plan at this time.

  A coach with fast horses was ready at the bank door, and Jerry was dressed for the trip.

  "I have given that letter to the man it was for," said Charles Darnay to Mr. Lorry. "I would never ask you to carry an answer in writing, but could you just tell the sender something?"

  "I will gladly do that," said Mr. Lorry, "if it is not too dangerous."

  "Not at all. But it is for a prisoner in the Abbey."

  "What is his name?” asked Mr. Lorry, with his pocket book open in his hand.

  "Gabelle."

  "Gabelle. And what should I say to this poor Gabelle, who is in prison?"

  "Just that the man has received the letter and will come.”

  "Did he say when?"

  "He will leave London tomorrow night."

  "Any name I should give him?"

  "No."

  Darnay helped Mr. Lorry to cover himself in warm clothes, and then went with him from the warm air in the old bank, into the wet air of Fleet Street. "Give my love to Lucie, and to little Lucie," said Mr. Lorry as he left, "and take good care of them until I come back.” Charles Darnay shook his head and smiled with some fear as the coach rolled away.

  That night... it was the fourteenth of August... he sat up late, and wrote two serious letters, one to Lucie, telling her the reasons why he had to go, and showing her, at length, the reasons he had for feeling confident that there would be no danger for him by being there. The other letter was to the Doctor, asking him to care for Lucie and for their much loved child, and saying the same things that he had said to Lucie, arguing strongly for his belief in both cases. To both, he said that he would send a letter to them as soon as he arrived in Paris, so that they would know that he was safe.

  The next day was a difficult one, as it was the first time since they were married, that he had kept a secre
t from his wife. It was not easy for him to hide something, knowing that she had always trusted him with good reason. He had been close to telling her because he had always had her help when making plans in the past; but one loving look at Lucie, who was so happy and busy, made him strong in his earlier choice not to tell her. Early that evening he hugged her and the little one who also had her name, and whom he loved almost as much as her, then, acting like he would be back in a short time (after making up a false reason to go out, and hiding a suitcase where he could find it later), he stepped out into the heavy clouds on the heavy streets, with a heavier heart.

  The invisible magnet was pulling him quickly toward itself now, and all the movements of the ocean and the wind were in the same direction. He left the two letters with a servant whom he could trust, to be given to the others half an hour before midnight, and not before. Then he took a horse to Dover, and started his trip. "For the love of heaven, of what is fair and generous, for the good of your great name," had been the poor prisoner's cry. He used those words to give his heart strength as he left behind all that he loved on earth, and moved away toward the Rock.

  Book Three: The Way of a Storm

  1. In Secret

  The trip towards Paris from England was a slow one, late in the year 1792. Even if the King of France had still been in power, there would have been more than enough bad roads, bad coaches, and bad horses to make things difficult; but the changes in France brought new problems there. Every town and village had its group of freedom fighters with guns that they were more than ready to use, who stopped everyone, coming and going, to ask questions, look at their papers, look for their names in lists of their own, turn people back or send them on, or put them in prison as each group should happen to choose, in the name of their new country, where all were to be free and equal brothers or they were to be dead.

  Charles Darnay had travelled only a few miles on the roads of France before he knew that he would never be free to return to England without first getting papers to clear himself in Paris. Whatever was ahead of him, there was no turning back now. Every gate that closed behind him on the road was another iron door that would stand between him and England on his way home. So many people were watching him now that if he had been taken in a net or were being carried forward in a cage, he would be no more without freedom than he felt now.

  All these watching people would not only stop him as many as twenty times between towns, but they made his progress slower twenty times in a day by riding after him and taking him back, riding up to him from in front and stopping him before he arrived, and by riding with him to keep close watch on him. His trip in France alone had gone on for days before he went to bed one night in a little town on the road, still a long way from Paris.

  Only the letter from Gabelle in the Abbey Prison had helped him to get this far; but the problems he had at the guard house in this little place made him think that his trip had come to an end.

  Because of this, he was not surprised when guards came to wake him in the middle of the night at the hotel where he was staying.

  A shy local leader with three of the new soldiers in rough red hats and with pipes in their mouths sat down on his bed.

  "I am going to send people to go with you to Paris," said the local leader.

  "Friend, I want nothing more than to get to Paris; but I do not need anyone to go with me."

  "Be quiet!" shouted a red-hat, hitting the covers with the timber end of his gun. "Shut up, rich one!"

  "It is as the good freedom fighter says," the shy leader said. "You are from the rich class, so someone must go with you... and you must pay for it."

  "I have no choice then," said Charles Darnay.

  "Choice? Listen to him!" cried the angry red-hat. "As if he's not lucky to have us protect him from being hanged as a lantern!"

  "It is always as the good freedom fighter says," the leader put in. "Get up and dress yourself, traveller."

  Darnay did as he was told and was taken back to the guard house, where other freedom fighters in rough red hats were smoking, drinking, and sleeping by a watch fire. Here he paid a heavy price for his helpers, and then started out on the wet, wet roads at three o'clock in the morning.

  The men taking him to Paris were freedom fighters on horses, wearing red hats with special markings on them in three colours, and carrying government guns and swords. One horse walked on each side of him.

  Darnay was able to ride his own horse, but a loose line was tied from his saddle to the wrist of one of the guards. Travelling like this, they started out, with the sharp rain driving in their faces, moving like soldiers quickly across the rough stones of the town streets, and more slowly on the deep muddy roads of the country.

  They did not change this pattern when they changed horses or when they changed from a run to a walk, over all the deep muddy miles that lay between them and Paris.

  They travelled through the night, stopping an hour or two after the sun came up, and resting until the sun was going down. The men travelling with him were so poorly dressed that they put straw around their legs to keep warm, and leaves on their shoulders to keep the wet off. Apart from the pain of travelling in this way and such dangers as came from one of them being drunk at all times and carrying his gun in a dangerous way, Charles Darnay did not let what was happening put any fear into his heart; for he believed that being tied like this said nothing about how good or bad he was until he had been able to tell his story, which would be backed up by the prisoner in the Abbey, when he reached Paris.

  But when they came to the town of Beauvais, which they did in the evening, when the streets were still full of people, he could not help but think that things were not right at all. An angry crowd came to see him get off his horse at the horse station, and many voices called out loudly, "Down with the runaway!"

  He stopped in the act of leaving his saddle, returning to his seat because it was safer there, and said: "Run away, my friends? Do you not see me here in France of my own free will?"

  "You are a cursed runaway," cried a horseshoe maker, pushing toward him through the crowd with a hammer in his hand. "And you are a cursed member of the rich class!"

  The station master put himself between this man and Darnay's horse (which seemed to be the angry man's target) and said quietly, "Let him be; let him be! He will be judged in Paris."

  "Judged!" repeated the horseshoer, waving his hammer. "Yes! And killed for treason.” At this the crowd shouted in agreement.

  Looking toward the station master, who wanted to turn the horses into the yard, Darnay said, when he could make himself heard:

  "Friends, you have tricked yourselves, or you are being tricked. I am not guilty of acting against my country."

  "He's lying!" cried the angry horseshoe maker. "The new law says he's guilty of treason. He owes his life to the people. His cursed life is not his own!"

  Just when Darnay could see in the eyes of the crowd that they were going to take him, the station master turned his horse into the yard, with the guards moving close to either side of it. He shut and barred the gate behind them. The angry man's hammer hit the gate a few times, and the crowd shouted a little, but nothing more than that happened.

  "What is this law the man spoke of?” Darnay asked the station master, after thanking him and getting down off his horse.

  "It's a new rule, that lets us sell everything owned by people who have left the country."

  "When was it made?"

  "On the fourteenth."

  "That's the day I left England."

  "Everybody says there'll be more... if there are not already... stopping all runaways from returning, and killing all who do. That's what he was talking about when he said your life is not your own."

  "But there are no such laws yet?"

  "How can I know?” asked the station master, lifting his shoulders. "There may be or there will be. It's all the same."

  They rested on straw in the top of
the barn until the middle of the night, when everyone else was sleeping. Then they would start riding forward again. The country had changed in many strange ways, as Charles Darnay had seen as he travelled, and it made this wild ride feel like a dream. One of the bigger changes was how people did not sleep much now. After a long ride over open roads, they would come to a group of rough houses in the middle of the night, and far from finding them in darkness, there would be lights everywhere, and people, like ghosts in the night, dancing in a circle around a freedom tree or all joined close together singing a freedom song. But Darnay and his guards were happy to find people sleeping in Beauvais when they quietly moved out into the empty night. They moved with little noise through the cold and wet that was too early this year, on roads between poor fields that had nothing growing in them, and that were marked now by the black timbers from houses that had been burned, and by the freedom fighters who would surprise the riders at secret points on the way, in their day and night watch on all of the roads.

  By morning they were in front of the wall around Paris. The gate was closed and strongly guarded when they reached it.

  "Where are the papers for this prisoner?” asked a leader who had been called out by the guard, and who looked like he would not change for anyone.

  Surprised and hurt by that awful word, Charles Darnay asked the man to look and see that he was a free traveller and a man of France, travelling with two guards whom the government had forced him to pay for because of the problems in the country.

  "Where," repeated the same man, taking no interest in him at all, "are the papers for this prisoner?"

  The drunk guard had them in his hat, and so he pulled them out. Looking quickly at Gabelle's letter, the same leader showed some confusion and surprise, and he looked at Darnay more closely now.

  He left the guard and the one being guarded without saying a word and went into the guard room. When he was doing this, the others stayed on their horses at the gate. Charles Darnay used the time to look and think. He saw that the gate was guarded by both soldiers and freedom fighters, there being more fighters than there were soldiers. While it was easy for farmers and their wagons and other people and the things they were selling to get into the city, leaving the city was very difficult for even the simplest people. A crowd of people, animals, and vehicles of many different kinds were waiting to leave; but movement out through the gate was very slow. Some of them knew they would be there so long that they would lay on the ground to sleep or smoke, while others talked together. Men and women everywhere were wearing the little red hat with three-coloured markings.

  After sitting in his saddle for half an hour, looking at these things, Darnay saw the government man return and tell the guard to open the gate. He gave a paper to the two men travelling with Darnay, and then asked him to get down off his horse. He did, and the two men who had been travelling with him turned without going into the city, and left, leading his horse as they went.

  He went with the man into the guard room, which smelled of cheap wine and tobacco, where soldiers and freedom fighters, asleep and awake, drunk and not drunk, some awake, some asleep, and some in between, were standing and lying about. The light in the guard house, half from the weak oil lantern, and half from the clouded sun coming up, was also in confusion. Some lists were lying open on a desk, and an officer who looked both rough and dark, was in control of these.

  "Countryman Defarge," said the officer to the man leading Darnay, as he took a piece of paper to write on, "Is this the runaway Evremonde?"

  "This is the man."

  "Your age, Evremonde?” "Thirty-seven."

  "Married, Evremonde?"

  Yes."

  "Where married?"

  "In England."

  "Not surprising. Where is your wife, Evremonde?"

  "In England."

  "As I thought. You will go, Evremonde, to La Force Prison."

  "My heavens!" shouted Darnay. "Under what law, and for what wrong?"

  "The officer looked up from his piece of paper for a second."

  "We have new laws, Evremonde, and new crimes, since you were here.” He said it with a hard smile, and went on writing.

  "I beg you to see that I have come here freely, in answer to that letter there in front of you, from another countryman. I ask nothing more than a way to do that as quickly as possible. Don't I have a right to do that?"

  "Runaways have no rights, Evremonde," was the hard answer. The officer wrote until he had finished, read over to himself what he had written, used sand to dry the ink, and handed it to Defarge with the words "in secret".

  Defarge made a movement with the paper to show the prisoner that he should come with him. The prisoner obeyed, and a guard of two armed freedom fighters went with them.

  "Are you the one," said Defarge in a low voice as they went down the steps of the guardhouse and turned into Paris, "who married the daughter of Doctor Manette, who once was a prisoner in the prison that has been destroyed?"

  "Yes," answered Darnay, looking at him with surprise.

  "My name is Defarge, and I keep a wine shop in the Saint Antoine part of Paris. Maybe you have heard of me."

  "My wife came to your house to meet her father! Yes!"

  The word "wife" seemed to bring a cloud over Defarge, making him say angrily, "In the name of that sharp female baby they call Guillotine, why did you come to France?"

  "You heard me say why just a minute ago. Do you not believe it is the truth?"

  "A bad truth for you," said Defarge, knitting his forehead and looking straight ahead.

  "I am really lost here. Everything is so different, so changed, so quickly and so cruelly, that I am fully lost. Will you give me a little help?"

  "None.” Defarge spoke, still looking straight before him.

  "Will you answer me just one question?"

  "Maybe. If it is not about the wrong things. Go ahead and ask."

  "In this prison that I am going to so wrongly, will I have some freedom to talk to people outside of it?"

  "You will see."

  "I am not to be buried there, judged without any way to argue my case?"

  "You will see. But what difference would it make? Others have been buried in the same way and in worse prisons before now."

  "But never by me, countryman Defarge."

  Defarge looked darkly at him as a way of giving his answer, and walked on saying not one word. The longer he went without talking, the less hope there was -- or so Darnay thought -- of him becoming any softer. For that reason, he quickly said:

  "It is very important for me (and you know, brother, even better than I do, just how important it is) that I should be able to send word to Mr. Lorry, from Tellson's bank, an Englishman who is now in Paris. I want to give him word that I have been thrown in La Force Prison. Will you do that for me?"

  "I will," Defarge said, without any change in his hard spirit, "do nothing for you. My job is to help my country and the people. I must serve both and protect them from you. I will do nothing for you."

  Charles Darnay saw no hope in changing him, and his pride was hurt as well. As they walked on, without talking, he could not help but see that many prisoners must have been taken along those streets. Even the children did not show much interest in him. A few people turned their heads, and a few shook their fingers at him because they could see he was from the high class. Other than that, the thought of a man in good clothes going to prison was no more different to a man in working clothes going to work. In one narrow, dark, and dirty street an enthusiastic speaker was standing on a chair and talking to an interested crowd about the sins of the king and members of his family. The few words that Darnay heard were enough to let him know that the king was in prison and that the people acting for governments from all other countries had left Paris. On the way to Paris (apart from those few words in Beauvais) he had not been able to learn anything about what was happening. Being under two guards, and with peop
le watching him everywhere it had been quite impossible.

  But he knew now that he was in far more danger than he had planned for when leaving England. The danger around him had been growing quickly and he now knew that it might grow even more quickly in the days ahead. He knew that he would not have been brave enough to make the trip if he had known it would be like this. But still his fears were not as great now as they would be soon. As bad as the future looked, there was much about it that he still did not know, and where there was no understanding, there was always hope. The awful killing of thousands, that had been going on around the clock for days and nights now, taking the place of farm work, was so far from him knowing about it as it would have been if it was a hundred thousand years away.

  He knew almost nothing about the "sharp female baby called Guillotine" at this time, as did most of the people. The awful acts that were going to be done soon were probably not even thought of in the heads of the people who would soon be doing them. So how could they have a place in the thoughts of Charles Darnay's kind and generous mind?

  He could see that it would be a hard life in the prison, and that it would be cruel to be separated from his wife and child; but of more than this, he had nothing to clearly fear. With this on his mind -- which was enough to carry into a prison yard -- he arrived at La Force Prison.

  A man with a fat face opened the metal door, and Defarge said to him, "The runaway Evremonde."

  "What the devil! How many more will there be?” cried the fat face.

  Defarge showed no interest in what the man said, and left Darnay there with him, taking the two freedom fighters with him as he left.

  "What the devil, I say again!" the prison master said when he was left only with his wife and Charles Darnay. "How many more?"

  His wife, not having an answer, just said, "One must be patient, my love!"

  Three guards who came in answer to a bell that she was ringing, said much the same thing, and one added, "For the love of liberty!" which sounded like a strange thing to say in a prison!

  La Force was a dark, dirty prison with very little hope in it. It had an awful smell of dirty sleep too, that seemed to strangely be a part of many places where there is poor care for those who live there.

  "In secret too," the prison master said angrily, looking at the written paper. "As if I wasn't already too full!"

  He angrily put the paper on a nail and made Charles Darnay wait another half hour, at times walking from side to side in the strong covered room, and at times resting on a stone seat. Either way he was there long enough for the prison master and his workers to see and remember this new prisoner.

  "Come!" said the master, at last taking up his keys. "Come with me, runaway."

  Through the half light of the prison, his new prisoner walked with him, from room to room, with many doors closing loudly behind them, until they came to a big, low room with a rounded stone roof, that was crowded with prisoners, both male and female. The women were sitting at a long table, reading, writing, knitting, and sewing; the men were, for the most part, standing behind the women or moving up and down the room.

  In the way that we all think of prisoners as bad people, this new prisoner had a bad feeling about the others in the room. But the strangest thing of all the strange things he had seen on his ride to Paris was that they all stood up as one to receive him, with all the kindest actions of the best people of those times.

  So strange did this action seem in such a dark, dirty prison, so out of place with all the sickness and pain of the place, that it was like Charles Darnay was standing in a room with a crowd of ghosts. A beautiful ghost, a proud ghost, a happy ghost, a smart ghost, a young ghost, an old ghost, all waiting to leave this empty place, all turning on him eyes that had been changed by the death they died when they came there.

  He was so surprised that he could not move. The guard at his side and other guards moving about, who looked good enough for their job in any other prison, now looked awful next to the sad mothers and beautiful daughters who were there like ghosts of the young happy women and the older high class women they had been. All of this made Darnay feel that it was not really happening, that the long ride had made him sick, and what he was going through now was just a side effect of the sickness.

  "In the name of your friends here in this room," said a man who looked like he should have been in a court, as he came forward, "I have the job of welcoming you to La Force, and of sharing our sadness with you on what awful changes have brought you here. May it soon end happily! It would not be kind of us to ask you this in a different place, but it is not wrong to ask it here: What is your name, and why are you here?"

  Charles Darnay forced himself to speak, and answered as well as he could.

  "I hope," said the man, following the head guard with his eyes as he moved around the room, "that you are not in secret?"

  "I don't understand the meaning of those words, but I have heard them say that."

  "Oh, how sad! We feel very bad for you! But be brave; others of us have been in secret at first, and it was only for a short time.” Then he added, speaking more loudly to the others, "I am sad to tell the room... in secret."

  There were the sounds of people feeling sorry for Charles Darnay as he crossed the room to a metal door with little holes in it, where the guard waited for him. The soft loving voices of the women were the easiest to hear of the many voices that tried to encourage him. He turned at the door to thank them from his heart, when it closed under the guard's hand, and the ghosts were gone forever.

  The door opened on some stone steps leading up from there. When they had climbed forty steps (The prisoner of half an hour had already counted them.) the guard opened a low black door, and they stepped into a small room. It was cold and wet, but not dark.

  "Yours," said the guard.

  "Why am I being left alone?"

  "How should I know?"

  "Can I buy a pen and ink, and some paper?"

  "No one told me that you could. You will be visited, and you can ask then. For now, you must buy your food, and nothing more."

  In the room was a chair, a table, and a straw mattress. As the guard looked over each of these things, and studied the four walls before leaving, the prisoner, leaning against the wall opposite to him had a strange thought about how fat the guard was, thinking that he looked like a man who had drowned and filled with water. His thoughts went on in the same crazy way after the guard had left, thinking first, "Now I have been left, as if I were dead.” He then stopped to look down at the mattress, with insects in it, and he thought, "Here in these insects is what will happen to my body after I die.” He walked from side to side in his room, counting the steps. "Five steps by four and a half, five by four and a half, five by four and a half.” The sound of the city was like a softly covered drum with wild voices added to it. "He made shoes, he made shoes, he made shoes.” The prisoner measured the room again, walking more quickly this time to take his thoughts away from what he had started to think. "The ghosts that became invisible when the door closed... There was one of them, a woman dressed in black, who was leaning back in a window seat, and she had a light showing on her golden hair. She looked like... Let us ride again through the lighted villages, where the people are all awake! ... He made shoes, he made shoes, he made shoes. ... Five steps by four and a half.” With such thoughts coming up from deep down in his mind, the prisoner walked faster and faster, choosing strongly not to quit counting. The sound of the city changed in one way. It still sounded like a softly covered drum, but for him, the wall of voices above the drum were now voices that he knew.

  2. The Stone Wheel

  Tellson's Bank in Paris was in a wing of a very big house in the richest part of town. People would come and go from a yard that was cut off from the street by a high wall and a strong gate. The house had been owned by a very rich leader from the court, who had lived there until he was forced to run for his life, wearing the
clothes of his own cook. He was like a wild animal running from hunters until he was safely across the border, at which time he changed back into the same Sir whose lips had once needed three strong men, apart from his cook, to help him drink his chocolate.

  Sir was now gone, and the three strong men had been forgiven for the sin of having been paid so well by him, by saying they were more than ready to cut his throat for the new government... the government that made everyone free and equal brothers, or dead. Sir's house had been first set apart and then taken over. Things moved so quickly, and one rule would be followed by another so quickly, that now, on the third night of the month of September, freedom fighters were living in Sir's house, had marked it with the three colours, and were drinking spirits in its best rooms.

  A place of business in London that looked like Tellson's place of business in Paris would have been enough to make news in the papers and enough to make the "house" go crazy. What would the serious mind of English leaders think about growing orange trees in boxes in a bank's yard, or about having the shape of a young love angel hanging over the counter? That's how it was in Paris. Tellson's had painted over the angel on the roof of the building, but he was still there pointing his arrows (as he often does) at money from morning to night. A bank in London would be forced to close down if it had this young boy in it, or a big mirror on the wall, or workers who were so young that they could go to dances in the evening. But in France, these things were not a problem, and when the government was holding itself together, no one had been so afraid as to have taken out their money because of them.

  But on that night, no one could have said (any more than Mr. Jarvis Lorry could) what money would be taken out of the bank in the future, and what would stay there, lost and forgotten; what gold, silver and expensive stones would grow dirty in Tellson's hiding places while the owners rusted in prisons, or even if the owners should be cruelly killed; or how many people would never end their business with Tellson's in this world, but would be forced to carry it forward to the next world. Mr. Lorry thought heavily about these questions as he sat in front of the fireplace on a night that was colder than most for this time of year. There was a shadow on his honest, brave face that did not come from the light of the fire... a shadow of great fear.

  He had taken a room in the bank, because he was as much a part of the bank as the vines that grew on its outside walls. It may be that the others let him stay there because they themselves had control of the biggest part of the building, but the old man with such a true heart never thought about that. All that was important to him was the job he had come there to do. On the opposite side of the bank yard, under a roof that was held up by tall stone cylinders, there was room for many coaches to park; some of Sir's coaches were there now. On the side of two of these stone cylinders were two big burning torches. And in front of these was a big stone wheel that looked like it had been brought there in a hurry from some neighbouring shop. Standing to look out the window at these things, Mr. Lorry had a little shake of fear go through his body. He had, at first, opened the window and the covering that went over it, but on seeing the stone wheel he had closed both again and then had that little shake of fear.

  From the streets on the other side of the high wall and the strong gate, there came the night sound of the city, with now and then a strange sound that words cannot repeat, as if some awful prayers were going up to heaven.

  "Thank God," said Mr. Lorry, putting his hands together, "that no one close to me is in this awful town tonight. May He have mercy on all who are in danger!"

  Soon after that, the bell at the great gate sounded, and he thought, "They've come back!" He sat listening, but there were no loud shouts in the yard, as he had been thinking would happen. Instead, he heard the gate close again, and all was quiet.

  The worry and fear that were on him made him start thinking about how safe the rooms were where he was staying. It was well guarded, but he was just standing up to go see the people who were guarding it when his door opened quickly and two people raced in, making him fall back with surprise when he saw who they were.

  Lucie and her father! Lucie, with her arms reaching out to him, and that old serious look on her forehead, so strong that it seemed it had always been a part of her just so it would be there to give force to this one special time in her life.

  "What is this?” cried Mr. Lorry, surprised and confused. "What's wrong? Lucie! Manette! What has happened, to bring you here? Tell me!"

  With that look on her face, she cried in his arms, begging him, "Oh my good friend! It's my husband!"

  "Your husband, Lucie?”

  "Charles."

  "What about Charles?”

  "He's here."

  "Here, in Paris?"

  "He's been here for a few days... three or four, I don't know. I cannot think clearly. He came here to help a friend, without telling us. He was stopped at the gate and sent off to prison."

  The old man let out a cry that he could not keep in. Almost at the same time, the bell of the great gate sounded again, and the loud noise of feet and voices came pouring into the yard.

  "What's that noise?” asked the Doctor, turning toward the window.

  "Don't look!" cried Mr. Lorry. "Don't look out! Manette, for your life, do not touch the window!"

  The Doctor turned, with his hand on the window lock, and said, with a cool, confident smile: "My good friend, I have a safe life in this city. Remember that I was a prisoner in the old prison. There is no freedom fighter in Paris... in Paris? No, in France... who, knowing that I was a prisoner before the change of government, would touch me other than covering me with hugs, or carrying me in happiness when we win. The pain of my past helped me through the gate, and helped me learn of Charles while I was there. It has brought us here as I knew it would. I told Lucie that I would be able to help Charles. But what is that noise?” His hand was again on the window.

  "Don't look!" cried Mr. Lorry, filled with worry. "No, Lucie, my love, not you either!" He put his arm around her and held her. "Do not be afraid, my love. I promise that I know of no one hurting Charles; I didn't even know he was here. What prison is he in?"

  "La Force!"

  "La Force? Lucie, my child, if you were brave enough to obey in your life... and you always were... you must control yourself now to do just what I tell you. There is more resting on this than I can say or you can think. There is nothing that you can do tonight; you cannot possibly leave this house. I say this, because what I'm asking you to do for Charles is often the hardest thing to do. You must obey me and quietly do nothing. You must let me put you in a room at the back here. You must leave your father here with me for two minutes, and as sure as there is Life and Death in the world, you must act quickly."

  "I will do as you ask. I see in your face that you know I can do nothing more now. I trust you."

  The old man kissed her and hurried her into his room, and then turned the key in the lock. Coming quickly back to the Doctor, he opened the window and pushed the covering a little to the side. With his hand on the Doctor's arm, they looked out together into the yard.

  There was a small crowd of men and women... not enough to fill the yard, no more than forty or fifty. The people who were in control of the house had let them in at the gate, and they had hurried to work at the stone wheel. It had been put there for them, in a quiet place where they could easily come to use it.

  But such awful workers, and such awful work!

  There were two handles on the big stone wheel, and two men worked at turning it. When their movements brought their heads up, and their long hair was thrown behind them, it could be seen that their faces were wild and cruel, with false hair over their eyes and under their noses to hide who they really were. The blood that was all over them, their need for sleep, and their crazy enthusiasm about what they were doing added to the wild ugly look. As they turned the wheel, first their hair would fall over their faces
and then it would fly backward over their necks, with women holding wine to their mouths so that they could drink while working. Drops of blood fell from their bodies, drops of wine fell from the cups, and little pieces of fire came from the knives they were making sharp on the turning wheel. The whole picture was a mixture of evil fire and evil blood. There was not one of them who did not have blood on them. Men without shirts, and with blood on their bodies and on their clothes, shouldered each other to get close to the stone. Some of the men had tied to their clothes little pieces of beautiful cloth that they had taken from women, and these pieces of cloth had blood on them too. The axes, knives, and swords that they were making sharp on the stone were also covered in blood.

  Some had broken swords tied to their wrists with pieces of cloth, and these pieces of cloth were also of the same red colour. As each weapon became sharp enough, its owner would turn back to the street with the same red colour in their wild eyes... eyes which anyone who was not crazy would have given twenty years of their life just to stop with a gun.

  All of this one could see in a second, the way a drowning man sees his whole life, or the way that anyone could see the world if they were high enough above it. They pulled back from the window, and the Doctor looked to his friend's white face for answers about what was happening.

  "They are," Mr. Lorry whispered as he looked back at Lucie's locked room, "killing their prisoners. If you are sure about what you say; if you really have the power you think you have... and I believe you do... make yourself known to these devils and ask them to take you to La Force. It may be too late, I don't know, but do not wait one minute longer!"

  Doctor Manette squeezed his hand, hurried out without even taking a hat, and was already in the yard when Mr. Lorry returned to the window.

  His long white hair, his wonderful face, and the confidence of his actions as he pushed the weapons to the side like water, carried him quickly to the heart of the action at the stone. The movement stopped and there was some talking, with the sound of the Doctor's voice above them all. Mr. Lorry could not hear what he was saying, but he saw a line of about twenty men side by side, with their hands on the shoulders of those on each side, join with Doctor Manette as they hurried out into the street shouting, "A prisoner from the old prison here! Help his family in La Force! Make room for the man from the old prison in front there! Save the prisoner Evremonde at La Force!" And a thousand shouts answered them.

  He closed the window and the curtain with his heart racing, then hurried to tell Lucie that her father had left to find her husband, with help from the people. Little Lucie and Miss Pross were with her, but he was not surprised about this until much later when things were quieter, and he was watching them.

  By that time, Lucie was almost asleep at his feet, still holding his hand. Miss Pross had put the child in Mr. Lorry's bed, and now her head was on the pillow beside her. Oh the long, long night, with the sad breathing of the poor wife! Oh the long, long night, with no return of her father and no news of how he was going!

  Two more times the bell at the great gate sounded and the noise and action was repeated as the stone wheel turned and did its work. "What's that?” cried Lucie in fear. "Be quiet! The soldiers make their swords sharp there," said Mr. Lorry. "The place is owned by the people now, and used by the army. Be quiet and rest, my love."

  Twice they came, but in the end, the workers became less enthusiastic. Soon after that, the people finished, and the morning started to show in the night sky. Only then did Mr. Lorry softly pull away from the holding hand, and carefully look out the window again. A man, so covered with blood that he could have been a badly hurt soldier fighting for his life in a field of dead bodies, was getting up from the ground beside the stone wheel and looking around with empty eyes. This tired killer soon saw in the weak light one of Sir's coaches, and walking roughly to that beautiful vehicle, he climbed in at the door, and shut himself up so he could take his rest on the expensive pillows inside it.

  The great stone wheel of the Earth had turned when Mr. Lorry looked out again, and the sun was red on the yard. But the smaller stone wheel stood alone in the quiet morning air, with a red on it that the sun had never given to it, and that the sun would never take away.

  3. The Shadow

  One of the first thoughts that came to Mr. Lorry's mind when it was time for the day's business to start, was this: That he had no right to bring danger on Tellson's by hiding the wife of a runaway prisoner under the bank's roof. He would be happy to put his own life and wealth on the line for Lucie and her child, but the bank was not his, and he always tried to follow the rules of the company that he worked for.

  At first, he thought of going to Defarge's wine shop again and asking the owner for help in finding a safe place for Lucie to hide. But the same thought that made him look in that direction also turned him away from it: Defarge lived in the most dangerous part of the city, and he was clearly a leader in the movement that was doing so much of the killing in the city.

  By noon, the Doctor had not returned, and every minute Mr. Lorry waited could put Tellson's in more danger, if the freedom fighters learned that Lucie was staying there. So he spoke to her about this. She said that her father had been planning to stay in a place near the bank if they needed to stay in the city for long. Because there was no bank business that he was needed for just then, and because, even if Charles were freed, it would be some few days before they could leave the city, Mr. Lorry went out looking for such a room. He found one in a quiet side street where the covered windows of houses around it showed that they were empty.

  He quickly moved Lucie, her child, and Miss Pross into it, giving them what he could to make their stay comfortable... even more comfortable than it was for himself. He left Jerry with them too, as a man who would stand in the doorway and take many hits to the head before he would let anyone through. Then Mr. Lorry returned to his own business. It was with a sad and worried mind that he worked, making his day pass slowly and heavily.

  He and the day were both tired by the time he closed the bank for the day. When he was alone again in his room, thinking about what to do next, he heard feet on the steps. A man soon stood in front of him who, taking a very close look at Mr. Lorry, said his name.

  "What can I do to help you," asked Mr. Lorry. "Do you know me?"

  He was a strong man with dark hair, between forty-five and fifty years of age. His answer was to ask the same question of Mr. Lorry, without any change in the way that Mr. Lorry had asked it:

  "Do you know me?"

  "I have seen you somewhere."

  "Maybe at my wine shop?"

  Now Mr. Lorry was both interested and worried. He said, "Have you come from Doctor Manette?"

  "Yes, I come from Doctor Manette."

  "And what does he say? What has he sent me?"

  Defarge put into his shaking hand an open piece of paper. It had the Doctor's writing on it:

  "Charles is safe, but I cannot safely leave this place yet. The man carrying this has a short letter from Charles to his wife. Let him see his wife."

  It was marked as being from La Force Prison, written less than an hour earlier.

  Mr. Lorry was very happy after reading the letter out, and he said, "Will you come with me to where his wife is staying?"

  "Yes," returned Defarge.

  Mr. Lorry did not think much at this time about the cold machine-like way that Defarge spoke. He just put on his hat and they went down into the yard. There they found two women, one knitting.

  "Madam Defarge surely!" said Mr. Lorry, who had left her doing that same action some seventeen years earlier.

  "It is she," said her husband.

  "Is Madam going with us?” asked Mr. Lorry, seeing that she was moving as they moved.

  "Yes, so she will know the faces and the people. It is for security reasons."

  Mr. Lorry was starting to see the strange way Defarge was acting now, but he walked on and
they followed. Both of the women followed, the second one being The Punisher.

  They went through the streets as quickly as they could, then climbed the steps to the house, where Jerry opened the door and they found Lucie alone, crying. She was filled with happiness on learning the news from Mr. Lorry about her husband, and she squeezed the hand that gave her his little letter, not thinking about what that same hand had been doing near him through the night, and what it might have, but for luck, done to him.

  The letter said: "My Love, be brave. I am well, and your father has some effect around here. You cannot answer this, but kiss our child for me."

  That was all that was written on it, but it was so much good news to her that received it that she turned from Defarge to his wife and kissed one of the hands that knitted. It was a loving, womanly way of thanking her and showing her emotions, but the hand did nothing in return. It dropped cold and heavy, and returned to knitting.

  There was something in its touch that made Lucie stop in the act of putting the letter in the top of her dress, and, with her hands at her neck, look at Madam Defarge in fear. Madam Defarge looked back at Lucie's lifted eyebrows and worried forehead with a stony cold look.

  "My girl," said Mr. Lorry, trying to fill Lucie in on what was happening, "there has been much fighting in the streets. We don't think it will trouble you, but Madam Defarge wants to see those whom she has the power to protect when the fighting starts, so that she can point them out.” Then Mr. Lorry lost confidence in what he was saying as he looked at the hard faces of the three others. "I believe this is the reason, is it not Countryman Defarge?"

  Defarge looked darkly at his wife, and gave no answer other than a rough sound of weak agreement.

  Doing all he could to bring some peace back to the room by speaking in a relaxed and friendly way, Mr. Lorry said to Lucie, "You should bring in your lovely daughter, and our good Pross. Good Pross, Defarge, is a woman from England who knows no French."

  The woman he spoke of, who was confident that she was more than equal to anyone from another country, soon stood before them with her arms folded and said in English to The Punisher, "Well, I am glad to meet you, confident one! I hope you are well!" She also gave a good English cough in the direction of Madam Defarge, but Madam and her husband acted like they did not see her.

  "Is that his child?” asked Madam Defarge, stopping her work for the first time and pointing her knitting needle at little Lucie, like it was the finger of death.

  "Yes, Madam," answered Mr. Lorry. "This is our poor prisoner's lovely daughter, and his only child."

  The shadow that was part of Madam Defarge and the other two seemed to fall so dangerously and darkly on the child, that her mother went on her knees on the ground beside her and held her to her breast. Then the shadow that was part of Madam Defarge and the others seemed to fall on the mother as well as the child.

  "It is enough, my husband," said Madam Defarge. "I have seen them. We can go."

  The way she said it had enough danger in it... not open and easy to see, but hiding inside of her... to scare Lucie into saying, as she put a begging hand on Madam Defarge's dress:

  "You will be good to my poor husband? You will not hurt him? You will help me to see him if I can?"

  "Your husband is not the reason for my business here," returned Madam Defarge, looking down at her with perfect confidence. "It is the daughter of your father who is my business here."

  "Then be kind to my husband for me. And for my child! She will put her hands together and say a prayer for you to be kind. We are more afraid of you than of these others."

  Madam Defarge was happy to hear that, and she looked at her husband to show it. Defarge, who had been worriedly biting the nail of his thumb while watching her, changed his face to a more serious and angry look.

  "What was it that your husband said in that little letter?” asked Madam Defarge with an angry smile. "Effect. He said something about effect."

  "That my father," said Lucie, quickly taking the paper from her breast, but with a look of fear at her questioner and not on it, "has much effect around here."

  "Surely it will free him!" said Madam Defarge. "Let it do so."

  "As a wife and mother," cried Lucie, most strongly, "I beg you to have mercy on me and not use any power that you have against my innocent husband, but use it to help him. My sister, think of me as a wife and mother too!"

  Madam Defarge looked, as cold as ever, at the woman who was begging her, and said, turning to her friend, The Punisher: "The wives and mothers that we have been used to seeing since we were as little as this child, and smaller, have not been helped much, have they? We have seen their husbands and fathers put in prison and kept from them often enough. All our lives we have seen our sisters and their children with nothing, no clothes, hungry, thirsty, sick, sad, and hurting in every way because of other cruel people."

  "We have seen nothing else," returned The Punisher.

  "We have put up with this for a long time," said Madam Defarge, turning her eyes again on Lucie. "You judge! Do you think the troubles of one wife and mother would be much to us now?"

  She returned to knitting and left. The Punisher followed. Defarge went last, and closed the door.

  "Be brave, sweet Lucie," said Mr. Lorry, as he lifted her. "Be brave, be brave! So far all is going well with us... much much better than it has gone for many other poor souls. Smile and thank God for what you have."

  "I do hope that I am showing enough thanks to God for what I have, but that awful woman seems to throw a shadow on me and on all my hopes."

  "Now, now," said Mr. Lorry. "What is this sadness in such a brave little heart? A shadow really! A shadow is nothing, Lucie."

  But the shadow from the Defarges was dark on himself too, for all his talk; and in the secrets of his mind it troubled him greatly.

  4. A Break in the Storm

  Doctor Manette did not return until the morning of the fourth day after he left. So much of what happened in that time was kept secret from Lucie that she did not learn until much later, when she was well away from France, that eleven hundred prisoners with no protection, both male and female, young and old, had been killed by the people over those four days. She only knew that there had been an attack on the prisons, that all of the political prisoners had been in danger, and that some of them had been pulled out by the crowd and killed.

  The Doctor told Mr. Lorry what had happened on the promise that he would not tell Lucie. He had been taken by the crowd through the killing to La Force Prison. In the prison he had found freedom fighters running their own court, before which the prisoners were brought one by one. They were each quickly taken away, most of them to be killed or to be freed. Only a few were returned to the prison alive. The Doctor had told the court who he was and that he had been a prisoner at the worst prison in Paris for eighteen years. One of their members, a man named Defarge, had told them that this was true, and that he knew the Doctor.

  He then went through the lists of names on the table and learned that his daughter's husband was one of the prisoners and that he was still alive. He had begged the court -- some of whom were asleep and some awake, some dirty from killing and some clean, some drunk and some not -- for the life and freedom of his daughter's husband. At first the people were so glad to meet the Doctor, as one who had, like them, been through great trouble under the old government, that they quickly agreed to have Charles Darnay brought there. The court was close to letting Darnay go free when, for some unexplained reason, things changed. There were a few secret words between the leaders and then the man acting as president told Doctor Manette that Darnay must stay in the prison, but that he would be held in a safe place because of the court's good feelings toward the Doctor. The prisoner had then been quickly taken away; but the Doctor himself begged the court to let him stay there in that Room of Blood until the danger was over, and they agreed to it.

  What he saw over those next
four days, with only short breaks for food or sleep, will not be told here. The wild happiness over prisoners who were saved surprised him almost as much as the crazy hate for those who were cut to pieces. One prisoner had been freed, but when he went into the street, a freedom fighter threw a spear at him by accident, and the Doctor was asked to go out to help him. In the street, the Doctor had found a group of people lovingly caring for the man. They made a bed to be used in carrying him away, before picking up their weapons and returning to such killing that the Doctor had covered his eyes and then fainted from what he had seen.

  As Mr. Lorry listened to all of this, and as he watched the face of his friend, now sixty-two years of age, he started to fear that what he was seeing would bring back his old problems.

  But he saw a side of Doctor Manette now that he had never seen before. Now, for the first time, the Doctor felt that what he had been through gave him strength. He felt that in the fire of his past a tool had been made that could break the prison door for his daughter's husband, and free him. "It has all been leading to a good end, my friend; it was not wasted. As my lovely daughter helped to save me, now I may be able to bring back the most loved part of her life. With God's help, I will do it!"

  That is how Doctor Manette saw things now. And when Jarvis Lorry saw the burning eyes, the solid face, the strong look of peace in the man whose life had seemed to be stopped, like a clock, for so many years, and then started going again with enthusiasm that had not been seen for many years, he believed what the Doctor had said.

  The Doctor had more than enough enthusiasm to handle all that came his way over the next few months. As a doctor, he believed that his job was to help people in pain or sickness from all walks of life, rich and poor, bad and good, in prison or out. But he used his abilities so wisely that he was soon acting as doctor for three prisons, and one of them was La Force. He could now tell Lucie that her husband was no longer alone. He was with the other prisoners. Doctor Manette was able to see him once a week, and to take words from him to Lucie. At times her husband would send a letter to her (but not through the Doctor), yet she was not free to write to him. One of the stories that went through the prisons was that people who had left France earlier were making plans to change the government through friends they knew from other countries.

  The Doctor's new life had its worries, but wise Mr. Lorry could see that it was helping him too. There was a good spirit of pride in him. Up to that time, he had known that his time in prison worried his daughter and his friend because of the effect it had had on him. Now that things had changed, and his past was seen as a way to help Charles, they both looked to him for strength. The one who had been helped so much in the past was now the helper, and he used his power in love.

  "All very interesting," thought Mr. Lorry in his friendly, wise way, "but all very right too. So take the lead, my good friend, and keep it; it could not be in better hands."

  But even with Doctor Manette trying his best to get Charles Darnay freed, or at least brought to court, the feeling of the people at the time was too strong and too fast for him. The new age was on them. The king had been brought to the court and his head cut off. The government of free equal brothers or death was going to win against the whole world, or die trying. The black flag waved night and day from the great towers of Notre Dame. Three hundred thousand men, called to fight the evil leaders of the earth, came from all the different parts of France, as if the dragon's teeth had been planted like seeds, growing into new dragons on hills and flat lands, on rocks and in mud, under clear skies in the South and under clouds in the North, in open lands and forests, in places where grapes, corn, grass or any other plant grows, on the sides of wide rivers and in the sand at the ocean beach. What fear or action from any one person could stop the great flood that came with the first year of freedom? The flood came from below and not from above, for the windows of heaven were closed to it all!

  There was no break, no mercy, no peace, no rest, and no measure of time. Days and nights were the same as ever, but there was no way to fit them in with a bigger history. The whole country was like a very sick person, with no interest in time, only in their own pain. Now, ending a strange time of quiet in the city, the people were shown the head of the king... and not long after, the head of his beautiful wife, whose hair had turned grey from eight sad and tiring months in prison after he had been killed.

  Yet, as happens in times of great trouble, the days passed both slowly and quickly. A new court in Paris and forty or fifty thousand other courts all over the country, all used the law of fear. If people feared someone, then that person's life and freedom was in danger. Any good and innocent person could be handed over to the court. The prisons filled with such people, who had done no wrong, and who had no way of knowing what their rights were. This quickly became the way things were done all over the country, and before many weeks it was like it had always been done this way. Above it all, one ugly shape was seen so much that it was like it had been there from the start of time. It was the shape of the sharp female called Guillotine.

  It became the target of many jokes. It was said to be the answer for head pains, a way to stop hair from turning grey, and the country's razor. To kiss Guillotine was to put your head in a little opening on it and sneeze into the bag that was used to catch it. It was the sign of a better class of people, better than the cross. Some people threw out their crosses, to wear a guillotine shape around their necks. People clearly worshipped it more than the cross.

  It was used to cut off so many heads that the machine and the ground around it was an awful red. It could be taken to pieces and put back together again, like a toy for a young devil. It stopped the mouths of great speakers, cut down powerful leaders, and put an end to what had been beautiful and good. In one morning the heads of twenty-two government leaders (one of them already dead) were cut off in as many minutes. The name of Samson, the great strong man of the Old Testament, now went to whoever had the job of helping Guillotine do her work. Armed with that weapon he was stronger than Samson, and blinder too, as he destroyed the gates to God every day.

  In with these awful happenings and the blood that was a part of them, Doctor Manette walked with a clear plan, confident of his power, and always moving wisely toward his target, never believing that he would not be able to save Lucie's husband at last. But the force of the ocean of time was so strong and deep that Charles stayed for one year and three months in prison while the Doctor worked on his plan. By that December month, the war had become so evil that the rivers of South France carried the bodies of people forced to die in them each night, and prisoners were lined up to be shot under the winter sun. But the Doctor still walked through it all in hope of finishing his plan. No man became better known in Paris at that time, and no man in a stranger job. He said nothing, but worked in hospitals and prisons, using his art equally to help the killers and the ones they tried to kill. He was a man apart from both sides. In exercising his abilities, the story of his eighteen years in the old prison put him above all those around him. No one thought to question him any more than they would a spirit brought back to life (as he had been eighteen years earlier) who was now working with people who had never been where he had been.

  5. The Woodcutter

  A year and three months. For all that time, Lucie was never sure, from hour to hour, that the guillotine would not cut off her husband's head the next day. Every day, through the stone streets, the carts, full of people being taken to be killed, bumped and shook. Lovely girls, beautiful women, with brown hair, black hair, and grey; young men; strong men and older men; rich and poor; all of them red wine for Guillotine, each day they were brought out into the light from the dark rooms under the ground in those awful prisons, and each day they were carried to her through the streets, to fill her thirst for blood. Free, equal brothers; or death. But the last is the easiest to give, oh Guillotine!

  If the surprise of the awfu
l action against her husband, and the turning wheels of time had made the Doctor's daughter stop what she was doing and wait sadly for her husband to return, she would have been no different from many others at that time. But from the time when she had taken the white head of her father to her heart in the little room where she first met him, she had always been true to what she believed to be her job, first to her father and then to her husband. And she was truest to her job when things were worst, as is always the case with quietly good people.

  As soon as she was set up in her new rooms, and her father was busy doing his rounds as a doctor, she planned things in their little house just as she would have done if her husband had been there. There was a set time and place for everything. She taught little Lucie as she would have if they had been in their English home. About the only way one could know what she was going through were little actions she did when she believed he would be freed soon (like putting his chair and his books to the side), and a serious prayer at night for one special prisoner of the many sad souls in prison and living under the shadow of death at that time.

  She did not change much in the way she looked. The dark dresses that she and her child were wearing to show their sadness were still as neat and clean as the lighter colours of happier days. She lost colour from her face, and the old serious look was with her at all times now; but apart from that, she was still beautiful and in control of herself. Some nights, after kissing her father, she would let out the tears she had been holding back all day, and would say that her only hope under heaven was in him. He always answered strongly: "Nothing can happen to Charles without me knowing about it, and I know that I can save him, Lucie."

  They had not been waiting for many weeks when her father said to her, on coming home one night:

  "My love, there is a window high up in the prison, that Charles can sometimes see out through at three in the afternoon. When he can get to it, which isn't often, he thinks he might be able to see you in the street if you stand in a special place that I can show you. You will not be able to see him, my poor child, and even if you could, it would be dangerous for you to wave or look at him."

  "Oh show me the place, father, and I'll go there every day."

  From that time on, in all weather, she waited there for two hours each day, from two o'clock to four o'clock. When it was not too wet or cold, her child would go with her; at other times she was alone; but she never missed even one day.

  The place was at the dark and dirty corner of a small street with a bend in it. A rough cabin owned by a woodcutter was the only building at that end. Apart from that, the street at that point was nothing but walls. On the third day that she was there, the woodcutter said to her:

  "Good day, countrywoman.”

  "Good day, countryman."

  This way of talking was now forced by law. In the past freedom fighters had been the ones to start talking to each other in this way, and they did it only because they wanted to do it; but now it was the law for everyone to do so.

  "Walking here again, countrywoman?"

  "As you can see, countryman."

  The woodcutter, who was a little man who used his hands too much when talking (He had been a road worker in the past.) looked quickly at the prison, pointed to it, and then, putting his ten fingers in front of his face like they were bars, looked foolishly through them.

  "But it's not my business," he said. And he returned to cutting timber.

  The next day he was watching for her, and he talked to her as soon as she turned up.

  "What? Walking here again, countrywoman?"

  "Yes, countryman."

  "Ah! A child too! Your mother, is it not, my little country-girl?"

  "Do I say yes, mummy?” whispered little Lucie, moving closer to her.

  "Yes, my love."

  "Yes, countryman."

  "Ah, but it's not my business. My work is my business. See my saw? I call it my little guillotine. La, la, la; la, la, lah! And off his head comes!"

  The stick fell as he spoke, and he threw it into a basket.

  "I call myself the Samson of the firewood guillotine. See here again! Loo, loo, loo; Loo, loo, loo! And off her head comes. Now a child. Tickle, tickle; pickle, pickle! And off its head comes. All the family!"

  Lucie shook as he threw two more sticks into his basket. Sadly, it was not possible for her to be there without the woodcutter seeing her when he was working. So from then on, to keep him on her side, she always spoke to him first, and gave him some money for drinking, which he enthusiastically received.

  He was very interested in her, and at times when she was not thinking about him because she was so busy looking up toward the prison roof and windows, and in lifting her heart up to her husband, she would come to herself only to find him looking at her, with his knee on the bench and his saw stopped in its work. "But it's not my business," he would often say at those times, and he would quickly return to cutting timber.

  In all weather, the winter snow, the summer heat, and the winds and rains that came between them, Lucie would spend two hours of every day at this place. And every day, on leaving it, she would kiss the prison wall. Her husband saw her (so she learned from her father) maybe one day in five or six. It might happen two or three days, one after the other, but then it could be a week or two with him not seeing her at all. There was no way of knowing. But it was enough that he could and did see her when each time came, and to make that possible she would have waited there all day, seven days a week.

  These jobs brought her around to the month of December again, when her father was walking through all of the awful things that were happening around him without it changing his confidence. It was snowing lightly that afternoon when she arrived at the same old corner. It was a day of some happiness, a special day for the country. She had seen little spears with little red hats on them and thin pieces of cloth in the three colours of the country tied to them, outside many of the houses on the way. They also had the words: "One country working together. Free, equal, and brothers, or death!"

  The woodcutter's little shop was so small that there was almost not enough space on the wall to put all of the letters for this saying. Someone had put the letters on for him, with the letters for "death" squeezed very close together at the end. On the top of the house were the spear and hat, as every good French person should have, and in a window he had put his saw, with the words "Little Saint Guillotine", for by that time, the little sharp female was for most people as good as a saint. His shop was closed and he was not there, which Lucie was glad to see. It left her alone.

  But he was not far away, because she soon heard a troubled movement and some shouting coming toward her, filling her with fear. A second or two later, a crowd of people came pouring around the corner by the prison wall, with the woodcutter in the middle, walking hand in hand with The Punisher. There were at least five hundred people, and they were dancing like five thousand devils. There was no other music apart from their own singing. They danced to the freedom fighters' war song, marking time wildly like crazy men hitting their teeth together. Men danced with women, men with men, and women with women. At first they were just a storm of red hats and rough broken clothes, but as they filled the place and stopped to dance around Lucie, an awful crazy ghost of a dance started to take shape. They would come forward, then go back, hit each other's hands together, hold each other's heads, turn around alone, then grab another and turn around in twos until many of them dropped. While those were down, others joined hands and all ran around together, then the circle broke into smaller circles of two and four until they all stopped together, started again, clapped hands, hugged, and then went around in the opposite direction. Then they stopped again, waited for a few seconds, and, starting to mark time again, moved into lines as wide as the walkway, and then, with their heads down and their hands up high, they set off crying out loudly as they did. No fight could have been half as awful as this dance. It was
clearly a sport that had turned evil... something that was once innocent, but that had now been given to the devil... a healthy way of playing changed to one that makes blood angry, minds confused, and hearts like iron. Anything beautiful in it had been made ugly by being used to encourage such sick emotions. A young woman opening her spirit to this, the mind of one who is almost a child joining in, little feet stepping in a lake of blood and dirt were all a part of the time that they were living in.

  This was the song and dance of the freedom fighters. As it passed, leaving Lucie in fear and confusion, feathers of snow fell as quietly and lay as white and soft as if it had never happened.

  "Oh father!" Lucie said, for he stood there when she lifted her eyes after covering them with her hands. "It was such a cruel, awful thing to see."

  "I know, my love, I know. I have seen it many times. Do not be afraid! Not one of them will hurt you."

  "I am not afraid for myself, father. But when I think of my husband, and the cruel mercies of these people..."

  "We will put him above their mercies very soon. When I left him, he was climbing to the window, so I came to tell you. There is no one here to see, so you may kiss your hand toward that highest angled roof."

  "I'm doing it, father, and I'm sending him my soul with it!"

  "Can you see him, my love?"

  "No, father," said Lucie, hurting and crying as she kissed her hand. "No."

  A footstep in the snow. Madam Defarge.

  "Good day, countrywoman," from the Doctor.

  "Good day, countryman.” This in passing. Nothing more. Madam Defarge was gone, like a shadow over the white road.

  "Give me your arm, my love. Walk away with a brave smile on your face for him.” And when they had left: "Well done. It will not be wasted. Charles is to come before the court tomorrow."

  "Tomorrow!"

  "There is no time to lose. I am well prepared, but there are things we must do that could not be done before he was called to the court. He has not received word about the call yet, but I know from secret information that I have received. Are you afraid?"

  She found it difficult to speak: "I trust you."

  "Please do so fully. Your time of testing is almost over, my love. He will be back with you in a few hours. I have done everything I can to protect him. Now I must see Mr. Lorry."

  He stopped. There was the heavy sound of timber wheels not far from there. They both knew too well what it was. One. Two. Three. Three carts leaving the prison with their awful weight of passengers as they moved over the quieting snow.

  "I must see Mr. Lorry," the Doctor said again as he turned her away from the carts.

  That true old man was still trusted by him; he had never given any reason not to be. He and his books were often asked for by the new government, so they could take wealth from people who had left the country. What he could save for the owners, he saved. There was no better man alive to protect what he could of the wealth the bank held, without making the new government angry.

  A dirty red and yellow sky, and low clouds coming from the river showed that darkness was near. It was almost dark when they arrived at Tellson's Bank. The beautiful house of the past leader was empty and in very poor shape. Over what was left of a burned out fire in the yard were the words "Owned by the People. One country. Free, Equal, Brothers; or Death!"

  Who is that meeting secretly with Mr. Lorry... the owner of the riding coat that can be seen on the chair? From whom did he come outside, worried and surprised, to hug someone who came a short time after the man inside? Who was this woman whose words he repeated loudly through the door of the room to the person inside: "He goes to court tomorrow!"

  6. Free at Last!

  Every day, five judges, the lawyer for the government, and a serious group of countrymen sat in the court to hear the cases for people brought there. Each evening the court would send out a list of prisoners to be brought the next day, and the prison guards would read out the list to all the prisoners inside the prison, joking as they did: "You in there, come out and listen to the evening news!"

  "Charles Evremonde, called Darnay!"

  At last the evening paper at La Force had his name on it, and it was first on the list.

  When a name was called, the owner of the name would step to the side, to a place where all who were on the list must stand. Charles Evremonde, called Darnay, had reason to know the meaning of it. He had seen hundreds leave in that way.

  His fat guard, who used reading glasses, looked over the top of them to see that Charles had taken his place. He went on with the rest of the list, stopping after each name to see that the prisoner moved to join the group that was to leave. There were twenty-three names called for, but only twenty who answered to their names. One had died in prison and two had already been killed by the guillotine, but no one in the courts had remembered that. The list was read in the big, low room with a rounded stone roof, where Charles had met other prisoners like himself on the night when he first arrived there. Every one of them had been killed in the four nights of killing after that. Every person he had since come to care for, and been separated from had died by the guillotine.

  There were hurried goodbyes and other kind words, but it was soon over. It happened every afternoon, and there were other things that needed doing too. The others in La Force were preparing some games and music for that evening. They crowded around the windows and cried a few tears; but it would not be long before they would be locked up for the night, and there were twenty empty places in their planned entertainment to be filled. It is not that the prisoners had no feeling for those who were taken; the way they acted was just how it was at that time. Another strange way of the times was for some prisoners to become drunk with a sickness of the mind that went with the wild times, to the point where they would join those going to the guillotine even when they did not need to go. They were not trying to show off; it is just how some people feel when there is a great sickness killing many others, that they too would like to die with it. We all have secret feelings like that in ourselves that only need the right happenings to bring them out.

  The ride to the little prison beside the court was short and dark, and the night in its dirty rooms was long and cold. The next day, fifteen prisoners were brought to the court before Charles Darnay's name was called. It took only an hour and a half to find all of them guilty, and to send them to be killed.

  "Charles Evremonde, called Darnay," was at last called out.

  The judges had hats with feathers in them, but others were wearing the rough red hats with three-coloured cloths on them. Looking at the people who were to judge him, and at the crowd in the court room, it would be easy to think that it was the law-breakers in the crowd and the honest people who were being brought before the court. The lowest, cruelest, and worst people in a city which was never without some low, cruel, and bad people, were the ones leading the whole show, talking loudly, agreeing, disagreeing, looking forward to what would happen, then being the ones who made things happen, all without anyone trying to stop them. Most of the men had weapons. Some of the women carried knives; some ate as they looked on; and many knitted. In this last group was one with a special piece of knitting under her arm as she worked. She was in the front, by the side of a man who Charles Darnay had not seen since he had come into the city, but whom he remembered as being Defarge. He saw her whisper in his ear one or two times, and she seemed to be his wife; but, what was strange in the two of them was that even with them sitting as close to him as could be, they never looked toward him. They seemed to be waiting for something, and they looked at the countrymen who would be judging him, but at nothing else. Under the President sat Doctor Manette, dressed quietly as always. As well as the prisoner could see, he and Mr. Lorry were the only men there, apart from judges, who did not wear the rough clothes of the freedom fighters.

  Charles Evremonde, called Darnay, was said by the government lawyer to
be a runaway, whose life was now owned by the new government under the law that said all runaways would be killed if they returned. It was nothing to them that the law was made after he returned to France. There he was, and there was the law. He had returned to France, and they wanted his head.

  "Cut off his head!" cried the crowd. "He's an enemy of France!"

  The President shook his bell to stop the cries, and he asked the prisoner if it was true that he had lived in England for many years.

  Clearly it was.

  Was he not a runaway then? What did he call himself? Not a runaway, he hoped, in the spirit of the law.

  Why not? the President wanted to know.

  Because he had freely chosen to give away a name and a class that he hated, by leaving the country. He said that at that time it would not have been seen as running away as it was now, for he only went to live through his own work in England and not by the hard work of the people of France, as his family had.

  What proof did he have of this?

  He had two witnesses: Gabelle, and Alexander Manette. But he had married in England, the President pointed out. True, but not to an English woman.

  Was she a countrywoman of France?

  Yes, she had been born there.

  Her name and family?

  "Lucie Manette, the only daughter of Doctor Manette, the good doctor who sits there."

  This answer had a happy effect on the crowd. Enthusiastic cries for the good Doctor filled the room. So easily changed were the people that tears quickly rolled down some of the wild faces that had been looking angrily at the prisoner a few seconds before, as if they wanted to pull him out into the streets and kill him.

  On these first few steps of his dangerous way, Charles Darnay had been acting on what Doctor Manette had told him to say. The same careful wisdom led every step of the way, and had prepared every inch of the road.

  The President asked why he had returned to France when he did, and why he had not returned sooner.

  He had not returned sooner, he answered, because he had no way to live in France apart from the way his family had lived. In England he had lived by teaching French. He had returned after being begged by letter from a French countryman who said his life was in danger by him not being there. He had come back to save a countryman's life, and to speak up for the truth, at any danger to himself. Was that wrong in the eyes of the new government?

  The crowd cried with enthusiasm, "No!" and the President shook his bell to quiet them. Which it did not do, for they still cried "No!" until they were happy to stop of their own will.

  The President asked for the name of that countryman. The prisoner said that the countryman was his first witness. He also talked with confidence about the countryman's letter, which had been taken from him at the border of the city, but which he was confident would be in with the other papers that were in front of the President.

  The Doctor had made sure that it would be there -- had promised that it would be there -- and at this time it was taken up and read. Countryman Gabelle was called to speak for it and he did. Countryman Gabelle said, being very careful not to say anything that would make them angry, that with all of the work that the court had to do to stop the many enemies of the government, he had been forgotten in the Abbey Prison until three days ago, when he had been called before the court and had been given freedom after the jury agreed that he had good answers for the things said against him. He had been able to do this because he had been able to call back countryman Evremonde, called Darnay.

  Next Doctor Manette was questioned. Because he was such a well-liked celebrity, and because his answers were so clear, his words had a good effect on the court. The jury and the crowd became as one, as the Doctor showed that the prisoner had been his first friend after being freed from so many years in prison himself, that the prisoner had stayed in England, always faithful and loving to his daughter and himself as they were in hiding, that, far from being a friend of the rich class there, he had almost lost his life as an enemy of England and a friend of the United States. When he asked for Mr. Lorry, an Englishman who was there in the court, who had also been a witness in the court case in London, and could back up the truth in the Doctor's account of what happened, the jury said they had heard enough, and they were ready with their votes if the President was happy to receive them.

  The jury voted out loud, one by one, and at each vote, the crowd clapped, and shouted happily. All of the voices were for the prisoner, and the President said that he was free.

  That started one of those strange ways that a crowd could give in to their easily changing emotions, or maybe just showed how generous and loving they could be, or maybe just made themselves feel better about being so cruel at other times. No one could say now which of these reasons was behind what happened next, but it may be that all three were there, with the middle one (their better feelings of love) most moving them at that time. As soon as the President said he was free to go, tears ran the way blood ran after so many other cases. So many people in the crowd, of both sexes, tried to hug him after his long and difficult time in prison, that he was in danger of collapsing. It was not made easier knowing that the same people, carried by another emotion, would have run at him with the same enthusiasm for tearing him to pieces and throwing the pieces in the street.

  When the guards took him outside to make way for others, that gave him some rest from the crowd. Five people were to be questioned together next, as enemies of the government because of something they did not do or say to help the government. So enthusiastic was the court to make up for not having killed him, that these five people were judged and brought to where he was before he had left, marked for death before that time the next day.

  One reason the case was finished so quickly for the five was that there had been no crowd to watch them. When Charles Darnay and Doctor Manette walked out through the gate, there was a great crowd on the street, in which there seemed to be every face that he had seen in the court... apart from two, for which Charles Darnay looked without finding them. As he came out, the people pushed toward him again, crying, hugging, and shouting, first in three separate steps, and then doing all three at the same time, until it seemed like even the river beside them was going crazy like the people on the side of it.

  They put him in a big chair that they had taken from the court or from one of the rooms beside it. Over the chair they threw a red flag, and they put a spear with a red hat on top of it on the back of the chair. In this vehicle for the winner, not even the Doctor could stop the people from carrying Charles Darnay home on their shoulders, with a confused ocean of red hats moving around him, and such wild faces looking up at him from that ocean at times that more than once his confused mind thought he was in a cart on his way to the guillotine.

  The trip was like a wild dream, with people hugging anyone they met on the way, and pointing him out. The new colour worn by the people made the snowy streets red as they moved through them, just as they had once coloured the ground under the snow with a deeper red. They carried him all the way to the yard of the house where he lived. Lucie's father had gone on before them to prepare her, and when her husband was standing back on the ground, she fainted into his arms.

  As he held her to his heart and turned her beautiful head so it was between his face and the noisy crowd, and so his tears and her lips could come together without them seeing, a few of the people started dancing. Then all the others joined in, and the yard became too crowded for the dance of the freedom fighters. They took a young woman from the crowd and put her on the empty chair as their female god of freedom, and then, pouring out of the yard and into the streets and along the side of the river, and over the bridge, the dance itself was all they could think about as they left.

  After shaking the Doctor's hand as he stood proud and happy before him; after shaking Mr. Lorry's hand, who came in breathing heavily after fighting through the dancers as they left the yard; after kissing l
ittle Lucie, who was lifted up to put her arms around his neck; and after hugging the ever faithful Miss Pross who lifted Lucie; he took his wife in his arms and carried her into the house.

  "Lucie! My wife! I'm safe!"

  "Oh Charles, my love, let me thank God for this on my knees as I have prayed to him."

  They all humbly bowed their heads and hearts. When she was again in his arms, he said to her:

  "And now speak to your father, my love. No other man in all of France could have done for me what he has done."

  She put her head on her father's chest as she had put his poor head on her own breast long long ago. He was happy in the return he had made to her. He had been paid for what he went through in prison; he was proud of his strength. "You must not be weak, my love," he said to her. "Don't shake so. I have saved him."

  7. A Knock at the Door

  "I HAVE SAVED HIM.” It was not another one of Charles Darnay's dreams in which he often came home; he was really there. And yet his wife was shaking, and a soft but heavy fear was on her.

  All the air around them was so thick and dark, the people so wild and full of hate, the innocent so often put to death just for what others believed about them, or because of a black and evil hate, that it was impossible to forget that many as innocent as her husband and loved as much by others as he was by her, had ended up in the place that he had been saved from. Her heart could not feel light even now when it should feel that way. The shadows were starting to fall on that winter afternoon, and even now the awful carts were rolling through the streets. Her mind followed them, looking for him in the people being carried away; and then she hugged closer to the real man and shook some more.

  Her father, trying to encourage her, showed a loving strength that was wonderful to see. No room above the wine shop, no shoemaking, no One Hundred and Five North Tower now! He had finished the job that he had given himself to do. His promise had been kept. He had saved Charles. Let them all lean on him.

  They used very little money on things for their house, not only because it was the safest way of life if they did not want to anger the people, but because they were not rich. All the while that Charles had been in prison he had been forced to pay heavily for the bad food he received, and for his guard, and to help some of the poorer prisoners around him. Partly because of this, and partly because they could not trust anyone, they had no servant of their own. The countryman and countrywoman who worked at the gate for the government would help them at times; and Jerry (whom Mr. Lorry had fully given over to help them) had become their servant, even sleeping there at night.

  It was the rule of the new government, the one country for free, equal brothers, or death, that on the door or the door post of every house, the names of all the people living there should be written in letters of a special size, and at a special height from the ground. Because of this, Mr. Jerry Cruncher's name had been added to the bottom of the list. As the afternoon shadows grew longer, Mr. Cruncher himself came to watch a painter whom Doctor Manette had paid to add to the list the name of Charles Evremonde, called Darnay.

  In the fear that made those times so dark, all the little ways of the past had been changed. In the Doctor's little family, as in very many others, they would buy the things they needed each evening, in small measures, from a few different shops. The general feeling was that if they were not seen to be spending a lot of money, people would not talk so much or feel jealous of them.

  For a few months now, it had been the job of Miss Pross and Mr. Cruncher to buy the things they needed. Miss Pross would carry the money, and Mr. Cruncher the basket. Each afternoon, about the time when the town lanterns were lighted, they would leave the house to buy and bring home all the things that were needed. Miss Pross had known a French family in England for many years, so she should have known the language well by then, if she had wanted to learn it; but she had not wanted to learn it. She knew no more of that "foolishness" (as she called it) than Mr. Cruncher did. So when buying things she would tell the shop owner only the name of the thing she wanted, without any other words to help him. If it turned out that she was using the wrong word, she would look around for the thing that she wanted, pick it up, and hold it until the sale was finished. She always got a good price by holding up one less finger than the person selling it was holding up.

  "Now, Mr. Cruncher," said Miss Pross, whose eyes were red from so many happy tears, "if you are ready, I am."

  Jerry said with a rough voice that he was ready. He had rubbed all the rust off his fingers long ago, but nothing would make his messy hair lay flat.

  "There is much that we want to get," said Miss Pross, "and we have little time to get it. On top of it all, we will want some wine. I'm afraid that these awful Red Hats will be drinking nice wine anywhere that it can be found.

  "It will be much the same to you, Miss," answered Jerry, "if they are drinking to your health or to the health of the Old One."

  "Who's he?” asked Miss Pross.

  Mr. Cruncher shyly said that he was talking about the Old Devil.

  "Ha!" said Miss Pross. "I don't need to know the language to know what these people are drinking to. They are only interested in darkness, killing, and hurting people."

  "Quiet, love! Please, please, be careful!" cried Lucie.

  "Yes, yes, yes, I'll be careful," said Miss Pross, "but between ourselves I can say that I hope there'll be no hugs from these tobacco and onion breathers in the streets. Now, Ladybird, do not leave that fire until I come back! Take care of the good husband you have found again, and don't move your beautiful head from his shoulder where it is now, until you see me again! May I ask a question, Doctor Manette, before I go?"

  "I think you may have that freedom," the Doctor answered, smiling.

  "Oh please don't talk about freedom; we have had more than enough of that already," said Miss Pross.

  "Quiet, love! Again?” Lucie said.

  "Well, my sweet," said Miss Pross, shaking her head as she said it, "the short and the long of it is that I follow our good King George the Third.” Miss Pross bowed at the name. "As such, my rule is, No interest in their political games, and Anger at their cruel tricks. Our hope is in him. God save the king!"

  Mr. Cruncher, in a show of faithful love for the king, repeated the words after Miss Pross in his deep rough voice, adding something about someone at church.

  "I am glad you have so much of the English man in you, but I wish you did not have such a cold in your voice," said Miss Pross, lovingly. "But the question, Doctor Manette. Is there any hope of us getting out of this place?” It was the good woman's way to make light of something that worried them all, and to come at it from some foolish talk.

  "I am afraid that there is no way yet. It would be dangerous for Charles if we tried to leave now."

  "Oh well!" said Miss Pross in a relaxed and friendly way, holding back her sadness as she looked at her Ladybird's golden hair in the light of the fire. "Then we just have to be patient and wait; that's all. We must hold up our heads and fight secretly, as my brother Solomon used to say. Now, Mr. Cruncher! You stay there, Ladybird!"

  They went out, leaving Lucie, her husband, father, and child by a nice fire. Mr. Lorry would be there soon from the bank. Miss Pross had lighted the lantern, but had put it in a corner so that they could better see the light from the fireplace. Little Lucie sat by her grandfather with her hands joined through his arm. He, in a voice not much above a whisper, started to tell her a story about a great and powerful angel who had opened a prison wall to free a prisoner who had, in the past, helped the angel. All was quiet, and Lucie was more at peace than she had been before.

  But then she cried, "What was that?"

  "My love!" said her father, stopping his story and putting his hand on her hand. "Control yourself. You are too worried. The least thing... nothing at all... fills you with fear! You, your father's daughter!"

  "Father, I thought I heard strange
feet on the steps," Lucie said in a shaking voice.

  "My love, the steps are as quiet as death."

  As she said the word, a knock was heard on the door.

  "Oh, father, father. What can this be! Hide Charles. Save him!"

  "My child," said the Doctor, getting up and putting his hand on her shoulder, "I have saved him. How afraid you are! Let me go to the door."

  He took the lantern in his hand, walked through the two rooms between them and the door, and he opened it. The loud noise of heavy feet moving rudely on the floor, and four rough men in red hats, carrying swords and guns, came into the room.

  "The countryman Evremonde, called Darnay," said the first.

  "Who wants him?” answered Darnay.

  "I want him. We want him. I know you, Evremonde; I saw you before the court today. You are again a prisoner of the government."

  The four moved around him, where he stood with his wife and child hanging onto him.

  "Tell me, how and why am I a prisoner again?"

  "It is enough that you come to the court prison now, and you'll know tomorrow. You are to come before the court tomorrow."

  Doctor Manette had been turned to stone by this visit, so that he stood with the lantern in his hand as if he were a statue made to hold it. But after these words, he moved, putting the lantern down, and facing the speaker. He took him roughly by the loose front of his red shirt, and said:

  "You say that you know him. Do you know me?"

  "Yes, I know you, Countryman Doctor."

  "We all know you, Countryman Doctor," said the other three.

  He looked from one to the other, in deep thought, then said in a lower voice: "Will you answer me this, then? How has this happened?"

  "Countryman Doctor," said the first, not really wanting to speak, "he has been said to be evil by people from Saint Antoine. This countryman," he said, pointing to the second man who had come into the room, "is from Saint Antoine."

  The countryman himself shook his head and added: "Saint Antoine has taken action against him."

  "For what?” asked the Doctor.

  "Countryman Doctor," said the first, still not really wanting to speak, "ask no more. If the country asks you to give up something for it, I know that you, as a good countryman will be happy to do that. The country comes before all. The People are most important. Evremonde, we are in a hurry."

  "One word," the Doctor begged. "Will you tell me who took action against him?"

  "It is against the rules," answered the first. "But you can ask the man here from Saint Antoine."

  The Doctor turned his eyes toward that man, who moved a little in fear, rubbed his beard a little, and at length said:

  "Well! It really is against the rules, but the action came from -- and it is a serious action -- the Countryman and Countrywoman Defarge. And by one other."

  "What other?"

  "Are you asking for yourself, Countryman Doctor?”

  "Yes."

  "Then," said the one from Saint Antoine, with a strange look, "you will be answered tomorrow. For now, I have nothing to say."

  8. A Hand of Cards

  Not knowing about what had happened at home, Miss Pross walked happily along the narrow streets and crossed the river, going over in her mind the number of things that she needed to get. Mr. Cruncher, with the basket, walked at her side. They both looked to the right and to the left into most of the shops they passed on the way, with a careful eye for all friendly groups of people, and moving out of their way so they would not be a part of their talk. It was a cold night, and the cloud coming up off the river made both the lights and the noise softer. On the river were big flat boats where workers were making guns for the new army. God help the man who played tricks with that army, or the soldier found breaking the rules to get ahead! It would be better that they never had a beard than to have the government 'razor' shave them so closely.

  Having picked up a little food here and there, and some oil for the lantern, Miss Pross moved on to thinking about the wine. After looking into a few wine shops, she stopped at the sign outside the Good Old Brutus pub, not far from where the king used to live. She liked it better than the other places that they had passed. It still had a lot of red hats, but not as many as in the others. Asking Mr. Cruncher what he thought, and seeing that he agreed to it, Miss Pross went into the Good Old Brutus, joined by her protecter.

  They showed little interest in the smoky lights; in the people, some with pipes in their mouths, playing with old cards and yellow dominoes; in the man without a shirt, covered with black dust, who was reading a newspaper out for others to hear; in the weapons that people were wearing, or that they had put on tables; or in the two or three people who were sleeping in coats covered with long rough hair that so many people liked to wear at that time, which made them look like sleeping bears or dogs. Instead, these two people from a different country walked up to the counter and made movements to show what they wanted.

  As their wine was being measured out, a man got up to leave another man in the corner. As he left, he turned toward Miss Pross. No sooner did he face her than Miss Pross let out a loud cry and hit her hands together.

  A second later, everyone in the room was on their feet. What they most expected to see was that someone had been killed because of an argument. But all they saw were a man and a woman looking at each other. The man looked to be a true French countryman, and the woman was clearly English.

  What the people of Good Old Brutus had to say quite loudly on seeing this, would have been like Greek to Miss Pross and her protecter even if they had been all ears. But in their surprise they had no ears at all for what the others were saying. It must be said that not only was Miss Pross surprised and confused, but Mr. Cruncher was also very surprised, but in his case it was for what seemed to be a different reason.

  "What is your problem?” asked the man who had made Miss Pross cry out. He sounded angry, but was talking softly, and in English.

  "Oh Solomon! My sweet Solomon!" cried Miss Pross, hitting her hands together again. "After not seeing you or hearing from you for so long, to think I should find you here!"

  "Don't call me Solomon. Do you want to have me killed?” asked the man, who was clearly afraid.

  "My brother, my brother!" cried Miss Pross, with tears running down her face. "Have I ever been so hard with you that you could ask me such a cruel question?"

  "Then hold your tongue," said Solomon, "and come outside if you want to speak to me. Pay for your wine and come out. And who is this man?"

  Miss Pross, shaking her loving and sad head at her brother, who was not loving in any way, said through her tears, "Mr. Cruncher."

  "Let him come out too," said Solomon. "Does he think I am a ghost?"

  To judge by Mr. Cruncher's looks, he did. But he said not a word, and Miss Pross found it difficult to see through her tears to fish in her handbag for money to pay for her wine. As she did this, Solomon turned to the people in Good Old Brutus to tell them in French what was happening. Whatever it was, it was enough to send them all back to what they had been doing before.

  "Now," said Solomon, stopping at a dark street corner, "what do you want?"

  "How cruel of a brother that I have always loved," cried Miss Pross, "to talk like that to me, and to show no love toward me."

  "There. Stop it! There," said Solomon, touching Miss Pross's lips with his own. "Now are you happy?"

  Miss Pross only shook her head and cried quietly.

  "If you expected me to be surprised," said her brother, "I am not surprised. I knew you were here. I know about most people who are here. If you really do not want to put me in danger -- which I half believe you do -- go your way as quickly as you can, and let me go mine. I am busy. I have a government job here.

  "My English brother Solomon," said Miss Pross sadly, lifting her tear-filled eyes, "who could have been a great leader in his own country, is working for a foreign coun
try, and for a foreign country such as this one. I would almost have been happier to see the sweet boy lying in his..."

  "You see!" cried her brother, stopping her. "I knew it. You want to see me dead. I will be arrested by my own sister, just when I was doing so well!"

  "No, may God stop that from happening!" cried Miss Pross. "I would be happier never to see you again, Solomon, but I have always loved you and I always will. Just say one kind word to me, and tell me you're not angry with me, and I won't keep you any longer."

  Good Miss Pross! As if their being separate had come from any wrong action on her part. As if Mr. Lorry had not known it to be true years ago, on that quiet corner in Soho, that this loved brother had used up her money and then left her!

  He was saying a kind word now, but with less feeling than if he had been the innocent one and she the guilty (which is how it so often happens all over the world), when Mr. Cruncher, touching him on the shoulder, without warning cut in with the following question:

  "I say! Can I ask you one thing? Is your name John Solomon or Solomon John?"

  This worker for the French government turned toward him with a quickly growing worry. He had not said a word before this.

  "Out with it!" said Mr. Cruncher. "Tell us what you know.” (Which, by the way, is more than he could do himself.) "Is it John Solomon, or Solomon John? She calls you Solomon, and she must know, being your sister. But I know you're John. So which of the two goes first? And the same with that name Pross. That wasn't your name over the water."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, I don't know all that I mean, because I can't call to mind what your name was, over the water."

  "No?"

  "No. But I know it was longer than Pross.” "Is that right?"

  "Yes. T'other one's name was short like that. But I know you. You was a secret government witness at the Bailey. What, in the name of the Father of Lies, own father to yourself, was you called at that time?"

  "Barsad," said another voice, cutting in.

  "That's the name, for a thousand pounds!" cried Jerry.

  The speaker who cut in was Sydney Carton. He had his hands in his pockets, and he stood at Mr. Cruncher's elbow as lazily as he would have stood at the Old Bailey itself.

  "Don't be surprised, my good Miss Pross. I arrived at Mr. Lorry's, to his surprise, last night. We agreed that I would not show myself until all was well or until I was needed. I am showing myself here now because I want to have a little talk with your brother. I wish your brother, Mr. Barsad, had a better job than working as a Sheep in the prisons."

  Sheep was a special word used at that time for a spy who worked with the prison guards. The spy, in question whose skin was white, turned whiter, and asked Sydney how he had the confidence to...

  "I'll tell you," said Sydney. "I saw you coming out of the court prison when I was studying the walls around it an hour or so ago. You have a face that is easily remembered, and I remember faces very well. I wanted to know why you had been there, and I had good reason, as you would know, for thinking that you could be partly to blame for something very bad which has just happened to a friend of mine. So I followed you into the wine shop, and I sat near you. It was easy to pick up from your proud talk, and what others were saying, just what your job was. Little by little, what I had learned by accident started to shape into a plan, Mr. Barsad."

  "What plan?” the spy asked.

  "It would be difficult, and could be dangerous to talk about it here. Could you help me by spending a few quiet minutes at the office of Tellson's Bank, for starters?"

  "Are you going to try to hurt me if I don't?”

  "Oh, did I say that?"

  "What other reason would I have to go there?"

  "Really, Mr. Barsad, if you don't know yourself, then I cannot tell you."

  "Do you mean that you won't say, sir?” the spy asked, not knowing which way to go with this.

  "You understand me very clearly, Mr. Barsad. No, I won't."

  Carton's wildly confident way of talking worked well with his ability to see through a person, and would help him with what he was secretly planning, with such a man as he had to work with. He could see it, and he made the most of it.

  "I told you so," said the spy, with an angry look at his sister. "If any trouble comes of this, it's your doing."

  "Come, come, Mr. Barsad!" said Sydney confidently. "You should be thanking me. If it was not for my feelings for your sister, I would not be talking so nicely to you now about the plan I have which could help us both. Do you want to go with me to the bank?"

  "Just to hear what you have to say. Yes, I'll go with you."

  "I think we should first take your sister safely to the corner of her own street. Let me take your arm, Miss Pross. This is not a good city, at this time, for you to be out in on your own; and because your protector knows Mr. Barsad, I will be asking him to come to Mr. Lorry's with us. Are we ready? Come then!"

  A short time after that, and to the end of her life, Miss Pross remembered that, as she put her hand on Sydney's arm and looked up in his face, wanting him to do no hurt to Solomon, there was a look in his eye and something in how he held his arm which was very different to his old foolish spirit, and which changed and lifted the man. At the time she was too busy fearing for her brother, who gave little reason for her loving him, and too busy listening to Sydney's friendly promises, to think about those changes in Sydney.

  They left her at the corner of her street, and then Carton showed the way to Mr. Lorry's, which was only a few minutes' walk away. John Barsad, or should we say Solomon Pross, walked at his side.

  Mr. Lorry had just finished his dinner, and was sitting in front of a friendly fire in the fireplace... maybe looking into it to find a picture of that younger man from Tellsons, who had looked into the red coals at the King George at Dover, now a good many years in the past. He turned his head as they came in, and showed surprise on seeing the stranger.

  "Miss Pross' brother, sir," said Sydney. "Mr. Barsad."

  "Barsad?” repeated the old man. "Barsad? I've heard the name before... and seen the face."

  "I told you that your face is easy to remember, Mr. Barsad," said Carton coolly. "Please sit down."

  As he took a seat himself, Carton gave Mr. Lorry the piece of information he needed, by saying to him with an angry look, "Witness at my court case.” Mr. Lorry remembered at once, and showed an angry and almost sick look toward his new visitor.

  "Miss Pross has told us that Mr. Barsad is the loving brother you have heard so much about," said Sydney. "And he doesn't argue with that. But I have worse news. Darnay has been arrested again."

  The old man could not believe him. "What are you telling me? I left him safe and free just two hours ago. I was just about to return to him!"

  "Arrested all the same. When did it happen, Mr. Barsad?"

  "Just now, if it has happened."

  "Mr. Barsad is the best one to tell us, sir," said Sydney. "I have it from his talk with a brother Sheep over a bottle of wine, that the arrest has taken place. His friend left the people who made the arrest at the prison gate, and he saw the gate open for them. There's no reason on earth to think he has not been taken."

  Mr. Lorry's business eye could read by Sydney's face that it would be a waste of time to argue the point. He was confused, but he knew that he needed to control himself and just listen.

  "Now I am hoping," said Carton to him, "that the name and effect of Doctor Manette may save him tomorrow... you did say he would be before the court again tomorrow, didn't you, Mr. Barsad?"

  "Yes, I believe he will."

  "...as it saved him today. But it may not happen. I must say that I am surprised and worried, Mr. Lorry, that Doctor Manette did not have the power to stop this arrest."

  "He may not have known about it before it happened," said Mr. Lorry.

  "And the surprise would be awful for him, when we remember how cl
ose he is to his daughter's husband."

  "That's true," agreed Mr. Lorry, with his worried hand at his chin and his worried eyes on Carton.

  "In short," said Sydney, "this is a serious time, when serious games must be played with serious effects. The Doctor may play a winning game, but I am working on a losing one. You can't buy a life here. Anyone carried home by the people today may be returned tomorrow. So the reward that I hope to play for is a friend in the court prison, and the friend I plan to win is Mr. Barsad."

  "You would need good cards for that, sir," said the spy.

  "Let's look at them. Let's look at mine first... Mr. Lorry, you know what an animal I am; could I have a little drink?"

  It was put before him, and he finished it quickly... that one and another, before he pushed the bottle away.

  "Mr. Barsad," he went on, in the voice of one who really was looking over a hand of cards. "Prison sheep, working for the Freedom Fighters, one day holding the keys to the prison, the next acting as one of the prisoners, always a spy, giving secret information. So much better for being English, because the French would not think that an Englishman would lie to hurt another Englishman. But he has used a false name in getting his job with the French government. That is a very good card. Mr. Barsad, today working for the French government, but in the past working for the rich English government, the enemy of France and the enemy of freedom. That's a really good card. What they will think is that Mr. Barsad, still working for the rich English government, is a spy for the head of government over there, the enemy of the new France hiding in his heart, the secret English enemy that everyone talks about, but that no one can find. Now that is the best card of all. Have you followed my hand, Mr. Barsad?"

  "Not well enough to understand how you are going to use them," returned the spy with a worried look on his face.

  "I play my best card, by telling the nearest local court about you. And what do you do? Look over your hand, Mr. Barsad, and see what you have. Don't hurry."

  He pulled the bottle closer, poured another glass and finished it off. He could see that the spy was afraid he would drink too much and run off to tell the local leaders. Seeing that, he poured himself another glass and finished that off too.

  "Look over your hand carefully, Mr. Barsad. Take your time."

  It was a worse hand than he had believed. Mr. Barsad could see losing cards that Sydney Carton knew nothing of. He had been forced out of England because his lies had not worked there... not that he was not wanted there, because it was only later that we started acting like we do not have secrets and do not use spies. He knew that he had crossed the Channel and started working for France: first to test and listen in to people from his own country, and then to do the same with the French. He knew that under the old government he had spied on Saint Antoine and on Defarge's wine shop. He had received enough information from the police about Doctor Manette's life, that he was able to talk to the Defarges like an old friend. He had tried them on Madam Defarge, but they did not work at all. He always remembered with fear and shaking that the awful woman had knitted when he talked with her, and had looked dangerously at him as her fingers moved.

  He had seen her in Saint Antoine, over and over, bring out her knitted squares and use them against people whose lives were then taken from them by the guillotine. Like anyone doing his kind of work, he knew that he was never safe, that there was nowhere to run, that he was locked under the shadow of the axe, and that no measure of help for the government that was paying him could stop that axe from falling if someone pointed a finger at him, and on the serious grounds that Sydney Carton had just listed, he knew that awful woman that he had seen hurt so many other people, would bring out the knitting square that would take away his life. Apart from the truth that all who have secrets have reason to fear, here were enough cards of one black shape as to make the one holding them turn them over on the table.

  "You don't seem to like your hand," said Sydney, fully relaxed. "Will you play?"

  "I think, sir," said the spy in the humblest way, as he turned to Mr. Lorry, "I can ask a man of your years and kindness, to ask this other man, so much younger than you, how he could ever play that top card that he talks of. It's true that I am a spy, and people think poorly of me because of it... but someone has to do it. Yet this man is not a spy, so why should he bring himself so low as to do this to me?"

  "I will be playing my card, Mr. Barsad," said Carton, taking it on himself to answer for Mr. Lorry, and looking at his watch, "without any fear, in a very few minutes."

  "I should have hoped, with you both being good men," said the spy, still trying to pull Mr. Lorry into the talk, "that your kind feelings for my sister..."

  "I could not think of a better way to help your sister than to take her brother out of the way," said Sydney Carton.

  "You think there is no better way, sir?”

  "I have made up my mind about it."

  The smooth way of the spy, strangely opposite to his very rough way of dressing, and probably with the way he did much of his business, was so well covered by Carton's ability to hide his true thoughts... for he was a secret to men who were much smarter and more honest than Barsad... that it fell apart at this point. Seeing that Barsad was losing, Carton said, returning to his earlier game of looking at cards:

  "Now that I think about it, I believe I have another good card here, one I haven't yet talked about. That other Sheep, who talked of making a living for himself in the prisons. Who was he?"

  "He's French. You wouldn't know him," said the spy quickly.

  "French, eh?” repeated Carton, thinking to himself, and not showing any interest in Barsad at all, even as he repeated the same word. "Well, he may be."

  "He is. I promise you," said the spy. "But it's not important."

  "But it's not important," repeated Carton in the same empty way. "But it's not important... No, it's not important. No. Yet I know the face."

  "I don't think so. I am sure you do not. It can't be," said the spy.

  "It... can't... be," Sydney Carton said to himself as he played with his glass (which, luckily, was a small one) again. "Can't... be. He spoke good French. But I still thought it sounded like his second language."

  "He's from another part of France," said the spy.

  "No, from another country!" cried Carton, hitting his open hand on the table, as a light broke through to his mind. "Cly! Changed a little, but the same man. We had that man before us at the Old Bailey."

  "Now you have jumped too soon, sir," said Barsad with a smile that made his eagle-like nose move a little to one side. "You have really helped me by accident. You see, Cly (who, at this distance in time, I can freely say had been working with me) has been dead now for a few years. I was with him just before he died. He was buried in London at the church of Saint Pancras in the Fields. The dirty-talking crowds at the time did not like him, and they stopped me from going with him to the burying; but I helped to put him in the box."

  Here, Mr. Lorry could see, from where he was sitting, a strange movement in a shadow on the wall. Looking around the room, he could see that it was a movement in the wild hair on Mr. Cruncher's head.

  "Let us talk about this," said the spy, "and let us be fair. To show you how wrong you are, I will show you a paper showing that Cly was buried, which I just happen to have carried here in my pocket-book ever since that day.” He quickly found it and opened it. "There! Look at it, look at it! You can pick it up. It's real."

  Here, Mr. Lorry saw the shadow on the wall grow taller as Mr. Cruncher stood up and stepped forward. His hair could not have been more wildly on end if it had, at that time, been put in place by the cow with a broken horn in the house that Jack built.

  Without the spy seeing him, Mr. Cruncher moved to his side and touched him on the shoulder like a ghost calling him to court.

  "That there Roger Cly, master," said Mr. Cruncher, with a hard look that needed fe
w words, "so you put him in his box?"

  "I did."

  "And who took him out of it?"

  Barsad leaned back in his chair and said in stops and starts, "What do you mean?"

  "I mean," said Mr. Cruncher, "that he weren't never in it. No! Not he! I'll have my head took off if he was ever in it."

  The spy looked around at the other two men, and they looked at Jerry with such surprise that they could not speak.

  "I tell you," said Jerry, "that you buried stones and dirt in that there box. 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?” Mr. Cruncher said angrily. "So it's you I should of been angry against all this time, with your awful way of hurting honest workers! I'd catch hold of your throat and squeeze it to death for half a pound."

  Sydney Carton, who, with Mr. Lorry, had been lost in surprise at this turn in their business, here asked Mr. Cruncher to back up and tell them what he was on about.

  "At another time, sir," he returned, trying to get away from it. "The present time is not the best for talking. What I stand to is that we knows well enough that there Cly was never in that there box. Let him say he was, in so much as a word, and I'll either catch hold of his throat and squeeze him to death for half a pound...” Mr. Cruncher waited for a second, clearly believing that the next line was the kinder of two choices. "... or I'll out and tell what he did."

  "Hmm! I see that I have another card, Mr. Barsad," said Carton. "It would be impossible, with fear filling the air here in Paris, for you to live if I tell, when they find you are working with another spy for the rich who comes from the same country as yourself, who, himself, has a secret past in which he made people believe he was dead, and then came to life again! A plan in the prisons by two English men against the new government. A strong card... a clear Guillotine card! Do you still want to play against me?"

  "No!" returned the spy. "I give up. It's true that the crowds were against us in London. I was almost drowned, and Cly was so hunted that he would have never been able to get away at all without that burying trick. But I have no way of knowing how this man knows about it."

  "Never you trouble your head about this man," argued Mr. Cruncher. "You'll have trouble enough with listening to that man. And look here! Again!" Mr. Cruncher could not be stopped from showing them all how kind he was. "I'd catch hold of your throat and squeeze it to death for half a pound."

  The prison Sheep turned from him to Sydney Carton, and said more seriously this time, "It has come to a point. I should be starting work soon, and cannot stay here much longer. You said you had a plan you wanted me to help with. What is it? There is no good in asking too much from me. If you ask me to do something in my job that could get me killed, then I'll be happier to face the danger of saying no than the danger of saying yes. Remember that I can say things against you too, and I have ways to get through stone walls, and so can others who are my friends. So what do you want from me?"

  "Not very much. You hold the keys at the court prison?"

  "I'm telling you this once for all, it is not possible to run away from there," said the spy strongly.

  "I don't need answers to questions I have not asked. Do you hold the keys?"

  "I do, at times."

  "You can choose when that will be?”

  "I can come and go as I choose."

  Sydney Carton filled another glass with wine, but poured it slowly on the fire, when no one was looking. When it was all gone, he said, standing:

  "So far we have been talking in front of these other two, because it was good for the strength of the cards to be measured by others apart from you and me. But come into this dark room here, and we can say the last things alone."

  9. The Game Made

  While Sydney Carton and the prison Sheep were in the next room, speaking so softly in the darkness that not a sound was heard, Mr. Lorry was looking at Jerry in a way that showed he did not trust him; and the way Jerry acted on seeing the look made him seem more guilty than ever. He moved from one leg to the other as often as if he had fifty legs and was trying each one of them. He looked at his fingernails too closely. And whenever Mr. Lorry's eyes crossed with his, he would do that strange little cough of his and put his hand over his mouth, which is not an action that makes one think a person is being perfectly open.

  "Jerry," said Mr. Lorry. "Come here."

  Mr. Cruncher moved forward, but did it with one side of his body leading the other side.

  "What work have you been doing, apart from your work for Tellson's?"

  After some thinking, that came with a serious look at his boss, Mr. Cruncher came up with the smart answer, "Farm work, sir. Digging."

  "Something tells me," said Mr. Lorry, angrily shaking a finger at him, "that you have used the great name of Tellson's as a cover, and that you have been doing work that is against the law. If you have, then know that I will not help you when you get back to England. If you have, don't count on me keeping your secret. Tellson's will not be used in this way."

  "I hope, sir," begged the worried Mr. Cruncher, "that a good man like yourself who I have been happy to work for until I am now grey at it, would think twice about hurting me, even if it was true... and I don't say it is, but even if it was. And it is to be took into your thinking that if it was, it wouldn't, even then, be all on one side. There'd be two sides to it. There might be a doctor even now, picking up their pounds where an honest worker don't pick up cents... cents? No, not even his half cents. But they goes banking away like smoke at Tellson's, and a pointing their doctor eyes at that worker on the street, while they's going in and going out of their own coaches, and equally doing that like smoke too, if not more so. Now that'd be using Tellson's too, for you cannot put sauce on the female goose and not put it on the male goose too. And here's Mrs. Crunch, at least she was back when we was in England, and would be again tomorrow, if she had reason to, prayin' against the business so much that she was destroying it... fully destroying it! But the doctor wives, they don't pray... you won't never catch them at it! Or, if they do, their prayers go to getting more sick people for their husbands. So how can you rightly turn on one without the other? Then what with giving something to the men who bury the body, and the man who watches over the church, and all of them greedy, a man wouldn't get much by it, even if it was so. And what little a man did get, would not make him rich, Mr. Lorry. He'd never have no good of it, and he'd want all along to be out of it if he could see his way to, but being once in... even if it was so."

  "Stop it!" cried Mr. Lorry, giving in some, all the same. "I am surprised just to look at you."

  "Now what I would like to humbly give you, sir," went on Mr. Cruncher, "even if it was so, which I don't say it is..."

  "Don't kick around the bush," said Mr. Lorry.

  "No, I will not, sir," returned Mr. Cruncher, as if nothing was farther from his thoughts or actions. "I'm not saying that it is... but what I would humbly want to give you, sir, if it was, would be this. On that chair there at the bank, sits that boy of mine, growed up to be a good worker for you, taking letters here and there and doing every little job for you until your heels are where your head is, if you would like him to do that. If it was so, which I still don't say it is (for I will not kick around the bush to you, sir), then, if it was, let that there boy keep his father's place, so he can take care of his mother; don't blow on that boy's father... do not do it, sir... but let that father go into the line of honest digging, and make up for what he should not have been digging... if it was so... by digging for them with a will and in a faith that would keep them safe for the future. That, Mr. Lorry," said Mr. Cruncher, rubbing his forehead with his arm to show that he had come to the finishing point of what he was trying to say, "is what I would humbly want to give to you, sir. A man don't see all the awful happenings that are going on round him here, in the way of
people without heads, and happening to so many that the price of a life is no more than the cost of carrying it away, without having his serious thoughts of such things. And these here would be my thoughts if it was so kind of you to think that what I said just now, I up and said for a good reason when I might have kept it back."

  "At least that much is true," said Mr. Lorry. "Say no more now. It may be that I will yet be your friend, if I think you have repented... in action, and not just in words. I want no more words."

  Mr. Cruncher rubbed his fist on his forehead, as Sydney Carton and the spy returned from the dark room.

  "Goodbye, Mr. Barsad," said Carton. "If you stick to this agreement, you have nothing to fear from me."

  He sat down in a chair by the fireplace, next to Mr. Lorry. When they were alone, Mr. Lorry asked him what he had done.

  "Not much. If it goes wrong with the prisoner, I will be able to have one visit with him."

  The look on Mr. Lorry's face fell.

  "It's all I could do," said Carton. "To ask too much would put this man's head under the axe, and, as he said himself, nothing worse could happen if I turned him in. It was the weakest part of our game. There is nothing we can do about that."

  "But visiting him," said Mr. Lorry, "if it goes wrong before the court, will not save him."

  "I never said it would."

  Mr. Lorry's eyes slowly turned to the fire. His deep feeling for the one he loved, and the great sadness he felt on learning of his second arrest, slowly reached his eyes. He was an old man now, carrying too many worries at this time, and so his tears fell.

  "You are a good man and a true friend," said Carton in a changed voice. "Forgive me for seeing the effect this is having on you. I could not see my father cry and sit by without doing anything. And I could not feel your sadness more if you were my father. At least you are lucky that you are not."

  With those last words, he returned to his old way; but there was true feeling and love both in his voice and his touch that Mr. Lorry, who had never seen the better side of him, was not at all prepared for. He gave him his hand, and Carton squeezed it softly.

  "To get back to poor Darnay," said Carton. "Don't tell her of this meeting, or of this agreement. It will not be possible for her to go see him. She might think that it is just a last minute plan to see him before he dies, and it will destroy her hope."

  Mr. Lorry had not thought of that, and he looked quickly at Carton to see if that may have been what he was thinking. It seemed to be. Carton returned the look, showing that he understood what Mr. Lorry was thinking.

  "She might think a thousand things," Carton said, "and any of them would only add to her trouble. Don't say anything to her about me. As I said when I first came, I had better not see her. I can reach my hand out to help in any little way that I can find, without her needing to know. You are going to her, I hope? She must be very sad tonight."

  "I am going now, when we finish."

  "I am glad of that. She has such a strong love for you, and faith in you. How does she look?"

  "Worried and sad, but very beautiful."

  "Ah!"

  It was a long, sad sound, like a slow breathing out... almost like he was crying. It pulled Mr. Lorry's eyes to Carton's face, which was turned to the fire. A light, or a shadow (the old man could not have said which), came away from it as quickly as a change will move over the side of a hill on a clear windy day, and he lifted his foot to put back one of the little burning pieces of timber, which was falling forward. He was wearing the white riding coat and tall heavy boots that people often liked to wear then, and the light of the fire touching the light colour of his clothes made him look very white, with his long brown hair, not cut at all, hanging loose around him. He seemed to show so little interest in the fire that Mr. Lorry had to shout out to him. His foot was still on the burning piece of timber when it had broken under the weight of it.

  "I had forgotten it," he said.

  Mr. Lorry's eyes were again pulled to Sydney's face. He saw a finished empty look in what had always been a good-looking face, and it made him think of the look on the faces of prisoners that he had been seeing so much of at that time.

  "And your work here is almost finished?” said Carton, turning to him.

  "Yes, as I was telling you last night when Lucie came in by surprise, I have at last done all I can do here. I had been hoping that they would be perfectly safe before I left Paris. I have my papers to take me through the gates. I was ready to go."

  They both said nothing.

  "Yours is a long life to look back on, sir?” Carton said sadly.

  "I am seventy-eight."

  "You have used your whole life well; always busy; trusted; loved; and looked up to?"

  "I have been a man of business for as long as I have been a man. In truth, I may say that I was a man of business when I was a boy."

  "See what a place you fill at seventy eight. So many people will miss you when you leave it empty!"

  "One man without a family," answered Mr. Lorry, shaking his head. "There is nobody to cry for me."

  "How can you say that? Wouldn't she cry for you? Wouldn't her child?"

  "Yes, yes, thank God. I didn't quite mean what I said.”

  "It is something to thank God for, is it not?"

  "Yes, surely."

  "If you could say, with truth, to yourself alone tonight, 'I have not been able to win the love and trust of even one person; there is no one who has a soft place in their heart for me; I have done nothing good to be remembered by!' your seventy-eight years would be seventy-eight heavy curses, would they not?"

  "You are right, Mr. Carton. I think they would be."

  Sydney turned his eyes again on the fire, and after another quiet wait, he said:

  "I would like to ask you: Does it seem a long time ago that you were a child? Do the days when you sat at your mother's knee seem to be very far away?"

  Answering to this soft side of Sydney Carton, Mr. Lorry said:

  "Twenty years back, I would have said yes. But at this time of my life, no. For, as I come closer and closer to the end, I travel in a circle, nearer and nearer to the start. It seems to be one of the kind things that prepares me and smooths the way for me. My heart is touched now by many things that I remember, which had been buried in my mind before now. Things about my beautiful young mother (as old as I am!), and about thoughts and feelings I had before what we call 'the World' was so real to me, and before others knew how many things were wrong with me."

  "I understand the feeling!" said Carton with some enthusiasm. "And are you better for it?"

  "I hope so."

  Carton ended his talk there, by standing to help Mr. Lorry on with his over coat. "But you," said Mr. Lorry, returning to what they had been talking about, "you are young."

  "Yes," said Carton. "I am not old, but my young way was never the way to become old either. But enough about me."

  "And about me, too, I'm sure," said Mr. Lorry. "Are you going out?"

  "I'll walk with you to her gate. You know my strange ways. If I should be out walking the streets for a long time, don't worry. I'll be back in the morning. Are you going to the court tomorrow?"

  "Yes, sadly."

  "I'll be there, but only as one of the crowd. My spy friend will find a place for me. Take my arm, sir."

  Mr. Lorry did so, and they went down the steps and out in the streets. In a few minutes Mr. Lorry reached where he had been planning to go. Carton left him there, but waited around near there, and turned back to the gate again after it was closed, to touch it. He had heard about her going to the prison every day. "She came out here," he said, looking around him, "turned this way, must have stepped on these stones often. I will follow in her steps."

  It was ten o'clock at night when he stood before La Force, where she had stood hundreds of times. A little woodcutter, having closed for the night, was smoking his pipe at the door of his sh
op.

  "Good evening, countryman," said Sydney Carton, stopping as he was going by, because the man looked like he wanted to know why he was there.

  "Good evening, countryman."

  "And how is the country going?"

  "You mean Guillotine. Not badly. Sixty-three today. We will jump to a hundred soon. Samson and his men say at times that they are too tired from all the work. Ha, ha, ha! He is so funny. And the way he shaves!"

  "Do you often go to see him..."

  "See him shave? Always. Every day. What a man! Have you seen him at work?”

  "Never."

  "Go and see him when he has a good group to work on. Work this out, countryman: He shaved the sixty-three today in less than two pipes! Less than two pipes. I give you my word!"

  As the happy little man held out the pipe he was smoking, to show how he timed the killings, Carton was so full of a growing wish to knock the life out of him, that he turned away.

  "But are you not English," said the woodcutter, "for you wear English clothes."

  "Yes," said Carton, stopping again and answering over his shoulder.

  "You speak like a Frenchman."

  "I was a student here in the past."

  "Ah, a perfect Frenchman! Good night, Englishman."

  "Good night, countryman."

  "But do go and see that funny dog," the little man went on, calling after him. "And take a pipe with you!"

  Sydney had not gone far past where the man could see him when he stopped in the middle of the street under a lantern, and wrote with his pencil on a piece of paper. Then, covering with the confident steps of one who knew the way well, quite a few dark and dirty streets... much dirtier than in the past, because even the best roads were not cleaned in those times of killing and fear... he stopped at a shop where he could buy medicines and chemicals, where the owner was just closing up for the night. It was a small dark bent shop kept on a steep hill by a small dark bent man.

  Giving this countryman, too, a good evening, as he met him at his counter, he put the piece of paper in front of him. "Well!" the owner whistled softly as he read it. "Hello, hello, hello!"

  Sydney Carton showed no interest, and the man said: "For you, countryman?"

  "For me."

  "You will be careful to keep them separate, countryman? You know what will happen if you mix them?"

  "Perfectly."

  Some small containers were made and given to him. He put them, one by one, in the top pocket of his under coat, counted out the money for them, and confidently left the shop. "There is nothing more to do," he said to himself, looking up toward the moon, “until tomorrow. But I can't sleep."

  He was not saying those words in anger, as he said them out loud under the fast-sailing clouds. They were not said in a lazy way either. They were said by a tired man who had gone the wrong way, became lost, and then, at last, found his way again and could see where it was leading.

  Long ago, when other students saw him as one with great ability, he had buried his father. His mother had died years before that. The words that were read as his father was being buried came to him now as he went down the dark streets with their heavy shadows, and with the moon and the clouds sailing by high above him. "I am life and the giver of life, says the Lord. He that believes in me, even when he dies, he will still live. And anyone who lives and believes in me will never die."

  In a city with an axe hanging over it, alone at night, feeling sadness for the 63 people who had been killed that day, and for those in the prisons waiting to die tomorrow and in other tomorrows after that, it was easy to see how one thought would lead to the other like each circle in a chain, pulling a rusty old ship's anchor up from the deep. He did not go looking for those words, but still, they went through his head before he walked on.

  Sydney Carton had a serious interest in the whole life and death of the city this night, from the lights in windows, where people were about to take a few hours of rest from the cruel and awful actions that were happening all around them, to the church towers where no prayers were being said because the people had lost faith in a Christianity where the priests were false, evil robbers. He thought of the burying grounds, where signs on the gates said they were for people who were in "eternal sleep", of the crowded prisons, and of so many sixties of prisoners rolling to their deaths on those streets that people never even thought of sad stories about the guilt the guillotine workers might feel now. Sydney Carton then crossed the river to the lighter streets.

  There were few coaches these days, because those who had enough money to ride in them were afraid that it would give them away as being part of the rich class. The rich were now hiding their heads under red hats, and wearing heavy shoes that were made for long walks. But the theatres were all filled, and the people poured happily out of them as he walked by, and they walked home talking to each other. At one of the theatre doors there was a little girl with her mother, looking for a way to cross the street through the mud. He carried the child over, and before the shy arm was loosed from around his neck, he asked her for a kiss.

  "I am life and the giver of life, says the Lord. He that believes in me, even when he dies, he will still live. And anyone who lives and believes in me will never die."

  Now that the streets were quiet and the night was wearing on, the words came back to him at the sound of his own steps and through the night air. Perfectly relaxed and clear, he sometimes repeated the words to himself as he walked; but even when he was not saying them, he was hearing them.

  The night was coming to an end, and, as he stood on the bridge listening to the water hitting against the sides of the island that is Paris, where the picture-like confusion of houses and churches could be seen clearly in the light of the moon, the day came coldly, looking like a dead face out of the sky. Then the night, with the moon and the stars, turned white and died, and for a little while it seemed as if those things that God had made had died with it.

  But the wonderful sun, as it came up, seemed to write those words, the ones he had carried through the night, straight and warm on his heart. Looking along the lines of sunlight, with his hand half covering his eyes, it seemed like a bridge of light between him and the sun, with the river looking beautiful below it.

  The strong movement of the river, so fast, so deep, and so sure, was like a welcome friend in the quiet early morning hours. He walked by the water, far from the houses, and in the light and heat of the sun, he fell asleep on the side of it. When he was awake and on his feet again, he stayed there for a short time, watching a round movement in the water that turned and turned without any clear direction, until the river swallowed it up and carried it on to the ocean. "Like me!" he thought.

  A boat with a sail that was the same soft colour of a dead leaf moved quietly by him and died away. As the line behind the boat was swallowed up as well, a prayer that had come up out of his heart, asking forgiveness for all of his blind and selfish actions, ended in the words, "I am life, and the giver of life."

  Mr. Lorry was already out when he returned, and it was easy to say where he had gone. Sydney Carton had nothing but a little coffee and some bread, and, having washed and changed clothes, went to the court.

  The court room was already full when the black sheep (whom many fell away from in fear) squeezed him into a back corner. Mr. Lorry was there, and Doctor Manette. She was there, sitting beside her father.

  When her husband was brought in, she turned a look toward him that was so strong, so encouraging, so full of love and kindness, yet so brave for him, that it brought healthy blood to her husband's face, lighting up his eyes, and moving his heart. If there had been any eyes looking to see the effect of her look on Sydney Carton, they would have seen the same thing there.

  Before that awful court there was little or no plan that would give any prisoner brought there the feeling that they would be heard fairly. But there would never have been a change of government in the first place i
f all the laws and rules had not first been awfully broken. And now the winds of war had confused things even more.

  Every eye was turned toward the jury. It was the same freedom fighters and countrymen who had been there yesterday and the day before, and who would be there tomorrow and the day after. One enthusiastic member who seemed to be a leader to the others, with a hungry face, and his fingers always moving around his lips, was well liked by the people in the crowd. This blood thirsty man of the jury was Jack Three from St. Antoine. The whole jury was like a group of wild dogs being asked to say what they should do with a deer.

  Every eye then turned to the five judges and the lawyer for the government. There was no one in that group who would help them today. Their business was to cut down and kill without mercy. Then every eye looked for some other eye in the crowd, and they smiled at each other and moved their heads in agreement, before bending forward with serious interest in what was going to happen.

  Charles Evremonde, called Darnay. Freed yesterday. Arrested again yesterday. Papers listing his wrongs given to him last night. Believed to be an enemy of the new government, from the rich class, one of a family of evil leaders, one of a group named for the same thing, because they had used their past powers in awful acts against the people. Charles Evremonde, called Darnay, if the arguments are true, will be perfectly dead by the law.

  This is, in as few or fewer words, what the lawyer for the government said.

  The President asked if the arguments against the prisoner were given openly or secretly.

  "Openly, President."

  "By whom?"

  "Three voices. Ernest Defarge, wine seller of St. Antoine.”

  "Good."

  "Therese Defarge, his wife."

  "Good."

  "Alexander Manette, doctor."

  A great cry from the crowd broke out, and in the middle of it was Doctor Manette, turned white and shaking, who was now standing where he had been sitting.

  "President, I angrily disagree. This argument is false, a counterfeit. You know the prisoner to be the husband of my daughter. My daughter and those she loves are far more important to me than my own life. Who and where is the person who falsely says that I have spoken against the husband of my child?"

  "Countryman Manette, be quiet. If you do not follow the rules of the court, you will make yourself an enemy of the Law. As to what you love more than life, nothing can be more important to a good countryman than the government of his country."

  Loud shouts were again heard in the court. Doctor Manette sat down, with his eyes looking around and his lips shaking. His daughter moved closer to him. The hungry faced man on the jury rubbed his hands together and then returned the hand to his mouth that was always there.

  Defarge came forward, when the court was quiet enough to hear him, and quickly told the story of the Doctor going to prison (He said he was only a boy working for the Doctor when it happened.) and of him being freed from prison and how he was when he arrived at his wine shop. The court moved quickly, so only these few words followed what Defarge had to say:

  "You served the country well when we took control of that prison, did you not, countryman?"

  "I believe I did."

  Here, an enthusiastic woman shouted from the crowd: "You were one of the best freedom fighters there. Why not say so? You were on one of the cannons that day there, and you were one of the first to go into that awful prison when it fell. Countrymen, I speak the truth!"

  It was The Punisher who, warmly encouraged by the crowd, was helping the court in this way. The President shook his bell, but The Punisher, still being encouraged by the others, shouted in a high voice, "I will not stop for the bell!" with others encouraging her for that too.

  "Tell us what you did that day in the prison, countryman."

  "I knew...” said Defarge, looking at his wife, who was standing at the bottom of the steps to where he was standing, looking up at him. "I knew the Doctor had been held in a room known as One Hundred and Five, North Tower. I knew it from himself. He knew himself only as One Hundred and Five North Tower when he made shoes under my care. I'm out there using my gun, and I say to myself, 'I'm going to see that room for myself when the prison falls.' It falls. I climb up to the room with another countryman who is one of the jury. A guard leads us. I look over the room very closely. In a hole in the fireplace, where a stone had been worked out and then returned, I find a written paper. This is that paper. I have made it my business to study other papers with Doctor Manette's writing on them, and this is the Doctor's writing. I am giving this paper, in the writing of Doctor Manette, to the President."

  "Let it be read."

  The room was deathly quiet. The prisoner looked lovingly at his wife as she turned to look with worry and care at her father. Doctor Manette looked at the reader; Madam Defarge never took her eyes off the prisoner, Defarge never took his eyes from his wife who was feeling quite proud and happy about what was happening; and all of the other eyes there were on the Doctor, who saw none of them. The paper was then read out to them all, as follows.

  10. The Shadow Uncovered

  I, Alexander Manette, a doctor born in Beauvais and living in Paris, write this sad story in my sad prison room, in the last month of the year 1767. I am writing it secretly, at times when no one is near, and I plan to hide it in the wall of the chimney, where I have worked hard and long to make a hiding place for it. Some kind hand may find it there when I and my sadness are dust.

  The words are made with a rusty iron point, using coal from the chimney and blood to make ink. It is the last month of the tenth year that I have been here. All hope is gone now. I can tell from awful signs that I see in my own thinking that my mind will not stay clear for long, but I can say seriously that I am at this time in control of my right mind, that I can remember things very clearly, and that what I am writing here will be the truth, because I will be forced to answer for what I write here, even if others never read it, when I stand before God.

  One cloudy night in the third week of December (I think it was the twenty-second.) in the year 1757, I was walking on a quiet part of the Seine River, near where the ships tie up, just to be out in the cold air, about one hour's walk from my home in the Street of the School of Medicine, when a coach came up behind me, moving very quickly. I moved to the side to let it pass, fearing that it might run me down, when a head was put out of the window and a voice called to the driver to stop.

  The coach stopped as soon as the driver could pull up the horses, and the same voice called to me by name. I answered. The coach was then so far in front of me that two men had time to open the door and step out before I came up to it. I could see that they were both wearing coats, and seemed to be hiding their faces. As they stood side by side near the coach door, I also saw that they were both about my own age, or a little younger, and that they looked the same, in size, actions, voices, and (as far as I could see) faces too.

  "Are you Doctor Manette?” asked one.

  "I am."

  "Doctor Manette, earlier from Beauvais," said the other, "the young doctor who has, in the past year or two, become well known and liked here in Paris?"

  "I am that Doctor Manette that you are speaking about so kindly," I returned.

  "We have been to your home," said the first, "and were not able to find you there; but we learned that you were walking in this direction, so we followed, in the hope of finding you. Will you please come with us in the coach?"

  They both talked like I had no choice, and they both moved, as they were saying these words, so as to put me between themselves and the door of the coach. They had weapons and I did not.

  "Sirs," I said, "forgive me, but when I go to help someone, I ask who wants my help, and what the problem is that I am being asked to fix."

  The answer to this came from the one who had been second to answer. "Doctor, you are talking to people of high class. Our confidence in your ability as a do
ctor lets us know that you will be the best one to say what the problem is. That is enough. Now, will you please get into the coach?"

  I could do nothing but obey, and I climbed in, saying nothing. They both climbed in after me, the last one jumping in after lifting the steps. The coach then turned and returned to its fast driving.

  I am repeating this just as it happened. I have no fear that it is, word for word, the same as what was said and what happened, forcing my mind not to think of anything apart from what I am saying here. When I make some broken marks after this, it means that I have stopped for a while and put the paper in its hiding place.

  The coach left the city through the north gate, and came out on a country road. About two miles from the city it turned off it onto a side road, and soon stopped at a house standing alone. All three of us stepped out of the coach and walked over a wet, soft walk way in a garden where an old fountain was running over with too much water. The house door was not opened quickly, in answer to the bell, and so one of the two men with me hit the man who opened it, across the face, with his heavy riding gloves.

  There was nothing in his action to surprise me, for I had seen poor people hit more often than dogs. The other man, also being angry, hit the servant in the same way with his arm. The look and action of the men were so perfectly the same that I then understood that they were brothers who had been born at the same time.

  From the time that we left the coach at the outside gate (which one of the brothers had opened to let us in before having it locked again), I had heard cries coming from a room at the top of the house. I was led straight to the room, the cries growing louder as we climbed the steps. I found her on a bed with a burning heat in her brain.

  She was a beautiful young woman, clearly not more than twenty. Some of her hair had been pulled out, and her arms were tied to her sides with pieces of cloth. I saw that the cloths had all come from a man's clothes. On one of them, a beautiful scarf, I saw the pattern of a high class family, and the letter E.

  I saw this soon after I arrived, because the woman, in her wild movements on the bed, had turned over on her face at the side of the bed and pulled the end of the scarf into her mouth. She was in danger of not being able to breathe because of it. My first act was to pull it out so she could breathe, and in moving the scarf, I saw the letter in the corner of it.

  I turned her over carefully, put my hands on her breast to hold her down and to help her rest, as I looked into her face. Her eyes were big and wild, and she made very loud, high shouts, followed by the words, "My husband, my father, and my brother!" and then she counted up to twelve, and said, "Quiet!"

  For a very short time she would stop to listen, and then she would start the loud, high shouts again, and she would repeat the words, "My husband, my father, and my brother!" and she would count to twelve and say, "Quiet!" There was no break in the noise, apart from the short time after she said "Quiet!" each time.

  "How long has this lasted?” I asked.

  To separate the brothers, I will call them the older and the younger. By older, I mean the one who seemed to be the leader. It was the older who answered, "Since about this time last night."

  "She has a husband, a father, and a brother?”

  "A brother."

  "You're not her brother?"

  "No," he answered with a look of hate.

  "Has something happened that would lead her to the number twelve?"

  The younger brother answered quickly, "With twelve o'clock?"

  "Can you see, sirs," said I, still keeping my hands on her breast, "how little I can do, because of the way that you brought me? If I had known what I was coming to see, I could have come with the things I would need. As it is, we will lose time. There are no medicines to be found this far out of the city."

  The older brother looked at the young one, who said proudly, "There is a box of medicines here," and he brought it from a little room and put it on the table.

  I opened some of the bottles, smelled them, and put the tops to my lips. If I had wanted to use anything apart from hard drugs that would put a person to sleep, but which were poisons in themselves, I would not have used any of those.

  "You don't trust them?” asked the younger brother.

  "I'm going to use them," I answered, and said no more.

  With much work, I forced the woman to swallow as much as I believed she needed. Because I needed to watch the effect of the drug, and because I would be giving her more soon, I sat down beside the bed. There was a shy, controlled woman (wife of the man who had opened the door earlier), more or less hiding in a corner of the room. The house was wet and run down, with poor furniture. Someone had been staying there, but not for very long. Thick old curtains had been nailed over the windows, to stop some of the sound from her shouting. She did not stop her shouting, or the cry, "My husband, my father, and my brother!" before counting up to twelve, and then "Quiet!" Her movements were so wild that I left on the cloths that were holding her arms; but I did look at them to be sure they were not hurting her. The only help I could give was that my hand on the woman's breast had the effect of stopping her movements for a few minutes at a time. It had no effect on the cries; no clock could be more measured than her cries.

  Because I believed that my hand had a good effect, I stayed by the side of the bed for half an hour, with the two brothers looking on, before the older one said:

  "There is another person you should see."

  I was surprised, and I asked, "Is it serious?"

  "You had better see," he answered, without much thought, and he picked up a light.