XXIV. Drawn to the Loadstone Rock
In such risings of fire and risings of sea--the firm earth shaken bythe rushes of an angry ocean which had now no ebb, but was always on theflow, higher and higher, to the terror and wonder of the beholders onthe shore--three years of tempest were consumed. Three more birthdaysof little Lucie had been woven by the golden thread into the peacefultissue of the life of her home.
Many a night and many a day had its inmates listened to the echoes inthe corner, with hearts that failed them when they heard the throngingfeet. For, the footsteps had become to their minds as the footsteps ofa people, tumultuous under a red flag and with their country declared indanger, changed into wild beasts, by terrible enchantment long persistedin.
Monseigneur, as a class, had dissociated himself from the phenomenon ofhis not being appreciated: of his being so little wanted in France, asto incur considerable danger of receiving his dismissal from it, andthis life together. Like the fabled rustic who raised the Devil withinfinite pains, and was so terrified at the sight of him that he couldask the Enemy no question, but immediately fled; so, Monseigneur, afterboldly reading the Lord's Prayer backwards for a great number of years,and performing many other potent spells for compelling the Evil One, nosooner beheld him in his terrors than he took to his noble heels.
The shining Bull's Eye of the Court was gone, or it would have been themark for a hurricane of national bullets. It had never been a goodeye to see with--had long had the mote in it of Lucifer's pride,Sardanapalus's luxury, and a mole's blindness--but it had droppedout and was gone. The Court, from that exclusive inner circle to itsoutermost rotten ring of intrigue, corruption, and dissimulation, wasall gone together. Royalty was gone; had been besieged in its Palace and”suspended,” when the last tidings came over.
The August of the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety-two wascome, and Monseigneur was by this time scattered far and wide.
As was natural, the head-quarters and great gathering-place ofMonseigneur, in London, was Tellson's Bank. Spirits are supposed tohaunt the places where their bodies most resorted, and Monseigneurwithout a guinea haunted the spot where his guineas used to be.Moreover, it was the spot to which such French intelligence as was mostto be relied upon, came quickest. Again: Tellson's was a munificenthouse, and extended great liberality to old customers who had fallenfrom their high estate. Again: those nobles who had seen the comingstorm in time, and anticipating plunder or confiscation, had madeprovident remittances to Tellson's, were always to be heard of thereby their needy brethren. To which it must be added that every new-comerfrom France reported himself and his tidings at Tellson's, almost asa matter of course. For such variety of reasons, Tellson's was at thattime, as to French intelligence, a kind of High Exchange; and thiswas so well known to the public, and the inquiries made there were inconsequence so numerous, that Tellson's sometimes wrote the latest newsout in a line or so and posted it in the Bank windows, for all who ranthrough Temple Bar to read.
On a steaming, misty afternoon, Mr. Lorry sat at his desk, and CharlesDarnay stood leaning on it, talking with him in a low voice. Thepenitential den once set apart for interviews with the House, was nowthe news-Exchange, and was filled to overflowing. It was within half anhour or so of the time of closing.
”But, although you are the youngest man that ever lived,” said CharlesDarnay, rather hesitating, ”I must still suggest to you--”
”I understand. That I am too old?” said Mr. Lorry.
”Unsettled weather, a long journey, uncertain means of travelling, adisorganised country, a city that may not be even safe for you.”
”My dear Charles,” said Mr. Lorry, with cheerful confidence, ”you touchsome of the reasons for my going: not for my staying away. It is safeenough for me; nobody will care to interfere with an old fellow of hardupon fourscore when there are so many people there much better worthinterfering with. As to its being a disorganised city, if it were not adisorganised city there would be no occasion to send somebody from ourHouse here to our House there, who knows the city and the business, ofold, and is in Tellson's confidence. As to the uncertain travelling, thelong journey, and the winter weather, if I were not prepared to submitmyself to a few inconveniences for the sake of Tellson's, after allthese years, who ought to be?”
”I wish I were going myself,” said Charles Darnay, somewhat restlessly,and like one thinking aloud.
”Indeed! You are a pretty fellow to object and advise!” exclaimed Mr.Lorry. ”You wish you were going yourself? And you a Frenchman born? Youare a wise counsellor.”
”My dear Mr. Lorry, it is because I am a Frenchman born, that thethought (which I did not mean to utter here, however) has passed throughmy mind often. One cannot help thinking, having had some sympathy forthe miserable people, and having abandoned something to them,” he spokehere in his former thoughtful manner, ”that one might be listened to,and might have the power to persuade to some restraint. Only last night,after you had left us, when I was talking to Lucie--”
”When you were talking to Lucie,” Mr. Lorry repeated. ”Yes. I wonder youare not ashamed to mention the name of Lucie! Wishing you were going toFrance at this time of day!”
”However, I am not going,” said Charles Darnay, with a smile. ”It ismore to the purpose that you say you are.”
”And I am, in plain reality. The truth is, my dear Charles,” Mr. Lorryglanced at the distant House, and lowered his voice, ”you can have noconception of the difficulty with which our business is transacted, andof the peril in which our books and papers over yonder are involved. TheLord above knows what the compromising consequences would be to numbersof people, if some of our documents were seized or destroyed; and theymight be, at any time, you know, for who can say that Paris is not setafire to-day, or sacked to-morrow! Now, a judicious selection from thesewith the least possible delay, and the burying of them, or otherwisegetting of them out of harm's way, is within the power (without loss ofprecious time) of scarcely any one but myself, if any one. And shallI hang back, when Tellson's knows this and says this--Tellson's, whosebread I have eaten these sixty years--because I am a little stiff aboutthe joints? Why, I am a boy, sir, to half a dozen old codgers here!”
”How I admire the gallantry of your youthful spirit, Mr. Lorry.”
”Tut! Nonsense, sir!--And, my dear Charles,” said Mr. Lorry, glancing atthe House again, ”you are to remember, that getting things out ofParis at this present time, no matter what things, is next to animpossibility. Papers and precious matters were this very day broughtto us here (I speak in strict confidence; it is not business-like towhisper it, even to you), by the strangest bearers you can imagine,every one of whom had his head hanging on by a single hair as he passedthe Barriers. At another time, our parcels would come and go, as easilyas in business-like Old England; but now, everything is stopped.”
”And do you really go to-night?”
”I really go to-night, for the case has become too pressing to admit ofdelay.”
”And do you take no one with you?”
”All sorts of people have been proposed to me, but I will have nothingto say to any of them. I intend to take Jerry. Jerry has been mybodyguard on Sunday nights for a long time past and I am used to him.Nobody will suspect Jerry of being anything but an English bull-dog, orof having any design in his head but to fly at anybody who touches hismaster.”
”I must say again that I heartily admire your gallantry andyouthfulness.”
”I must say again, nonsense, nonsense! When I have executed this littlecommission, I shall, perhaps, accept Tellson's proposal to retire andlive at my ease. Time enough, then, to think about growing old.”
This dialogue had taken place at Mr. Lorry's usual desk, withMonseigneur swarming within a yard or two of it, boastful of what hewould do to avenge himself on the rascal-people before long. It was toomuch the way of Monseigneur under his reverses as a refugee, and itwas much too much the way of native British orthodoxy, to talk of thisterrible Revolution as if it were the only harvest ever known underthe skies that had not been sown--as if nothing had ever been done, oromitted to be done, that had led to it--as if observers of the wretchedmillions in France, and of the misused and perverted resources thatshould have made them prosperous, had not seen it inevitably coming,years before, and had not in plain words recorded what they saw. Suchvapouring, combined with the extravagant plots of Monseigneur for therestoration of a state of things that had utterly exhausted itself,and worn out Heaven and earth as well as itself, was hard to be enduredwithout some remonstrance by any sane man who knew the truth. And it wassuch vapouring all about his ears, like a troublesome confusion of bloodin his own head, added to a latent uneasiness in his mind, which hadalready made Charles Darnay restless, and which still kept him so.
Among the talkers, was Stryver, of the King's Bench Bar, far on hisway to state promotion, and, therefore, loud on the theme: broachingto Monseigneur, his devices for blowing the people up and exterminatingthem from the face of the earth, and doing without them: and foraccomplishing many similar objects akin in their nature to the abolitionof eagles by sprinkling salt on the tails of the race. Him, Darnay heardwith a particular feeling of objection; and Darnay stood divided betweengoing away that he might hear no more, and remaining to interpose hisword, when the thing that was to be, went on to shape itself out.
The House approached Mr. Lorry, and laying a soiled and unopened letterbefore him, asked if he had yet discovered any traces of the person towhom it was addressed? The House laid the letter down so close to Darnaythat he saw the direction--the more quickly because it was his own rightname. The address, turned into English, ran:
”Very pressing. To Monsieur heretofore the Marquis St. Evremonde, ofFrance. Confided to the cares of Messrs. Tellson and Co., Bankers,London, England.”
On the marriage morning, Doctor Manette had made it his one urgent andexpress request to Charles Darnay, that the secret of this name shouldbe--unless he, the Doctor, dissolved the obligation--kept inviolatebetween them. Nobody else knew it to be his name; his own wife had nosuspicion of the fact; Mr. Lorry could have none.
”No,” said Mr. Lorry, in reply to the House; ”I have referred it,I think, to everybody now here, and no one can tell me where thisgentleman is to be found.”
The hands of the clock verging upon the hour of closing the Bank, therewas a general set of the current of talkers past Mr. Lorry's desk. Heheld the letter out inquiringly; and Monseigneur looked at it, in theperson of this plotting and indignant refugee; and Monseigneur looked atit in the person of that plotting and indignant refugee; and This, That,and The Other, all had something disparaging to say, in French or inEnglish, concerning the Marquis who was not to be found.
”Nephew, I believe--but in any case degenerate successor--of thepolished Marquis who was murdered,” said one. ”Happy to say, I neverknew him.”
”A craven who abandoned his post,” said another--this Monseigneur hadbeen got out of Paris, legs uppermost and half suffocated, in a load ofhay--”some years ago.”
”Infected with the new doctrines,” said a third, eyeing the directionthrough his glass in passing; ”set himself in opposition to the lastMarquis, abandoned the estates when he inherited them, and left them tothe ruffian herd. They will recompense him now, I hope, as he deserves.”
”Hey?” cried the blatant Stryver. ”Did he though? Is that the sort offellow? Let us look at his infamous name. D--n the fellow!”
Darnay, unable to restrain himself any longer, touched Mr. Stryver onthe shoulder, and said:
”I know the fellow.”
”Do you, by Jupiter?” said Stryver. ”I am sorry for it.”
”Why?”
”Why, Mr. Darnay? D'ye hear what he did? Don't ask, why, in thesetimes.”
”But I do ask why?”
”Then I tell you again, Mr. Darnay, I am sorry for it. I am sorry tohear you putting any such extraordinary questions. Here is a fellow,who, infected by the most pestilent and blasphemous code of devilry thatever was known, abandoned his property to the vilest scum of the earththat ever did murder by wholesale, and you ask me why I am sorry that aman who instructs youth knows him? Well, but I'll answer you. I am sorrybecause I believe there is contamination in such a scoundrel. That'swhy.”
Mindful of the secret, Darnay with great difficulty checked himself, andsaid: ”You may not understand the gentleman.”
”I understand how to put _you_ in a corner, Mr. Darnay,” said BullyStryver, ”and I'll do it. If this fellow is a gentleman, I _don't_understand him. You may tell him so, with my compliments. You may alsotell him, from me, that after abandoning his worldly goods and positionto this butcherly mob, I wonder he is not at the head of them. But, no,gentlemen,” said Stryver, looking all round, and snapping his fingers,”I know something of human nature, and I tell you that you'll neverfind a fellow like this fellow, trusting himself to the mercies of suchprecious _proteges_. No, gentlemen; he'll always show 'em a clean pairof heels very early in the scuffle, and sneak away.”
With those words, and a final snap of his fingers, Mr. Stryvershouldered himself into Fleet-street, amidst the general approbation ofhis hearers. Mr. Lorry and Charles Darnay were left alone at the desk,in the general departure from the Bank.
”Will you take charge of the letter?” said Mr. Lorry. ”You know where todeliver it?”
”I do.”
”Will you undertake to explain, that we suppose it to have beenaddressed here, on the chance of our knowing where to forward it, andthat it has been here some time?”
”I will do so. Do you start for Paris from here?”
”From here, at eight.”
”I will come back, to see you off.”
Very ill at ease with himself, and with Stryver and most other men,Darnay made the best of his way into the quiet of the Temple, opened theletter, and read it. These were its contents:
”Prison of the Abbaye, Paris.
”June 21, 1792. ”MONSIEUR HERETOFORE THE MARQUIS.
”After having long been in danger of my life at the hands of thevillage, I have been seized, with great violence and indignity, andbrought a long journey on foot to Paris. On the road I have suffered agreat deal. Nor is that all; my house has been destroyed--razed to theground.
”The crime for which I am imprisoned, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis,and for which I shall be summoned before the tribunal, and shall lose mylife (without your so generous help), is, they tell me, treason againstthe majesty of the people, in that I have acted against them for anemigrant. It is in vain I represent that I have acted for them, and notagainst, according to your commands. It is in vain I represent that,before the sequestration of emigrant property, I had remitted theimposts they had ceased to pay; that I had collected no rent; that I hadhad recourse to no process. The only response is, that I have acted foran emigrant, and where is that emigrant?
”Ah! most gracious Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, where is thatemigrant? I cry in my sleep where is he? I demand of Heaven, will henot come to deliver me? No answer. Ah Monsieur heretofore the Marquis,I send my desolate cry across the sea, hoping it may perhaps reach yourears through the great bank of Tilson known at Paris!
”For the love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the honour ofyour noble name, I supplicate you, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, tosuccour and release me. My fault is, that I have been true to you. OhMonsieur heretofore the Marquis, I pray you be you true to me!
”From this prison here of horror, whence I every hour tend nearer andnearer to destruction, I send you, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, theassurance of my dolorous and unhappy service.
”Your afflicted,
”Gabelle.”
The latent uneasiness in Darnay's mind was roused to vigourous lifeby this letter. The peril of an old servant and a good one, whoseonly crime was fidelity to himself and his family, stared him soreproachfully in the face, that, as he walked to and fro in the Templeconsidering what to do, he almost hid his face from the passersby.
He knew very well, that in his horror of the deed which had culminatedthe bad deeds and bad reputation of the old family house, in hisresentful suspicions of his uncle, and in the aversion with which hisconscience regarded the crumbling fabric that he was supposed to uphold,he had acted imperfectly. He knew very well, that in his love for Lucie,his renunciation of his social place, though by no means new to his ownmind, had been hurried and incomplete. He knew that he ought to havesystematically worked it out and supervised it, and that he had meant todo it, and that it had never been done.
The happiness of his own chosen English home, the necessity of beingalways actively employed, the swift changes and troubles of the timewhich had followed on one another so fast, that the events of this weekannihilated the immature plans of last week, and the events of the weekfollowing made all new again; he knew very well, that to the force ofthese circumstances he had yielded:--not without disquiet, but stillwithout continuous and accumulating resistance. That he had watchedthe times for a time of action, and that they had shifted and struggleduntil the time had gone by, and the nobility were trooping fromFrance by every highway and byway, and their property was in course ofconfiscation and destruction, and their very names were blotting out,was as well known to himself as it could be to any new authority inFrance that might impeach him for it.
But, he had oppressed no man, he had imprisoned no man; he was sofar from having harshly exacted payment of his dues, that he hadrelinquished them of his own will, thrown himself on a world with nofavour in it, won his own private place there, and earned his ownbread. Monsieur Gabelle had held the impoverished and involved estateon written instructions, to spare the people, to give them what littlethere was to give--such fuel as the heavy creditors would let them havein the winter, and such produce as could be saved from the same grip inthe summer--and no doubt he had put the fact in plea and proof, for hisown safety, so that it could not but appear now.
This favoured the desperate resolution Charles Darnay had begun to make,that he would go to Paris.
Yes. Like the mariner in the old story, the winds and streams had drivenhim within the influence of the Loadstone Rock, and it was drawing himto itself, and he must go. Everything that arose before his mind driftedhim on, faster and faster, more and more steadily, to the terribleattraction. His latent uneasiness had been, that bad aims were beingworked out in his own unhappy land by bad instruments, and that he whocould not fail to know that he was better than they, was not there,trying to do something to stay bloodshed, and assert the claims of mercyand humanity. With this uneasiness half stifled, and half reproachinghim, he had been brought to the pointed comparison of himself with thebrave old gentleman in whom duty was so strong; upon that comparison(injurious to himself) had instantly followed the sneers of Monseigneur,which had stung him bitterly, and those of Stryver, which above all werecoarse and galling, for old reasons. Upon those, had followed Gabelle'sletter: the appeal of an innocent prisoner, in danger of death, to hisjustice, honour, and good name.
His resolution was made. He must go to Paris.
Yes. The Loadstone Rock was drawing him, and he must sail on, until hestruck. He knew of no rock; he saw hardly any danger. The intentionwith which he had done what he had done, even although he had leftit incomplete, presented it before him in an aspect that would begratefully acknowledged in France on his presenting himself to assertit. Then, that glorious vision of doing good, which is so often thesanguine mirage of so many good minds, arose before him, and he evensaw himself in the illusion with some influence to guide this ragingRevolution that was running so fearfully wild.
As he walked to and fro with his resolution made, he considered thatneither Lucie nor her father must know of it until he was gone.Lucie should be spared the pain of separation; and her father, alwaysreluctant to turn his thoughts towards the dangerous ground of old,should come to the knowledge of the step, as a step taken, and not inthe balance of suspense and doubt. How much of the incompleteness of hissituation was referable to her father, through the painful anxietyto avoid reviving old associations of France in his mind, he did notdiscuss with himself. But, that circumstance too, had had its influencein his course.
He walked to and fro, with thoughts very busy, until it was time toreturn to Tellson's and take leave of Mr. Lorry. As soon as he arrivedin Paris he would present himself to this old friend, but he must saynothing of his intention now.
A carriage with post-horses was ready at the Bank door, and Jerry wasbooted and equipped.
”I have delivered that letter,” said Charles Darnay to Mr. Lorry. ”Iwould not consent to your being charged with any written answer, butperhaps you will take a verbal one?”
”That I will, and readily,” said Mr. Lorry, ”if it is not dangerous.”
”Not at all. Though it is to a prisoner in the Abbaye.”
”What is his name?” said Mr. Lorry, with his open pocket-book in hishand.
”Gabelle.”
”Gabelle. And what is the message to the unfortunate Gabelle in prison?”
”Simply, 'that he has received the letter, and will come.'”
”Any time mentioned?”
”He will start upon his journey to-morrow night.”
”Any person mentioned?”
”No.”
He helped Mr. Lorry to wrap himself in a number of coats and cloaks,and went out with him from the warm atmosphere of the old Bank, into themisty air of Fleet-street. ”My love to Lucie, and to little Lucie,” saidMr. Lorry at parting, ”and take precious care of them till I come back.”Charles Darnay shook his head and doubtfully smiled, as the carriagerolled away.
That night--it was the fourteenth of August--he sat up late, and wrotetwo fervent letters; one was to Lucie, explaining the strong obligationhe was under to go to Paris, and showing her, at length, the reasonsthat he had, for feeling confident that he could become involved in nopersonal danger there; the other was to the Doctor, confiding Lucie andtheir dear child to his care, and dwelling on the same topics with thestrongest assurances. To both, he wrote that he would despatch lettersin proof of his safety, immediately after his arrival.
It was a hard day, that day of being among them, with the firstreservation of their joint lives on his mind. It was a hard matter topreserve the innocent deceit of which they were profoundly unsuspicious.But, an affectionate glance at his wife, so happy and busy, made himresolute not to tell her what impended (he had been half moved to do it,so strange it was to him to act in anything without her quiet aid), andthe day passed quickly. Early in the evening he embraced her, and herscarcely less dear namesake, pretending that he would return by-and-bye(an imaginary engagement took him out, and he had secreted a valiseof clothes ready), and so he emerged into the heavy mist of the heavystreets, with a heavier heart.
The unseen force was drawing him fast to itself, now, and all the tidesand winds were setting straight and strong towards it. He left histwo letters with a trusty porter, to be delivered half an hour beforemidnight, and no sooner; took horse for Dover; and began his journey.”For the love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the honour ofyour noble name!” was the poor prisoner's cry with which he strengthenedhis sinking heart, as he left all that was dear on earth behind him, andfloated away for the Loadstone Rock.
The end of the second book.
Book the Third--the Track of a Storm