V. The Wine-shop
A large cask of wine had been dropped and broken, in the street. Theaccident had happened in getting it out of a cart; the cask had tumbledout with a run, the hoops had burst, and it lay on the stones justoutside the door of the wine-shop, shattered like a walnut-shell.
All the people within reach had suspended their business, or theiridleness, to run to the spot and drink the wine. The rough, irregularstones of the street, pointing every way, and designed, one might havethought, expressly to lame all living creatures that approached them,had dammed it into little pools; these were surrounded, each by its ownjostling group or crowd, according to its size. Some men kneeled down,made scoops of their two hands joined, and sipped, or tried to helpwomen, who bent over their shoulders, to sip, before the wine had allrun out between their fingers. Others, men and women, dipped inthe puddles with little mugs of mutilated earthenware, or even withhandkerchiefs from women's heads, which were squeezed dry into infants'mouths; others made small mud-embankments, to stem the wine as it ran;others, directed by lookers-on up at high windows, darted here andthere, to cut off little streams of wine that started away in newdirections; others devoted themselves to the sodden and lee-dyedpieces of the cask, licking, and even champing the moister wine-rottedfragments with eager relish. There was no drainage to carry off thewine, and not only did it all get taken up, but so much mud got taken upalong with it, that there might have been a scavenger in the street,if anybody acquainted with it could have believed in such a miraculouspresence.
A shrill sound of laughter and of amused voices--voices of men, women,and children--resounded in the street while this wine game lasted. Therewas little roughness in the sport, and much playfulness. There was aspecial companionship in it, an observable inclination on the partof every one to join some other one, which led, especially among theluckier or lighter-hearted, to frolicsome embraces, drinking of healths,shaking of hands, and even joining of hands and dancing, a dozentogether. When the wine was gone, and the places where it had beenmost abundant were raked into a gridiron-pattern by fingers, thesedemonstrations ceased, as suddenly as they had broken out. The man whohad left his saw sticking in the firewood he was cutting, set it inmotion again; the women who had left on a door-step the little pot ofhot ashes, at which she had been trying to soften the pain in her ownstarved fingers and toes, or in those of her child, returned to it; menwith bare arms, matted locks, and cadaverous faces, who had emerged intothe winter light from cellars, moved away, to descend again; and a gloomgathered on the scene that appeared more natural to it than sunshine.
The wine was red wine, and had stained the ground of the narrow streetin the suburb of Saint Antoine, in Paris, where it was spilled. It hadstained many hands, too, and many faces, and many naked feet, and manywooden shoes. The hands of the man who sawed the wood, left red markson the billets; and the forehead of the woman who nursed her baby, wasstained with the stain of the old rag she wound about her head again.Those who had been greedy with the staves of the cask, had acquired atigerish smear about the mouth; and one tall joker so besmirched, hishead more out of a long squalid bag of a nightcap than in it, scrawledupon a wall with his finger dipped in muddy wine-lees--BLOOD.
The time was to come, when that wine too would be spilled on thestreet-stones, and when the stain of it would be red upon many there.
And now that the cloud settled on Saint Antoine, which a momentarygleam had driven from his sacred countenance, the darkness of it washeavy--cold, dirt, sickness, ignorance, and want, were the lords inwaiting on the saintly presence--nobles of great power all of them;but, most especially the last. Samples of a people that had undergone aterrible grinding and regrinding in the mill, and certainly not in thefabulous mill which ground old people young, shivered at every corner,passed in and out at every doorway, looked from every window, flutteredin every vestige of a garment that the wind shook. The mill whichhad worked them down, was the mill that grinds young people old; thechildren had ancient faces and grave voices; and upon them, and upon thegrown faces, and ploughed into every furrow of age and coming up afresh,was the sigh, Hunger. It was prevalent everywhere. Hunger was pushed outof the tall houses, in the wretched clothing that hung upon poles andlines; Hunger was patched into them with straw and rag and wood andpaper; Hunger was repeated in every fragment of the small modicum offirewood that the man sawed off; Hunger stared down from the smokelesschimneys, and started up from the filthy street that had no offal,among its refuse, of anything to eat. Hunger was the inscription on thebaker's shelves, written in every small loaf of his scanty stock ofbad bread; at the sausage-shop, in every dead-dog preparation thatwas offered for sale. Hunger rattled its dry bones among the roastingchestnuts in the turned cylinder; Hunger was shred into atomics in everyfarthing porringer of husky chips of potato, fried with some reluctantdrops of oil.
Its abiding place was in all things fitted to it. A narrow windingstreet, full of offence and stench, with other narrow winding streetsdiverging, all peopled by rags and nightcaps, and all smelling of ragsand nightcaps, and all visible things with a brooding look upon themthat looked ill. In the hunted air of the people there was yet somewild-beast thought of the possibility of turning at bay. Depressed andslinking though they were, eyes of fire were not wanting among them; norcompressed lips, white with what they suppressed; nor foreheads knittedinto the likeness of the gallows-rope they mused about enduring, orinflicting. The trade signs (and they were almost as many as the shops)were, all, grim illustrations of Want. The butcher and the porkmanpainted up, only the leanest scrags of meat; the baker, the coarsest ofmeagre loaves. The people rudely pictured as drinking in the wine-shops,croaked over their scanty measures of thin wine and beer, and weregloweringly confidential together. Nothing was represented in aflourishing condition, save tools and weapons; but, the cutler's knivesand axes were sharp and bright, the smith's hammers were heavy, and thegunmaker's stock was murderous. The crippling stones of the pavement,with their many little reservoirs of mud and water, had no footways, butbroke off abruptly at the doors. The kennel, to make amends, ran downthe middle of the street--when it ran at all: which was only after heavyrains, and then it ran, by many eccentric fits, into the houses. Acrossthe streets, at wide intervals, one clumsy lamp was slung by a rope andpulley; at night, when the lamplighter had let these down, and lighted,and hoisted them again, a feeble grove of dim wicks swung in a sicklymanner overhead, as if they were at sea. Indeed they were at sea, andthe ship and crew were in peril of tempest.
For, the time was to come, when the gaunt scarecrows of that regionshould have watched the lamplighter, in their idleness and hunger, solong, as to conceive the idea of improving on his method, and haulingup men by those ropes and pulleys, to flare upon the darkness of theircondition. But, the time was not come yet; and every wind that blew overFrance shook the rags of the scarecrows in vain, for the birds, fine ofsong and feather, took no warning.
The wine-shop was a corner shop, better than most others in itsappearance and degree, and the master of the wine-shop had stood outsideit, in a yellow waistcoat and green breeches, looking on at the strugglefor the lost wine. ”It's not my affair,” said he, with a final shrugof the shoulders. ”The people from the market did it. Let them bringanother.”
There, his eyes happening to catch the tall joker writing up his joke,he called to him across the way:
”Say, then, my Gaspard, what do you do there?”
The fellow pointed to his joke with immense significance, as is oftenthe way with his tribe. It missed its mark, and completely failed, as isoften the way with his tribe too.
”What now? Are you a subject for the mad hospital?” said the wine-shopkeeper, crossing the road, and obliterating the jest with a handful ofmud, picked up for the purpose, and smeared over it. ”Why do you writein the public streets? Is there--tell me thou--is there no other placeto write such words in?”
In his expostulation he dropped his cleaner hand (perhaps accidentally,perhaps not) upon the joker's heart. The joker rapped it with hisown, took a nimble spring upward, and came down in a fantastic dancingattitude, with one of his stained shoes jerked off his foot into hishand, and held out. A joker of an extremely, not to say wolfishlypractical character, he looked, under those circumstances.
”Put it on, put it on,” said the other. ”Call wine, wine; and finishthere.” With that advice, he wiped his soiled hand upon the joker'sdress, such as it was--quite deliberately, as having dirtied the hand onhis account; and then recrossed the road and entered the wine-shop.
This wine-shop keeper was a bull-necked, martial-looking man of thirty,and he should have been of a hot temperament, for, although it was abitter day, he wore no coat, but carried one slung over his shoulder.His shirt-sleeves were rolled up, too, and his brown arms were bare tothe elbows. Neither did he wear anything more on his head than his owncrisply-curling short dark hair. He was a dark man altogether, with goodeyes and a good bold breadth between them. Good-humoured looking onthe whole, but implacable-looking, too; evidently a man of a strongresolution and a set purpose; a man not desirable to be met, rushingdown a narrow pass with a gulf on either side, for nothing would turnthe man.
Madame Defarge, his wife, sat in the shop behind the counter as hecame in. Madame Defarge was a stout woman of about his own age, witha watchful eye that seldom seemed to look at anything, a large handheavily ringed, a steady face, strong features, and great composure ofmanner. There was a character about Madame Defarge, from which one mighthave predicated that she did not often make mistakes against herselfin any of the reckonings over which she presided. Madame Defarge beingsensitive to cold, was wrapped in fur, and had a quantity of brightshawl twined about her head, though not to the concealment of her largeearrings. Her knitting was before her, but she had laid it down to pickher teeth with a toothpick. Thus engaged, with her right elbow supportedby her left hand, Madame Defarge said nothing when her lord came in, butcoughed just one grain of cough. This, in combination with the liftingof her darkly defined eyebrows over her toothpick by the breadth of aline, suggested to her husband that he would do well to look round theshop among the customers, for any new customer who had dropped in whilehe stepped over the way.
The wine-shop keeper accordingly rolled his eyes about, until theyrested upon an elderly gentleman and a young lady, who were seated ina corner. Other company were there: two playing cards, two playingdominoes, three standing by the counter lengthening out a short supplyof wine. As he passed behind the counter, he took notice that theelderly gentleman said in a look to the young lady, ”This is our man.”
”What the devil do _you_ do in that galley there?” said Monsieur Defargeto himself; ”I don't know you.”
But, he feigned not to notice the two strangers, and fell into discoursewith the triumvirate of customers who were drinking at the counter.
”How goes it, Jacques?” said one of these three to Monsieur Defarge. ”Isall the spilt wine swallowed?”
”Every drop, Jacques,” answered Monsieur Defarge.
When this interchange of Christian name was effected, Madame Defarge,picking her teeth with her toothpick, coughed another grain of cough,and raised her eyebrows by the breadth of another line.
”It is not often,” said the second of the three, addressing MonsieurDefarge, ”that many of these miserable beasts know the taste of wine, orof anything but black bread and death. Is it not so, Jacques?”
”It is so, Jacques,” Monsieur Defarge returned.
At this second interchange of the Christian name, Madame Defarge, stillusing her toothpick with profound composure, coughed another grain ofcough, and raised her eyebrows by the breadth of another line.
The last of the three now said his say, as he put down his emptydrinking vessel and smacked his lips.
”Ah! So much the worse! A bitter taste it is that such poor cattlealways have in their mouths, and hard lives they live, Jacques. Am Iright, Jacques?”
”You are right, Jacques,” was the response of Monsieur Defarge.
This third interchange of the Christian name was completed at the momentwhen Madame Defarge put her toothpick by, kept her eyebrows up, andslightly rustled in her seat.
”Hold then! True!” muttered her husband. ”Gentlemen--my wife!”
The three customers pulled off their hats to Madame Defarge, with threeflourishes. She acknowledged their homage by bending her head, andgiving them a quick look. Then she glanced in a casual manner round thewine-shop, took up her knitting with great apparent calmness and reposeof spirit, and became absorbed in it.
”Gentlemen,” said her husband, who had kept his bright eye observantlyupon her, ”good day. The chamber, furnished bachelor-fashion, that youwished to see, and were inquiring for when I stepped out, is on thefifth floor. The doorway of the staircase gives on the little courtyardclose to the left here,” pointing with his hand, ”near to the window ofmy establishment. But, now that I remember, one of you has already beenthere, and can show the way. Gentlemen, adieu!”
They paid for their wine, and left the place. The eyes of MonsieurDefarge were studying his wife at her knitting when the elderlygentleman advanced from his corner, and begged the favour of a word.
”Willingly, sir,” said Monsieur Defarge, and quietly stepped with him tothe door.
Their conference was very short, but very decided. Almost at the firstword, Monsieur Defarge started and became deeply attentive. It hadnot lasted a minute, when he nodded and went out. The gentleman thenbeckoned to the young lady, and they, too, went out. Madame Defargeknitted with nimble fingers and steady eyebrows, and saw nothing.
Mr. Jarvis Lorry and Miss Manette, emerging from the wine-shop thus,joined Monsieur Defarge in the doorway to which he had directed his owncompany just before. It opened from a stinking little black courtyard,and was the general public entrance to a great pile of houses, inhabitedby a great number of people. In the gloomy tile-paved entry to thegloomy tile-paved staircase, Monsieur Defarge bent down on one kneeto the child of his old master, and put her hand to his lips. It wasa gentle action, but not at all gently done; a very remarkabletransformation had come over him in a few seconds. He had no good-humourin his face, nor any openness of aspect left, but had become a secret,angry, dangerous man.
”It is very high; it is a little difficult. Better to begin slowly.”Thus, Monsieur Defarge, in a stern voice, to Mr. Lorry, as they beganascending the stairs.
”Is he alone?” the latter whispered.
”Alone! God help him, who should be with him!” said the other, in thesame low voice.
”Is he always alone, then?”
”Yes.”
”Of his own desire?”
”Of his own necessity. As he was, when I first saw him after theyfound me and demanded to know if I would take him, and, at my peril bediscreet--as he was then, so he is now.”
”He is greatly changed?”
”Changed!”
The keeper of the wine-shop stopped to strike the wall with his hand,and mutter a tremendous curse. No direct answer could have been half soforcible. Mr. Lorry's spirits grew heavier and heavier, as he and histwo companions ascended higher and higher.
Such a staircase, with its accessories, in the older and more crowdedparts of Paris, would be bad enough now; but, at that time, it was vileindeed to unaccustomed and unhardened senses. Every little habitationwithin the great foul nest of one high building--that is to say,the room or rooms within every door that opened on the generalstaircase--left its own heap of refuse on its own landing, besidesflinging other refuse from its own windows. The uncontrollable andhopeless mass of decomposition so engendered, would have pollutedthe air, even if poverty and deprivation had not loaded it with theirintangible impurities; the two bad sources combined made it almostinsupportable. Through such an atmosphere, by a steep dark shaft of dirtand poison, the way lay. Yielding to his own disturbance of mind, and tohis young companion's agitation, which became greater every instant, Mr.Jarvis Lorry twice stopped to rest. Each of these stoppages was madeat a doleful grating, by which any languishing good airs that were leftuncorrupted, seemed to escape, and all spoilt and sickly vapours seemedto crawl in. Through the rusted bars, tastes, rather than glimpses, werecaught of the jumbled neighbourhood; and nothing within range, neareror lower than the summits of the two great towers of Notre-Dame, had anypromise on it of healthy life or wholesome aspirations.
At last, the top of the staircase was gained, and they stopped for thethird time. There was yet an upper staircase, of a steeper inclinationand of contracted dimensions, to be ascended, before the garret storywas reached. The keeper of the wine-shop, always going a little inadvance, and always going on the side which Mr. Lorry took, as though hedreaded to be asked any question by the young lady, turned himself abouthere, and, carefully feeling in the pockets of the coat he carried overhis shoulder, took out a key.
”The door is locked then, my friend?” said Mr. Lorry, surprised.
”Ay. Yes,” was the grim reply of Monsieur Defarge.
”You think it necessary to keep the unfortunate gentleman so retired?”
”I think it necessary to turn the key.” Monsieur Defarge whispered itcloser in his ear, and frowned heavily.
”Why?”
”Why! Because he has lived so long, locked up, that he would befrightened--rave--tear himself to pieces--die--come to I know not whatharm--if his door was left open.”
”Is it possible!” exclaimed Mr. Lorry.
”Is it possible!” repeated Defarge, bitterly. ”Yes. And a beautifulworld we live in, when it _is_ possible, and when many other such thingsare possible, and not only possible, but done--done, see you!--underthat sky there, every day. Long live the Devil. Let us go on.”
This dialogue had been held in so very low a whisper, that not a wordof it had reached the young lady's ears. But, by this time she trembledunder such strong emotion, and her face expressed such deep anxiety,and, above all, such dread and terror, that Mr. Lorry felt it incumbenton him to speak a word or two of reassurance.
”Courage, dear miss! Courage! Business! The worst will be over in amoment; it is but passing the room-door, and the worst is over. Then,all the good you bring to him, all the relief, all the happiness youbring to him, begin. Let our good friend here, assist you on that side.That's well, friend Defarge. Come, now. Business, business!”
They went up slowly and softly. The staircase was short, and they weresoon at the top. There, as it had an abrupt turn in it, they came all atonce in sight of three men, whose heads were bent down close together atthe side of a door, and who were intently looking into the room to whichthe door belonged, through some chinks or holes in the wall. On hearingfootsteps close at hand, these three turned, and rose, and showedthemselves to be the three of one name who had been drinking in thewine-shop.
”I forgot them in the surprise of your visit,” explained MonsieurDefarge. ”Leave us, good boys; we have business here.”
The three glided by, and went silently down.
There appearing to be no other door on that floor, and the keeper ofthe wine-shop going straight to this one when they were left alone, Mr.Lorry asked him in a whisper, with a little anger:
”Do you make a show of Monsieur Manette?”
”I show him, in the way you have seen, to a chosen few.”
”Is that well?”
”_I_ think it is well.”
”Who are the few? How do you choose them?”
”I choose them as real men, of my name--Jacques is my name--to whom thesight is likely to do good. Enough; you are English; that is anotherthing. Stay there, if you please, a little moment.”
With an admonitory gesture to keep them back, he stooped, and looked inthrough the crevice in the wall. Soon raising his head again, he strucktwice or thrice upon the door--evidently with no other object than tomake a noise there. With the same intention, he drew the key across it,three or four times, before he put it clumsily into the lock, and turnedit as heavily as he could.
The door slowly opened inward under his hand, and he looked into theroom and said something. A faint voice answered something. Little morethan a single syllable could have been spoken on either side.
He looked back over his shoulder, and beckoned them to enter. Mr. Lorrygot his arm securely round the daughter's waist, and held her; for hefelt that she was sinking.
”A-a-a-business, business!” he urged, with a moisture that was not ofbusiness shining on his cheek. ”Come in, come in!”
”I am afraid of it,” she answered, shuddering.
”Of it? What?”
”I mean of him. Of my father.”
Rendered in a manner desperate, by her state and by the beckoning oftheir conductor, he drew over his neck the arm that shook upon hisshoulder, lifted her a little, and hurried her into the room. He sat herdown just within the door, and held her, clinging to him.
Defarge drew out the key, closed the door, locked it on the inside,took out the key again, and held it in his hand. All this he did,methodically, and with as loud and harsh an accompaniment of noise as hecould make. Finally, he walked across the room with a measured tread towhere the window was. He stopped there, and faced round.
The garret, built to be a depository for firewood and the like, was dimand dark: for, the window of dormer shape, was in truth a door in theroof, with a little crane over it for the hoisting up of stores fromthe street: unglazed, and closing up the middle in two pieces, like anyother door of French construction. To exclude the cold, one half of thisdoor was fast closed, and the other was opened but a very little way.Such a scanty portion of light was admitted through these means, that itwas difficult, on first coming in, to see anything; and long habitalone could have slowly formed in any one, the ability to do any workrequiring nicety in such obscurity. Yet, work of that kind was beingdone in the garret; for, with his back towards the door, and his facetowards the window where the keeper of the wine-shop stood looking athim, a white-haired man sat on a low bench, stooping forward and verybusy, making shoes.