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book the second: the golden threadchapter xx. a plea when the newly-married pair came home, thefirst person who appeared, to offer his congratulations, was sydney carton.they had not been at home many hours, when he presented himself. he was not improved in habits, or in looks,or in manner; but there was a certain rugged air of fidelity about him, which wasnew to the observation of charles darnay. he watched his opportunity of taking darnayaside into a window, and of speaking to him when no one overheard."mr. darnay," said carton, "i wish we might

be friends." "we are already friends, i hope.""you are good enough to say so, as a fashion of speech; but, i don't mean anyfashion of speech. indeed, when i say i wish we might befriends, i scarcely mean quite that, either." charles darnay--as was natural--asked him,in all good-humour and good-fellowship, what he did mean? "upon my life," said carton, smiling, "ifind that easier to comprehend in my own mind, than to convey to yours.however, let me try.

you remember a certain famous occasion wheni was more drunk than--than usual?" "i remember a certain famous occasion whenyou forced me to confess that you had been drinking." "i remember it too.the curse of those occasions is heavy upon me, for i always remember them.i hope it may be taken into account one day, when all days are at an end for me! don't be alarmed; i am not going topreach." "i am not at all alarmed.earnestness in you, is anything but alarming to me."

"ah!" said carton, with a careless wave ofhis hand, as if he waved that away. "on the drunken occasion in question (oneof a large number, as you know), i was insufferable about liking you, and notliking you. i wish you would forget it." "i forgot it long ago.""fashion of speech again! but, mr. darnay, oblivion is not so easy tome, as you represent it to be to you. i have by no means forgotten it, and alight 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 object than to turn a slightthing, which, to my surprise, seems to trouble you too much, aside. i declare to you, on the faith of agentleman, that i have long dismissed it from my mind.good heaven, what was there to dismiss! have i had nothing more important toremember, in the great service you rendered me that day?" "as to the great service," said carton, "iam bound to avow to you, when you speak of it in that way, that it was mereprofessional claptrap, i don't know that i cared what became of you, when i renderedit.--mind!

i say when i rendered it; i am speaking ofthe past." "you make light of the obligation,"returned darnay, "but i will not quarrel with _your_ light answer.""genuine truth, mr. darnay, trust me! i have gone aside from my purpose; i wasspeaking about our being friends. now, you know me; you know i am incapableof all the higher and better flights of men. if you doubt it, ask stryver, and he'lltell you so." "i prefer to form my own opinion, withoutthe aid of his." "well!

at any rate you know me as a dissolute dog,who has never done any good, and never will.""i don't know that you 'never will.'" "but i do, and you must take my word forit. well! if you could endure to have such aworthless fellow, and a fellow of such indifferent reputation, coming and going atodd times, i should ask that i might be permitted to come and go as a privileged person here; that i might be regarded as anuseless (and i would add, if it were not for the resemblance i detected between youand me, an unornamental) piece of

furniture, tolerated for its old service,and taken no notice of. i doubt if i should abuse the permission.it is a hundred to one if i should avail myself of it four times in a year. it would satisfy me, i dare say, to knowthat i had it." "will you try?""that is another way of saying that i am placed on the footing i have indicated. i thank you, darnay.i may use that freedom with your name?" "i think so, carton, by this time."they shook hands upon it, and sydney turned away.

within a minute afterwards, he was, to alloutward appearance, as unsubstantial as ever. when he was gone, and in the course of anevening passed with miss pross, the doctor, and mr. lorry, charles darnay made somemention of this conversation in general terms, and spoke of sydney carton as aproblem of carelessness and recklessness. he spoke of him, in short, not bitterly ormeaning to bear hard upon him, but as anybody might who saw him as he showedhimself. he had no idea that this could dwell in thethoughts of his fair young wife; but, when he afterwards joined her in their ownrooms, he found her waiting for him with

the old pretty lifting of the foreheadstrongly marked. "we are thoughtful to-night!" said darnay,drawing his arm about her. "yes, dearest charles," with her hands onhis breast, and the inquiring and attentive expression fixed upon him; "we are ratherthoughtful to-night, for we have something on our mind to-night." "what is it, my lucie?""will you promise not to press one question on me, if i beg you not to ask it?""will i promise? what will i not promise to my love?" what, indeed, with his hand putting asidethe golden hair from the cheek, and his

other hand against the heart that beat forhim! "i think, charles, poor mr. carton deservesmore consideration and respect than you expressed for him to-night.""indeed, my own? why so?" "that is what you are not to ask me.but i think--i know--he does." "if you know it, it is enough.what would you have me do, my life?" "i would ask you, dearest, to be verygenerous with him always, and very lenient on his faults when he is not by. i would ask you to believe that he has aheart he very, very seldom reveals, and

that there are deep wounds in it.my dear, i have seen it bleeding." "it is a painful reflection to me," saidcharles darnay, quite astounded, "that i should have done him any wrong.i never thought this of him." "my husband, it is so. i fear he is not to be reclaimed; there isscarcely a hope that anything in his character or fortunes is reparable now. but, i am sure that he is capable of goodthings, gentle things, even magnanimous things." she looked so beautiful in the purity ofher faith in this lost man, that her

husband could have looked at her as she wasfor hours. "and, o my dearest love!" she urged,clinging nearer to him, laying her head upon his breast, and raising her eyes tohis, "remember how strong we are in our happiness, and how weak he is in hismisery!" the supplication touched him home."i will always remember it, dear heart! i will remember it as long as i live." he bent over the golden head, and put therosy lips to his, and folded her in his arms. if one forlorn wanderer then pacing thedark streets, could have heard her innocent

disclosure, and could have seen the dropsof pity kissed away by her husband from the soft blue eyes so loving of that husband, he might have cried to the night--and thewords would not have parted from his lips for the first time--"god bless her for her sweet compassion!" > book the second: the golden threadchapter xxi. echoing footsteps a wonderful corner for echoes, it has beenremarked, that corner where the doctor lived.

ever busily winding the golden thread whichbound her husband, and her father, and herself, and her old directress andcompanion, in a life of quiet bliss, lucie sat in the still house in the tranquilly resounding corner, listening to the echoingfootsteps of years. at first, there were times, though she wasa perfectly happy young wife, when her work would slowly fall from her hands, and hereyes would be dimmed. for, there was something coming in theechoes, something light, afar off, and scarcely audible yet, that stirred herheart too much. fluttering hopes and doubts--hopes, of alove as yet unknown to her: doubts, of her

remaining upon earth, to enjoy that newdelight--divided her breast. among the echoes then, there would arisethe sound of footsteps at her own early grave; and thoughts of the husband whowould be left so desolate, and who would mourn for her so much, swelled to her eyes,and broke like waves. that time passed, and her little lucie layon her bosom. then, among the advancing echoes, there wasthe tread of her tiny feet and the sound of her prattling words. let greater echoes resound as they would,the young mother at the cradle side could always hear those coming.

they came, and the shady house was sunnywith a child's laugh, and the divine friend of children, to whom in her trouble she hadconfided hers, seemed to take her child in his arms, as he took the child of old, andmade it a sacred joy to her. ever busily winding the golden thread thatbound them all together, weaving the service of her happy influence through thetissue of all their lives, and making it predominate nowhere, lucie heard in the echoes of years none but friendly andsoothing sounds. her husband's step was strong andprosperous among them; her father's firm and equal.

lo, miss pross, in harness of string,awakening the echoes, as an unruly charger, whip-corrected, snorting and pawing theearth under the plane-tree in the garden! even when there were sounds of sorrow amongthe rest, they were not harsh nor cruel. even when golden hair, like her own, lay ina halo on a pillow round the worn face of a little boy, and he said, with a radiantsmile, "dear papa and mamma, i am very sorry to leave you both, and to leave my pretty sister; but i am called, and i mustgo!" those were not tears all of agony that wetted his young mother's cheek, as thespirit departed from her embrace that had been entrusted to it.

suffer them and forbid them not.they see my father's face. o father, blessed words! thus, the rustling of an angel's wings gotblended with the other echoes, and they were not wholly of earth, but had in themthat breath of heaven. sighs of the winds that blew over a littlegarden-tomb were mingled with them also, and both were audible to lucie, in a hushedmurmur--like the breathing of a summer sea asleep upon a sandy shore--as the little lucie, comically studious at the task ofthe morning, or dressing a doll at her mother's footstool, chattered in thetongues of the two cities that were blended

in her life. the echoes rarely answered to the actualtread of sydney carton. some half-dozen times a year, at most, heclaimed his privilege of coming in uninvited, and would sit among them throughthe evening, as he had once done often. he never came there heated with wine. and one other thing regarding him waswhispered in the echoes, which has been whispered by all true echoes for ages andages. no man ever really loved a woman, lost her,and knew her with a blameless though an unchanged mind, when she was a wife and amother, but her children had a strange

sympathy with him--an instinctive delicacyof pity for him. what fine hidden sensibilities are touchedin such a case, no echoes tell; but it is so, and it was so here. carton was the first stranger to whomlittle lucie held out her chubby arms, and he kept his place with her as she grew.the little boy had spoken of him, almost at the last. "poor carton!kiss him for me!" mr. stryver shouldered his way through thelaw, like some great engine forcing itself through turbid water, and dragged hisuseful friend in his wake, like a boat

towed astern. as the boat so favoured is usually in arough plight, and mostly under water, so, sydney had a swamped life of it. but, easy and strong custom, unhappily somuch easier and stronger in him than any stimulating sense of desert or disgrace,made it the life he was to lead; and he no more thought of emerging from his state of lion's jackal, than any real jackal may besupposed to think of rising to be a lion. stryver was rich; had married a floridwidow with property and three boys, who had nothing particularly shining about them butthe straight hair of their dumpling heads.

these three young gentlemen, mr. stryver,exuding patronage of the most offensive quality from every pore, had walked beforehim like three sheep to the quiet corner in soho, and had offered as pupils to lucie's husband: delicately saying "halloa! hereare three lumps of bread-and-cheese towards your matrimonial picnic, darnay!" the polite rejection of the three lumps ofbread-and-cheese had quite bloated mr. stryver with indignation, which heafterwards turned to account in the training of the young gentlemen, by directing them to beware of the pride ofbeggars, like that tutor-fellow.

he was also in the habit of declaiming tomrs. stryver, over his full-bodied wine, on the arts mrs. darnay had once put inpractice to "catch" him, and on the diamond-cut-diamond arts in himself, madam,which had rendered him "not to be caught." some of his king's bench familiars, whowere occasionally parties to the full- bodied wine and the lie, excused him forthe latter by saying that he had told it so often, that he believed it himself--which is surely such an incorrigible aggravationof an originally bad offence, as to justify any such offender's being carried off tosome suitably retired spot, and there hanged out of the way.

these were among the echoes to which lucie,sometimes pensive, sometimes amused and laughing, listened in the echoing corner,until her little daughter was six years old. how near to her heart the echoes of herchild's tread came, and those of her own dear father's, always active and self-possessed, and those of her dear husband's, need not be told. nor, how the lightest echo of their unitedhome, directed by herself with such a wise and elegant thrift that it was moreabundant than any waste, was music to her. nor, how there were echoes all about her,sweet in her ears, of the many times her

father had told her that he found her moredevoted to him married (if that could be) than single, and of the many times her husband had said to her that no cares andduties seemed to divide her love for him or her help to him, and asked her "what is themagic secret, my darling, of your being everything to all of us, as if there were only one of us, yet never seeming to behurried, or to have too much to do?" but, there were other echoes, from adistance, that rumbled menacingly in the corner all through this space of time. and it was now, about little lucie's sixthbirthday, that they began to have an awful

sound, as of a great storm in france with adreadful sea rising. on a night in mid-july, one thousand sevenhundred and eighty-nine, mr. lorry came in late, from tellson's, and sat himself downby lucie and her husband in the dark window. it was a hot, wild night, and they were allthree reminded of the old sunday night when they had looked at the lightning from thesame place. "i began to think," said mr. lorry, pushinghis brown wig back, "that i should have to pass the night at tellson's. we have been so full of business all day,that we have not known what to do first, or

which way to turn. there is such an uneasiness in paris, thatwe have actually a run of confidence upon us! our customers over there, seem not to beable to confide their property to us fast enough.there is positively a mania among some of them for sending it to england." "that has a bad look," said darnay--"a bad look, you say, my dear darnay? yes, but we don't know what reason there isin it. people are so unreasonable!

some of us at tellson's are getting old,and we really can't be troubled out of the ordinary course without due occasion.""still," said darnay, "you know how gloomy and threatening the sky is." "i know that, to be sure," assented mr.lorry, trying to persuade himself that his sweet temper was soured, and that hegrumbled, "but i am determined to be peevish after my long day's botheration. where is manette?""here he is," said the doctor, entering the dark room at the moment. "i am quite glad you are at home; for thesehurries and forebodings by which i have

been surrounded all day long, have made menervous without reason. you are not going out, i hope?" "no; i am going to play backgammon withyou, if you like," said the doctor. "i don't think i do like, if i may speak mymind. i am not fit to be pitted against you to-night. is the teaboard still there, lucie?i can't see." "of course, it has been kept for you." "thank ye, my dear.the precious child is safe in bed?" "and sleeping soundly.""that's right; all safe and well!

i don't know why anything should beotherwise than safe and well here, thank god; but i have been so put out all day,and i am not as young as i was! my tea, my dear! thank ye.now, come and take your place in the circle, and let us sit quiet, and hear theechoes about which you have your theory." "not a theory; it was a fancy." "a fancy, then, my wise pet," said mr.lorry, patting her hand. "they are very numerous and very loud,though, are they not? only hear them!"

headlong, mad, and dangerous footsteps toforce their way into anybody's life, footsteps not easily made clean again ifonce stained red, the footsteps raging in saint antoine afar off, as the littlecircle sat in the dark london window. saint antoine had been, that morning, avast dusky mass of scarecrows heaving to and fro, with frequent gleams of lightabove the billowy heads, where steel blades and bayonets shone in the sun. a tremendous roar arose from the throat ofsaint antoine, and a forest of naked arms struggled in the air like shrivelledbranches of trees in a winter wind: all the fingers convulsively clutching at every

weapon or semblance of a weapon that wasthrown up from the depths below, no matter how far off. who gave them out, whence they last came,where they began, through what agency they crookedly quivered and jerked, scores at atime, over the heads of the crowd, like a kind of lightning, no eye in the throng could have told; but, muskets were beingdistributed--so were cartridges, powder, and ball, bars of iron and wood, knives,axes, pikes, every weapon that distracted ingenuity could discover or devise. people who could lay hold of nothing else,set themselves with bleeding hands to force

stones and bricks out of their places inwalls. every pulse and heart in saint antoine wason high-fever strain and at high-fever heat. every living creature there held life as ofno account, and was demented with a passionate readiness to sacrifice it. as a whirlpool of boiling waters has acentre point, so, all this raging circled round defarge's wine-shop, and every humandrop in the caldron had a tendency to be sucked towards the vortex where defarge himself, already begrimed with gunpowderand sweat, issued orders, issued arms,

thrust this man back, dragged this manforward, disarmed one to arm another, laboured and strove in the thickest of theuproar. "keep near to me, jacques three," crieddefarge; "and do you, jacques one and two, separate and put yourselves at the head ofas many of these patriots as you can. where is my wife?" "eh, well!here you see me!" said madame, composed as ever, but not knitting to-day. madame's resolute right hand was occupiedwith an axe, in place of the usual softer implements, and in her girdle were a pistoland a cruel knife.

"where do you go, my wife?" "i go," said madame, "with you at present.you shall see me at the head of women, by- and-bye.""come, then!" cried defarge, in a resounding voice. "patriots and friends, we are ready!the bastille!" with a roar that sounded as if all thebreath in france had been shaped into the detested word, the living sea rose, wave onwave, depth on depth, and overflowed the city to that point. alarm-bells ringing, drums beating, the searaging and thundering on its new beach, the

attack began. deep ditches, double drawbridge, massivestone walls, eight great towers, cannon, muskets, fire and smoke. through the fire and through the smoke--inthe fire and in the smoke, for the sea cast him up against a cannon, and on the instanthe became a cannonier--defarge of the wine- shop worked like a manful soldier, twofierce hours. deep ditch, single drawbridge, massivestone walls, eight great towers, cannon, one drawbridge down!"work, comrades all, work! work, jacques one, jacques two, jacques onethousand, jacques two thousand, jacques

five-and-twenty thousand; in the name ofall the angels or the devils--which you prefer--work!" thus defarge of the wine-shop, still at hisgun, which had long grown hot. "to me, women!" cried madame his wife."what! we can kill as well as the men when theplace is taken!" and to her, with a shrill thirsty cry,trooping women variously armed, but all armed alike in hunger and revenge. cannon, muskets, fire and smoke; but, stillthe deep ditch, the single drawbridge, the massive stone walls, and the eight greattowers.

slight displacements of the raging sea,made by the falling wounded. flashing weapons, blazing torches, smokingwaggonloads of wet straw, hard work at neighbouring barricades in all directions,shrieks, volleys, execrations, bravery without stint, boom smash and rattle, and the furious sounding of the living sea;but, still the deep ditch, and the single drawbridge, and the massive stone walls,and the eight great towers, and still defarge of the wine-shop at his gun, grown doubly hot by the service of four fiercehours. a white flag from within the fortress, anda parley--this dimly perceptible through

the raging storm, nothing audible in it--suddenly the sea rose immeasurably wider and higher, and swept defarge of the wine- shop over the lowered drawbridge, past themassive stone outer walls, in among the eight great towers surrendered! so resistless was the force of the oceanbearing him on, that even to draw his breath or turn his head was asimpracticable as if he had been struggling in the surf at the south sea, until he was landed in the outer courtyard of thebastille. there, against an angle of a wall, he madea struggle to look about him.

jacques three was nearly at his side;madame defarge, still heading some of her women, was visible in the inner distance,and her knife was in her hand. everywhere was tumult, exultation,deafening and maniacal bewilderment, astounding noise, yet furious dumb-show."the prisoners!" "the records!" "the secret cells!""the instruments of torture!" "the prisoners!" of all these cries, and ten thousandincoherences, "the prisoners!" was the cry most taken up by the sea that rushed in, asif there were an eternity of people, as

well as of time and space. when the foremost billows rolled past,bearing the prison officers with them, and threatening them all with instant death ifany secret nook remained undisclosed, defarge laid his strong hand on the breast of one of these men--a man with a greyhead, who had a lighted torch in his hand-- separated him from the rest, and got himbetween himself and the wall. "show me the north tower!" said defarge. "quick!""i will faithfully," replied the man, "if you will come with me.but there is no one there."

"what is the meaning of one hundred andfive, north tower?" asked defarge. "quick!""the meaning, monsieur?" "does it mean a captive, or a place ofcaptivity? or do you mean that i shall strike youdead?" "kill him!" croaked jacques three, who hadcome close up. "monsieur, it is a cell.""show it me!" "pass this way, then." jacques three, with his usual craving onhim, and evidently disappointed by the dialogue taking a turn that did not seem topromise bloodshed, held by defarge's arm as

he held by the turnkey's. their three heads had been close togetherduring this brief discourse, and it had been as much as they could do to hear oneanother, even then: so tremendous was the noise of the living ocean, in its irruption into the fortress, and its inundation ofthe courts and passages and staircases. all around outside, too, it beat the wallswith a deep, hoarse roar, from which, occasionally, some partial shouts of tumultbroke and leaped into the air like spray. through gloomy vaults where the light ofday had never shone, past hideous doors of dark dens and cages, down cavernous flightsof steps, and again up steep rugged ascents

of stone and brick, more like dry waterfalls than staircases, defarge, theturnkey, and jacques three, linked hand and arm, went with all the speed they couldmake. here and there, especially at first, theinundation started on them and swept by; but when they had done descending, and werewinding and climbing up a tower, they were alone. hemmed in here by the massive thickness ofwalls and arches, the storm within the fortress and without was only audible tothem in a dull, subdued way, as if the noise out of which they had come had almostdestroyed their sense of hearing.

the turnkey stopped at a low door, put akey in a clashing lock, swung the door slowly open, and said, as they all benttheir heads and passed in: "one hundred and five, north tower!" there was a small, heavily-grated, unglazedwindow high in the wall, with a stone screen before it, so that the sky could beonly seen by stooping low and looking up. there was a small chimney, heavily barredacross, a few feet within. there was a heap of old feathery wood-asheson the hearth. there was a stool, and table, and a strawbed. there were the four blackened walls, and arusted iron ring in one of them.

"pass that torch slowly along these walls,that i may see them," said defarge to the turnkey.the man obeyed, and defarge followed the light closely with his eyes. "stop!--look here, jacques!""a.m.!" croaked jacques three, as he read greedily. "alexandre manette," said defarge in hisear, following the letters with his swart forefinger, deeply engrained withgunpowder. "and here he wrote 'a poor physician.' and it was he, without doubt, who scratcheda calendar on this stone.

what is that in your hand?a crowbar? give it me!" he had still the linstock of his gun in hisown hand. he made a sudden exchange of the twoinstruments, and turning on the worm-eaten stool and table, beat them to pieces in afew blows. "hold the light higher!" he said,wrathfully, to the turnkey. "look among those fragments with care,jacques. and see! here is my knife," throwing it to him; "ripopen that bed, and search the straw.

hold the light higher, you!" with a menacing look at the turnkey hecrawled upon the hearth, and, peering up the chimney, struck and prised at its sideswith the crowbar, and worked at the iron grating across it. in a few minutes, some mortar and dust camedropping down, which he averted his face to avoid; and in it, and in the old wood-ashes, and in a crevice in the chimney into which his weapon had slipped or wroughtitself, he groped with a cautious touch. "nothing in the wood, and nothing in thestraw, jacques?" "nothing."

"let us collect them together, in themiddle of the cell. so! light them, you!"the turnkey fired the little pile, which blazed high and hot. stooping again to come out at the low-arched door, they left it burning, and retraced their way to the courtyard;seeming to recover their sense of hearing as they came down, until they were in theraging flood once more. they found it surging and tossing, in questof defarge himself. saint antoine was clamorous to have itswine-shop keeper foremost in the guard upon the governor who had defended the bastilleand shot the people.

otherwise, the governor would not bemarched to the hotel de ville for judgment. otherwise, the governor would escape, andthe people's blood (suddenly of some value, after many years of worthlessness) beunavenged. in the howling universe of passion andcontention that seemed to encompass this grim old officer conspicuous in his greycoat and red decoration, there was but one quite steady figure, and that was awoman's. "see, there is my husband!" she cried,pointing him out. "see defarge!" she stood immovable close to the grim oldofficer, and remained immovable close to

him; remained immovable close to himthrough the streets, as defarge and the rest bore him along; remained immovable close to him when he was got near hisdestination, and began to be struck at from behind; remained immovable close to himwhen the long-gathering rain of stabs and blows fell heavy; was so close to him when he dropped dead under it, that, suddenlyanimated, she put her foot upon his neck, and with her cruel knife--long ready--hewedoff his head. the hour was come, when saint antoine wasto execute his horrible idea of hoisting up men for lamps to show what he could be anddo.

saint antoine's blood was up, and the bloodof tyranny and domination by the iron hand was down--down on the steps of the hotel deville where the governor's body lay--down on the sole of the shoe of madame defarge where she had trodden on the body to steadyit for mutilation. "lower the lamp yonder!" cried saintantoine, after glaring round for a new means of death; "here is one of hissoldiers to be left on guard!" the swinging sentinel was posted, and thesea rushed on. the sea of black and threatening waters,and of destructive upheaving of wave against wave, whose depths were yetunfathomed and whose forces were yet

unknown. the remorseless sea of turbulently swayingshapes, voices of vengeance, and faces hardened in the furnaces of suffering untilthe touch of pity could make no mark on them. but, in the ocean of faces where everyfierce and furious expression was in vivid life, there were two groups of faces--eachseven in number--so fixedly contrasting with the rest, that never did sea rollwhich bore more memorable wrecks with it. seven faces of prisoners, suddenly releasedby the storm that had burst their tomb, were carried high overhead: all scared, alllost, all wondering and amazed, as if the

last day were come, and those who rejoicedaround them were lost spirits. other seven faces there were, carriedhigher, seven dead faces, whose drooping eyelids and half-seen eyes awaited the lastday. impassive faces, yet with a suspended--notan abolished--expression on them; faces, rather, in a fearful pause, as having yetto raise the dropped lids of the eyes, and bear witness with the bloodless lips, "thoudidst it!" seven prisoners released, seven gory headson pikes, the keys of the accursed fortress of the eight strong towers, some discoveredletters and other memorials of prisoners of old time, long dead of broken hearts,--

such, and such--like, the loudly echoingfootsteps of saint antoine escort through the paris streets in mid-july, one thousandseven hundred and eighty-nine. now, heaven defeat the fancy of luciedarnay, and keep these feet far out of her life! for, they are headlong, mad, and dangerous;and in the years so long after the breaking of the cask at defarge's wine-shop door,they are not easily purified when once stained red. book the second: the golden threadchapter xxii. the sea still rises

haggard saint antoine had had only oneexultant week, in which to soften his modicum of hard and bitter bread to suchextent as he could, with the relish of fraternal embraces and congratulations, when madame defarge sat at her counter, asusual, presiding over the customers. madame defarge wore no rose in her head,for the great brotherhood of spies had become, even in one short week, extremelychary of trusting themselves to the saint's mercies. the lamps across his streets had aportentously elastic swing with them. madame defarge, with her arms folded, satin the morning light and heat,

contemplating the wine-shop and the street. in both, there were several knots ofloungers, squalid and miserable, but now with a manifest sense of power enthroned ontheir distress. the raggedest nightcap, awry on thewretchedest head, had this crooked significance in it: "i know how hard it hasgrown for me, the wearer of this, to support life in myself; but do you know how easy it has grown for me, the wearer ofthis, to destroy life in you?" every lean bare arm, that had been withoutwork before, had this work always ready for it now, that it could strike.

the fingers of the knitting women werevicious, with the experience that they could tear. there was a change in the appearance ofsaint antoine; the image had been hammering into this for hundreds of years, and thelast finishing blows had told mightily on the expression. madame defarge sat observing it, with suchsuppressed approval as was to be desired in the leader of the saint antoine women.one of her sisterhood knitted beside her. the short, rather plump wife of a starvedgrocer, and the mother of two children withal, this lieutenant had already earnedthe complimentary name of the vengeance.

"hark!" said the vengeance. "listen, then!who comes?" as if a train of powder laid from theoutermost bound of saint antoine quarter to the wine-shop door, had been suddenlyfired, a fast-spreading murmur came rushing along. "it is defarge," said madame."silence, patriots!" defarge came in breathless, pulled off ared cap he wore, and looked around him! "listen, everywhere!" said madame again. "listen to him!"defarge stood, panting, against a

background of eager eyes and open mouths,formed outside the door; all those within the wine-shop had sprung to their feet. "say then, my husband.what is it?" "news from the other world!""how, then?" cried madame, contemptuously. "the other world?" "does everybody here recall old foulon, whotold the famished people that they might eat grass, and who died, and went to hell?""everybody!" from all throats. "the news is of him. he is among us!""among us!" from the universal throat

again."and dead?" "not dead! he feared us so much--and with reason--thathe caused himself to be represented as dead, and had a grand mock-funeral.but they have found him alive, hiding in the country, and have brought him in. i have seen him but now, on his way to thehotel de ville, a prisoner. i have said that he had reason to fear us.say all! _had_ he reason?" wretched old sinner of more than threescoreyears and ten, if he had never known it

yet, he would have known it in his heart ofhearts if he could have heard the answering cry. a moment of profound silence followed.defarge and his wife looked steadfastly at one another. the vengeance stooped, and the jar of adrum was heard as she moved it at her feet behind the counter."patriots!" said defarge, in a determined voice, "are we ready?" instantly madame defarge's knife was in hergirdle; the drum was beating in the streets, as if it and a drummer had flowntogether by magic; and the vengeance,

uttering terrific shrieks, and flinging her arms about her head like all the fortyfuries at once, was tearing from house to house, rousing the women. the men were terrible, in the bloody-mindedanger with which they looked from windows, caught up what arms they had, and camepouring down into the streets; but, the women were a sight to chill the boldest. from such household occupations as theirbare poverty yielded, from their children, from their aged and their sick crouching onthe bare ground famished and naked, they ran out with streaming hair, urging one

another, and themselves, to madness withthe wildest cries and actions. villain foulon taken, my sister!old foulon taken, my mother! miscreant foulon taken, my daughter! then, a score of others ran into the midstof these, beating their breasts, tearing their hair, and screaming, foulon alive!foulon who told the starving people they might eat grass! foulon who told my old father that he mighteat grass, when i had no bread to give him! foulon who told my baby it might suckgrass, when these breasts were dry with want!

o mother of god, this foulon!o heaven our suffering! hear me, my dead baby and my witheredfather: i swear on my knees, on these stones, to avenge you on foulon! husbands, and brothers, and young men, giveus the blood of foulon, give us the head of foulon, give us the heart of foulon, giveus the body and soul of foulon, rend foulon to pieces, and dig him into the ground,that grass may grow from him! with these cries, numbers of the women,lashed into blind frenzy, whirled about, striking and tearing at their own friendsuntil they dropped into a passionate swoon, and were only saved by the men belonging tothem from being trampled under foot.

nevertheless, not a moment was lost; not amoment! this foulon was at the hotel de ville, andmight be loosed. never, if saint antoine knew his ownsufferings, insults, and wrongs! armed men and women flocked out of thequarter so fast, and drew even these last dregs after them with such a force ofsuction, that within a quarter of an hour there was not a human creature in saint antoine's bosom but a few old crones andthe wailing children. no. they were all by that time choking thehall of examination where this old man, ugly and wicked, was, and overflowing intothe adjacent open space and streets.

the defarges, husband and wife, thevengeance, and jacques three, were in the first press, and at no great distance fromhim in the hall. "see!" cried madame, pointing with herknife. "see the old villain bound with ropes.that was well done to tie a bunch of grass upon his back. ha, ha!that was well done. let him eat it now!"madame put her knife under her arm, and clapped her hands as at a play. the people immediately behind madamedefarge, explaining the cause of her

satisfaction to those behind them, andthose again explaining to others, and those to others, the neighbouring streetsresounded with the clapping of hands. similarly, during two or three hours ofdrawl, and the winnowing of many bushels of words, madame defarge's frequentexpressions of impatience were taken up, with marvellous quickness, at a distance: the more readily, because certain men whohad by some wonderful exercise of agility climbed up the external architecture tolook in from the windows, knew madame defarge well, and acted as a telegraph between her and the crowd outside thebuilding.

at length the sun rose so high that itstruck a kindly ray as of hope or protection, directly down upon the oldprisoner's head. the favour was too much to bear; in aninstant the barrier of dust and chaff that had stood surprisingly long, went to thewinds, and saint antoine had got him! it was known directly, to the furthestconfines of the crowd. defarge had but sprung over a railing and atable, and folded the miserable wretch in a deadly embrace--madame defarge had butfollowed and turned her hand in one of the ropes with which he was tied--the vengeance and jacques three were not yet up withthem, and the men at the windows had not

yet swooped into the hall, like birds ofprey from their high perches--when the cry seemed to go up, all over the city, "bringhim out! bring him to the lamp!" down, and up, and head foremost on thesteps of the building; now, on his knees; now, on his feet; now, on his back;dragged, and struck at, and stifled by the bunches of grass and straw that were thrust into his face by hundreds of hands; torn,bruised, panting, bleeding, yet always entreating and beseeching for mercy; nowfull of vehement agony of action, with a small clear space about him as the people

drew one another back that they might see;now, a log of dead wood drawn through a forest of legs; he was hauled to thenearest street corner where one of the fatal lamps swung, and there madame defarge let him go--as a cat might have done to amouse--and silently and composedly looked at him while they made ready, and while hebesought her: the women passionately screeching at him all the time, and the men sternly calling out to have him killed withgrass in his mouth. once, he went aloft, and the rope broke,and they caught him shrieking; twice, he went aloft, and the rope broke, and theycaught him shrieking; then, the rope was

merciful, and held him, and his head was soon upon a pike, with grass enough in themouth for all saint antoine to dance at the sight of. nor was this the end of the day's bad work,for saint antoine so shouted and danced his angry blood up, that it boiled again, onhearing when the day closed in that the son-in-law of the despatched, another of the people's enemies and insulters, wascoming into paris under a guard five hundred strong, in cavalry alone. saint antoine wrote his crimes on flaringsheets of paper, seized him--would have

torn him out of the breast of an army tobear foulon company--set his head and heart on pikes, and carried the three spoils of the day, in wolf-procession through thestreets. not before dark night did the men and womencome back to the children, wailing and breadless. then, the miserable bakers' shops werebeset by long files of them, patiently waiting to buy bad bread; and while theywaited with stomachs faint and empty, they beguiled the time by embracing one another on the triumphs of the day, and achievingthem again in gossip.

gradually, these strings of ragged peopleshortened and frayed away; and then poor lights began to shine in high windows, andslender fires were made in the streets, at which neighbours cooked in common,afterwards supping at their doors. scanty and insufficient suppers those, andinnocent of meat, as of most other sauce to wretched bread. yet, human fellowship infused somenourishment into the flinty viands, and struck some sparks of cheerfulness out ofthem. fathers and mothers who had had their fullshare in the worst of the day, played gently with their meagre children; andlovers, with such a world around them and

before them, loved and hoped. it was almost morning, when defarge's wine-shop parted with its last knot of customers, and monsieur defarge said tomadame his wife, in husky tones, while fastening the door: "at last it is come, my dear!""eh well!" returned madame. "almost." saint antoine slept, the defarges slept:even the vengeance slept with her starved grocer, and the drum was at rest. the drum's was the only voice in saintantoine that blood and hurry had not

changed. the vengeance, as custodian of the drum,could have wakened him up and had the same speech out of him as before the bastillefell, or old foulon was seized; not so with the hoarse tones of the men and women insaint antoine's bosom. book the second: the golden threadchapter xxiii. fire rises there was a change on the village where thefountain fell, and where the mender of roads went forth daily to hammer out of thestones on the highway such morsels of bread as might serve for patches to hold his poor

ignorant soul and his poor reduced bodytogether. the prison on the crag was not so dominantas of yore; there were soldiers to guard it, but not many; there were officers toguard the soldiers, but not one of them knew what his men would do--beyond this: that it would probably not be what he wasordered. far and wide lay a ruined country, yieldingnothing but desolation. every green leaf, every blade of grass andblade of grain, was as shrivelled and poor as the miserable people.everything was bowed down, dejected, oppressed, and broken.

habitations, fences, domesticated animals,men, women, children, and the soil that bore them--all worn out. monseigneur (often a most worthy individualgentleman) was a national blessing, gave a chivalrous tone to things, was a politeexample of luxurious and shining life, and a great deal more to equal purpose; nevertheless, monseigneur as a class had,somehow or other, brought things to this. strange that creation, designed expresslyfor monseigneur, should be so soon wrung dry and squeezed out! there must be something short-sighted inthe eternal arrangements, surely!

thus it was, however; and the last drop ofblood having been extracted from the flints, and the last screw of the rackhaving been turned so often that its purchase crumbled, and it now turned and turned with nothing to bite, monseigneurbegan to run away from a phenomenon so low and unaccountable.but, this was not the change on the village, and on many a village like it. for scores of years gone by, monseigneurhad squeezed it and wrung it, and had seldom graced it with his presence exceptfor the pleasures of the chase--now, found in hunting the people; now, found in

hunting the beasts, for whose preservationmonseigneur made edifying spaces of barbarous and barren wilderness. no. the change consisted in the appearanceof strange faces of low caste, rather than in the disappearance of the high caste,chiselled, and otherwise beautified and beautifying features of monseigneur. for, in these times, as the mender of roadsworked, solitary, in the dust, not often troubling himself to reflect that dust hewas and to dust he must return, being for the most part too much occupied in thinking how little he had for supper and how muchmore he would eat if he had it--in these

times, as he raised his eyes from hislonely labour, and viewed the prospect, he would see some rough figure approaching on foot, the like of which was once a rarityin those parts, but was now a frequent presence. as it advanced, the mender of roads woulddiscern without surprise, that it was a shaggy-haired man, of almost barbarianaspect, tall, in wooden shoes that were clumsy even to the eyes of a mender of roads, grim, rough, swart, steeped in themud and dust of many highways, dank with the marshy moisture of many low grounds,sprinkled with the thorns and leaves and

moss of many byways through woods. such a man came upon him, like a ghost, atnoon in the july weather, as he sat on his heap of stones under a bank, taking suchshelter as he could get from a shower of hail. the man looked at him, looked at thevillage in the hollow, at the mill, and at the prison on the crag. when he had identified these objects inwhat benighted mind he had, he said, in a dialect that was just intelligible:"how goes it, jacques?" "all well, jacques."

"touch then!"they joined hands, and the man sat down on the heap of stones."no dinner?" "nothing but supper now," said the menderof roads, with a hungry face. "it is the fashion," growled the man."i meet no dinner anywhere." he took out a blackened pipe, filled it,lighted it with flint and steel, pulled at it until it was in a bright glow: then,suddenly held it from him and dropped something into it from between his finger and thumb, that blazed and went out in apuff of smoke. "touch then."

it was the turn of the mender of roads tosay it this time, after observing these operations.they again joined hands. "to-night?" said the mender of roads. "to-night," said the man, putting the pipein his mouth. "where?""here." he and the mender of roads sat on the heapof stones looking silently at one another, with the hail driving in between them likea pigmy charge of bayonets, until the sky began to clear over the village. "show me!" said the traveller then, movingto the brow of the hill.

"see!" returned the mender of roads, withextended finger. "you go down here, and straight through thestreet, and past the fountain--" "to the devil with all that!" interruptedthe other, rolling his eye over the landscape. "_i_ go through no streets and past nofountains. well?""well! about two leagues beyond the summit of thathill above the village." "good.when do you cease to work?" "at sunset."

"will you wake me, before departing?i have walked two nights without resting. let me finish my pipe, and i shall sleeplike a child. will you wake me?" "surely."the wayfarer smoked his pipe out, put it in his breast, slipped off his great woodenshoes, and lay down on his back on the heap of stones. he was fast asleep directly. as the road-mender plied his dusty labour,and the hail-clouds, rolling away, revealed bright bars and streaks of sky which wereresponded to by silver gleams upon the

landscape, the little man (who wore a red cap now, in place of his blue one) seemedfascinated by the figure on the heap of stones. his eyes were so often turned towards it,that he used his tools mechanically, and, one would have said, to very poor account. the bronze face, the shaggy black hair andbeard, the coarse woollen red cap, the rough medley dress of home-spun stuff andhairy skins of beasts, the powerful frame attenuated by spare living, and the sullen and desperate compression of the lips insleep, inspired the mender of roads with

awe. the traveller had travelled far, and hisfeet were footsore, and his ankles chafed and bleeding; his great shoes, stuffed withleaves and grass, had been heavy to drag over the many long leagues, and his clothes were chafed into holes, as he himself wasinto sores. stooping down beside him, the road-mendertried to get a peep at secret weapons in his breast or where not; but, in vain, forhe slept with his arms crossed upon him, and set as resolutely as his lips. fortified towns with their stockades,guard-houses, gates, trenches, and

drawbridges, seemed to the mender of roads,to be so much air as against this figure. and when he lifted his eyes from it to thehorizon and looked around, he saw in his small fancy similar figures, stopped by noobstacle, tending to centres all over france. the man slept on, indifferent to showers ofhail and intervals of brightness, to sunshine on his face and shadow, to thepaltering lumps of dull ice on his body and the diamonds into which the sun changed them, until the sun was low in the west,and the sky was glowing. then, the mender of roads having got histools together and all things ready to go

down into the village, roused him. "good!" said the sleeper, rising on hiselbow. "two leagues beyond the summit of thehill?" "about." "about.good!" the mender of roads went home, with thedust going on before him according to the set of the wind, and was soon at thefountain, squeezing himself in among the lean kine brought there to drink, and appearing even to whisper to them in hiswhispering to all the village.

when the village had taken its poor supper,it did not creep to bed, as it usually did, but came out of doors again, and remainedthere. a curious contagion of whispering was uponit, and also, when it gathered together at the fountain in the dark, another curiouscontagion of looking expectantly at the sky in one direction only. monsieur gabelle, chief functionary of theplace, became uneasy; went out on his house-top alone, and looked in thatdirection too; glanced down from behind his chimneys at the darkening faces by the fountain below, and sent word to thesacristan who kept the keys of the church,

that there might be need to ring the tocsinby-and-bye. the night deepened. the trees environing the old chateau,keeping its solitary state apart, moved in a rising wind, as though they threatenedthe pile of building massive and dark in the gloom. up the two terrace flights of steps therain ran wildly, and beat at the great door, like a swift messenger rousing thosewithin; uneasy rushes of wind went through the hall, among the old spears and knives, and passed lamenting up the stairs, andshook the curtains of the bed where the

last marquis had slept. east, west, north, and south, through thewoods, four heavy-treading, unkempt figures crushed the high grass and cracked thebranches, striding on cautiously to come together in the courtyard. four lights broke out there, and moved awayin different directions, and all was black again.but, not for long. presently, the chateau began to make itselfstrangely visible by some light of its own, as though it were growing luminous. then, a flickering streak played behind thearchitecture of the front, picking out

transparent places, and showing wherebalustrades, arches, and windows were. then it soared higher, and grew broader andbrighter. soon, from a score of the great windows,flames burst forth, and the stone faces awakened, stared out of fire. a faint murmur arose about the house fromthe few people who were left there, and there was a saddling of a horse and ridingaway. there was spurring and splashing throughthe darkness, and bridle was drawn in the space by the village fountain, and thehorse in a foam stood at monsieur gabelle's door.

"help, gabelle!help, every one!" the tocsin rang impatiently, but other help(if that were any) there was none. the mender of roads, and two hundred andfifty particular friends, stood with folded arms at the fountain, looking at the pillarof fire in the sky. "it must be forty feet high," said they,grimly; and never moved. the rider from the chateau, and the horsein a foam, clattered away through the village, and galloped up the stony steep,to the prison on the crag. at the gate, a group of officers werelooking at the fire; removed from them, a group of soldiers."help, gentlemen--officers!

the chateau is on fire; valuable objectsmay be saved from the flames by timely aid! help, help!" the officers looked towards the soldierswho looked at the fire; gave no orders; and answered, with shrugs and biting of lips,"it must burn." as the rider rattled down the hill againand through the street, the village was illuminating. the mender of roads, and the two hundredand fifty particular friends, inspired as one man and woman by the idea of lightingup, had darted into their houses, and were putting candles in every dull little paneof glass.

the general scarcity of everything,occasioned candles to be borrowed in a rather peremptory manner of monsieurgabelle; and in a moment of reluctance and hesitation on that functionary's part, the mender of roads, once so submissive toauthority, had remarked that carriages were good to make bonfires with, and that post-horses would roast. the chateau was left to itself to flame andburn. in the roaring and raging of theconflagration, a red-hot wind, driving straight from the infernal regions, seemedto be blowing the edifice away. with the rising and falling of the blaze,the stone faces showed as if they were in

torment. when great masses of stone and timber fell,the face with the two dints in the nose became obscured: anon struggled out of thesmoke again, as if it were the face of the cruel marquis, burning at the stake andcontending with the fire. the chateau burned; the nearest trees, laidhold of by the fire, scorched and shrivelled; trees at a distance, fired bythe four fierce figures, begirt the blazing edifice with a new forest of smoke. molten lead and iron boiled in the marblebasin of the fountain; the water ran dry; the extinguisher tops of the towersvanished like ice before the heat, and

trickled down into four rugged wells offlame. great rents and splits branched out in thesolid walls, like crystallisation; stupefied birds wheeled about and droppedinto the furnace; four fierce figures trudged away, east, west, north, and south, along the night-enshrouded roads, guided bythe beacon they had lighted, towards their next destination. the illuminated village had seized hold ofthe tocsin, and, abolishing the lawful ringer, rang for joy. not only that; but the village, light-headed with famine, fire, and bell-ringing,

and bethinking itself that monsieur gabellehad to do with the collection of rent and taxes--though it was but a small instalment of taxes, and no rent at all, that gabellehad got in those latter days--became impatient for an interview with him, and,surrounding his house, summoned him to come forth for personal conference. whereupon, monsieur gabelle did heavily barhis door, and retire to hold counsel with himself. the result of that conference was, thatgabelle again withdrew himself to his housetop behind his stack of chimneys; thistime resolved, if his door were broken in

(he was a small southern man of retaliative temperament), to pitch himself headforemost over the parapet, and crush a man or two below. probably, monsieur gabelle passed a longnight up there, with the distant chateau for fire and candle, and the beating at hisdoor, combined with the joy-ringing, for music; not to mention his having an ill- omened lamp slung across the road beforehis posting-house gate, which the village showed a lively inclination to displace inhis favour. a trying suspense, to be passing a wholesummer night on the brink of the black

ocean, ready to take that plunge into itupon which monsieur gabelle had resolved! but, the friendly dawn appearing at last,and the rush-candles of the village guttering out, the people happilydispersed, and monsieur gabelle came down bringing his life with him for that while. within a hundred miles, and in the light ofother fires, there were other functionaries less fortunate, that night and othernights, whom the rising sun found hanging across once-peaceful streets, where they had been born and bred; also, there wereother villagers and townspeople less fortunate than the mender of roads and hisfellows, upon whom the functionaries and

soldiery turned with success, and whom theystrung up in their turn. but, the fierce figures were steadilywending east, west, north, and south, be that as it would; and whosoever hung, fireburned. the altitude of the gallows that would turnto water and quench it, no functionary, by any stretch of mathematics, was able tocalculate successfully. book the second: the golden threadchapter xxiv. drawn to the loadstone rock in such risings of fire and risings of sea--the firm earth shaken by the rushes of an angry ocean which had now no ebb, but wasalways on the flow, higher and higher, to

the terror and wonder of the beholders on the shore--three years of tempest wereconsumed. three more birthdays of little lucie hadbeen woven by the golden thread into the peaceful tissue of the life of her home. many a night and many a day had its inmateslistened to the echoes in the corner, with hearts that failed them when they heard thethronging feet. for, the footsteps had become to theirminds as the footsteps of a people, tumultuous under a red flag and with theircountry declared in danger, changed into wild beasts, by terrible enchantment longpersisted in.

monseigneur, as a class, had dissociatedhimself from the phenomenon of his not being appreciated: of his being so littlewanted in france, as to incur considerable danger of receiving his dismissal from it,and this life together. like the fabled rustic who raised the devilwith infinite pains, and was so terrified at the sight of him that he could ask theenemy no question, but immediately fled; so, monseigneur, after boldly reading the lord's prayer backwards for a great numberof 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 wasgone, or it would have been the mark for a hurricane of national bullets. it had never been a good eye to see with--had long had the mote in it of lucifer's pride, sardanapalus's luxury, and a mole'sblindness--but it had dropped out and was gone. the court, from that exclusive inner circleto its outermost rotten ring of intrigue, corruption, and dissimulation, was all gonetogether. royalty was gone; had been besieged in itspalace and "suspended," when the last tidings came over.

the august of the year one thousand sevenhundred and ninety-two was come, and monseigneur was by this time scattered farand wide. as was natural, the head-quarters and greatgathering-place of monseigneur, in london, was tellson's bank. spirits are supposed to haunt the placeswhere their bodies most resorted, and monseigneur without a guinea haunted thespot where his guineas used to be. moreover, it was the spot to which suchfrench intelligence as was most to be relied upon, came quickest. again: tellson's was a munificent house,and extended great liberality to old

customers who had fallen from their highestate. again: those nobles who had seen the comingstorm in time, and anticipating plunder or confiscation, had made providentremittances to tellson's, were always to be heard of there by their needy brethren. to which it must be added that every new-comer from france reported himself and his tidings at tellson's, almost as a matter ofcourse. for such variety of reasons, tellson's wasat that time, as to french intelligence, a kind of high exchange; and this was so wellknown to the public, and the inquiries made there were in consequence 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 ran throughtemple bar to read. on a steaming, misty afternoon, mr. lorrysat at his desk, and charles darnay stood leaning on it, talking with him in a lowvoice. the penitential den once set apart forinterviews with the house, was now the news-exchange, and was filled tooverflowing. it was within half an hour or so of thetime of closing. "but, although you are the youngest manthat ever lived," said charles darnay, rather hesitating, "i must still suggest toyou--"

"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, withcheerful confidence, "you touch some of the reasons for my going: not for my stayingaway. it is safe enough for me; nobody will careto interfere with an old fellow of hard upon fourscore when there are so manypeople there much better worth interfering with.

as to its being a disorganised city, if itwere not a disorganised city there would be no occasion to send somebody from our househere to our house there, who knows the city and the business, of old, and is intellson's confidence. as to the uncertain travelling, the longjourney, and the winter weather, if i were not prepared to submit myself to a fewinconveniences for the sake of tellson's, after all these years, who ought to be?" "i wish i were going myself," said charlesdarnay, somewhat restlessly, and like one thinking aloud."indeed! you are a pretty fellow to object andadvise!" exclaimed mr. lorry.

"you wish you were going yourself?and you a frenchman born? you are a wise counsellor." "my dear mr. lorry, it is because i am afrenchman born, that the thought (which i did not mean to utter here, however) haspassed through my mind often. one cannot help thinking, having had somesympathy for the miserable people, and having abandoned something to them," hespoke here in his former thoughtful manner, "that one might be listened to, and might have the power to persuade to somerestraint. only last night, after you had left us,when i was talking to lucie--"

"when you were talking to lucie," mr. lorryrepeated. "yes. i wonder you are not ashamed tomention the name of lucie! wishing you were going to france at thistime of day!" "however, i am not going," said charlesdarnay, with a smile. "it is more to the purpose that you say youare." "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 no conception ofthe difficulty with which our business is transacted, and of the peril in which ourbooks and papers over yonder are involved.

the lord above knows what the compromisingconsequences would be to numbers of people, if some of our documents were seized ordestroyed; and they might be, at any time, you know, for who can say that paris is notset afire to-day, or sacked to-morrow! now, a judicious selection from these withthe least possible delay, and the burying of them, or otherwise getting of them outof harm's way, is within the power (without loss of precious time) of scarcely any onebut myself, if any one. and shall i hang back, when tellson's knowsthis and says this--tellson's, whose bread i have eaten these sixty years--because iam a little stiff about the joints? why, i am a boy, sir, to half a dozen oldcodgers here!"

"how i admire the gallantry of youryouthful spirit, mr. lorry." "tut! nonsense, sir!--and, my dearcharles," said mr. lorry, glancing at the house again, "you are to remember, thatgetting things out of paris at this present time, no matter what things, is next to animpossibility. papers and precious matters were this veryday brought to 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 ashe passed the barriers. at another time, our parcels would come andgo, as easily as 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 of delay.""and do you take no one with you?" "all sorts of people have been proposed tome, but i will have nothing to say to any of them.i intend to take jerry. jerry has been my bodyguard on sundaynights for a long time past and i am used to him. nobody will suspect jerry of being anythingbut an english bull-dog, or of having any design in his head but to fly at anybodywho touches his master."

"i must say again that i heartily admireyour gallantry and youthfulness." "i must say again, nonsense, nonsense! when i have executed this littlecommission, i shall, perhaps, accept tellson's proposal to retire and live at myease. time enough, then, to think about growingold." this dialogue had taken place at mr.lorry's usual desk, with monseigneur swarming within a yard or two of it,boastful of what he would do to avenge himself on the rascal-people before long. it was too much the way of monseigneurunder his reverses as a refugee, and it was

much too much the way of native britishorthodoxy, to talk of this terrible revolution as if it were the only harvest ever known under the skies that had notbeen sown--as if nothing had ever been done, or omitted to be done, that had ledto it--as if observers of the wretched millions in france, and of the misused and perverted resources that should have madethem prosperous, had not seen it inevitably coming, years before, and had not in plainwords recorded what they saw. such vapouring, combined with theextravagant plots of monseigneur for the restoration of a state of things that hadutterly exhausted itself, and worn out

heaven and earth as well as itself, was hard to be endured without someremonstrance by any sane man who knew the truth. and it was such vapouring all about hisears, like a troublesome confusion of blood in his own head, added to a latentuneasiness in his mind, which had already made charles darnay restless, and whichstill kept him so. among the talkers, was stryver, of theking's bench bar, far on his way to state promotion, and, therefore, loud on thetheme: broaching to monseigneur, his devices for blowing the people up and

exterminating them from the face of theearth, and doing without them: and for accomplishing many similar objects akin intheir nature to the abolition of eagles by sprinkling salt on the tails of the race. him, darnay heard with a particular feelingof objection; and darnay stood divided between going away that he might hear nomore, and remaining to interpose his word, when the thing that was to be, went on toshape itself out. the house approached mr. lorry, and layinga soiled and unopened letter before him, asked if he had yet discovered any tracesof the person to whom it was addressed? the house laid the letter down so close todarnay that he saw the direction--the more

quickly because it was his own right name.the address, turned into english, ran: "very pressing. to monsieur heretofore the marquis st.evremonde, of france. confided to the cares of messrs.tellson and co., bankers, london, england." on the marriage morning, doctor manette hadmade it his one urgent and express request to charles darnay, that the secret of thisname should be--unless he, the doctor, dissolved the obligation--kept inviolatebetween them. nobody else knew it to be his name; his ownwife had no suspicion of the fact; mr. lorry could have none.

"no," said mr. lorry, in reply to thehouse; "i have referred it, i think, to everybody now here, and no one can tell mewhere this gentleman is to be found." the hands of the clock verging upon thehour of closing the bank, there was a general set of the current of talkers pastmr. lorry's desk. he held the letter out inquiringly; andmonseigneur looked at it, in the person of this plotting and indignant refugee; andmonseigneur looked at it in the person of that plotting and indignant refugee; and this, that, and the other, all hadsomething disparaging to say, in french or in english, concerning the marquis who wasnot to be found.

"nephew, i believe--but in any casedegenerate successor--of the polished marquis who was murdered," said one."happy to say, i never knew him." "a craven who abandoned his post," saidanother--this monseigneur had been got out of paris, legs uppermost and halfsuffocated, in a load of hay--"some years ago." "infected with the new doctrines," said athird, eyeing the direction through his glass in passing; "set himself inopposition to the last marquis, abandoned the estates when he inherited them, andleft them to the ruffian herd. they will recompense him now, i hope, as hedeserves."

"hey?" cried the blatant stryver. "did he though?is that the sort of fellow? let us look at his infamous name.d--n the fellow!" darnay, unable to restrain himself anylonger, touched mr. stryver on the 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 these times."

"but i do ask why?""then i tell you again, mr. darnay, i am sorry for it.i am sorry to hear you putting any such extraordinary questions. here is a fellow, who, infected by the mostpestilent and blasphemous code of devilry that ever was known, abandoned his propertyto the vilest scum of the earth that ever did murder by wholesale, and you ask me why i am sorry that a man who instructs youthknows him? well, but i'll answer you.i am sorry because i believe there is contamination in such a scoundrel.

that's why."mindful of the secret, darnay with great difficulty checked himself, and said: "youmay not understand the gentleman." "i understand how to put _you_ in a corner,mr. darnay," said bully stryver, "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 also tell 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, lookingall round, and snapping his fingers, "i

know something of human nature, and i tellyou that you'll never find a fellow like this fellow, trusting himself to themercies of such precious _protã©gã©s_. no, gentlemen; he'll always show 'em aclean pair of heels very early in the scuffle, and sneak away." with those words, and a final snap of hisfingers, mr. stryver shouldered himself into fleet-street, amidst the generalapprobation of his hearers. mr. lorry and charles darnay were leftalone at the desk, in the general departure from the bank."will you take charge of the letter?" said mr. lorry.

"you know where to deliver it?""i do." "will you undertake to explain, that wesuppose it to have been addressed here, on the chance of our knowing where to forwardit, and that 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 withstryver and most other men, darnay made the best of his way into the quiet of thetemple, opened the letter, 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 mylife at the hands of the village, i have been seized, with great violence andindignity, and brought a long journey on foot to paris. on the road i have suffered a great deal.nor is that all; my house has been destroyed--razed to the ground. "the crime for which i am imprisoned,monsieur heretofore the marquis, and for which i shall be summoned before thetribunal, and shall lose my life (without

your so generous help), is, they tell me, treason against the majesty of the people,in that i have acted against them for an emigrant. it is in vain i represent that i have actedfor them, and not against, according to your commands. it is in vain i represent that, before thesequestration of emigrant property, i had remitted the imposts they had ceased topay; that i had collected no rent; that i had had recourse to no process. the only response is, that i have acted foran emigrant, and where is that emigrant?

"ah! most gracious monsieur heretofore themarquis, where is that emigrant? i cry in my sleep where is he? i demand of heaven, will he not come todeliver me? no answer. ah monsieur heretofore the marquis, i sendmy desolate cry across the sea, hoping it may perhaps reach your ears through thegreat bank of tilson known at paris! "for the love of heaven, of justice, ofgenerosity, of the honour of your noble name, i supplicate you, monsieur heretoforethe marquis, to succour and release me. my fault is, that i have been true to you.

oh monsieur heretofore the marquis, i prayyou be you true to me! "from this prison here of horror, whence ievery hour tend nearer and nearer to destruction, i send you, monsieurheretofore the marquis, the assurance of my dolorous and unhappy service. "your afflicted,"gabelle." the latent uneasiness in darnay's mind wasroused to vigourous life by this letter. the peril of an old servant and a good one,whose only crime was fidelity to himself and his family, stared him so reproachfullyin the face, that, as he walked to and fro in the temple considering what to do, healmost hid his face from the passersby.

he knew very well, that in his horror ofthe deed which had culminated the bad deeds and bad reputation of the old family house,in his resentful suspicions of his uncle, and in the aversion with which his conscience regarded the crumbling fabricthat he was supposed to uphold, he had acted imperfectly. he knew very well, that in his love forlucie, 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 to do it, andthat it had never been done.

the happiness of his own chosen englishhome, the necessity of being always actively employed, the swift changes andtroubles of the time which had followed on one another so fast, that the events of this week annihilated the immature plans oflast week, and the events of the week following made all new again; he knew verywell, that to the force of these circumstances he had yielded:--not without disquiet, but still without continuous andaccumulating resistance. that he had watched the times for a time ofaction, and that they had shifted and struggled until the time had gone by, andthe nobility were trooping from france by

every highway and byway, and their property was in course of confiscation anddestruction, and their very names were blotting out, was as well known to himselfas it could be to any new authority in france that might impeach him for it. but, he had oppressed no man, he hadimprisoned no man; he was so far from having harshly exacted payment of his dues,that he had relinquished them of his own will, thrown himself on a world with no favour in it, won his own private placethere, and earned his own bread. monsieur gabelle had held the impoverishedand involved estate on written

instructions, to spare the people, to givethem what little there was to give--such fuel as the heavy creditors would let them have in the winter, and such produce ascould be saved from the same grip in the summer--and no doubt he had put the fact inplea and proof, for his own safety, so that it could not but appear now. this favoured the desperate resolutioncharles darnay had begun to make, that he would go to paris. yes. like the mariner in the old story, thewinds and streams had driven him within the influence of the loadstone rock, and it wasdrawing him to itself, and he must go.

everything that arose before his minddrifted him on, faster and faster, more and more steadily, to the terrible attraction. his latent uneasiness had been, that badaims were being worked out in his own unhappy land by bad instruments, and thathe who could not fail to know that he was better than they, was not there, trying to do something to stay bloodshed, and assertthe claims of mercy and humanity. with this uneasiness half stifled, and halfreproaching him, 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 sneersof monseigneur, which had stung him bitterly, and those of stryver, which aboveall were coarse and galling, for old reasons. upon those, had followed gabelle's letter:the appeal of an innocent prisoner, in danger of death, to his justice, 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 he struck.he knew of no rock; he saw hardly any danger.

the intention with which he had done whathe had done, even although he had left it incomplete, presented it before him in anaspect that would be gratefully acknowledged in france on his presentinghimself to assert it. then, that glorious vision of doing good,which is so often the sanguine mirage of so many good minds, arose before him, and heeven saw himself in the illusion with some influence to guide this raging revolutionthat was running so fearfully wild. as he walked to and fro with his resolutionmade, he considered that neither lucie nor her father must know of it until he wasgone. lucie should be spared the pain ofseparation; and her father, always

reluctant to turn his thoughts towards thedangerous ground of old, should come to the knowledge of the step, as a step taken, andnot in the balance of suspense and doubt. how much of the incompleteness of hissituation was referable to her father, through the painful anxiety to avoidreviving old associations of france in his mind, he did not discuss with himself. but, that circumstance too, had had itsinfluence in his course. he walked to and fro, with thoughts verybusy, until it was time to return to tellson's and take leave of mr. lorry. as soon as he arrived in paris he wouldpresent himself to this old friend, but he

must say nothing of his intention now. a carriage with post-horses was ready atthe bank door, and jerry was booted and equipped."i have delivered that letter," said charles darnay to mr. lorry. "i would not consent to your being chargedwith any written answer, but perhaps 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, withhis open pocket-book in his hand.

"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 anumber of coats and cloaks, and went out with him from the warm atmosphere of theold bank, into the misty air of fleet-

street. "my love to lucie, and to little lucie,"said mr. lorry at parting, "and take precious care of them till i come back." charles darnay shook his head anddoubtfully smiled, as the carriage rolled that night--it was the fourteenth ofaugust--he sat up late, and wrote two fervent letters; one was to lucie,explaining the strong obligation he was under to go to paris, and showing her, at length, the reasons that he had, forfeeling confident that he could become involved in no personal danger there; theother was to the doctor, confiding lucie

and their dear child to his care, and dwelling on the same topics with thestrongest assurances. to both, he wrote that he would despatchletters in proof of his safety, immediately after his arrival. it was a hard day, that day of being amongthem, with the first reservation of their joint lives on his mind. it was a hard matter to preserve theinnocent deceit of which they were profoundly unsuspicious. but, an affectionate glance at his wife, sohappy and busy, made him resolute not to

tell her what impended (he had been halfmoved 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, andher scarcely less dear namesake, pretending that he would return by-and-bye (animaginary engagement took him out, and he had secreted a valise of clothes ready), and so he emerged into the heavy mist ofthe heavy streets, with a heavier heart. the unseen force was drawing him fast toitself, now, and all the tides and winds were setting straight and strong towardsit. he left his two letters with a trustyporter, to be delivered half an hour before

midnight, and no sooner; took horse fordover; and began his journey. name!" was the poor prisoner's cry withwhich he strengthened his sinking heart, as he left all that was dear on earth behind him, and floated away for the loadstonerock. the end of the second book.