Rappel de votre demande:
Format de téléchargement: : Texte
Vues 1 à 311 sur 311
Nombre de pages: 311
Notice complète:
Titre : A tale of two cities / by Charles Dickens... ; ill. by H. K. Browne
Auteur : Dickens, Charles (1812-1870). Auteur du texte
Éditeur : Chapman and Hall (London)
Date d'édition : 1859
Contributeur : Browne, Hablot Knight (1815-1882). Illustrateur
Notice d'oeuvre : http://catalogue.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/cb121143327
Notice du catalogue : http://catalogue.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/cb32028960b
Type : monographie imprimée
Langue : anglais
Format : X-254 p. : ill. ; in-8
Format : Nombre total de vues : 311
Description : [A tale of two cities (anglais)]
Description : Contient une table des matières
Droits : Consultable en ligne
Droits : Public domain
Identifiant : ark:/12148/bpt6k1027722
Source : Bibliothèque nationale de France, département Littérature et art, 8-Y2-28907
Conservation numérique : Bibliothèque nationale de France
Date de mise en ligne : 15/10/2007
Le texte affiché peut comporter un certain nombre d'erreurs. En effet, le mode texte de ce document a été généré de façon automatique par un programme de reconnaissance optique de caractères (OCR). Le taux de reconnaissance estimé pour ce document est de 88%.
y- ¡ iT1'1 tn\ 111\1 ï 1]'" L p I~ u,
'4 ~r~~` LI y .t~.
.j'; 'J ,)" A:~ ~-I.
~~`
~'lJJ(Q) (Ç il [ LE
-r
..J t
(; n ·, J-L)<~ > J. ec }~ !`'
-1, 4) oN )0'1 ~l?~ .~L`
~~I~aE-'hI.~N -I.- HJlL~" I~:u:6, f'1('p~LL.Y.
A
TALE OF TVPO CITIES.
BY
e s DICKENS.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY H. K. BROWNE.
LONDON
CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, PICC3~.DILLY; AND AT THE OFFICE OF ALL THE YEAR ROUND,
11, WELLINGTOR STRM NORTII. KDCOCLIX.
PREFACE.
"VHEN l was acting, with my children and friends, in Mr. WILKIE COLLINS'S drama of The Frozen Deep, I fxst conceived the main idea of this story. A strong desire was upon me then, to embody it in my own person and l traced out in my fancy, the state of mind of which it would necessitate the presentation to an observant spectator, with particular care and ,interest.
As the idea became familiar to me, it gradually shaped itself into its present form. Throughout its execution, it has had. complete possession of me l have so far verified what is done and suffered in these pages, as that l have eertainly done and suffered it all myself.
Whenever any reference (however slight) is made here to the condition of the French people before or during the Revolution, it is truly made, on the faith of the,most trustworthy witnesses. It has been one of my hopes to add:"sÕmething to the popular and picturesque means of understa,nding- that terrible time, though no one can hope to add an~thing to the philosophy of Mr. CARLYLE'S wonderful book.
TdVISTOCK HOUSE, LONDON,
Nonember,185~J.
CONTENTS.
BOOK THE FIRST. RECALLED TO LIFE.
CIJAPo PAGE I.-The Period 1 IL-The Mail 3 IIL-The Night Shadows 0 7 IV.-The Preparation 0 0 0 0 0 0 o. 10 V.-The Wine-Shop 18 VI.-Tlie Shoemaker 0 25 TIIE END OP THE PillST BOOK.
BOOK THE SECOND. THE GOLDEN THREAD. I.-Five Years Later. 33 ll.-A sight 37 11I.-A Disappointment 42 IV.-Congratulatory 51 V.-The Jackal 5() VI.-Hundreds of People Go. VIL-D~ionsienr the :Marquis in Town GO, VTIL-Monsieur the Marquis in the Country 74 IX.-The Gorgon'a Head 7S X.-Two Promises 85 XI.-A Companion Picture 90 JŒL-The Fellow of Delicacy 93 XIII.-The Fellow of no Delicacy 98 XIV.-The Honest Tradesman 101 XV.-Knitting .108
CHAP. PAGE XVI.-Still Knitting. ] 16 XVII.-One Night 124 XYIIL-Nine Days 128 XIX.-An Opinion 133 XX.-A Plea 138 XXI.-Echoing Footsteps 140 XXII.-The Sea still Rises 148 XXIII.-Fire Rises 152 XXIV.-Drawn to the Loadstol1c Rock- 157
TIIE EIr'D OP TUE SECO\D 8001:.
BOOK THE THIRD. THE TRACK OF A STOIELM. I.-In Secret. 165 I*I.-The Grindstone 173 III.-The Shadow 177 IV.-Calm in Storm 181 V.-The Wood-Sawyer. 184 VI.-Triumph. 189 Vll.-A Knock at the Door 193 VIII.-A Rand at Cards 197 IX.The Game Made 205 X.-The Substance of the Shadow 214 XL-Dusk 224 XII.~Darkncss. 227 XIII.-Fifty.two 933 XIY.-Thé Knitting Done 241 XV.-The Footsteps Die out for ever 250
LIST 'OF PLATES.
FRONTISPIECE. PAGE VIGNETTE.
THE ~fAIi. 5 THE SHOENAKEIL 29 THE LIKENESS 48 CONGRATULATIONS 51 THE STOPPAGE AT THE FOUNTAIN 72 3M. STRYVER AT TELLSON'S BANK 94 THE SPY'S FUNERAL 102 THE WINE-SHOP 109 THE ACCOMPLICES 137 THE SEA BISES 150 :BElORE THE PRISON TRIBUNAL 168 THE DOCK AT THE DOOR 196 THE DOÜBLE RECOGNITION 197 ATTEP» THE SENTENCE ~`~ ~y 22r>
IT was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch :of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was. the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was thewinter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct ~the. other way-in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authoritiei3 insisted on its being received," for good or for evil; in the superlàtive degree of comparison only.: There were a king with a large jaw and. a queen with a plain face, on the throne'of England; there were-a king with a large jaw.and a queen with a fair face, on the throne of France. ln .both countries. it was clearer than crystal to the lords of the State. preserves of loaves and fiehea, that things in general were settled for ever.. It was the year of Our Lord one .thousand seven hundred and seventy-five. Spiritual revelations wereeonceded to England at that favoured period, as at this. Mrs. Southcott had recently attained her five-and-twentieth blessed birthday, of whom a prophetic private in the Life Guards had heralded the sublime appearance. by announcing that arrangements were made,for.'the swallowing up of London and Westminster. Even the Cock-lane ghost had been laid only _a round dozen of yeare, after rapping out its messages, as the' ~irits of this very year last past (supernaturally deficient in origmality) rapped out theirs. Mere messages in the earthly order of events had lately come to the English Crown and People, from a congress of British 'subjects in America which, strange to relate, have proved niore important to the human race than any communications yet received through any of the 'chickens of the Cock-lane brood. France, less favoured on the whole as to matters spiritual than her sister of the shield and trident, roIled with exceeding smoothness 13
A TALE OF TWO CITIES.
BOOK THE FIRST. RECALLED TO LIFE.
IN THREE BOOKS.
CHAPTER I.
THE PERIOD.
down hill, making paper money and spénding it. Ûnder the guid- ance of her Christian pastors, she entertained lierself, besides, mitli such humane achievemcnts as sentencing a youth to have his lands eut off, his tongue torn out with pincers, and his body burned alive, because lie had not kneeled down in the rain to do honour to a dirty procession of monks w liicli passed within his view, at a distance of some fifty or Bixty yards. It is likely enough that, rooted in the woods of France and Nonvay, there were gromng trees, when that sufferer was put to death, already marked by the woodman, Fate, to come down and be sawn into boards, to make a certain iiiovable framework with a sack and a knife in it, terrible in history. It is likely enough that in the rough outhouses of some tillers of the heavy lands adjacent to Paris, there were sheltered from the weather that very day, rude carts, bespattered with rustic mire, snuftèd about by pigs, and roosted in bl poultry, which the Farmer, Death, l1ad already set apart to be his tumbrils of the Rev olution. But, that Woodman and that Farmer, though they work unceasingly, work silently, and no one heard them as they went about with mufRed tread the rather, forasmuch as to entertain any suspicion that they were awalœ, was to be atheistical and traitorous.
In England, there was scarcely an amount of order and protection to justify much national boasting. Daring burglaries by armed men, and highway robberies, took place in the capital itself every night families were publicly cautioned not to go out of town without removing their furniture to upholsterers' warehouses for security the highwayman in the dark was a City tradesman in the light, and, being recognised and challenged by his fellow-tradesman whom lie atopped in his character of the Captain," gallantly shot him through the head and rode away; the mail was waylaid by seven robbers, and the guard ahot three dead, and then got ahot dead himself by the other four, in consequence of the failure of his ammunition after which the mail was robbed in peace that magnificent potentate, the Lord 1%layor of London, was made to stand and deliver on Turnham Green, by one highwayman, who despoiled the illustrious creature in sight of all his retinue prisoners mi London gaols fought battles with their turnkeys, and tbe majesty. of the law fired blunderbusses in among them, loaded with rounds of shot and bau; thieves snipped off diamond crosses from the necks of noble lords at Court drawing-rooms; musketeers went into St. Giles's, to search for contraband goods, and the mob fired. on the musketeers, and the muslceteers fued on the mob and nobody thought any of these occurrences much out of the common way. In the midst, of them, the hangman, ever busy and ever worse than useless, was in constant requisition now, stringing up long rows of miscellaneous criminals now, hanging a housebreaker on Saturday who had been taken on'ruesday; now, burning people in the hand at Newgate by the dozen, and now burning pamphlets at the door of Westminster Hall; to-day, taking the life of an atrocious murderer, and to-morrow of a wretched pilferer who had robbed a farmer's boy of sixpence. AU these things, and a thousand like them, came to pass in and close upon the dear old year one thousand seven hundred and sev enty-five. Environed by them, while the '~Ÿoodman and the Farmer worked unheeded, those two of the large jaws, and those
other two of the plain and the fair faces, trod with stir enough, and carried their divine rights with a high hand. Thus did the year one thousand seven hundred and sevent3--five conduct their Gi~reatnesees, and myriads of small creatures-the creatures of this chronicle among the rest-along the roads that lay before them.
CHAPTER II.
THE MAIL.
IT was the Dover road that lay, on a Friday night late in N ovem.. ber, before the-firat of the persons with whom this history has business. The Dover road lay, as to him, beyond the Dover mail, as it lumbered up Shooter's Hill. He walked up-hill in the mire by the side of the mail, as the rest of the passengers did not because they had the least relish for walking exercise, under the circumstances, but because the hill, and the harness, and the mud, and the mail, were all so heavy, that the horses had three times already come to a stop, besides once drawing the coach across the road, with the mutinous intent of taking it back to ll1ackheath. Reins and whip and coachman and guard, however, in combination, had read that article of war which forbad a purpose otherwise strongly in favour of the argument, that some brute animals are endued NÎi~h :Reas on T and the team had capitulated and returned to their duty. With drooping heads and tremulous tails, they masheatheir way through the thick mud, floundering and stumbling between whiles as if they were falling to pieces at the larger joints. As often as the driver rested them and brought them to a stand, with a wary 1Ÿo-ho so-ho then the near leader violently shook his head and everything upon it-like an unusually emphatic horse, denying that the coach could be got up the hill. Whenever the leader made this rattle, the passenger started, as a nervous passenger might, and was disturbed in mind.
There was a steaming mist in all the hollows, and it had roamed in its forlornness up the hill, like an evil spirit, seeking rest and finding none. A clammy and intensely cold mist, it made its slow way through the air in ripples that visibly followed and overspread one another, as the waves of an unwholesome sea might do. It was dense enough to shut out everything from the light of the coachlamps but these its own workings, and a few yards of road and the reek of the labouring horses steamed into it, as if they had made it ail.
Two other passengers, besides the one, were plodding up the hill by the side of themail. All three were wrapped to the cheek-bones and over the ears, 'and wore jack-boots. Not one of the three could Lave said, from anything he saw, what either of the other two was like and each was hidden under almost as many wrappers from the eyes of the mind, as from the eyes of the body, of his two comn2
panions. In those days, travellers w ere very shy of being confidential on a short notice, for anybody on the road might be a robber or in league with robbers. As to the latter, when every posting-house and ale-house could produce somebody in "the Captain's" pay, ranging from the landlord to the lowest stable nondescript, it was the likeliest thing upon the cards. So the guard of the Dover mail thought to himself, that Friday night in Nov ember one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five, lumbering up Shooter's Hill, as he stood on his own particular perch behind the mail, beating his feet, and keepmg an eye and a hand on the arm-chest before him, where a loaded blunderbuss.lay.at the top of six or eight loaded horse-pistols, deposited on a substratum of cutlnss.
The Dover mail was in its usual genial position that the guard suspected the passengers, the passengers suspected one another and the guard, they all suspected everybody else, and the' coachman was sure ofnothing but the horses; as to which cattle lie could with a clear conscience have taken his oath on the two Testaments that they were not fit for the journey.
Wo-ho said the coachman. So, then 1 One more pull and you're at the top' and be damned to you, for I have had trouble enough to get you to it !-Joe 1"
Halloa 1" the guard replied.
What o'clock do you make it, Joe P"
Ten minutes, good, past eleven."
My blood 1" ejaculated the veged coachman, and not atop of Shooter's yet 1 Tst 1 Ÿah 1 Get on with you 1"
The emphatic horse, cut short by the whip in a most decided negative, made a decided scramble for it, and the three other horses followed suit. Once more, the Dover mail strugolec 1 on, with the jack-boots of its passengers squashing along by its side. They had stopped when the coach stopped, and they kept close company with it. If any one of the three had had the hardihood to propose to another to walk on a little ahead into the mist and darkness, he would have put himself in a fair way of getting shot instantly as a highwayman.
The last burst carried the mail to the summit of the bill. The horses stopped to breathe again, and the guard got down to skid the wheel for the descent, and 'open the coach door to let the passengers in.
Tst 1 Joe 1" cried the coachman in a warning voice, looking down from his box.
What do you say, Tom ?"
They both listened.
I say a horse at a canter coming up, Joe."
I say a horse at a gallop, Tom," returned the guard, lea\"Îng his hold of the door, and mounting niubly to his place. "Gentlemen In the king's name, all of you 1"
With this hurried adjuration, lie coc1œd his blunderbuss, and stood on the offensive.
The passenger booked by this history, was on the coach step, getting in; the two. other passengers were close behind him, and about to follow. He remained on the step, half in the coach and-half out of it they remained in the road below him. They all looked
f i·om the coachman to the guard, and from the guard to the coachman and listeiled. The coachman looked back, and the guard looked bacl:, and even the emphatic leader pricked up his ears and looked without contradicting.
Tlie stillness consequent on the cessation of the rumbling and labouring of the coach, added to the stillness of the night, made it vcn- quiet indeed. The panting of the horses communicated a trenmlous motion to the coach, as if it were in a state of agitation. The hearts of the passengers beat loud enough perhaps to be heard but at any rate, the quiet pause was audibly expressive of people out of breath, and holding the breath, and having the pulses quickened 1J\" expectation.
The sound of a horse at a gallop came fast and furiously up the hill.
So-ho!" the guard sang out, as loud as lie could roar. Yo tl~ere 1 Stand I s1a11 tire
The pace was suddenly elieclied, and, w ith much splashing and floundering, a man's voice caUed from the mist, ls that the Dover mail ?"
1 ever you mind what it is ?" the guard retorted. What are you ?"
Is that the Dov er mail r"
lVhy do you want to know P"
I want a passenger, "if it is."
What passenger P"
"1\11'. Jarvis Lorry."
--Otir booked passenger showed in a moment that it was his name. The guard, the coachman, and the two other passengers, eyed him distrustfully.
Keep where you are," the guard called to the voice in the mist, because, if 1 should make a mistake, it could nev er be set right in your lifetime. Gentleman of the name of Lorry answer straight." ~Yhat is the matter r" asked the passeng~r, then, with mildly quavering speech. Who w ants me ? ls it Jérry P"
i don't like Jerry's voice, if _is, Jerry," growled the guard to himself. He's hoarser than suits me, is Jerry.")
~'es, 1\11'. Lorry."
What is the matter P"
A despatch sent after you from over yonder. T. and Co." 1 know this messenger, guard," .said 1\11'. Lorry, getting down into the road-assisted from behind moré swiftly than politely by the other two passengers, who immediately ecrambled into the coach, shut the door, and pulled up the wind He may come close* there's nothing m-rong.
"1 hope there ain't, but I can't malie so 'Nation sure of that," said the guard, in grutt' soliloquy. Hallo you 1"
Well! And hallo you said Jerry, more hoarsely than before. Come on at a footpace d'ye mind me P And if yoti've got liolsters to that saddle o' y ourn, don't let me see your hand go nigh 'cm. For l'm a devil at a quick mistake, and when l make one it talies the form of Lead. So now let's look at you."
The figures of a horse and rider came slowly through the eddying mist, and came to the side of the mail, where the passenger stood.
The rider stooped, and, casting up his ey es at the guard, handed the pasaenger a amaU folded paper. The rider's horse was blown, and both horse and rider were covered with mud, from the hoofs of the horse to the hat of the man.
Guard 1" said the passenger, in a tone' of quiet business confidence.
The watchful giiard, with his right hand at the stock of his raised blunderbuss, his left at the barrel, and his eye on the horseman, answered eurtly, Sir." y
There is nothing to apprehend. l belong to Tellsôn's Bank. you must know Tellson's Bank in London. I am going to Paris on business. A crown to drink. I may read this
If so be as you're quick, sir."
He opened it in the light of the coach-lamp on that side, and read -first to himself and then aloud 1 Wait at Dover for :J\Iam'selle.' It's not long, you see, guard. Jerry, say that my answer was, REOALLED TO ZIFE."
Jerry Btarted in his sadille. That's a Blazing strange answer, too," said he, at his hoarsest.
Take that message back, and they will know that I receiv ed this, as weU as if l wrote. 11'Iake the best of your way. Good night." With those words the passenger opened the -coach-door and got in not at all assisted by his fellow-passengers, who had expeditiously secreted their watches and purses in their bodts, and were now making a general pretence of being asleep. With no more definite purpose than to escape the hazard of originating any other lcind of action. The coach lumbered on again, with heavier wreaths of mist elosing round it as it began the descent. The guard soon replaced his blunderbuss in his arm-chest, and, having looked to the rest of its contents, and having looked to the supplementary pistols that he wore in his .belt, looked to a smaller chest beneath his seat, in "hich there were a few smith's tools, a couple of torches, and a tinder-box. For he was furnished with that comp1eteness, that if the coach-lamps had been blown and stormed out, which did occasionauy happen, he had only to shut himself up inside, keep the flint and steel sparksweu off the sh'aw, and get a light with tolerable safety and ease (if lie were lucky) in five minutes.
Tom softIy over the coach-roof.
Hallo, Joe."
Did you hear the message ?"
1 did, Joe."
What did you make of it, Tom P"
Nothing at all, Joe."
That's a coincidence, too," the guard mused, for I made the same of it myself."
Jerry, left alone in the mist and darkness, dismounted meanwhile, not only to ease his spent horse, but to wipe the mud from his face, and ahake the wet out of his hat-brim, which might be capable of holding about half a gallon. After standing with the bridle over his heavily-splashed arm, until the wheels of the mail were no longer within hearing and the night was quite still again, he turned to walk down the hill.
"After that there gallop from Temple-bar, old lady, l won7t trust
your fore-legs till I get you on the le",el," said this hoarae messenger, glancing at his mare. Recalled to life.' That's a Blazing strange messacre. lluch of that zcouldn't do for y ou, Jerry l say, Jerry t You'd be in a Blazing bad way, if recalling to life was to come i]ito fashion, JeiTy
CHAPTER III.
TIIE NIGUT BIIADOWS.
A WOKDEllFUL fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other. A solemn consideration, when I enter a great city by night, that every one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every room in every one of them encloses its own Becret;' that every beating heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it 1 Something of the awfulness, even of Death itself; is referable to this. No more can I turn the leaves of this dear book that I loved, and va4y hope in time to read it all. No more can I look into the depths. of this unfathomable water, wherein, as momentary lights glanced into it, I have had glimpses of buried treasure and other things submerged. It was appointed that the book should shut with a spring, for ever and for ever, when l had read but a page. It was appointed that the water should be locked in an eternal froi3t, when the light was playing on its surface, and I stood in ignorance on the shore. My friend is dead, my neighbour is dead, my love, the darling of my soul, is dead it is the inexorable consolidation and perpetuation of the secret that was always in that individuality, an which l shall carry in mine to my life end. In any of the burial-places of this city through which I pass, is there a sleeper more inscrutable than its busy inhabitants are, in their innermost personality, to me, or than I am to them r
As to this; his natural and not to be alienated inheritance, the messenger on horseback had exactly the same possessions as the King, the first Minister of State, or the richest merchant in London. So with the three shut up in the narrow compasa of one lumbering old mail coach they were mysteries to one another, aà complete as if each had been in his own coach and six, or his own coach and sixty, with the breadth of a county between him and the nen..
The messenger rode back at an easy trot, stopping pretty often at ale-houses by the way to drink, but evincing a tendency to keep his own counsel, and to keep his hat.cocked over his eyes. He had eyes that assorted very well wit'à that decoration, being of a surface black, witli no depth in the colour or form, and much too near together-as if they were afraid of being found out in something, singly, if they kept too far apart. They had a siniater expression, under an old cocked-hat like a three-cornered spittoon, and over a great muffier for lie chin and throat, whieh descended nearly to the wearer's knees.
When lie stopped for drink, lie moved this muflier with lûs left hand, only while lie poured his liquor in with his right as soon as that was done, lie muHled again.
No, Jerry, no 111 said the messenger, harping on one theme as lie rode. It wouldn't do for you, Jerry. Jerry, ypu honest tr adesman, it wouldn't suit your line of business 1 Recalled Bust me if I don't think he'd been a drinking 1"
His message perplesed his mind to that degree that he was fain, several times, to take off his hat to scratch his head. Except on the crown, which was raggedly bald, he had stiff, black hair, standing jaggedly all over it, and growing down-hill almost to his broad, blunt nose. It was so like smith's work, so much more like the top of :t strongly spiked wall than a head of hair, that the best of players at leap-frog might have decliiied him, as the most dangerous man in the world to go over.
While he trotted back with the message he was to deliver to the night watchman in his box at the door of Tellson's Bank, by Templebar, who was to deliver it to greater authorities within, the shadows of the night took such shapes to him as arose out of the message, and took such shapes to the mare as arose out of lier private topies of uneasiness. They seemed to be numerous, for she shied at every shadow on the road.
What time, the mail-coach lumbered, jolted, rattled, and bumped up on its tedious way, with its three fellow inscrutables inside. To whom, likewise, the shadows of the night revealed themselves, in the forms their dozing eyes and wandering thoughts suggested. Tellson's Bank had a run up on it in the mail. As the bank passenger-with an arm drawn through the leathern strap, which did what lay in.it to keep him from pounding against the next passenger, and driving him into his corner, whenever the coach got a special jolt-nodded in his place with half-shut eyes, the little coach-windows, and the coach-lamp dimly gleaming through them, and the bulky bundle of opposite passenger, became the bank, and did a great stroke of business. The rattle of the harness was the chink of money, and more drafts were honoured in five minutes than even Tellson'is, with ail its foreign and home connexion, ever paid in tbrice the time. Then, the strong-rooms underground, at Tellson's, with such of their valuable stores and secrets as were known to the passenger (and it was not a little that he knew about them), opened before him, and he went in among them with the great keys and the feebly-burning candle, and found them safe, and strong, and sound, and still; just as he had last seen them.
But, though the bank was almost always with him, and though the coach (in a confused way, like the presence of pain under an o~iate) was always with him, there was another current of impression that nevèr ceasedao run, all through the night. He was on his way to dig some one out of a grave.
.Now, which of the multitude of faces that showed themselves before him was the true face of the buried person, the shadows of the night did not'indicat~; but they were all the faces of a man of fiveand-forty by:years, and they difihred principally in the passions they expressed, and in.. the ghastliness of their worn and wasted state. Pride, contempt, defiance, stubbornness, submissioll, lamentation,
succeeded one another so did varieties of sunken cheek, cadaverotis colour, emaciated hands and figures. But the face was in the main one face, and every head was prematurelv white. A hundred times the dozing passenger inquired of this spectre
Buried how long ?" The answer was always the same Almost eighteen years." "y ou had abandoned all hope of being dug out?" "Long ago."
You know that you are recalled to life ?"
They tell me so."
1 hope you care to live ?"
I can't say."
Shall I show her to you P Will you come and see her P" The answers to this question were various and contradictory. Sometimes the broken reply was, ~'ITait It would kill me if I saw her too soon." Sometimes, it was given in a tender rain of tears, and then it was, Take me to her." Sometimes, it was staring and bewildered, and then it was, I don't know her. I don't understand." .After such imaginary discourae, the passenger in his fancy would dig, and dig, dig-now, with a spade, now with a great key, now with his hands-to dig this wretched creature out. Got out at last, with earth hanging about his face and hair, lie would suddenly fall away. to dust. The passenger would then start to himself, and lower the window, to get- the reality of mist and rain on his cheek. Yet even when his eyes were opened on the mist and rain, on the moving patch of light from the lamps, and the hedge at the roadside retreating by jerks, the night shadows outside the coach would fall into the train of the night shadows within. The real Banking-house by Temple-bar, the real business of the past day, the real strongrooms, the real express sent after him, and the real message returned, would all be there. Out of the midst of them, the ghostly face would rise, and lie woUld accost it again.
Buried how 10nO' p"
Almost eighteen years."
I hope you care to live pu
I can't say."
Dig-dig-dig-until an impatient movement from one of the two passengers would admonish him to pull up the window, draw his arm securely through the leathern strap, and speculate upon the two slumbering forms, until his mind lost its hold- of them, and they again slid away into the bank and the grave.
Buried how long ?"
Almost eighteen years."
You had abandoned all hope of being dug out ?"
Long ago."
The words were still in his hearing as just spoken-distinctly in his hearing as ever spoken words had been in his life-when the weary passenger started to the consciousness of daylight, and found that the shadows of the night were gone.
Re lowered the window, and looked out at the rising sun. There was a ridge of ploughed land, with a plough upon it where it had been left last night when the horses were unyoked; beyond, a quiet coppice-wood, in which many leaves of burning red and golden yellow
still remained upon the trees. Thol1gh the earth was cold and wet, the F31i~y.waF3 clear, and the sun rose bright, placid, and beautiful. Eighteen years said the passenger, looking at the sun. Gracious Creator of Day To be buried alive for eighteen years
CHAPTEIT 1V.
THE PREPARATION.
W HEN the mail got successfully to Dover, in the course of the forenoon, the head-drawer at the Royal George Hotel opened the coach-door, as his custom was. He did it with some ilourish of ceremony, for a mail journey trom London in winter was an achievement to congratulate an adventurous traveller upon.
By that time, there was only one adventurous traveller left to be congratulated; for the two others had been set down at their respective roadside destinations. The mildewy inside of the coach, with its damp and dirty straw, its disagreeable amell, and its obscurity, was rather like a larger sort of dog-kennel. l\1r. Lorry, the passenger, ahaking himaelf out of it, in chains of straw, a tangle of shaggy wrapper, fiapping hat, and muddy legs, was rather like a larger sort of dog.
There will be a packet to Calais to-morrow, drawer P" Yes, sir, if the weather holds and the wind sets tolerable fair. The tide will serve pretty nicely at about two in the afternoon, sir. :Bed, sir ?"
Il I ehall not go to bed till night; but I want a bedroom, and a barber."
And then breakfast, sir ? Yes, sir. That way, sir, if you please. Show Concord Gentleman's valise and hot water to Concord. Pull off gentleman's boots in Concord. (You will find a fine sea-coal fire, sir.) Fetch barber to Concord. Stir about there, now, for Concord
The Concord bed-chamber being always assigned to a passenger by the mail, and passengers by the mail being always heavily wrapped up from head to foot, the room had the odd interest for the establiShment of the Royal George, that although but one kind of man was seen to go into it, all kinds and varieties of men came out of it. CODsequently, another drawer, and two porters, and several maids, and the landlady, were all loitering by accident at various points of the road between the Concord and the coffee-room, when Il gentleman of sixty, formally dressed in a brown suit of clothes, pretty weU worn, but very well kept, with large square cuffs and large flapi3 to the pockets, pasaed along on his way to his breakfast.
The coffee-room had no other occupant, that forenoon, than the gentleman in brown.' His breakfast-table was drawn before the fire, and as he sat, with its light shining on him, waiting for the meal, he sat so still, that he might have been sitting for his portrait. Very orderly and methodical he looked, with a hand on each knee,
and a loud watch ticking a sonorous sermon under his flapped waistcoat, as though it pitted its gravity and longevity against the levity and evanescence of the brisk fire. He had a good leg, and was a little vain of it, for his brown etockings fitted sleek and close, and were of a fine texture; his shoes and buckles, too, though .plain, were trim. He wore an odd little sleek crisp Haxen wig, setting very close to his head which wig, it is to be presumed, was made of hair, but which looked far more as though it were'spun from filaments of silk or glass. His Enen, though not of a fineness in accordance with bis stochings, was as white as the tops of the waves that broke upon the neighbouring beach, or the specks of sale that glinted in the sunlight far at sea. A face, habitually suppressed and quieted, was still lighted up under the quaint wia by a pair of moist bright eyes that it must have cost their owner, m years gone by, some pains to drill to the composed and reserved expression of Tellson's Bank. He had a healthy colour in his cheeks, and his face, though lined, bore few traces of anxiety. But, perhaps the confidential bachelor clerks in Tellson's Bank were principally occupied with the cares of other people and perhaps second-hand cares, like second-hand clothes, come easily off and on. Completing his resemblance to a man who was sitting for his portrait, Mr. Lorry dropped off asleep. The arrival of his breakfast roused him, and lie said to the drawer, as lie moved his chair to it l ",ish accommodation prepared for a young lady who may come here at any time to-day. She may ask for Mr. Jarvis Lorry, or she may only ask for a gentleman from Tellson's Bank. Please to let me know."
Yes, sir. Tellson's Bank in London, sir P"
Yes."
"'Yes, sir. We have oftentimes the honour to entertain your gentlemen in their travelling backwards and forwards betwixt London and Paris, sir. A vast deal of travelling, sir, in Tellson and Company's House."
Yes. We are quite a French house, as weU as an English one." 'Yes, sir. Not much in the habit of .such travelling yourself, I think, sir ?il
Not of late years. It is fifteen years sinee we-since I-came last from France."
Indeed, sir ? That was before my time here, sir. Before our people's time here, air. The George was in other hands at that time, isir.>3
I believe so."
But I would hold a pretty wager, sir, that a House like Tellson and Company was flourishing, a matter of fifty, not to speak of fifteen years ago ?"
"You might treble that., and say a hundred and fifty, yet not be far from the truth."
Indeed, sir
Rounding his mouth and both his eyes, as he stepped backward from the table, the waiter shifted his napkin from his right arm to his left, dropped into a cômfortable attitude, and stood surveying the guest while he ate and drank, as from an observatory or watch-tower. According to the immemorial usage of waiters in all ages.
When Mr. Lorry had finished his breakfast, lie went out for a stroll on the beach. The little narrow, crooked town of Dover hid itself away from the beach, and ran its head into the chalk cliffs, lilie a marine ostrich. The beach was a desert of heaps of sea and stones tumbling wildly about, and the sea did what it liked, and what it liked was destruction. It thundered at the town, and thundered at the cliffs, and brought the coast down, madly. The air. among the houses was of so strong a piscatory flavour that one might have eupposed sick fish went up to be dipped in it, as sick people went down to be dipped in the sea. A little fishing was done in the port, and a quantity of strolling about by night, and looking senwnrd: particularly at those times when the tide made, and was near flood. Small tradesmen, who did no business whatever, sometimes tillaccountably realised large fortunes, and it was remarkable that nobody in the neighbourhood could endure a lamplighter.
As the day declined into the afternoon, and the air, which had been at intervals clear enough to allow the French coast to be seen, became again charged with mist and vapour, Mr. Lorry's thoughts seemed to cloud too. When it was dark, and lie sat before the coffee-room fire, awaiting his dinner as lie had awaited his breakfast, his mind was busily diggmg, digging, digging, in the live red coals. A bottle of good claret after dinner does a digger in the red coals no harm, otherwise than as it bas a tendency to throw him out of work. Mr. Lorry had been idle a long time, and had just poured out his last glassful of wine with as complete an appearance of satisfaction as is ever to be found in an elderly gentleman of a fresh complexion who bas got to the end of a bottle, when a rattling of wheels came up the narrow street, and rumbled into the inn-yard.
He set down his glass untouched. This is Mam'selle said lie. In a very few minutes the waiter came in, to announce that Miss Manette had arrived from London, and would be happy to see the gentleman from Tellson's.
So soon P"
Miss Manette bad taken some refreshment on the road, and required none then, and was extremely an~ious to see the gentleman :trom Tellson's immediately, if it suited his pleasure and convenience.
The gentleman from Tellf3on's had nothing left for it but to empty his glass with an air of stolid desperation, settle his odd little flaxen wig at the ears, and follow the waiter to Miss Manette's apartment. It was a large, dark room, furnished in a funereal manner with black horsehair, and loaded with heavy dark tables. These had been oiled and oiled, until the two tall candles on the table in the middle of the room were gloomily reflected on every leaf as if they were buried, in deep graves of black mahogany, and no light to speak of could be expected from them until they.were dug out.
The obscurity was so difficult to penetrate that 1\Ir. Lorry, picking bis way over the weU-worn Turkey carpet, supposed Miss Manette to be, for the moment, in some adjacent room, until, having got past the two tall candles, lie saw standing to receive him by the table between them and the fire, a young lady of not more than seventeen, in a riding-cloak, and still holding her straw travelling-hat by its ribbon, in her hand. As his eyes rested on a short, slight, pretty
figure, a quantity, of golden hair, a pair' of blue eyes thàt met hia own with an inquiring look, and a forehead with a singular. capacity (remembering how young and smooth it was), of lifting and kriitting itself into an expression that was not quite one of perplexity, or wonder, or alarm, or merely' of a bright fixed attention, though .it. included all the four expressions-as his eyes rested on these things, a sudden vivid likeness passed before him, of a child whom he had held in his arma on the passage across, that very Channel, one cold time, when the hail drifted heavily and the sea ran high. The likeness passed away, say, like a breath along the surface of the gaunt pier-glass behind- hèr, on the frame of which, a hospital procesaion of negro cupids, several headlesa and all cripplei3, were offering black baskets of Dead Sea fruit to blacIt divinities of the feminine gender -and lie made his formal bow to Miss Manette.
Pray take a seat, air." In a very clear and pleasant young voice a little foreign in its accent, but a very little indeed. I kiss your band, miss," said Mr.Lorry, with the manners of an earlier date, as lie made his formal bow again, and took his seat. I received a letter from the Bank, sir, yesterday, informing. me that some new intelligence-or discovery-"
The word is not material, miss either word will do." Ci -respecting the small property of rriy poor father whom I never isa,%v-f3o long.dead
Mr. Lorry moved in his chair, and cast a troubled look towards the hospital procession of negro cupids. As if they had any help for anybody in their absurd baskets 1
96 -rendered it necessary that I sbould go to Paris, there to communicate with a gentleman of the Bank, so good as to be despatched to Paris for the purpose."
Myself."
As I was prepared to hear, air."
She curtseyed to him (young ladies made curtseys in those days), with a pretty desire to convey to him that she felt how much older and wiser lie was tlian she. He made her another bow. I replied to the Bank, air, that as it was conaidered necessary, by those who know, and who are so kind as to advise me, that I sbould go to France, and that as I am an orphan and have no friend who could go with me, I should esteem it bighly if I might be permitted to place myself, during the journey, under that worthy gentleman'a protection. The gentleman had left London, but I think a messenger was sent after him to beg the favour of his waiting for me here." I was happy," said Mr. Lorry, to be entrusted with the charge. I shall be more happy to execute it."
Sir, I thank you indeed. I thank you very. gratefully. It was told me by thé Bank. that the gentleman would explain to me the details of the business, and that I must prepare myself to flnd them of a surpriaing nature. I have done my best to prepare myself, and l naturally have a strong and eager interest to know what they are." "Naturally," said Mr. Lorry. "Yes-I-"
After a pause, lie added, again settling the crisp flaxen wig at the cars: e
It is very difficult to begin."
He did not begin, but, in his indecision, met her glance. The
young forehead lifted itself into that singular expression-but it w as pretty and characteristic, besides being singular-and she raised her hand, as if with an involuntary action she caught at, or stayed, some passing shadow.
Axe you quite a stranger to me, sir p"
Am not ?" Mr. Lorry opened his hands, and extcnded them outward with an argumentative smile.
Between the eyebrows and just over the little feminine nose, the line of which was as delicate and fine as it was possible to be, the expression deepened itself as she took her seat thoughtfully in the chair by which she had hitherto remained standing. He watched .her as she mused, and the moment she raised her eyes again, went on Il In your adopted country, I presume, I cannot. do better than address you as a young English lady, Miss Manette ?"
If you please, sir."
"Miss Manette, I am a man of business. I have a business charge to acquit myself of. In your reception of it, don't heed me any more than if I was a speaking machine-truly, I am not much else. l will, with your leave, relate to you, miss, the story of one of our customers."
Story 1"
He seemed wilfully to mistake the word she had repeated, when lie added, in a hurry, "Yes, customers; in the banlring business we usually call our connexion our customers. He was a French gentleman a scientific gentleman a man of great acquirements-a Doctor."
Not of Beauvais P"
"'`Ÿhy, yes, of Beauvais. Lilce J\fonsieur Manette, your father, the gentleman was of Beauvais. Like Monsieur Manette, your father, the gentleman was of repute in Paris. I had the honour of knowing him there. Our relations were business relations, but confidential. l was at that time in our French House, and had beenoh twenty years."
At that time-I may ask, at what time, sir P"
I speak, miss, of twenty years, ago. He married-an English lady-and l was one of the trustees. Hia affairs, like the affairs of many other French gentlemen and French families, were entirely in Tellson's hands. in a aimilar way, I am, tir l have been, trustee of one lrind or other for scores of our customers. These are mere business relations, misa there is no friendship in them, no particular interest, nothing like sentiment. I have passed from one to another, in the course of my business life, just as I pass from one of our customers to another in the course of my business day in short, I have no feelings I am a mere machine. To go on
But this is my father's story, sir; and I begin to think"-the curiously roughened forehead was very intent upon him-" that when I was left an orphan, through my mother's surviving my father only two years, it was you who brought me to England. I am almost sure it was you."
llllr. Lorry took the hesitating little hand that confidingly advanced to take his, and lie put it with some ceremony to his lips. He then conducted the young lady straightway to her chair again, and, holding the chair-back with his left hand, and using his right by turns to
rub his chin pull his wig at the "ears, or point what he said, stood looking down into her face while she sat looking up into his. Miss Manette, it zvas I. And~you will see how truly I sp oke of myself just now, in saying I had no feelings, and that all the relations l hold with my fellow-creatures are mere business relations, when you reflect that I have never seen you: sÏf1ce. No you have been the ward of Tellson's House since, and I have been busy with the other business of Tellson's House since. Feelings! I have no time for them, no chance of them. l pass my whole life, miss, in turning an immense pecuniary Mangle."
After this odd description of his daily routine of employment, Mr. Lorry flattened his flaxen wig upon his head with both hands (wbich was most unnecessary, for nothmg could be flatter than its E3hining surface was before), and resumed his former attitude.
So far, miss (as you have remarked), this is the story of-your regretted father. Now comes the difference. If your father had not died when he did-Don't be frightened 1 How you etart She did, indeed, start. And she caught his wrist with both her hands. Pray," said Mr. Lorry, in a Boothing tone, bringing his left hand from the back of the chair to lay it on the supplicatory fingers that clasped him in so violent a tremble pray control your agitationa matter of business. As I was saying-"
Her look so discomposed him that he stopped, wandered, and began anew
As I was saying if Monsieur Manette had not died if he had suddenly and silently disappeared if he had been spirited away if it had not been difficult to gness to what dreadful place, though no art could trace him if he had an enemy in some compatriot who could exercise a privilege that I in my own time have known the boldest people afraid to speak of in a whisper, across the water, there for instance, the privilege of filling up blank forms for the consignment of any one to the oblivion of a prison for any length of time if his wife had implored the king, the queen, the court, the clergy, for any tidings of him, and all quite in vain ;-then the hietory of your father would have been the history of this unfortunate gentleman, the Doctor of Beauvais."
I entreat you to tell me more, sir."
i will. l am going to. You. can bear it P"
I can bear anything but the uncertainty you leave me in at this moment."
"You speak collectedly, and you-are collected. That's good (Though his manner was less satisfied than his words.) A matter of business. Regard it as a matter of business-business that must be done. Now, if this Doctor's wife, though a lady of great courage and spirit, had suffered so intensely from this cause before her little child was born-11
The little child was a daughter, sir."
A daughter. A-a-matter of business-don't be distressed Miss, if the poor lady had suffered so intensely before her little child W8.S born, that she came to the determination of sparing the poor child the inheritance of any part of the agony she had known the pa~n$ of, by rearing her in the belief that her father was dead-N 0, don't kneel In geaven's name whyahould you kneel to me
For the truth. 0 dear, good, compassionate sir, for the truth 1" A-a matter of business. You confuse me, and how can l transact. business if I am confused P Let us be clear-headed. If you could kindly mention now, for instance, what nine times ninepence are, or how many shillings in twenty guineaa, it would be so encouraging. I should be so much more at my ease about your state of mind."
Without directly answering to this appeal, she sat so still when he had very gently raised her, and the hands that had not ceased to clasp his wrists were so much more steady than they had been, that she communicated some reassurance to Mr. Jarvis Lorry. That's right, that's right. Courage 1 Business 1 You have business before you useful business. Miss Manette, your mother took this course with you. And when she died-I believe brokenhearted-having never slackened her unavailing search for your father, she left you, at two years old, to grow to be blooming, beautiful, and happy, without the dark cloud upon you of living in uncertainty whether your father soon wore his heart out in prison, or wasted there through many lingering yenrs."
As he said the words, lie loolied down, with an admiring pity, on the flowing golden hair as if he pictured to himself that it might have been already tinged with grey.
"You know tbat your parents, had no great possession, and that what they had was secured to your mother and to y ou. There has been no new discovery, of money, or of any other property but-"
He felt his wrist held doser, and he stopped. The expression in the forehead, which had so particularly attracted his notice, and which was now immovable, had deepened into one of pain and horror. But he has been-been found. He is alme. Greatly changed, it is too probablé almost a wreck, it is possible though we will hope the best. Still, alive. Your father has been taken to the house of an old servant in Paris, and we are going there I, to identify him, if l can you, to restore him to life, love, duty, rest, comfort: A shiver ran through her frame, and from it through his. She said, in a low, distinct, awe-stricken voice, as if she were saying it in a dream,
I am going to see his Ghost 1 It will be his Ghost-not him 1" IU. Lorry quietly eliafecl the hands that held his arm. There, there, there See now, see now The best and the worst are known to you now. You are well on your way to the poor wronged gentleman, and, with a fair sea voyage, and a fair land journey, you will be soon at his dear side."
She repeated in the same tone, sunk to a whisper, I have been free, l have been happy, yet his Ghost bas never haunted me Only one thing more," said Mr. Lorry, laying stress upon it as a wholesome means of enforcing her attention he bas been found under another name his o,n, long forgotten or long concealed. It wOllld be worse than useless now to inquire which worse than useless to seek to know whether he has been for years overlooked, or always designedly held prisoner. It would be worse than useless now to make any inquiries, because it would be dnngerous. Better not to mention the subject, anywhere or in any way, and to remove him-
for a while at all events-out of France. Even l, safe as an Englishman, and even Tellson7s, important as they are to French credit, avoid all naming of the matter. I carry about me, not a Bcrap of writing openly referring to it. This is a secret service altogether. l'Iy credentials, entries. and memoranda, are all com:prehended in the one line, 1 Recalled to Life which may mean anythmg. But what is the matter Slie doesn't notice a word J\1iss Manette 1" Perfectly still and silent, and not even fallen back in hér chair, she sat under his hand, utterly insensible with her eyes open and fixed upon him, and with that last expression looking as if it were carved or branded into her forehead. So close was her hold upon his arm, that he feared to detach himself lest he should hurt her; therefore he called out loudly for assistance without moving.
A wild-looking woman, whom even in his agitation, Mr. Lorry observed to be all of a red colour, and to have red hair, and to be dressed in some extraordinary tight-fitting fashion, and to have on her head a most wonderful bonnet like a Grenadier wooden meaeure, and -good measure too, or a great Stilton cheese, came mnning into the room in advance of the inn servants, and soon 'settled the question of his detachment from the poor young lady, by laying a brawny hand upon his chest, and sending him flying back against the nearest wall. 1 really think this must be a man 1" was Mr. Lorry's bréathless reflection, simultaneouf3ly with his coming against the wall.) ~Ÿhy, look at you all 1". bawled this figure, addressing the inn servants. Why don't you go and fetch things, inStead of standing there staring at me ? I am not so much to look at, am I P Why don't you go and fetch things l'Ulet you know, if you don't bring smelling-salts, cold water, and vinegar, quick, l will There was an immediate dispersal for these restoratives, and she softly laid the patient on a sofa, and tended her with great s1cill and gentleness calling her my precious 11) and my bird and spreading her golden hair aside over her shoulders with great pride and care.
And you in brown 1" she said, indignantly turning on Mr. Lorry couldn't you' tell her what you had to tell her, without frightemng her to death p. Look at her, with her pretty pale face and her cold hands. Do'you call that being a Banker p"
Mr. Lorry. was so exceedingly disconcerted by a question BO hard to answer, that he could onlr.look on, at a distance, with much feebler sympathy and humility, while the strong woman, having banished the mn servants under the mystérioua penalty of "letting them know' something not mentioned if they stayed there, staring, recovered her charge by a regular series of gradations, and coaxed her to lay her drooping head upon her shoulder.
l hope she 'will do weIl now," said Mr. Lorry.
No thanks to you in brown, if she doea. My darling pretty "I. ho~e," said Mr. Lorry, after anôther pause of feeble eympathy and humility, that you accompany Miss Manette to France ?" cc A likely thing, too replied thé strong woman. If it was ever :1 intended tliat I should goacroBS salt water, do you suppose Providence would have cast my lot in an island P"
drTh18 being another question hard to answer, Mr. Jarvis Lorry withdrew to consider it.
c
CHAPTER V.
TIIE W I:N E-S il 0 P.
A LA.RGE cask of wine had been dropped and broken, in the street. The accident had happened in getting it out of a cart the cask had tumbled out with a run, the hoops had burst, and it lay on the stones just outside the door of the wine-shop, shattered like a walnut-ahell.
All the people within reach had suspended their business, or their idlenesa, to run to the spot and drink the wine. The rough, irregular stones of the street, pointing every way, and designed, one might have thought, expressly to lame all living creatures that approached them, had dammed it into little pools these were surrounded, each byitsownjostlinggrouporcrowd,accordingtoitssize. Some men kneeled down, made scoops of their two hands joined, and sipped, or tried to help women, who bent over their shoulders, to sip, before the wine had all run out between their fingers. Others, men and women, dipped in the puddles with little mugs of mutilated earthenware, or even with handkerchiefs 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 and there, to cut off little streams of wine that started away in new directions others, devoted themselves to the sodden and lee-dyed pieces of the cask, licking, and even champing the moister wine-rotted fragments with eager relish. There was no drainage to carry off the wine, and not only did it all get taken up, but so much mud got taken up along with it,. that there might have been a scavenger in the street, if anybody acquainted with it could 'have believed in such a miraculous presence.
A shrill sound of laughter and of amused voices-voices of men, women, and children-resounded in the street while this wine-game lasted. There was little roughnesa in the sport, and much pIayfulness. There was a special companionship in it, an observable inclination on the. part of every one to jom some other one, which led, especiall~ng the luckier or lighter-hearted, to Írolicsome embraces, drinking of healths, shaking of hauds, and even joining of hands and dancing, a dozen together. When the wine was gone, and the places where it had been most abundant were raked into a gudiron pattern by fingers, these demonstrations ceased, as suddenly as they had broken out. The man who had left his saw sticking in the firewood he was cutting, set it in motion again; the woman who had left on Do door-step the little pot of hot-ashes, at which she had been trying to soften the pain in her own starved fingers and toes, or in those of her child, returned to it men with bare arm, matted locka, and cadaverous faces, who had emerged into the winter light from cel1ara, moved away to descend again; and.a gloom gathered on the scene that appeared more natural to it than su.nshine. The wine was red wine, and had stained the ground'of the narrow street in the suburb of Saint Antoine, in Paris, where it was f3pilled.
It had stained many hands, too, and many faces, and many naked feet, and many wooden sboes. The hands of the man who sawed the wood, left red marks on the billets and the forehead of the woman who ~ursed her baby, was stained with the stain of .the old rag she ivound about her head again. Those who hild been greedy with the staves of the cask, had acquiréd a tigerish smear about the mouth and one taU joker so besmirched, his head more out of a long squalid bag of a nightcap than in it, scrawled upon a wall with his finger diI~ped in muddy wine lees-BLooD.
The time was to come, when that wine too would be spilled on the street-stones, and when'the stain of it would be red upon many there.
And now that the cloud settled on Saint Antoine, which a momentary gleam had driven from his sacred countenance, the darknesB of it was heavy-cold, dirt, sickness, ignorance, and want, were the lords in waiting on the saintly presence-nobles of great power all of them but, most especially the last. Samples of a people that had undergone a terrible grinding and re-grinding in the niill, and certainly not in the fabulous mill which, ground old people young, shivered at every corner, passed in and out at every doorway, looked from every window, fluttered in every vestige of a garment that the wind shook. The mill which had worked them down, was the mill that grinds young people old the children had ancient faces and grave voices and upon them, and upon the grown faces, and ploughed into every furrow of age and coming up afi-esli, was the sign, Hunger. It was prevalent everywhere. Hunger was pushed out of the tall houses, in the wretched clothing that hung upon poles and lines Hunger was patched into them with straw and rag and wood and paper Hunger was repeated in every fragment of the small modicum of firewood that the man sawed off; Hunger stared down from the smokeless chimneys, and started up from the filthy street that had no o$'al, among its refuse, of anything to eat. Hunger was the inscrip. tion on the baker's shelves, written in every small loaf of his scanty stock of bad bread at the isauf3age-shop, m every dead-dog .:t?reparation that was offered for sale. Hunger rattled its, dry bon. among the roasting chesnuts in the turned cylinder; Hunger was shred into atomies in every farthing porringer of husky chips of potato, fried with some reluctant drops of oil.
Its abiding-place was in all things fitted to it. A narrow winding street, full of offence anastench, with other narrow winding streets diverging, ail peopled by rags and nightcaps, and all smelling of ragg and nightC8J?S, and all visible things with a brooding look upon them that looked il!. In the hunted air of the people there was yet some wild-beast thought of the possibility of turning at bay. Depressed and slinking though they were, eyes of fire were not wanting among them nor compressed lips, white with what they suppressed nor foreheads knitted into the likeness of the gallows-rope they mused about enduring, or inflicting. The trade signa (and they were almost as many as the shops) were, all, grim illustrations of Want. The butcher and the porkman painted up, only the leanest scrags of meat the bakér, the COSrBest of meagre loaves. Thé people rudely plctured as drinking in the wine-shops, croaked over their smnty measures of thin wine and beer, and were gloweringly confidential c2
together. Nothing was represented in a flourishing condition, save tools and weapons but, the cutler's knives and axes were sharp and bright, the smith's hammers were heavy, and the gunmalier's 'stock was .murderous. The cripp4g stones of the pavement, with their many little reservoirs of mud and water, had no footways, but broke off abruptly at the doors. The kennel, to make amends, ran down the middle of the street-when it ran at all which was only after heavy rains, and then it ran, by many eccentric fits, into the houses. Across the streets, at wide intervals, one clumsy lamp was slung- by a rope and pulley at night, when the lamplighter had let these down, and lighted, and hoisted them again, a feeble grove of dim wicks swung in a sickly manner overhead, as if they were at sea. Indeed they were at sea, and the ship and crew were in peril of tempest.
For, the time was to come, when the gaunt scarecrows of that region should have watched the lamplighter, in their idleness and hunger, so long, as to conceive the idea of improving on his method, and hauling up men by those ropes and pulleys, to flare upon the darkness of their condition. But, the time was not come yet and every wind that blew over France shook the rags of the scarecrows in vain, for the birds, fine of song and feather, took no warning. The wine-shop was a corner shop, better than most others in its appearance and degree, and the master of the wine-shop had stood outside it, in a yellow waistcoat and green breeches, looking on at the struggle for the lost wine. It's not my affair," said lie, with a final shrug of his shoulders. The people from the marhet did it. Let them bring another."
There; his eyes happening to catch the tall joker writing up his joke, lie 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 often the way with his tribe. It missed its mark, and completely failed; as is often the way with his tribe too.
What now ? P Are you a sùbject for the mad-hospital P" said the wine-shop keeper, crossing the road, and obliterating the jest with a handful of mud, v.icked up for the purpose, and smeared over it. Why'do you write in the public streets ? P Is there-tèll me thou -is there no other place to write such words in
In his expostulation lie dropped his cleaner hand (perhaps accidentally, perhaps not), upon the joker's heart. The joker rapped it with his own; took a nimble spr*mg upward, and came down in a fantastic dancing 'attitude, with one of his stained shoes jerked off his foot into his hand, and held out. A joker of an extremely, not to say wolfishly, practical character, lie looked, under those circumstances.
Put it on, put it- on," said the other. Call wine; wine and finish,there." With that advice, lie 'wipeel his soiled hand upon the joker's' dress, sucli as it was-quite deliberately, as having dirtied the band on:his aucount; andthen recrossed the road and entered the wine-shop~
This wine-f3hop keeper was a bull-necked, martial-looking man of thirty; and. he should have ,been of a hot temperament, for, althougli it was a bitter day, he wore no coat, but carried one slung over his
shoulder. His shirt-sleeves were rolled up, too"and his,brown arma were bare to the elbows. Neither did lie wear anything more on his head than his own crisply-curling short dark hair. He was a 'dark man altogether, with good eyes and ~a good bold breadth between them. Good-humoured-looking on the whole, but implacable-looking, too; evidently a man of a strong resolution and a.set purpose; a man not desirable to be met, rushing down a narrow pass with a gulf on either side, for nothing would turn the man.
Madame Defarge, his wife, sat in the shop behind the counter af3 lie came in. Madame Defarge was a stout woman of about his own age, with a watchful eye that i3eldom seemed to look at anything; a large hand heavily ringed, a steady face, strong f~atures, and great composure of manner. There was a character about Madame Defarge, from which one might have predicated that she did not'often make mistakes against herself in any of the reckonings over which she presided. Madame Defarge being sensitive to cold, was wrapped in fur, and had a quantity of bright shawl twined about her head, though not to the concealment of her large ear-rings. Her knitting was before lier, but she had laid it down to pick her teeth with a toothpick. Thus engaged, with her right elbow supported by her left¡ 'hand, Madame Defar~e said.nothing when her lord came in, but coughed just one grain of cough. This, in combination with the lifting of her darkly defined eyebrows over her toothpick by the breadth of a line, suggested to her husband that lie would do well to look round the shop among the customers, for any new customer who had dropped in while lie stepped over the way.
The wine-shop keeper accordingly rolled his eyes about, until they rested upon an elderly gentleman and a young lady, who were seated in a corner. Other company were there two pla~ing cards, two pla,.ying dominoes, three standing by the counter lengthening out a short supply of wine. As lie passed behind the counter, he took notice that the elderly 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 Defarge to himself 1 don't know y ou."
But, lie feigned not to notice the two strangers, and fell into discourse with the triumvirate of customers who were drinking at the counter.
1-Iow goes it, Jacques ?" said one of these three to Monsieur Defarge. Is all the spilt wine swallowed ?"
Every drop, Jacques," answered Monsieur Defarge.
"\Vhen this interchange of christian name was eftected, Madame Defarge, picking her teeth with her toothpick, coughed another grain of cough, and raised lier eyebrows by the breadth of another line. It is not often," said the second of the three, addressing Monsieur Defarge, that many of these miserable beasts know the taste of win'e. or of anything but black bread and déath. le it not so, Jacques rU It is so, Jacques," Monsieur Defarge retunied.
At this second interchange of the christian nam'e, Madame Defarge, still uf3ing her toothpick with profound composure, coughed another grain of cough, and raised her eyebrows by the breadth of another line. The last of the three now said his say, as lie put' down his empty drinking vessel and smacheahis lips.
"*Ah 1 So much the worse 1 A bitter taste it is that such poor cattle always have in their mouths, and hard lives they live, Jacques. Am I right, Jacques?"
"You are right, Jacques," was the response of Monsieur Defarge. This third interchange of the christian name was completed at the moment when Madame Defarge put her toothpick by, kept her eyebrowa up"and slightly rustled in her seat.
liold--theu 1 True muttered her husband. Gentlemen-my
de t"
The three customers pulled off their hats to Madame Defarge, nltli three flourishes. She acknowledged their homage by bending her head, and giving them a quick look Then she glanced in a casual manner round the wine-shop, took up her knitting with great apparent ealmnesf3 and repose of spirit, and became absorbed in it. Gentlemen," said her husband, who had kept his bright eye observantly upon her, good day. The chamber, furnished bachelorfashion, that you wished to see, and were inquiring for when I stepped out, is on the fifth floor. The doorway of the staircase gives on the little court-yard close to the left here," pointing with his hand, near to the windoW of my establishment. But, now that l remember, one of you has already been there, and can show' the way. Gentlemen, adieu 1"" `
They paid for their wine, and left the place. Thé eyes of Monsieur Defarge were studying his wife at her knitting, when the elderly gentleman advanced from his corner, and begged the favour of a word.
Willingly, air," said Monsieur Defarge, and quietly stepped with him to the door.
Their conference was very short, but very decided. Almost at the mat word, Monsieur Defarge started and became deeply attentive. It had not lasted a minute, when lie nodded and went out. The gentleman then beckoned to the young lady, and they, too, went out. Madame Defarge knitted 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 lie had directed his other company just before. It opened from a stinking little black court-yard, an was the general public entrance to a great pile of houses, inhabited by a great number of people. In the gloomy tile-paved entry to the gloomy tile-paved staircase, Monsieur Defarge bent down on one knee to the child of his old master, and put her hand to bis lips. It was a gentle action, but not at all gently done a very remarkable transformation had come over him in a few seconds. He had no good-humour in 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 began ascending the staÏrs.
Is lie alone ?" the latter whispered.
Alone God help him who should be with him 1" said the other, in the same low voice.
Is lie always alone, then P"
Ci Yes."
Of his own desire
Of his own necessity. As he was, when l first saw him after they found me and demanded to know if l would take him, and, at my peril, be discreet--as he was then, go he is now."
tg He is greatly changed P"
Changed 1"
The keeper of the wine-shop stopped to strike the wall with bis hand, and mutter a tremendous curse. No direct answer could have been half go forcible. Mr. Lorry's spirits grew heavier and heavier, as he and his two companiong ascended higher and higher. Such a staircase, -with its nccessories, in the older and more crowded part of Paris, would be bad enough now; but, at that time,. it was vile indeed to unaccustomed and unhardened senses. Every little habitation within the great foul nest of one high buildingthat is to say, the room or rooms within every door that opened on the general staircase-left its own heap of refuse on ita own landing, besides flinging other refuse from its own windows. The uncontrollable and hopeless mass of decomposition so engendered, would have polluted the air, even if poverty and deprivation had not loaded it with their intangible impurities; the two bad sources combined made it almost insupportable. Through such an atmoBphere, by a steep dark shaft of dirt and poison, the way lay. Yielding to his own disturbance of mind, and to his young companions agitation, which became greater every instant, Mr. Jarvis Lorry twice stopped to rest. Each of these stoppages was made at a doleful grating, by which any languiehing good airs that were left uncorrupted, seemed. to escape, and all spoilt and sickly VàpourB seemed to crawl in. Through the rusted bars, taBtes, rather than glimpses, were caught of the jumbled neighbourhood and nothing within range, nearer or lower than the summits of the two great towers of Notre-Dame had any promise on it of healthy life or wholesome aspirations.. At last, the top of the etaarcase was gained, and they stopped for the third time. There was yet an upper staircase, of a Bteeper inclination and of contracted dimensions, to be ascended, before the garret story was reached. The keeper of the wine-shop, always going a little in advance, and always going on the side which 3fr. Lorry took, as though he dreaded to be asked any question by the young lady, turned himself about here, and, carefully feeling in the pockets of the coat he carried over his 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 r"
I think it necessary to turn the key." l\IonsieurDefarge whispered it closer in his ear, and frowned heavily.. Why pu
Why 1 Because he has lived go long, locked up, that he would be frightened-rave-tear himself to piecea-die-come to I know not what harm-if his door was left open."
"la it possible 1" exclaimed Mr. Lorry.
"l~ it poasible ?" repeated Defarge, bitterly.. Yes. And a beautiful world we live in, when it is possible, and when many -other such things possible, and not only possible, but done-done, see
you !-under that sky there, every day. Long live the Devil. Let us go on."
This-dialogue had been held in so very low R whisper, that not a word of it had reached the yôung lady's ears. But, by this time she trembled under such strongo emotion, and her face expressed such deep anxiety, and, above all, such dread and terror, that Mr. Lorry felt it.incumbent on him to speak a:word or two of reassurance. "Courage,' dear miss Courage! 1 Business The worst will be over in a moment 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 you bring to him, begin. Let our good friend here, assist you on that side. That'a well, friend Defarge. Come, now. Business, business
They went upslowly and softly.. The stairense was short, and they were soon at the top. There, as it had an abrupt turn in it, they came all at once in sight of three men, whose heads were bent down close together at the side of a door, and who were intently looking into the room to which the door belonged, through some chinks or holes in the .wall. On hearing footsteps close at hand, these three turned, and'rose, and showed themselves to be the three of one name who had been drinking in the wine-shop.
I forgot them in the surprise of your visit," explained Monsieur Deforge.. Il Lëave us, good boys we have business here." The three glided by, and.went silently down.
There appearing ta be no other door on that floor, and the keeper of the wine.shop going straight to this one when they. were left alone, Mr. Lorry asked him in a whisper, with a little anoer: Do you make a show of Monsieur Manette ?" 0
-cg 1 show him, in the way you have seen, to a chosen few." Is that well p"
I think it is well."
Who are the few P How do you choose them P"
1 choose them as real men, of my name-Jacques is my nameto whom the sight is likely to do good. Enough you are English thatis another thing. Stay there, if you please, a little moment." With. an admonitory.gesture ta lieep them back, hè stooped, and loolœd in..through the crevice in the wall. Soon raising his hend again, he struck twice or thrice upon the door-evidently with no other object than to make 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 tumed it 'as heavily as he could. The door slowly opened inward under his hand, and he looked into the room and said something. A faint voice answered something. Little more than a single syllable could have been spoken on either side.
He looked back over his shoulder, and beckoned them to enter. Mr. Lorry got his arm securely round the daughter's waist, and held her for he felt that she was F3iuldng. "A-a-a-business, buainess he ~urged, with a moisture that was not of business shining .on his cheek. Come in, come in I am afraïd 'of .it," she answered, shuddering.
Of it P What P"
"1 mean of him.. Of my father."
Rendered in a manner desperate, by her state and by the .beckoning of their conductor, he drew over his neck the arm that shook upon his shoulder, lifted her a little, and hurried her into the room. lie set ber down just within the door, and held her, clinging to him. w
Defarge drew out the key, closed the door, locked it on the inside, took out the key again, and held it in bis hand. AIl this he did, methodically, and with as loud and harsh an accompaniment of noise as he could make. Finally, he walked across the room with a measured tread to where the window '`was. He stopped there, and faced round.
The garret, built to be a depository for firewood_ and the. like, was dim and dark for, the window of dormer shape, was in truth a door in the roof, with a little crane over it for the hoisting up of stores from the street unglazed, ana closing up the middle in two pieces, like any other door of French construction. To exclude' -the cold, one half of this door 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 it was difficult, on first coming in, to see anything; and long habit alone could have slowly formed in any one, the ability to do any work requiring nicety in such obscwity. -Yet, work. of that kind was being done in the garret for, with his' back towards the door, and his face towards the window'where the keeper of the wine-shop stood looking at him, a white-haired man sat on a low bench, stooping forward and -very busy, making shoee.
CHAPTER VI.
TIIE aHOEDIAgEE.
C-~OOD DAY 1" said Monsieur Defarge, looking down at the w.hite head that bent low over the shoemaking.
It was raised for a moment, and a very faint voice reaponded to the salutation, as if it were at a distance: Good. day 1"
You are stm hard at work, I see ptt
After a long silence, the head was.lifted for another moment, and the voice replied, "Yes-I am working." This .time, a pair of haggard eyee had looked at the questioner, before the face had dropped again.
The fairitness of the voice was pitiable and dreadful. It was not the faintness of phyaical weakness, though confinement ana hard fare no doubt had theirpart in it. Its deplorable peculiarity was, tbnt it was the faintness of solitude and Wsuse. It was like the last feeble echo of a sound made long and long ago. So entirely' had it lost the life and resonance of the human voice, that it affected the senses like a once beautiful colour, faded away into a poor weak stain. So auuken and suppresaed it was, that it was like a voice underground. So expressive it was, of a hopeless and lost creature, tbat a famished
traveller, wenried out by lonely wandering in a wilderness, would have remembered home and friends in such a tone before lying down to die.
Some minutes of silent work had passed, and the haggard eyes had looked up again: not with any interest or curiGsity, but with a dull mechanical perception, beforehand, that the spot where the only visitor they were aware of had stood, was not yet empty. l want," said Defarge, who had not removed his gaze from.(the shoemaker, to let in a little more light here. You can bear a little more ?il
The shoemaker stopped his. work looked, with a vacant air of listening, at the floor on one s'ide of him then, similarly, at the floor on the other side of him then, upward at the speaker.
What did you say P"
You can bear a little more light P"
1 must bear it, if you let it in." (Laying the palest shadow of a stress upon the second word.)
The opened half-door was opened a little further, and secured at that angle for the time. A broad ray of light feU into the garret, and showed the workman, with an unfinished shoe upon his lap, pausing in his labour. His few common tools and various scraps of leather were at his feet and on his bench. He had a white beard, raggedly eut, but not very long, a hollow face, and exceedingly bright eyes. The hollowness and thinness of his face would have caused them to look large, under his yet dark eyebrows and bis confused white hair, though they had been really otherwise but, they were naturally large, and looked unnaturally so. His yellow rags of ahirt lay open at the throat, and showed his body to be withered and worn. He, and his old cauvaes frock, and his loose stockings, and all his poor tatters of clothes, had, in a long seclusion from direct light and air, faded down to such a duU uniformity of parchment-yellow, that it would have been hard to say which was which.
He had put up a hand between his eyes and the light, and the very bones of it seemed transparent. So he sat, with a steadfastly vacant gaze, pausing in his work. He never looked at the figure before him, without first looking down on this side of himself, then on that, as if he had lost the habit of associating place with sound he never spoke, without first wandering in this manner, and forgetting to speak. Are you going to finish that pair of shoes to-day P" asked Defarge, motioning to Mr. Lorry to come forward.
What did you say
Do you mean to finish that pair of shoes to-day P"
I can't say that I mean to. I suppose so. I don't know." But, the question reminded him of his work, and he bent over it again.
3,1r. Lorry came silently forward, leaving the daughter by the door. When he ha~d atood, for a minute or two, by the side of Defarge, the shoemaker looked up. He showed no surprise at seeing another figure, but the unsteady fingers of one of his hands strayed to his lips as he looked at it (his lips and his nails were of the same pale lead-colonr), and then the hand dropped to'his work, and he once more bent over the shoe. The look and the action had occupied but an instant.
"ou have a visitor, you see," said Monsieur Defarge. "~Ÿhat did you Bay.
Here is a -vif3itor."
The shoemaker looked up as before, but witbout removing a hand from his work: Come 1" said Defarge. "Here is monsieur, who ~knows a wellmade shoe when he sees one. Show him that shoe you are working at. Take it, monsieur."
31r. Lorry took it in bis hand.
Tell monsieur what kind of shoe it is, and the maker's name." There was a longer pause than usual, before the shoemaker replied I forget what it was you asked me. What did you say P" I said, couldn't you describe the kind of shoe, for monsieur's information P"
It is a lady's shoe. It is a yonng- ladys walking-shoe. It is in the present mode. I never saw the mode. I have had a pattern, in my hand." He glanced at the shoe, with some little passing touch of pride.
"And the maIŒr's name P" said Defarge.
Now that he had no work to hold, he laid the knuckles of the right hand in the hollow of the left, and then the knuckles of the left hand. in the hollow of the right, and then passed a hand across bis beai'ded chin, and so on in regular changes, without a moment'e intermission. The task of recalling him from the vacancy into which he always sank when he had spoken, was like recalling some very weak person from a swoon, or endeavouring, in the .hope of some disclosure, to stay the spirit of a fast-dying man.
Did you ask me for my name P"
"Assuredly.1 did." 1
One Hundred and Five, North Tower."
Is that all P"
One Hundred and Five, North Tower."
With a weary sound that was not a sigh, nor a groan, he bent to work again, until the silence was again broken.
"You are not a shoemaker by trader" said Mr. Lorry, looking steadfastly at hÏm. 0
His haggard eyes turned to Defarge as if he would have transferred the question to him but as no help came from that quarter, they turned back on the questioner when they had sought the .ground. 1 am not a shoemaker by trade P No, 1 was not a ehoemaker by trade. 1-1 learnt it bere. I taugbt myself. I asked leave to-" He lapsed away, even for minutes, ringing those measured changes on his ha -nds the whole time. Ris eyes came slowly back, nt laét, to the face from which they had wandered; when they rested on it, he started, and resmned, in the manner of a sleeper that moment awake, reverting to a subject of last night.
1 "I asked leave to teach myself, and I got it with much difficulty àfter a long while, and I have made shoes ever since."
As he held out his hand for the shoe that had been taken from him, IU. Lorry said, still looking steadfastly in bis face
Monsieur Manette, do you remember nothing of me P" The shoe dropped to the ground, and he sat looking :thedly at the questioner.
"Monsieur 112anette;" Mr. Lorry laid his hand upon Defarge's arm do you remember nothing of this man P Look at him. Look at me. Is there no old banker, no old business, no old servant, no old time, rising in your mind, Monsieur Manette ?" As the captive of many years sat looking fixedly, by turns at 1\fr. Lorry and at Defarge, some long-obliterated marks of an actively intent intelligence in the middle of the forelead, gradually forced themselves through the black mist tbat bad fallen on him. They were overclouded again, they were fainter, they were gone but, they bad been there. And so exactly was the expression repeated on the fair young face of her who had crept along the wall to a point where she could see him, and where she now stood looking at him, with hands wbich at first bad been only raised in frightened compassion, if not even to keep him off and shut out the sight of him, but which were now extending towards him, trembling with eagerness to lay the spectral face upon her warm young breast, and love it bacl{ to life and hope-so exactly was the expression repeated (though in stronger cbaracters) on her fair young face, that it looked as though it had passed, like a moving light, from him to her.
Darkness had fallen on bim in its place. He looked at the two, less and less attentively, and his eyes in gloomy abstraction sought the ground and looked about him in the old way. Finally, with a deep long sigh, lie took the shoe up, and resumed his work. "Have you recognised him, monsieur P" asked Defarge, in a whisper.
"Yes; for a moment. At firi3t 1 thought it quite hopeless, but I have unquestionably seen, for a single moment, the face that 1 once knew well. Rush! 1 Let us draw further back. Hush She had moved from the wall of the garret, very near to the bench on which lie sat. There was something awful in his unconsciousness of the figure that could have put out its hand and touched him as lie stooped over his labour.
Not a word was spoken, not a sound was made. She stood, like a spirit, beside him, and lie bent over his work.
It happened, at length, that lie had occasion to change the instrument in his hand, for his shoemaker's knife. It lay on that side of him which was not the side on which she stood. He had taken it up, and was stooping to work again, when his eyes caught the skirt of her dress. He raised them, and saw her face. The two spectators started forward, but she stayed them with a motion of her hand. She had no fear of his striking at her with the knife, though they had.
He stared at lier with a fearful look, and after a while his lips began to form some w ords, though no sound proceeded from them. By degrees, in the pauses of his quick and lnboured breathing, lie was heard to say
What is this
\Vith the tears streaming down her face, she put her two lands to her lips, and kissed them to him then clasped them on her breast, as if she laid his ruined head there.
You are not the gaoler's dnughter P"
She sighed No."
Who are you P"
Not yet trusting the tones of her voice, she sat down on the bench beside him. He recoiled, but she laid her hand upon his arm. A strange thrill struck him when sbe did so, and visibly passed over his frame lie laid the knife down softly, as lie sat staring at her. Her golden hair, which she wore in long curls, had been hurriedly pushed aside, and fell down over her neck. Advancing his hand by little and little, he took it up, and looked at it. In the midst of the action he went astray, and, with another deep sigh, fell to work at his shoemaking.
But, not for long. Releasing bis arm, she laid ber hand upon his shoulder. After looking doubtfully at it, two or three times, as if to be sure that it wns-really'there, lie laid 'down his work, put his band to bis neck, and ,took 011" a'blaékeiièd ~tring with a' scrap of folded rag attached to it. He ripened this,-carefully, on-bis knee, and it contained a very little quantitv of_ha~r: not more than one or two long golden hairs, which'lie Êa7«,in.some old day, woimd off upon his finger. t .t He took- her -hair into his an again, an oo~' c ose y at it. "It is the same. How can it'be! When was' it -H6* was it 1" As the' concehtrating 'expression returnéd tri liis fôrehea~d, he Beemed to bëcoine conscious that it was in hers too. He 'turned her full to the light, and looked ~at her.
She had laid ber head upoIi m h Ulder, that night when l was summoned out-she had a fear of my going, thoûgh 1- had noneand when l was brought to the North Tower they found these upon my sleeve. You will leave me them P They can never help me to escap e in the body, though they may in the spirit.' Those were the words l said. l remember them very well."
He formed this speech with his lips many times before lie could utter it. But when lie did find spoken words for it, they came to him coherently, though s10w1y..
How was this ?-Was it you ?"
Once more, the two spèctators atarted, as lie turned upon her with a frightful suddenness. But, she Bat perfectly stillîn bis grasp, and only said, in a 1Ów' vÓice,' Il 1 entreat you, good gentlemen, do not come near us, do not speak, dti not move 1'"
Cc lIark-1" he exèlaimèd. Whotie voice' was that ?"
Hig hands released ber ,8S he uttèréd this cry, and went up to bis white hair, which they tore in afrenzy.. It died out, as everything but his shoemaking did die' out of him, and lie refolded his little packet and tried to secure it ID his but, lie still looked at her, and gloomily shook bis _bead.
"No, no, no; Y01i-are too'young. too blooming. It can't be. See what the prisop.er is. These are not the hands she knew, this is not the face ahe knew, this is not a voice she ever heard. No, ino. She was-and He was-before the slow years of the North Tower-ages ago. What is your name, my gentle angel ?"
Hailing his softened tone and manner, his daughter fell upon her knees before him, with her appealing hands upon bis breast. dg 0, sir, at another time you shall know my name, and who my other was, and who my father, and how I never knew their hard, bard history. But l cannot tell you at this time, and I cannot tell you here. All that I may tell you, here and now, is, tbat l pray to
you to touch me and to bless me. Riss me, kiss me 0 my dear, my dear 1"
His cold white head mingled with her radiant hair, which warmed and lighted it as though it were the light of Freedom shining on him. "If you hear in my voice-I don't know that it is so, but I hope it is-if you hear in my voice any resemblance to a voice that once was sweet music in your ears, weep for it, w eep for it 1 If you touch, in touching my hair, anything that recals a beloved head that lay in your breast when you were young and free, weep for it, weep for it 1 4 when I hint to you of a Home there is before us, where 1 will be true to you with all my duty and with all my faithful service, I bring back the remembrance of a Home long desolate, while your poor heart pined away, weep for it, weep for it 1"
She held him closer round the neck, and rocked him on her breast like a child.
If, when I tell you, dearest dear, that your agony is over, and that I have come here to take you from it, and that we go to England to be at peace and at rest, l cause you to think of your useful life laid waste, and of our native France so wicked to you, weep for it, weep for it 1 And if, when I shall tell you of my name, and of my father who is living, and of my mother who is dead, you learn that I have to kneel to my honoured father, and implore his pardon for having never for his sake striven all day and lain awake and wept all night, because the love of my poor mother hid his torture from me, weep for it, weep for it Weep for her, then, and for me 1 Good gentlemen, thank God! I feel his sacred tenra upon my face, and his sobs strike against my heart. 0, see Thank God for us, thank (~1-od
He had sunk in her arms, with his face dropped on her breast a sight so touching, yet so terrible in the tremendous wrong and auffering which had gone before it, that the two beholders covered their faces.
When the quiet of the garret had been long undisturbed, and his heaving breast and shaken form had long yielded to the calm that must follow all stornls-emblem to humanity, of the rest and silence into which the storm called life must hush at last-they came forward to raise the father and daughter from the ground. He had gradually drooped to the floor, and lay there in a lethargy, worn out. She had nestled down with him, that his head might lie upon her arm and her hair drooping over him curtained him from the light. If, without disturbing him," she said, raising her hand to Mr. Lorry as he stooped over them, after repeated blowings of his nose, all could be arranged for our leaving Paris at once, so. that, from the very door, he could be taken 8way-"
But, consider. Is he fit for the journey P" asked Mr. Lorry.More fit for that, I think, than to remain in this city, so dreadful to him."
It is true," said Defarge, who was kneeling to look on and hear. 1\fore than that 'Monsieur Manette is, for all reasons, best out of France. Say, shall I hire a carriage and post-horses P" That's business," said Mr. Lorry, resuming on the shortest notice his methodical manners and if businees is to be done, I had better do it."
Then be so kind," urged Miss Manette, as to leave us here. You see how composed lie has become, and you cannot be afraid to leave him with me now. Why should you be ? If you will lock the door to secure us from interruption, I do not doubt that you will find him, when you come back, as quiet as you leave him. In any case, l will take care of him until you return, and then we will remoce him straight."
Both :i\fr. Lorry and Defarge wer rather disinclined to this course, and in fa~ our of one of them remaining. But, as there were not only carriage and horses to be seen to, but travelling paperB; and as time pressed, for the day was drawing to an end, it came at last to their hastily dividing the business that was necessary to be done, and Im1'1'ying away to do it.
Then, as the darkness closed in, the daughter laid her head down on the hard ground close at the father's side, and watched him. The darJmess deepened and deepened, and they both lay quiet, until a light gleamed through the chinks in the wall.
1\11'. Lorry and Monsieur Defarge had made aU ready for the journey, and had b1'ought with them, besides travellin~ cloaks and w1'appe1's, bread and meat, wine, and hot cofee. Monsieur Defarge put this provender, and the lamp he carried, on the shoemaker's beneh (there was nothing else in the garret but a'-pauet bed), and he and Mr. Lorry roused the captive, and assisted him to his feet. No human intelligence could have read the mysteries of bis mind, in the scared blank wonder of bis face. Whether he knew what had happened, whether he recollected what they had said to him, whether he knew that lie was free, were questions which no eagacity could have solved. They tried speaking to him but, lie was so confused, and so very slow to answer, that they took fright at bis bewilderment, and agreed for the time to tamper with him no more. He had a wild, lost manner of occasionally clasping his head in his hands, thathad not been seen in him before yet, he had some pleasure in the mere sound of his daughter's voice, and invariably turned to it when she spoke.
In the submissive way of one long accustomed to obey under coercion, lie ate and drank what they gave him to eat and drink, and put on the clonk and other wrappings that they gave him to wear. He readily responded to bis daughter's drawing her arm through hie, and took-and kept-her hand in both of his own.
They began to descend Monsieur Defarge going first with the lamp, Mr. Lorry closing the little procession. They had not traversed many i3teps of the long main staircase when he stopped, and stared at the roof and round at the walls.
"You remember the place, my father P You remember coming up here pu
What did you say P"
But, before she could repeat the question, lie murmured an answer as if she had repeated it.
Remember P No, I don't remember. It was so very long ago." s
That he had no recollection whatever of bis having been brought from his prison to that house, was apparent to them. They heard him mutter, One Hundred and Five, North Tower and when lie
.10Óked about,him, it evidently was for the strong fortress-walls which had long encompassed him. On their reaching the court~yard, lie instinctively altered his tread, as being in expectation of a drawbrid$e; and when there was no drawbridge, and lie saw the carriage waiting .in the open street, lie dropped his daughter's hand and clasped his head agam. ,hter's liand and
No crowd was about the door; no people were discernible at any of the many windows not even a chance passer-by was in the street. An unnatural silence and desertion reigned there. Only one soul was to be seen, and that was Madame Defarge-who leaned against the door-post, knitting, and saw nothing. c
The prisoner had got into the coach, and his daughter had followed him, ",hen Mr. Lorry's feet were 'arrested on the step by his asking, miserably, for his shoemaking tools and the unfinished shoes. Madame Defarge immediately called to her husband that she would get theni, and went, lmitting, out of the lamplight, throu gh the courtyard. She quickly brought them down and handed them in ;-and immediately afterwards leaned against the door-post, knitting, and saw nothing.
Defarge, got upon the box, and gave the word To the Barrier The postilion cracked his whip, and they clattered away under the feeble over-swinging lamps.
Under the over-swinging lamps-swinging ever brighter in the better streets, and ever dimmer in the worse-and by lighted ehops, gay crowds, illuminated coffee-houses, and theatre doors, to one of the city gates. Soldiers with lanterns, at the guard-house there. Your papers, travellers See heré then, Monsieur the O~cer," said Defarge, getting down, and taking him ave apart, these are the papers of monsieur inside, with the white head. They were consigned to me, with him, at the-" $ He dropped his voice, there was a flutter among the military lanterns, and one of them being handed into the coach by an arm m uniform, the eyes connected with the arm looked, not an every day or an every night look, at monsieur with the white head. cc It is well. Forward!" from the uniform. Adieu! from 'Defarge. And so,' under a short grove of feebler and feebler over~swinging.Iamps, out under the great grove of stars. Beneath that arch ofunmoved and eternal lights some, so rem *ote from this little earth- that the learned tell us it is doubtful whether their rays have even yet disèovered it, as a point in space where any-- thing is suffered or done the shadows- of the night were broad and black. All through the cold and restless interval, until dawn, they once more whispered in the enrs of Mr. Jarvis Lorry-sitting opposite the buried man vho had been dug out, and wondering what subtle powers were for- ever lost tô him, and what were -capable of restoration-the old inquiry
I hope you care to be recalled to life ?"
And the old answer
I can't say."
THE END OF THE FIRST ïD001-a.
BOOK fiHE SECOND. THE GOLDEN THREAD.
CHAPTER I.
FIVE YEA.RS LATEII.
TELLSON'S Bank by Temple Bar was an old-fashioned place, even in the year one thousand seven hnndred and eighty. It was very small, very dark, very ugly, very incommodious. It was an oldfashioned place moreover, in the moral attribute tbat the partners in the House were proud of its smallness, proud of its darkness, proud of its ugliness, proud of its incommodiousness. They were even boastful of its eminence in those particulars, and were fired by an express conviction tlat, if it were less objectionable, it would be less respectable. This was no passive belief, but an active weapon which they flashed at mere convenient places of business. Tellson's (they said) wanted no elbow-room, TelIson's wanted no light, TellsÓn's wanted no embellishment. Noakes and Co.'s might, or Snooks Brothers' might; but Tellson's, thank Heaven
An~ one of these partners would have disinherited his'son on the question of rebuilding Tellson's. In this respect the House was much on a par with the Country which did very often disinherit its sons for suggésting improvements in laws and customs that had long been highly objectionable, but were only the more respectable. Thus it had come to pass, that Tellson's was the triumphant ~èrfection of inconvenience. Mter bursting open a door of ichotic obstinacy with a weak rattle in its throat, you fell into Tellson's down two stepè, and came to your senses in a miserable little shop, with two little counters, where the oldest of men made your cheque shake as if the wind rustled it, while they examined the signature by the dingiest of windows, which were always under a shower-bath of mud from Fleet-street, and which were made the dingier by their own iron bars proper, and the heavy shadow of Temple Bar. If your business necessitated your seeing "tbe House," you were put into a species of Condemne Hold at thé back, where you meditated on a misspent life, until the House came with its hands in its pockets, and you could hardly blink at it in thé dismal twilight. Your money came out of or went into, wormy old wooden drawers, particles of WhlCh :flew up your nose and down your throat when they were opened and shut. Your bank-notes had a muf3t-y odour, as if they were fast decomposing into rags again. Your pIatè was stowed away among the neighbouring cesapooIs, and evil communiD
cations corrupted its good polish in a day or two. Your deeds got into eatemporised stroug-rooms made of Icitchens and sculleries, and fretted all the fat out of tleir parchments into the banlâng-house air. Your lighter boxes of family papers went up-stairs into a Barmecide room, that always had a great dining-table in it and never bad a dinner, and where, even in the year one thousand seven hundred and eighty, the first letters written to you by your old lov e, or by your little children, were but newly released from the horror of being ogled through the windows, by the lieads ~exposed on Temple Bar with an insensate brutality and ferocity worthy of Abyssinia or Ashantee.
But indeed, at that time, putting to Death was a recipe much in vogue with all trades and professions, and not least of all with Tellson's. Death is Nature's remedy for all things, and why not Legiislation's P Accorditigly, the forger was put to Death the utterer of a bad note was put to Death the unlawful opener of a letter was put to Death the purloiner of forty shillings and sixpence was put to Death the holder of a horse at Tellson's door, who made off with it, was put to Death the coiner of a bad shilling was put to Death the sounders of three-fourths of the notes in the wlole gamut of Crime, were put to Death. Not that it did the least good in the way of prevention-it might almost have been worth remarking that the fact was exactly the reverse-but, it cleared off (as to this world) the trouble of each particular case, and left nothing else connected with it to be looked after. Thus, Tellson's, in its day, like greater places of business, its contemyoraries, had taken so many hvea, that, if the heads laid low before it had been ranged on Temple Bar instead of being privately diaposed of, they would probably have excluded what little light the ground floor had, in a rather significant manner.
Cramped in all kinds of dim cupboards ana hutches at Tellson's, the oldest of men carried on the business gravel y. When they took a young man into Tellson's London house, they hid him somewhere till lie was old. They kept him in a darlc place, like a cheese, until lie had the full Tellson flavour and blue-mould upon him. Then only was he permitted to be seen, spectacularly poring over large boolis, and casting his breecheaand gaitera into the general weight of the establishment.
Outside Tellson's-never by any means in it, unless caUed in-was an odd job-man, an occasional porter and messenger, who served as the live sign of the house. He was never absent, during business hours, unless upon an errand, and then lie was represented by his Bon: a grisly urchin of twelve, who was his express image. People understood that Tellson's, in a stately way, tolerated the qdd-job~man. The House had always tolerated some person in that capa.city, and time and tide had drifted this person to the post. His surname was Cruncher, and on the youthful occasion of his renouncing by proxy the v-orks of darkness, in the easterly parish church of Houndsditch, lie had received the. added appellation of Jerry.
.Thescene, was Mr. Cruncher'a private lodging in Hanging-swordalley, Whitefr~ the time, balf-past seven of the cloch on a windy March morning, Anno Domini aeventeen hundred and eighty. (Mr. prunc:4er himaelf a!W~Y8 apoke uf the year of our Lord as Ann~
Dominoes apparently under the impression th8.t the Christian era dated from the invention of a popular game, by a lady who had be. stowed lier name upon it.)
Mr. Cruncher's apartments were not in a savoury neighbourhood, and were but two in number, even if a closet with a single pane of glass in it might be counted as one. But, they were very decently lœpt. Early as it was, on the windy March morning, the room 1n w]1ich he lay a-bed was already scrubbed throughout and between the cups and saucers nrranged for breakfast, and the lumbering deal table, a very clean w hite cloth was spread.
I%lr. Cruncher reposed under a patchwork counterpane, like a liarlequin at home. At first, he slept heavily,but, by degrees, began to roll and surge in bed, until lie rose above the surface, with his spiky hair lookinu' as if it must tear the sheets to ribbons. At which junoture, lie ex~iaimed, in a voice of dire exaaperation
Bust me, if she ain't at it agin 1"
A woman of orderly and industrious appearance rose from her knees in a corner, with suflicient haste and trepidation to show that she was the person referred to.
What said l\Ir. Cruncher, looking out of bed for a boot. You're at it agin, are you P" 0
After hailing the morn with this second salutation, ohe threw a boot at the woman as a third. It was a very muddy boot, and may introduce the odd circumstance connected with Mr. Cruncher's dornestic economy, that, whereas lie often came home after banking hours with clean boots, lie often got up ne~t morning to find the same boots covered with clay.
"What," said Mr. Cruncher, varying his apostrophe after missing his mark-" what are you up to, Aggerawayter i?"
1 was only saying my prayers."
Saying your prayers. You're a nice woman 1. What do you mean by flopping yaurself down and praying agin me P" 1 was not praying against vou; 1 was praying for you." Ÿou weren't. And if you were, l won't be took the liberty with. H:re! your mother's a mce woman, young Jerry,. going a praying agin your father's prosperity. You've got a dutiful mother, you have, my son. Y ou've got a religious mother, you have, my boy: going and flopping herself down, and praying that the bread-andbutter may be snatched out of the IÍlouth of her only child Master Cruncher (who was in his shirt) took this very ill, and, turning to his mother, strongly deprecated any praying away of his personal board. CI
"And what do you suppose, you conceited female," said Mx. Cruncher, with unconsclollf3 meonisiE3tency, "that the worth of your prayers may be P Name the price that you put your prayers at 1" "They only come from the heart, Jerry. They are worth no more than tliat.11 Worth no more tllan that," repeated Mr. Cruncher. "They ain't worth much, then. Wllether or no, I won't be prayed a,-4n ,1 tell you.1 can't aft'ord it. I.'m not a going to be made unlu~kŸ, by your sneakmg. If you must go flopping yourself down, flop iii favour,of your huaband and child, and not in opposition tÓ 'em. If I lad had any but a unnat'ral wife, and t}~82P~£,y~.hàd hqd any but a un-
D 2 _.a
nat'ral mother, I might have made some money last week, instead of being counterprayed and countermined and religiously circumwented into the worst of luck. ]3u-u-ust me 1" said Mr. Cruncher, who all this time had been putting on bis elotlies, "if 1 ain't, what with piety 'and one blowed thingand another, been eloused this last week into as bad luck as ever a poor devil of a houest tradesman met with 1 Young Jerry, dress yourself, my boy, and while 1 clean my boots keep a eye upon your mother now and then, and if you see any signs of more :flopping, give me a call. For, I tell you," here lie addressed his wife once more, "1 won't be gone agin, in this manner. I am as rickety as a hackney-coach, l'm as sleepy as laudanum, my lines is atrained to that degree that 1 i3houldn!t hnow, if it wasn't for the pain in em, which was me and which somebody else, yet I'm none the better for it in pocket and it's my suspicion that you've been at it from morning to night to prevent me from being the better for it in pocket, and I won't put up with it, Aggerawayter, and wbat do you say now
Growling, in addition, such phrases as Ah yes 1 'You7re religious, too. You wouldn't put yourself in opposition to the interests of your huf3bancl and child, would you P N ot you 1" and throwing off other sarcastic sparks from the whirling grindstone of his indignation, Mr.. Cruncher betook himself to his boot-cleaning and his general preparations for business. In the mean time, his son, whose head was garnished with tenderer spikes, and whose young eyes stood close by one another, as his father's did, kept the required watch upon his mother. He greatly disturbed that poor woman at intervals, by darting out of his sleeping closet, where lie made his toilet, with a suppressed cry of You are going to flop, mother.Ralloit, father and, after raising this fictitious alarm, darting in again with an undutiful grin.
l\Ir. Cruncher's temper was not at all improved when lie came tQ his breakfast. He resentedMrs. Cruncher's saying Grace with particular animosity.
Now, Aggerawayter What are you up to P At it agin P" His wife explained that she had merely asked a blesE;ing." Don't do it said Mr. Cruncher, looking about, as if lie rather expected to see the loaf disappear under the efficacy of his wife's petitions. 1 ain't a going to be blest out of house and home. I won't have my wittles blest off my table. Keep still 1" Exceedingly red-eyed and grim, as if he had been up all night at a party which had taken anything but a convivial turn, Jerry Cruncher worried his breakfast rather than ate it, growling over it like any four-footed inmate of a menagerie. Towards nine o'clock he smoothed his rufBed aspect, and, presenting as respectable and business-like an exterior &1 he could overlay his natural self with, issued forth to the occupation of the day.
It could scarcely be called a trade, in spite of his favourite description of himself as a honest tradesman." His stock consiated of a wooden stool, made out of a broken-backed chair cut down, which staal young Jerry, walking at his father's side, carried every morning to beneath the banking-house window that was nearest Temple Bar where, with the addition of the tirst handful orstraw that.could be gleaned from any passing vehicle to keep the
cold and wet Dom the odd-job-man'i; feet, it formed the encampment for the day. On this post of his, Mr. Cruncher was as well known to Fleet-street and the Temple, as the Bar itself-and was almost as ill-looking.. Encamped at a quarter before nine, in good time to touch his three-cornered bat to the oldest of men as they passed in to Telleon's, Jerry took up his station on this windy 1\farch morùing, with Young Jerry standing by him, when not engaged in making forays through the Bar, to inflict bodily and mental mauries of an acute description on passing boys -%vbo were small enough for his amiable purpose. Father and son, extremely like each other, looking silently on at,the morning traffic in Fleet-street, with their two heads as near to one another as the two eyes of each were, bore a considerable resemblance to a pair of mon)wys. The resemblance was not lessened by the accidental circumstance, that the mature J eJ'!Ÿ bit and spat out straw, while the twinkling eyes of the youthful Jerry were as restlessly watchful of him as of everything else in Fleet-street. The head of one of the regular in-door messengers attached to Tellson's establishment was put through the door, and the word was given
Porter wanted
Hooray, father 1 Here's an early job to begin with Having thus given his parent God speed, Young Jerry seated himself on the stool, entered on his reversionary interest in the straw his father had been chewing, and cogitated.
Al-ways rusty 1 Ris fingers is al-ways rusty 1" muttered Young Jerry. "'Vhere does my father get all that iron rust from P He don't get no iron rust here
CHAPTER II.
A SIGRT.
You know the Old Bailey well, no doubt ?" said one of the oldest of clerks to Jerry the messenger.
Ye-es, sir," retumed Jerry, in something of a dogged manner. I do know the Bailey."
Just so. And you know Mr. Lorry."
1 know Mr. Lorry, sir, much better than I know the Bailey. Much better," said Jerry, not unlike a reluctant witness at the egtablishment in question, than I, as a honest tradesman, wish to know the Bailey."
Very well. Find the door where the witnesses go in, and show the doorkeeper this note for Mr. Lorry. He will then let you in." Into the court, sir (."
Into the court."
Mr. Crunchees eyes seemed to get. a little closer to one another, and to interchange t~e inquiry, What do you think of.this ?"
Am 1 to witit in the court, sir P" he asked, as the résult of that conference.
1. am going to tell you. The doorkeeper will pass the note to Mr. Lorry, and do you make any gesture that will attract Mr. LÕrry's attention, and show hiin where you stand. Then what you have to do, is, to remain there until he wants you."
la that all, sir ?"
"That's all. He wishes to have a messenger at hand. This is to tell him you are there."
As the ancient clerk deliberately folded and superscribed the note, lir. Cruncher, after surveying him in silence until he came to the blotting-paper stage, remarlred
I suppose they'll be trying Forgeries this morning P"
Treason
That's quartering," said Jerry. "Barbarous 1"
"It is the law," remarked the ancient clerk, turning his surprised spectacles upon him. lt is the law."
"It's hard in the law to spile a man, 1 think. It's hard enough to kill him, but it's wery hard to spile him, sir."
Not at all," returned the ancient clerk. "Speak vcell of the law. Take care of your chest and voice, my good friend, and leave the law to take care of itself. I give y ou that advice."
"It's the damp, sir, what settles on my chest and voice," said Jerry. "I leave you to judge what a damp way of earning a living mine is."
Well, well," said the old clerlc we all have our various ways of gaining a livelihood. Some of us have damp ways, and some of us have dry ways. Here is the letter. Go along."
Jerry took the letter, and, remarliin; to himself with less internal deference than he made an outward show of, You are a lean old one, too," made his bow, informed his son, in passil1g, of his destination, and went his ~cay.
They hanged at Tyburn, in those days, so the street outside Newgate had not obtained one infamous notorietv that has since attached to it. But, the gaol was a vile place, in which most kinds of de"hauchery and villany were practised, and where dire diseases were bred, that came into court with the prisoners, aud sometimes rushed straight from the dock at my Lord Chief Justice himself, and pulled him off the bench. It had more than once happened, that the judge in the black cap pronouIlced his own doom as certainly as the prisoner's, and even died before him. For the rest, the Old Bailey "'as famous as a kind of deadly inn-yard, from which pale travellers set out continually, in carts and coaches, on a violent passage into the other world traversing sonie two miles and a half of publie street and road, and shaming few good citizens, if any. So powerful is use, and so desirable to be good use in the beginning. It was famous, too, for the pillory, a wise old institution, that inflicted a punishment of which no one could foresee the extent; also, for the whipping-post, another dear old institution, very humanising and Boftening to behold in action also, for extensive transactions in blood-money, another fragment of ancestral wisdom, sJ'stematically léading to the most frightful mercenary crimes that could be committed under Heaven. Altogether, the Old Bailey, at that date,
was a choice illustration of t1le precept, that "Whatever is Î8 right;" an aphorism that would be as final as it is lazy, did it not mclude the troublesome consequence, that nothirig that ever was, was wrong.
Making his way through the taln~ed crowd~ dispersed up and down tUis bideouf3 scene of action, with the skill of a man accus.tomed to make his way quietly, the messenger found out the door he sought, and handed in lns letter through a trap in it. For, people then paid to see the play at the Old l3a~ley, just ai3 they paid to see the play in I3edlam-only the former entertainment was much tle dearer. Therefbre, all the Old Bailey doors were well guarded-except, indeed, the social doors by which the criminase got there, and they were always left wide open.
After some delay and demur, the door grudgingly turned on ite hinges very little way, and allow ed Mr. Jerry Cruncher to squeeze himself into court.
What's on £1" lie asked, in a whisper, of the man he found him.self next to.
"Nothing yet."
What's coming on ?"
The 'Aeason case."
The quartering one, eh P"
Ah 1" returned the mnn, ivith a relish "he'11 be drawn on a hurdle to be half hanged, and then lie'Il be taken down and elieed before his own face, and then his inside will be taken out and burnt while he 1001\8 on, rmd then his head' will be chopped off, and ho'U be eut into quarters. That's the sentence."
If he's found Guilty, you mean to say Pl' Jerry added, by way of proviso..
Oh they'll find him Guilty," said the other. Don't you be afraid of that."
Mr. Cruncher'a attention was bere diverted to the doorkeeper, whom ho sa« making his way to Mr. Lorry, with the note in his hand. Mr. Lorry sat at a table, among the gentlemen in wigB not far from a wigged gentleman, the prisoner's counsel, who had a great bundle of papers before him nearly opposite another wigged gentleman with his hands in his pockets, whose whole attention, when Mr. Cruncher looked at him then or afterwards, seemed to be concentrated on the ceiling of the court. After some gru1F coughing and rubbing of his chin and signing with his hand, Jerry at. tracted the notice of Mr. Lorry, who had stood up to look for him, and who quietly nodded, and sat down again.
"What's he got to do with the case pu asked the man he had 13poken with.
Blest if l know," said Jerry.
"Wliat have gou got to do with it, then, if a: person may inquire pu s
cc Blest if 1 know that either," said Jerry.
The entrance of the Judge, and a consequent great stir and set. tlmg-down in the court, stopped the dialogue. Presently, tle dock beca,me the central point of interèst. Two gaolera, who had been standmg there, went out, and the prisoner was brought in, and put to the bar.
Everybody present, exceyt the one wigged gentleman who looked at.the ceiling, stared at him. All the human breath in the place, rolled at.him, like. a sea, or a wind, or a fire. Eager faces strained round pillars and corners, to get a sight of him spectators in back rows stood up, not to miss a hair of him people on the Hoor of the court, laid their hands on the shoulders of the people before them, to help thémselvee, at anybody's cost, to a view of him stood a-tiptoe, got upon ledges, stood upon next to nothing, to sec every inch of him. Conspicuous among these latter, like an animated bit of the spiked wall of Newgate, Jerry stood aiming at the prisoner the. beery breath of a whet le bad taken as he came along, and discharging it to mingle with the waves of other beer, and gin, and tea, and coffee, and what not, that flowed at him, and already broke upon the great windows behind him in an impure mist and rain. Ë The object of all this staring and blaring, was a young man of about five-and-twenty, well-grown and well-looking, with a sunburnt cheek and a dark eye. Ris condition was that of a yôung gentleman. He was plainly dressed in black, or very dark grey, and his hair, which was long and dark, was gathered in a ribbon at the back of his neck more to be out of his way than for ornament. As an emotion of the mind will express itself through any covering of the body, so the paleness which his situation engendered came through the brown upon his cheek, showing the soul to be stronger than the sun. He was otherwise quite self-possessed, bowed to the Judge, and stood quiet.
The sort of interest with which this man was stared and breathed at, was not a sort that elevated humanity. Had he stood in peril of a less horrible Bentence- had there been a chance of any one of its savage details being spared-by just so much would he have lost in bis fascination. The form that was to be doomed to be so shamefully mangled, was the sight the immortal creature that was to be so butchered and torn asunder, yielded the sensation. Whatever gloss the various spectators put upon the interest, according to their several arts and powers of self-deceit, the interest was, at the. root of it, Ogreish.
Silence in the court 1 Charles Darnay had yesterday pleaded Not Guilty to an indictment denouncing him (witli infinite jingle and jangle) for that he was a false traitor to our serene, illustrious, excel.lent, and so forth, prince, our Lord the King, by reason of his having, on divers occasions, and by divers means and ways, assisted Lewis, the French King, in his wars against our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth that was to say, by coming and going between the dominions of our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, and those of the said French Lewis, and wickedly, falsely, traitorously, and otherwise evil-adverbiously, revealing to the said French Lewis what. forces our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, had in preparation ta send to Canada and North America. This much, Jerry, with his head becoming more and. more spiky as the law terms bristled it, made out with huge satisfaction, and so arrived circuitouslp at the understanding that the aforesaid,. and over and over again aforesaid, Charles Darnay, stood there before him upon his trial; that the jury were.swearing in; and that 31r. Attorney- General was. making ready to speak.
The accused, who was (and who knew he was) being mentally hanged, beheade~, and quartered, by overybody there, pei~her Jiinobed from the situation, nor assumed any theatrical air in it. He was quiet and attentive; watched the opening proceedings with a grave interest and stood with his hands resting on the slab of wood before him, so composedly, that they had not displaced a leaf of the berbs with which it was. strewn. The court was all bestrewn with herbs and sprinkled with vinegar, as a precaution against gaol air and gaol fever.
Over the prisoner's head, there was a mirror, to throw the light down upon him. Crowds of the wicked and the wretched had been reflected in it, and had passed from its surface and this earth'is together. Haunted in 11 most ghastly manner that abominable place would have been, if the glass could ever have rendered back its reflexions, as the ocean is one day to give up its dead. Some passing thought of the infamy and disgrace for which it had been reBerved~ may have struck the prÍsoner's mind. Be that as it may, a change in his position making him conscious of a bar of light across his face, he looked up and when he saw the glass his face llushed, and his right baud pushed the berbs away.
It happened, that the action turned his face to that side of thé court which was on his left. About on a level with his eyes, there sat, in that corner of the Judge's bench, two persons upon whom his look immediately rested so immediately, and so much to the changing of his aspect, that all the éyes that were turned upon him, turned to them. The spectators saw in the two figures, a ¡:oung lady of little more than twenty, and a gentleman who was evidently bar father; a man of a very remarkable ap\>earance in respect of the absolute whiteness of his hair, and a certain indescribable intensity of face not of an active kind, but pondering and self communing. When this expression was upon him, he looked as if he were old; but, when it wai3 stirred and broken up-as it was now, in a moment, on his speaking to bis daughter-he became a handsome man, not past the'prime of life.
His daughter had one of her hands drawn through his arm, as she sat by him, and the other pressed· upon it. She had drawn close to him, in her dread of the scene, and in her pity for the prisoner. Her forehead had been strikingly expressive of an engrossing terror and compassion that saw nothing but the peril of the accused. This had been so very noticeable, so very powerfully and naturally shown, that étarers who had had no~ pity for him were touched by her; and the whisper went about, Who are they ?"
Jerry the messenger, who had made bis own observations in his own manner, and who had been sucking the rust off his fingers in his àbsorption, stretched his neck to hear who they were. The crowd about him had pressed and passed the inquiry on to the nearest attendant, and from him it had been more slowlÿ pressed and pâssed back at last it got to Jerry:
Witnesses." C
For which side pu
"A:gain~t." ~e "Agninst' what aider"
cc The prisoner's."
The Judge, whose eyes had gone in the general direction; recalled them, leaned back in his seat, and looked atendily at the man whose life was in his hnnd, as 1\11'. Attorney-General rose to spin the rope, grind the axe, and hammer the nails into the sca1fold.
MR. ATTORNEy-GENERAL had to inform the jury, that the prisoner before them, though young in years, was old in the treasonable practices which claimed the forfeit of his life. That this correspondence with the publie enemy was not a correspondence of to-day or of yesterday, or even of last year, or of the year before. That, it was certain the prisoner had, for longer than that, been in the habit of passing and repassing between France and England, on secret business of WhlCh he could give no honest account. That, if it. were in the nature of traitorous ways to thrive (which, happily, it never was), -the real wickedness and guilt of his business might have remained undiscovered. That Providence; however, had put it into the heart of a person who was beyond fear and beyond reproach, to ferret out the. nature of the prisoner'a schemes, and, atruck with horror, to diâclosé them to his Majesty's Chief Secretary of State and most honourable Privy Council. That, this patriot would be produced before them. That, his position and attitude were, on the whole, sublime. That, be bad been the prisoner's friend, but, nt once in an auspicious and an evil hour detecting his infamy, had resolved to immolate the traitor he could no longer cherish in, his bosom, on the sacred altar of his country. That, if statues were decreed in Britain, as in ancient Greece and Rome, to public benefactors, this shining citizen would assuredly have had one. That, as they were not so decreed, he probably would not have one. That, Virtue, as had been observed by the (in many passages wbich he well knew the jury would have, word for word, at the tips of their tongues whereat the jury's countenances displayed a guilty conseiousness that" they knew nothing about the passages), was in a manner contagious more especially the bright virtue known as patriotism, or love of country. That, the loft¡ eX8mple of this immaculate and unimpeachable witness for the Crown, to refer to whom however unworthily was an honour, had communicated itself to the prieoner's servant, and had engendered in him a holy determination to examine his master's table-drawers and pockets, and secrete his papers. That, he (Mr. -Attorney-General) was prepared to hear some dissparagement attempted of this admirable servant but that, in a general way, he preferred him to his (Mr. gttorney-General's) brothers and sisters, and honoured him more than his (Mr. AttorneyGeneral's) father and mother. That, he called with confidence on the jury to come and do likewise. That, the evidence of these two witnœBes, coupled with the documents of their discovering that would
CHAPTER III.
A DIBAPPOINTMENT.
be produced, would show the prisoner to have been fnrnished with lists of his Majesty's forces, an of their disposition and preparation, both by sea and land, and would leave no doubt that he had habitually cotiveyed such information to a hostile power. That, these lista could not be proved to be in the prisoner'F3 handwriting; but that it was all the same; that, indeed, it was rather the better for the prosecution, as showing the prisoner to be artful in his precautione. That, the proof would go back five years, and would show the pmoner already engaged in these pernicious missions, within a few weeks before the date of the verv first action fought between the British troops and the Americans.' That, for these reasons, the jury, being a loyal jury (as he knew they were), and being a responsible jury (as they knew they were), must positively find the prisoner Guilty, and make an end of him, whether they liked it or not. That, they never could lay their heads upon their pillows that, they never could tolerate the idea of their \Vives laying their heads upon their pillows that, they never could endure the notion of their children laying their heads upon their pillows in short, that there never more could be, for them or theirs, any laying of heads upon pillows at all, unless the pmoner's head was taken off. That head l'fI'. Attorney-General concluded by demanding of them, in the name of everything he could think of with a round turn in it, and on the faith of his solemn asseveration that he already considered the prisoner as good as dead and gone. ~~l~en the Attorney-General ceased, a buzz arose in the court as if a cloud of great blue-flies were swarming about the prisoner, m anticipation of what he was soon to become. When it toned down again, the unimpeachable patriot appeared in the witness-box. Mr. Solicitor-General then, following his leader's lead, examined the patriot John .Barsad, gentleman, by name. The story of his pure soul was exactly what Mr. Attorney-General had described it to be-perhaps, if it had a fault, a little too exactly. Having released his noble bosom of its burden, he would have modestly withdrawn himselt~ but that the wigged gentleman with the papers before him, sitting not far from Mr. Lorry, begged to ask him a few questions. The wigged gentleman sitting opposite, still looked at the ceiling of the court.
Had he ever been a spy himself P No, he i3corned the base insinua. tion. What did he live upon P His property. Where was his property P He didn't preciscly remember ",here it was. Wh nt was it P No business of anybody's. Had he inherited it ? Ycs, he had. From whom ? Distant relation. Very distant P Rather. Ever been in prison ? Certainly not. Never in a debtors' prison ?. Didn't see what that had to do with it. Never in a debtors' prison ?-Come, once again. Never ? Yes. How many times ? Two or three times. Not five or six P Perhap5l. Of what profession ? Gentleman. Ever been' kIcked? Might have been. Frequently ? No. Ever kicked down stairs ? Decidedly not once received a kick on the top of a stalrcase, and fell down stairs of his own accord. Kicked on tbat occasion for cheating at dice P Something to that effect was said by the mtoncated.liar who committed the assault, but it was not true. Swear it was not true ? Positively. Ever live by cheatin~ at plày? N ever. Ever live by play ? Not more than other gentlemen do. Ever borrow money of the prisoner ? Yes. Ever pay him ? No.
Was not this intimacy with the prisoner, in reality a very slight one, forced upon the prii3oner in coaches, inns, and packets ? No. Sure he saw the prisoner with these lists P Certain. Knew no more about the lists ? No. Had not procured them bimself, for instance ? No. Expect to get anything by this evidence P No. Not in regular government pay and employment, to lay traps P Oh dear no. Or to do anything P Oh dear no. Swenr that? P Over and over again. No motives but motives of sheer patriotism ? None w hatever. The virtuous servant, Roger Cly, swore his way through the case at a great rate. He had taken service with the prisoner, in good faith and simplicity, four years ago. He bad asked the prisoner, aboard the Calais packet, if lie wanted a handy fellow, and the prisoner had engaged him. He had not asked the prisoner to take the handy fellow as an act of charity never thought of such a thing. He began to have suspicions of the prisoner, and to keep an eye upon him, soon afterwards. In amanging his clothes, while travelling, he had seen similar lists to these in the prisoner's pockets, over and over again. He had taken these lists from the drawer of the pusoner's deak. He had not put them there first. He had aeen the prisoner show these identical lists to French gentlemen at Calais, and similar lists to French gentlemen, both at Calais and Boulogne. He loved his country, and couldn't bear it, and had given information. He had never been suspected of stea1ing a silver teapot lie had been maligned respecting a mustard-pot, but it turned out to be only a plated one. He had known the last witness seven or eight years that was merely a coincidence. He didn't call it a particularly curious coincidence; most coincidences were curious. Neither did he call it a curious coincidence that true patriotism was his only motive too. 33e was a true Briton, and hoped there were many like him.
The blue-flies buzzed again, and Mr. Attorney-General called Mr. Jarvis Lorry.
Mr. Jarvis Lorry, ar e you a clerk in Tellson's banle P" et 1 am.~)
On a certain Friday night in November one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five, did business occasion you to travel between London and Dover by the mail P"
It did."
Were there any otler passengers in the mail ?"
Two."
Did they alight on the road in the course of the might ?" "They did."
Mr. Lorry, look upon the prisoner. Was he one of those two passengera pu
I cannot undertake to say that he was."
Does lie resemble either of those two passengers P"
Both were so wrapped up, and the night was 80 dark, and we were all so reserved, that 1 cannot undertake to say even that." "Mr. Lorry, look again upon the prisoner. Supposing him wrapped up as those two passengers were, is there any-thing in his bulk and stature to render it unlikely that he was one of them P" et No."
"You will not swear, lfr. Lorry, that he was not one of them P" No."
So at least you say ho may have been one of them ?"
"yes, Except that I remember them both to have been-like myself-timorous of highwaymen, and the prisoner has not a timorous air."
Did you ever see a counterfeit of timidity, Mr. orry pl, I certainly have seen that."
Mr. Lorry, look once more upon the prisoner. Have you seen him, to your certain knowledge, before P"
1 have."
When P"
1 was returning from France a few days afterwards, and, at Calais, the prisoner came on board the packet-ship in which l returned, and made the voyage with me."
"At what hour did he come on board P"
"At a little after midnight."
"In the dead of the night. Was he the only passenger who came on board at that untimely hour P"
He happened to be the only oiie.11
Never miud about happening,' Mr. Lorry. He was the only passenger who came on board in the dead of the night ?" Ile was."
Were you travelling alone, 1\fr. Lorry, or with any companion pu With two companions. A gentleman and lady. They are here." The)'" are her e. Had you any conversation with the prisoner ?" Hardly any. The weather was stormy, and the passage long and rough, and I lay on a sofa, almost from shore to shore." Miss Manette
The young lady, to whom all eyes had been turned befol'e, and were now turned again, stood up where she had sat. Her father rose with her, and kept her band drawn through his arm. Miss Manette, look upon the prigioner.1)
To be confronted with snch pity, and such earnest youth and beauty, was far more trying to the accused than to be confronted with all the crowd. Standing, as it were, apart with her on the edge of his grave, not all the staring curiosity that looked on, could, for the moment, nerve him to remain quite still. Ris hurried right hand parcelled out the berbs before him into imaginary beds of flowers in a garden; and his efforts to control and steady bis breathing, shook the lips from which the colour l'ushed to his heart. The buzz of the great flies was loud again.
Miss Manette, have you seen the prisoner beforé ?" yes, sir." seen the prisoner beforé Pl'
Where P"
on board of the packet-ship just now referred to; sir, and on the same occasion."
You are the young lady just now referred to Ply
O most unhappily, I am [U
The plaintive tone of her compassion merged into the less musical voice of the Judge, as he said, something fiercely Il Answi3r the questions put to you, and make no remark upon them." Miss Manette, bad you any conversation with the prisoner on that passage across the Channel pu
Yea, sir."
Recal it;"
In the midst of a profound stillness, s11e faintly began When the gentleman came on board-"
"Do you mean the prisoner?" inquired the Judge, knitting his brows.
Yes, my Lord."
Then say the. pri50ner."
"When the prisoner came on board, lie noticed that mv fatl~er," turning her eyes lovingly to him as he stood beside 11er, was much fatigued and in a very wealc state of health. My father was so reduced, that 1 was afraid to take him out of the air, and I had made a bed for him on the deck near tle cahin steps, and I sat on the deck at his side to take care of him. There were no other pâssengers that night, but we four. The prisoner was so good as to ben* permission to advise me how 1 could shelter my father from the wind and weather, better than I had done. I had not known how to do it well, not understanding how the wind would set when we were out of the harbour. He did it for me. He expressed great gentleness and kindness for my father's state, and I am sure he felt it. That wns the manner of our beginning to speah together." let me interrupt you for a moment. Had he come on board alone P"
No."
How many were with him P"
Two French gentlemen."
1-lad they conferred together P
They had conferred together until the last moment, when it was necessnry for the French gentlemen to be landed in their boat." Had any papers been handed about among them, similar to these lists ?" 0
Some papera bad been handed about among them, but I don't know what papers."
Like these in shape and size pn
Possibly, but indeed 1 don't know, although they stood whispering very near to me: because they stood at the top of the cabin steps to have the light of the lamp that was hanging there it w as a dull lamp, and they spoke very low, and I did not hear what they said, and saw only that they looked at papers."
Now, to the prisoner's conversation, Miss Manette."
"The prisoner was as open in his confidence with me-which arose out of my helpless F3ituation=aîi lie was l{ind, and good, and useful to my father. I hope," burating into tears, I may not repay him by doing him harm to-day."
Buzzing from the blue-flies.
:1\1 iss Manette, if the prisoner does not perfectly understand that you give the evidence which it is your duty to give-which you must give-and which J'ou cannot escape from giving-with great unwillingness, he is the only person present in that condition. Please to.go on."
He told me that lie was travelling on business of a delicate and difficult nature, which might get people into trouble, and thàt he was therefore travelling under an a8sumed name. He said that this business had, within a few days, taken him to France, and might,
at intervals, take him backwards and forwards between France ~nd England for a long time to come."
Did he say anything about America, Miss Manette ? Be particular."
He tried to explain to me how that quarrel had arisen, and he said that, so far as he could judge, it was a wrong and foolieh one on Engl~nd's part. 1-Ie added, in a jesting way, that perhapf3 George Washington m~ght gain almost as great a name in history as George the Third. But there was no harm in his way of saying this it WB8 said laughingly, and to beguile the time."
Any strongly marked expression of face on the part of a chief actor in a scene of great interest to whom many eyes are directed, will be unconsciously imitated by the spectators. Her forehead was painfully anxious and intent as she gave this evidence, and, in the pauses when she stopped for the Judge to write it down, watched its effect upon the Counsel for and against. Among the lookers-on there was the same expression in all quarters of the court insomuch, that a great majority of the foreheads there, might have been minora reflecting the witness, when the Judge looked up from his notes to glare at that tremendous heresy about George Washington. Mr. Attorney-General now signified to my Lord, that he deemed it necessary, as a matter of precautiÓn and form, to call the young lady's father, Doctor Manette. Who was called accordingly. Doctor Manette, look upon the prisoner. Have you ever seen him before p"
Once. When he called at my lodgings in London. Some three years, or three years and a half, ago."
Can you identify him as y our fellow-passenger on board the packet, or speak to his conversation with your daughter pu Sir, l can do neither." Is there any particular and special reason for your being unable to do either. ?"
He answered, in a low voice, There âs."
"lIns it been your misfortune to undergo a long imprisonment, without trial, or even accusation, in your native country, Doctor Manette P"
He answered, in a tone that went to every heart, ".r~ long imprisonment."
Were you newly released on the occasion in question ?" They tell me so."
Have you no remembrance of the occasion P"
None. My mind is a blank, from i3ome ti.me-1 cannot even sa.y what time-when 1. employed mysel~ in my captivity, in. making shoes, to the time when 1 found myself living in London with my dear daughter here. She had become familiar to me, when a gracious God restored my faculties but, I am quite unable even to 'say how she had become familiar. I have no remembrance of. the proCC8s." Mr. Attorney-General sat down, and the father and daughter Bat down together.
A singular circumstance then arose in the case, The object in hand, being, to show that the prisoner went down, withsome. fellowplotter untracked, in the Dover mail on that Friday night in No- vember five years ago, and got out of the mail in the night, as a
blind, at a place where he did not remain, but from which he travelled back some dozen miles or more, to a garrison and dockyard, and there collected information; a witness was called to identify him as having been at the precise time required, in the coffee-room of tm hotel in that garrison-and-dockyard town, waiting for another persan. The prisoner's counsel was cross-examining this witness with no result, except that he had never seen the prisoner on any othe!' occasion, when the wigged gentleman who had all this time been 100Idng at the ceiling of the court,.wrote a word or two on a little piece of paper, screwed it up, and tossed it to him. Opening this piece of paper in the .next I?ause, the counsellooked with great attention and curiosity at the I?nsoner.
You say agam you are quite sure that it zcas the prisoner The witness was quite sure.
Did you ever see anybody very lilce the prisoner ?"
Not so 'like (the witness said), as that he could bc mistaken. Look weUupon that gentleman, my learned friend there," pointing to him who had tosse the paper over, and then look well upon the prisoner.. liowsayyou? Are they very like each other p" AJlowing for my.learned friend's appcnrnnce beiug c:~rele:a and slovenly, if not debilUched,. they were sufficiently like each other to surprise, not. only the witness, but everybody present, when they were thus brought into cômparison. 1\-1y Lord being prayed to bid my learned friand 'Jay aside his wig, and giving no very gracious consent, the likeness- became much more remarkable. 1\Iy Lord inquired of Mr. S~yver' (the :prisoner's counsel), whether they were ncxt to try Mr. Carton (name of my learned friend) for treason ? But, DIr. Stry\yer replied tb my Lord, no; but Le would ask the witness to tell him w ether.whàt'happéned once, might happen twice whether he would have veen so confident if ho had seen this illustration of his rashneow -i3oôner whether he would' be so confident, having seen it and more. The upshot of which, was, to smash this witness like a crockery .vessE?l, and sh~ver his part of the case to useless lnmber. «. Mr.'Citmelier'ha(1-1.bY this time taken quite a lunch of rust off his nngei-s,in his follO\ving. of the evidence. He had now to attend while Mr. Stryver fitted t~eprisoner's case on the jury, like a conipact. suit of' clotliés~; shovring them how the patriot, Barsad, was a hired spy. and traitôr, an unblushing trafficker in blood, and one of the greateBtscoUIJ,drels up-on earth since accursed J udas-wluch he certainly did look rather like. How the v4'tuÓus servant, Cly, was his friend and partner, and was worthy.to be; how the watchful eyes of those forgera" and. false Bwearers had rested on the prisoner as a, victim, becaùee` Borne' faiIiily affairs in France, he being of French extraction; did"reqùire'his ml:lking those passages across the Channelthough what. those a~~ire ~were; a consideration for others who were nearand'dea(to'him~ forbad him, even for-his life, to disclose. How theevidence that. hàd:b"éen warped and wrested from the young lady, whose anguish in givingit they had witnessed, came to nothing, involving the mere little innocent gallantries and politenesses likely to pass betweén 8ny young.gentleman and young lady so thrown together :-with the exception of that reference to George Wasliington, which was altogether: too extravagant and impossible, to be re.garded in any other light than as a monstrous joke. How it would
be a weakness in the government to break down in .this attempt to practise for popularity on the lowest national antipathies and fears, and therefore 1\fr. Attorne.r-Genera1.had made the most of it; how, nevertheless, it rested upon notl1ing, save that vile. and infamous character of evidence too oftan disfiguring such cases, and of which the State Trials of this country were full. But, there My Lord interposed (with as grave a face as if it had not been true), saying that he could not sit upon that BeIlch and suffer those allusions. 31r. Stryver then called his few witnesses, and Mr. Cruncher had next to attend while 1\11'. Attorney-General turned the whole suit of clothes l\'Ir. Stryver lad fitted on the jury, inside out; showing how Barsad and Cly were even a hundred times better than he had thouO'ht them, and the prisoner a hundred times worse. Lastly, came My. Lord himself, tuming the suit of clothes, now inside out, now outside in, but on the whole decidedly trimming and shaping them into grave-clothes for the prisoner.
And now, the jury turned to. consider, and the great flies swarmed again.
.L~ir. Carton, who had so long sat loolting at the ceiling of the court, changed neither his place nor his attitude, even in this excitement. While his learned mend, Mr. Stryver, massing his papers before bim, whispered with those who sat near, and from time to time glanced anxiously at the jury; while all the specfators moved more or less, and grouped themselves anew; while even 1\I;rLord himself arose from lus seat, and slowly paced up and down his platform, not unattended by a suspicion in the minds of the audience that his staté \Vas feverish; this one man sat leaning.back, with his torn gown half off him, his untidy wig put on just as it had happened to light on his head after its removal, his hands in his pockets, and his eyes on the ceiling as they had been all clay. Something esp ecially reckless in his demeanour, not on1y. gave him a disreputable. look, but so diminished the strong resemblance he undoubtedly bore to the prisoner (which his momentary earnestness, when they were compared together, had strengthened), that many of the lookers-on, taking note of him now, said to one another they would hardly bave thought the two were so alike. Mr. Cruncher made the observation to his next neighbour, and added, "l'd hold half a guinea that he don't get no law-work to do. Don't look like the sort of one to get any, do he ?il
Yet, this Mr. Carton took in more of the details of the scene than he appeared to take in; for now, when Miss Manette's head dropped upon her father'~ breast, he was the first to sec it, and to say nudibly: Officer look to that young lady. Help the gentleman to take her out. Don't you see she will fall
There was much commiseration for her as she was removed, and much sympathy with her father. It had evidently been'a great distress to him, to have the days of his imprisonment recalled. He had shown strong internal agitation when he was questioned, and that pondering or brooding look which made him old, had been upon him, like a heavy cloud, ever since. As he passed out, the jury, who }1a~~ned back and paused a moment, spoke, through their foreman. They were not agreed, and wished to retire.. My Lord (perhaps E
with George Washington on his mind) showed some surprise that they were not agreed, but signified his pleasure that they F31ioidd retire under'.watch and ward, and retired himself. The trial had lasted~a~ duy, and the lampa in the court were nowbeing lighted. It began to be rumoured.that the would be out a long while. The spectatôra dropped off to get retreshment, and the prisoner withdrew to the back Óf the dock, and sat down.
Mr. Lorry, who had gone out when the young lady and her father went'. out, now reappeared, and beckoned to Jerry who, in the s1ackened interest, could easily get near him.
Jerry, if you wish to take something to eat, you eau. But, keep in the way.. You will be sure to hear when the jury come in. Don't be a moment behind them, for l want you to take the verdict back to the bank. You are the quickest messenger 1 know, and- will get to Temple. Bar long before l can."
Jerry had just enough forehead to knuckle, and~ he knuckled it in acknowledgment of this communication and a shilling. Mr. Carton came up at the moment, and touched Mr. Lorry on the arm. How is the young lady rU
She is -greatly distressed but her father is comforting her, and she feels the better for.being out of court.
1'11 tell the prisoner so. It won't do for a respectable bankgentleman like yoti, to be seen speaking to him publicly; you know." 3fr. Lorry reddened, as if he were conscÎous of having debated the point-in bis mind, and Mr. Carton made his way to the outside of the bar. The way out of court lay in that direction, and Jerry followed him, all eyes, ears, and spikes.
Damay
The prisoner came forward directly.
You will naturasly be anxiOUB to hear of the witness, Miss 'L%funette. She will do very well. You have seen the worst of her agitation:"
I am deeply sorry to have been the cause of it. Could you tell her so for me, with my fervent acknowledgments P"
14 Yes, 1 could. I will, if you ask it."
31r. Carton's manner was so. ca.reless as to be almost insolent. He stood, half turned from the prisoner, lounging with his elbow against the bar.
I do ask it. Accept ml cordial thanks."
"What," said Carton, still only half turned towarda him, do you expect, Mr. Darnay rU
The worst."
"It's the wisef3t.thinc,, to expect, and the likeliest. But 1 think their withdrawing is in your favour."
Loitering on the way out of court not being allowed, Jerry heard no more but left them-so like each other.in feature, so unlike each other in manner-standing side by side, both reflected in the glass above them.
An hour and a half limped heavily away in the thief-and-rascalcrowded passages below, even though assisted off with mutton pies and ale. The boari3e messencyer, uncomfortably seated on a form after taking thatrefection,.had dropped into a,.doze, when a loud murmur
and a rapid tide of people setting up the stairs that led to the court, carried him along with them.
Jerry Jerry !Ir. Lorry was already calling at the door when he got there.
Here, sir 1 It's a fight to get back again. Here I am, Bir 1" Mr. Lorry handed him a paper through the throng. Quick! Have you got it
Yes, sir."
Hastily written on the paper was the word ACQUITTED." "If you had sent the mesaage, 'Recalled to Lüe,' again," muttered Jerry, as he turned, "1 should have known what you meant, this time."
He had no opportunity of saying, or so much as thinking, anything else, until he was clear of the Old Bailey; for, the crowd came pouring out with a vehe.mence that nearly took him off his legs, and a loud buzz swept into the street as if the bafâed blue-flies were diepersing in search of other carrion.
CHAPTER IV.
CONGRATULATOBY.
Fitoié thé" dimly-lighted passages of the conrt, the last sediment of the human stew that had- been boiling there all day, was straining off, when Doctor Manette, Lucie Manette his daughter, Mr. Lorry, the solicitor for the defence, and its counsel Mr. Stryver, stood gathered around ~Tr. Charles-Darnay-just released-congratulating him on his escape from death.'
It would have-been di~cült by a far brighwr light, to recogniae in Doctor Manette, intellectual of -face and 4right,'of bearing, the shoemaker of the garret in Paris. no one coUld have looked at him twice, without looking ~again 'even though the opportunity of observation had not extended to. the mOl1rnful cadence of' his low grave voice, and' to~ the' -abstraction that overclouded him fitfuUy, without any apparent reason. While one external cause, and that a reference to his'long lingering agony, would always-as on the trial -evoke this condition ~from the depths of his soul, it was also in its nature to arise of itself, and to draw a gloom over him, as incomprehensible to those unacquainted with his story as if they had seen the shadow of the actual Bastille thrown upon him by a summer sun, when the substance was three hundred miles away.
Only his daughter had the power of charming this black brooding from his mind. She was the golden thread that united him to a Past beyond his misery, and to a Present beyond his misery and the sound of her voice, the light of her face, the touch of ber hand, had a strong beneficial influence with him almost always. Not absolutely always, for she could recal son~e occasions on whicb ber power E2
had failed but, they were few and slight, and she believ ed them over.
Mr. Darnay had kissed her hand fervently and gratefully, and had turned to Mr. Stryver, whom he warmly thanked. :1\11'. Stryver, a man of little more than thiity, but looking twenty years older than he was, stout, loud,. red, bluff, and free from any drawb~ck of delicaey, had a pushing way of shouldering himself (niorally and physieally) into companies and conversations, that argued iveu for his shouldering his way up in life.
He still had his wig and gown on, and he snià, squaring himself at hie late client to that degree that he squeezed the innocent 1\'Ir. Lorry clean out of the group I am glad to have brought you off with honour; Mir. Darnay. It was an infamous prosecution, grossly infamous; but not the less likely to succeed, on that account." You have laid- me under an obligation to you for life-in two senses," said his late client, tahing his hand.
I have done my best for you, 1\'11'. Darnay and my best is as good as another man'e, I believe."
It clearly being incumbent on somebody to say, "J\Iuch better," Mr. Lorry said it perhaps not quite disinterestedly, but with the interested object of squeezing himself back again.
"You think so P" said Mr. Stryver. ~~ell you have been present all day, and you ought to know. You are a man of business, too."
And as such," quoth Mr. Lorry, whom the counsel learned in the law had now shonldered back into the group, just as he had previously shouldered him out of it-" as such, l will appeal to Doctor Manette, to break up this conference and order us all to our homes. Miss Lucie looks ill, Mr. Darnay has had a terrible day, we are worn out."
Speak for yourself, Mr. Lorry," said Stryver I have a night's work to do yet. Speak for yourself."
1 speak for myself," answered Mr. Lorry, and for 1\11'. Darnay, and for Miss Lucie, and-Miss Lucie, do you not think l may speak for us all pu He asked her the question pointedly, and with a glance at her father..
Ris face had become frozen, as it were, in a very curious look at Darnay an intent look, deepening into a frown of dislilce and distrust, not even unmixed with fear. With this strange expression on him his thoughta had wandered away.
My father," said Lucie, softly laying her hand on his. He slowly shook the shadow off, and turned to her.
Shall we go home, my father P"
With a long breath, he answered, "Yes."
The friends of the acquitted prisoner had dispersed, under the impression-which he himself had originated-that he would not be released that night. The lights were nearly all extinguished in the passages,. the iron gates were being closed with a jar and a rattle, and the dismal place was deserted until to-morrow morning's interest of gallows, pillory, whipping-post, and branding-iron, should repeople it. WalkiIlg between her father and Mr. Darnay, Lucie Manette passed into- the. open air. A hackney-coach was called, and the father and daughter departed in it.
Mr. Stryver had left them in the passages, to shoulder hia way back to the robing-room. Another person who had not joined the group, or interchanged a word with any: one of them, but who had been leaning agamst the wall where its shadow was darkest,' had silently strolled out after the rest, and had looked on until the coach drove away. He now stepped up to where Mr. Lorry and Mr. Darnay stood upon the pavement.
"80, J\ir. Lorry 1 Men of business may speak to Mr. Darnay now ?"
Nobody had made any acknowledgment of Mr. Carton's part in the day's proceedings nobody had known of it. He was unrobed, and was none the better for it in appearance.
If you knew what a conflict goes on in the business mind, when the business mind is divided between good-natured impulse and business appearances, you would be amused, IU. Darnay." :1\11'. Lorry reddened, and said, warmly, You have mentioned that before, sir. 1Ye men of business., who serve a House, are not our own masters. "Ve have to think of the House more than ourselves."
I know, I knov- rejoined Mr. Carton, care1essly. Don't be nettled, Mr. Lorry. You are as good as another, 1 have no doubt better, 1 dare say."
And indeed, sir," pursued 1&. ~orry, not minding him, I really don't know what you have to do with the matter. If you'll excuse me, as very much your elder, for saying so, I really don't know that it is your business."
Business 1 Bless you, I have no business," said Mr. Carton. It is a pity you have not, sir."
I think so too."
"If you had," pursued :1\11'. Lorry, Il perhaps you would attend to it."
Lord lov e you, no 1-1 shouldn't," said 1Ir. Carton.
"Weil, sir 1" cried Mr. Lorry, thoroughly heated by his indifference, business is a very good thing, and a ver'y respectable thing. And, sir, if business imposes its restraints and its ailences and impedim~nts, Mr. Darnay as a young gentleman of generosity knows how to make allowance for that circumstance. Mr. Darnay, good night, God bless 3·ou, sir 1 1 hope you have been this day preserved for a prosperoUB and happy life.-Chair there 1"
Perhaps a little angry with himself, as well as with the barriater, lfr. Lorry bustled into the chair, and was carried off to Tellson's. Carton, who smelt of port wine, and did not appear to be quite sober, laughed then, and turned to Darnay
1 This is a strange chance that throws you and me together. This must be a stl'ange night to you, standing alone here with your counterpart on these atreet-stones ?"
"1 hardly seem yet," returned Charles Darnay, "to belong to this world again."
1 don't wonder at it it's not so long since you were pretty far advanced on your way to another. You speak faintly." 1 begin to think 1 anz faint."
Then why the devil don't you'dine ? I dined, myself, while those numskulls were deliberating which world you should .belong to
-this, or some other. Let ~me show you the nearest tavern to dine vaell at."
Drawing his arm through his own, he took him down Ludgate-hill to F1ee~street,and so, up a covered way, into a tavern. Here, they were shown into a little room, where Charles Darnay was soon recruiting his strength with a good plain dinner and good wine while Carton sat opposite to him at the same table, with his separate bottle of port before him, and his fully half-insolent manner upon him. Do you feel, et, tlat you belong to this terr~strial scheme again, Mr. Darnav P"
Il I am frlghtfully.confused regarding time and place but I am so far mended as to feel tlat."
It must be a~n immense satisfaction
He said it bitterly, and filled up his glass again which was a large one. a
"As to me, the greatest desire 1 have, is to forget that I belong to it. It has no good in it for me-except wine like this-nor I for it. So we are not much alike in that particular. Indeed, I begin to think we are not much alike in any particular, you and I." Confused by the emotion of the clay, and feeling his being there with this Double of coarse deportment, to be like a dream, Charles Darnay was at a loss how to answer; finally, answered not at all. Now your dinner is done," Carton presently said, ivhy don't you call a health, Mr. Darnay why don't you gue your toast pu What health P What toast P"
Why, it's on the tip of your tongue. It ought to be, it must be, 1.'il swear it's there."
Miss Manette, then 1"
Miss Manette, then
Looking his companion full in the face while lie dranlc the toast, Carton flung his glass over his shoulder against the wall, where it shivered to pieces then, rang the bell, and ordered in another. "That's a fair young ladJ to hand to a coach in the dark, Mr. Darnay 1" he said, filling bis new goblet.
 shght frown and a laconie "Yes," were the answer.. That's a fair young lady to be pitied by and vcept for by How does it feel P Is it worth being tried for one's life, to be the object ofauch sympathy and compassion, Mr-. Darnay P"
Again Darnay answered not a word.
She wu mightily pleased to have your message, when I gave it her. Not that she f3howed she was pleased, but 1 suppose she was." The allusion served as a timely reminder to Darnay that this disagreeable companion had, of hie own free will, assisted him in the strait of the day. He turned the dialogue to that point, and thanked him for it.
"1 neither want any thanks, nor merit any," was the careless rejoinder. It was nothing to do, in the first place and 1 don't know why I did it, in the second. Mr. Darnay, let me ask you a question."
Willingly, and a small return for your good offices."
Do you think I particularly like you r"
Really, Mr. Carton," returned the other, oddly disconcerted, I have not asked myself the question."
But ask yourself the question now."
You have acted as if you do but 1 don't think you do." I don't think 1 do," said Carton. I begin to have a very good opinion of your understanding."
Nevertheless," pursued Darnay, rising to ring the bell, there is nothing in that,' 1 hope, to prevent my calling the reckoning, and our parting without ill-blood on either side."
Carton rejoining, Nothing in life Darnay rang. Do you call the whole reckoning ?" said Carton. On his answering in the affirmative, Then bring me another pint of this SRme wine, drawer, and come and wake me ut ten."
The bill being.paid, Charles Darnay rose and wished him good night. Without returning the -%vit3h, Carton rose too, with something of a threat or defiance in his manner, and said, "A last"word, Mr. Darnay you think.I am drunk ?"
l think you have been drinking, 1%fr. Carton."
Think ? You know l have been drinking."
Since I must sav so, l know it."
`.` Then you shall likewise know why. Iama,dii3appointeadruage, sir. 1 care for no man on earth, and no man on earth cares for me." Much to be regretted. You might have used 3·our talents better."
"May be so, lir. Darnay may be not. Don't let your sober fitee elate you, however you don't know what it may come.to. Good night
When he was left alone, this strange being took up a candIe, went to a glass that hung against the ,vaU, and surveyed himself minutely i n it.
"Do you particularly like the man ?" he muttered, at his own image "why should you particularly like aman. whoresembles you P There is nothing in you to like you know that. Ah~ confound you! What a change you have made in yourself 1 A good reason for taking to a man, that he shows you what you have fallen away from, and what you mig1it have been 1 Change .places with him, and would you have been looked at by those blue eyes as he was, and commiserated by that agitated face as he was.? Come on, and have it out in plain words You hate the fellow."
lie resorted to his pint of wine for consolation, drank .it all in a few minutes, and fell asleep on 'hie arma, with his hair straggling over the table, and a long winding_aheet in the candle dripping down upon him.
CHAPTER V.
THE JACKAL.
THOSE were drinking days, and most men drank hard. So very great is the improvement Time has brought about in such habits, that a moderate statement of the quantity of wine and punch which one man would swallow in the course of a night, without any detriment to his reputation as a perfect gentleman, would seem, in these days, a ridiculous exaggeration. The learned pr ofession of the I~aw was certainly not behind any other learned profession in its Bacchanalian propensities neither w as Mr. Stryver, already fast shouldering his way to a large and lucrative practice, behind his compeers in this particular, any more than in the drier parts of the legal race. A favourite at the Old Bailey, and eke at the Sessions, Mr. Stryver had begun cautiously to hew away the lower staves of the ladder on which he mounted. Sessions and Old Bailey had now to summon their favourite, specially, to their longing anus; and shouldering itself towards the visage of the Lord Chief Justice in the Court of King's Bench, the :florid countenance of Mr. Stryver might be daily seen, bursting out of the bed of wigs, like a great sunflower pushing its way at the sun from among a rank garden-full of flaring companions.
Tt had once been noted at the Bar, that while ~r. Strvver was a glib man, and an unscrupulous, and a ready, and a bold, lie had not that faculty of extracting the essence from a heap of statements, which is among the most striliing and necessary of the advocate's accomplishments. But, a remarkable improvement came upon him as to this. The more business he got, the greater his power seemed to grow of getting at its pith and marrow and however late at night lie sat carousing with Sydney Carton, he always had his points at his fingers' ends iu the morning.
Sydney Carton, idlest and most unpromising of men, was Stryver's great ally. What the two drank together, between Hilary Term and Michaelmas, might have floated a king's ship. Stryver never had a case in hand, anywhere, but Carton was there, with his hands in his pockets, staring at the ceiling of the court they went the same Circuit, and even there they prolonged their usual orgies late into the night, and Carton was rumoured to be seen at broad day, going home stealthily and unsteadily to his lodgings, like a dissipated cat. At last, it began to get about, among such as were interested in the matter, that although Sydney Carton would never be a lion, he was an amazingly good jackal, and that he rendered suit and service to Stryver in that humble capacity.
Ten o'clock, sir," said the man at the tavern, whom lie had charged to wake him-" ten o'clock, sir."
Wlcat's the matter P"
Ten o'clock, sir."
What do you mean P Ten o'clock at night P"
"'Yes, sir. Your honour told me to caIlJou."
Oh 1 remember. Very well, very well."
After a few dull efforts to get to sleep again, which the man dexterously combated by stirring the fire continuously for five minutes, he got up, tossed his hat on, and walked out. He turned into the Temple, and, having revived himself by twice pacing the pavements of King's Bench-walk and Paper-buildings, turned into the Stryver chambers.
The Stryver clerk, who never assisted at these conferences, had gone home, and the Stryver principal opened the door. He had his slippers on, and a loose bedgown, and his throat was bare for his greater ease. He had that rather wild, strained, seared marking about the eyes, wbich may be observed in all free liverB of his class, from the portrait of Jeffries downivard, and which can be traced, under various disguises of Art, through the portraits of every Drinking Age.
You are a little late, Dlemory," said Stryver.
About the usual time it may be a quarter of an hour Inter;" They went into a dingy room lined with books and littered with pnpers, where there was a blazing fire. A kettle steamed upon the hob, and in the midst of the wreck of papers a table shone, with plenty of wine upon it, and brandy, and rum, and sugar, and lemons. You have had your bottle, l perceive, Sydney."
Two to-night, l think. 1 have been dining with the day's client or seeing him dine-it's all one
That was a rare point, Sydney, that you brought to bear upon the identification. Row did you come by it P When did it strike you P"
I thought he was rather a handsome fellow, and I thought I should have been much the same sort of fellow, if I had had any luck." Mr. Stryver laughed, till he shook bis precocious paunch. "You and your luck, Sydney 1 Get to work, get to work.u
Sullenly enough, the jackal loosened his dress, went into an adjoining room, and came back with a large jug of cold water, a basin, and a towel or two. Steeping the towels in the water, and partially wringing them out, he folded them on his head in a manner hideous to behold, sat down at the table, and said, Now I am ready 1" Not much boiling down to be done to-night, Memory," said Mr. Stryver, gaily, as he looked among his papers.
How mucb?"
Only two sets of them."
Give me the worst first.
There they are, Sydney. Fire away
The lion tlien composed himself on his back on a sofa on one side ~f the drinking-table, while the jackal sat .at bis own paper-bestrewn table proper, on the other side of it, with the bottles and glasses ready to his hand. Both resorted to the drinking-table without stint, but each in a different way the lion for the most part reclining with his hands in his waistband, looking at the fire, or occasionaIly flirting with some lighter document; the jackal, with knitted browB and intent
face, so deep in his task, that his eyes did not even follow the hand he stretched out for his glass-which ofteu, groped about, for a minute or more, before it found the glass for his lips. Two or three times, the matter in hand became so knotty, that the jackal found it imperative on him to get up, and steep his towels anew. From these pilgrimages to the jug and basin, he returned with such eccentricities of damp head-gear as no words can. describe; which were made the more ludicroU8 by his auxious gravity.
At length the jackal had got together a compact repast for the lion, and proceeded to offer it to him. The lion took it with care and caution, made his selections from it, and his remarks upon it, and the jackal assisted both. When the repast was fully discussed, the lion put his hands in his waistband again, and lay down to meditate. The jackal then invigorated himself with a bumper for his throttle, and a fresh application to his head, and applied himself to the collection of a second meal; this was administered to the lion in the same manner, and was not disposed of until the clocks struck three in the morning. "And now we have done, Sydney, fill a bumper of punch," said Mr. Stryver.
The jackal removed the towels from his head, which had been steaming ngain, shook himself, yawned, shivered, and complied. You were very sound, Sydney, in the matter of those crown wituesses to-day. Every question told."
I alway am sound am I not P"
I don't gainsay it. What has roughened your temper P Put some punch to it and smooth it again."
With a deprecatory grunt, the jacltal again complied.
The old Sydney Carton of old Shrewsbury School," said Stryver, nodding his head over him as he reviewed him in the present and the past, "the old seesaw Sydney. Up one minute and down the neat; now m spirits and now in despondency 1"
Ah 1" returned the other, sighing: "yes The same Sydney, with the same luck. Even then, I did exercises for other boys, and seldom did my own."
And why not r"
God knows. It was my way, 1 suppose."
He sat, with his hands in his pockets and his legs stretched out before him, looking at the fire.
Carton," said his friend, f3quaring uimself at him with a bullying air, as if the fire-grate had been the furnace in which sustained endeayour was forged, and the one delicate thing to be done for the old Sydney Carton of old Shrewsbury School was to shoulder him into it, "your way is, and always was, a lame way. You summon no energy and purpose. Look at me."
Oh, botheration 1" returned Sydney, with a lighter and more good-humoured 1augh, don't you be moral !13
"How have I done w hat I hav e done pu said Stryver how do I do what l do P"
PartIy through .paying me to help you, I suppose. But it's not worth your while to apostrophise me, or the air, about it what you want to do, you do. You were always in the front rank, and I was always behind."
1 had to get into the front ranlc I was not born there, -wu I pu 111 was not present at the ceremony; but my opinion is y~u \Vere," said Carton. At this, he laughed again, and they both laughed.
Before Shrewsbury, and at Shrewsbury, and ever since Shrewsbury," pursued Carton, you have fallen into your rank, and 1 have fallen into mine. Even when we were feUow-students in the Quartier Latin, picking up French, and French law, and other French crumbs that we didn't get much good of, you were ahvays somewhere, and 1 was always-nowhere."
"And whose fault was that?"
Upon my soul, I am not sure that it was not yours. You were always driving and riving and shouldering and pressing, to that restless degree that l had no chance for my life but in rust and repose. It's a gloomy thing, however, to talk about one's own past, with the day brenking. Turn me in some other direction before I go." ~Yell then 1 Pledge me to the pretty witness," said Stryver, holding up his glass. "Are you turned in a pleasant direction ?" Apparently not, for lIe became gloomy again.
Pretty witness," he muttered, looking down into his glass. I have had enough of witnesses to-day and to-night; who's your pretty witness ?"
The picturesque doctor's daughter, Miss l\fanette."
Slte pretty
Is she not P"
No.
"'fPhy, man alive, she was the admiration of the whole Court 1" "Rot the admiration of the whole Court Who made the Old TIai1ey a judge of beauty ? She was a golden-haired doll P" Do you know, Sydney," said Mr. Stryver, looking at him with sbarp eyes, and slowly drawing a hand across his florid face do you knonv, I rather thought, at the time, that you sympathised with the golden-haired doll, and were quick to see what happened to the golden-haired doll ?"
il Quick to see what happened If a girl, doll or no doll, swoons within a yard or two of a man's nose, he can see it without a perspective-glaas. I pledge you, but I deny the beauty. And now l'll have no more drink l'U get to bed."
When his host followed him out on the staircase with a candle, to light him down the stairs, the day was coldly looking in through its grimy windows. When lie got out of the house, the air was cold and sad, the dull sky overcast, the river dark and dim, the whole scene like a lifeless desei-t. And wreaths of dust were spinning round and round before the morning blast, as if the desert-sand had rÎsen far away, and the first spray of it in its advance had begun to overwhelm the city.
Waste forces within him, and a desert all around, this man stood still on his way across a silent terrace, and saw for a moment, lying in the wilderness before him, a mirage of honourable ambition, self:' denial, and perseverance. In the fair city of this vision, there were airy galleries from which the loves and graces looked. upon him, gardens in WhlCh the fruits of life hung ripening, waters of Hopé
that sparkled in his sight. A moment, and it was gone. Climbing to a high chamber in a well of houses, he threw himself down in his clothes on a neglected bed, and its pillow was wet with wasted tears.
Sadly, sadly, the sun rose it rose upon no sadder sight than the man of good abilities and good emotions, incapable of their directed exercise, incapable of his own help and' his own happiness, sensible of the blight on him, and resigning himself to let it eat him away.
CHAPTER YI.
nUKDREDS OF rEOrL~.
TsE quiet lodgiugs of Doctor l'lanette were in a quiet streetcorner not far from Soho-square. On the afternoon of a certain fine Sunday when the waves of four months had rolled over the trial for treason, and carried it, as to the public interest and memory, fur out to sea, Mr. Jarvis Lorrywalked along the sunny streets from Clerkenwell where he lived, on his way to dine with the Doctor. After several relapses into business-absorption, ]\{r. Lorry had become the Doctor's friend, and the quiet street-corner was the sunny part of his life.
On this certain fine Sunday, I\Ír. Lorry walked towards Soho, early in the afternoon, for three reasons of habit. Firstly, because, on fine Sundâye; he often walked out, before dinner, with the Doctor and Lucie; secondly, because, on unfavourable Sundays, he was accustomed to be with them as the family friend, talking, readil1g, looking out of window, and generally 9 tt through the day thirdly, because he happened to have hi own little shrewd doubts to solve, and knew how the ways of the Doctor's household pointed to that time as a likely time for solving them.
A quainter corner than the corner wlere the Doctor lived, was not to be found in London. There was no way through it, and the front windows of the Doctor's lodgings commanded a pleasant little vista of F3treet that had a congenial air of retirement on it. There were few buildings then, north of the Oxford-road, and forest-trees flourished, and wild flowers grew, and the hawthorn blossomed, in the now vanished fields. As a consequence, country airs circulated in Soho' with vigorous freedom, iustead of lnngmsbing into the parish lilie stray paupers without a settlement; and there was many a good south wall, not far off, on which the peaches ripened in their season. The summer light struck into the corner brilliantly in the earlier part of the day; but, when tle streets grew hot, the corner was in shadow, though not in shadow so remote but that you could sec beyond it into a glare of briglitness. It was a cool spot, staid but cheerful, a wonderful place for echoes, and a very harbour from the raging streets.
There ought to have been a tl'anquil bark in such an anchorage, and there was. The Doctor occupied two floors of a large still house, where several callings purported to be pursued by day, but whereof little w as audible any day, and which was ahunned by all of them at night. In a building at the back, attainable by a court-yard where a plane-tree rustled its green leaves, church-organs claimed to be.made, and silver to be chased, and likewise gold to be beaten by some mysterious giant who had a golden arm starting out of the wall of the front hall-as if he had beaten himself precious, and menaced a similar conversion of all visitors. Very little of these trades, or of a lonely lodger rumoured to live up-stairs, or of a dim coach-trimming maker asserted to have a counting-house below, was ever heard or seen. OccasionaIly, a stray workman putting bis coat on,.traversed the hall, or a stranger peered about there, or a distant clink was heard across the court-yard, or a thump from the golden giant. These, howev er, were only the exceptions required to prove the rule that the sparrows in the plane-tree behind the house, and the echoes in the corner before it, had their ow n way from Sunday morning unto Saturday night.
Doctor 1\'Ianette received such patients here as his old reputation, and its revival in the floating whispers of his story, brought him. Ris scientific knowledge, and his vigilance and skill in conducting ingenious experiments, brought him otherwise into moderate request, and he earned as much as he wanted.
These things were within Mr. Jarvis Lorry's knowledge, thoughts, and notice, when he rang the door-bell of the. tranquil house in the corner, on the fine Sunday afternoon.
"Doctor Manette at home ?"
Expected home.
Miss Lucie at home p"
Expected home.
Miss Pross at home P"
Possibly at home, but of a certainty impossible for handiinaid to anticipate intentions of Miss Pross, as to admission or denial of the fact.
As l am at home myself," said Mr. Lorry, I'll go up-stairs." Although the Doctor's daughter had known nothing of the country of her birth, she appeared to have innately derived from it that ability to make much of little means, which is one of its most useful and most agreeable characteristics. Simple as the furniture was, it was set off by so many little adornments, of no value but for their taste and fancy, that its effect was delightful. The disposition of everything in the rooms, from the -largest. object to the least the arrangement of colours! the elegant variety and contrast obtained by thrift in trifles, bÿ delicate hands, clear eyes, and good sense were nt once so pleasant in themselves, and so expressive of their originator, that, as Mr. Lorry stood looking about him, the very chairs and tables seemed to ask him, with something of that peculiar expression which he knew so well by this time, whether he approved P
There were three rooms on a floor, and, the doors by which they communicated being put open that the air might pass freely.through them «~111, Mr. Lorry, smilingly observant of that fanciful resemblance
which he detected all around him, walked from one to another. Thc first was the best room, and in it were Lucie's birds, and flowers, and books, and desk, and work-table, and box of water-colours the second was the Doctor's consulting-room, used also as the dining-room the third, changingly speckled by the rustle of the plane-tree in the yard, was the Doctor's bedroom-and there, in a corner, stood the disused shoemaker's bench and tray of tools, much as it bad stood on the fiîth floor of the dismal house by the wine-shop, in the suburb of Saint Antoine in Paris.
"I wonder," said 1\:&. Lorry, pausing in his looking about, "that he keeps that reminder of his suft'erings by him 1"
And why wonder at that ?" was the abrupt inquiry that made him start.
It proceeded from Miss Pross, the wild red woman, strong of hand, whose acquaintance he had mst made at the Royal George Hotel at Dover, and had since improved.
1 should have thought-" Mr. Lorry began.
Pooh 1 You'd have thoughtl" said Miss Pross and Mr. Lorry left off.
How do you do P" inquired that lady then-sharply, and yet as if to express that she bore him no malice.
I am pretty well, l thank you," answered Mr. Lorry, with meekness, how are you P"
Nothing to boast of," said Misa Pross.
Indeed ?"
Ah indeed said Miss Pross. "1 am very much put out about my Ladybird."
Indeed ?"
"For gracious sake say something else besides 'indeed,' or you'll fidget me to death," said Miss Pross whose character (dissociated from stature) was shortness.
Really, then r" said Mr. Lorry as an amendment.
"Really, is bad enough," returned Miss Pross, "but better. Yes, 1 am very much put out."
May I ask the cause P"
1 don't want dozens of people who are not at all worthy of Ladybird, to come here looking after her," said Miss Pross. "Do dozens come for that purpose P"
Hundreds," said Miss Pross.
It was characteristic of this lady (as of some other people before her time and since) that whenever her original proposition was questioned, she exaggerated it.
Dear me 1" said Mr. Lorry, as the safest remark he could think of..
"I have lived with the darling-or the darling has lived with me, and paid me for'it; which she certainly should never have done, you may take your affidavit, if I could have afforded to keep either myself or her for nothing-since she was ten years old. And it's really very hard," said Miss Pross.
Not seeing with precision what was very hard, Mr. Lorry shook his head,; using that important part of himself as a sort of fuiry cloak that would fit anything.
All sorts of people wbo are not in the least degree worthy of the pet, are always turning up," said Miss Pross. When you began it
Ibegau it, Miss Pross ?"
Didn't you ? Who brought her father to life ?"
Oh If that was beginnmg lt- said Mr. Lorry.
It wasn't eriding it, I suppose ? I say, when you began it, it was hard enough not that I have any fnult to find with Doctor Manette, except that lie is not worthy of such a daughter, which is no imputation on him, for it was not to be expected that anybody should be, under atiy circumstances. But it really is doubly and trebly hard to have crowds and multitudes of people turning up after him (I could have forgiven him), to take Ladybird's affections away from me." Mr. Lorry knew Miss Pross to be very jealous, but he also knew her by this time to be, beneath the surface of her eccentricity, one of those unselfish creatures-found only among women-who will, for pure love and admiration, bind themselves willing slaves, to youth when they have lost it, to beauty that they never had, to accompliBhments that they were never fortunate enough to gain, to bright hopes that Ilever shone upon their own sombre lives. He knew enough of the world to know that there is nothing in it better than the faithfnl. service of the heart so rendered and so free from any mercenary taint, he bad such an exalted respect for it, that, in the retributive arrangements made by his own mind-we all make such arrangements, more or less-he stationed Miss Pross much nearer to the lower Angels than many ladies immeasurably better got up both by Nature and Art, who had balances at Tellsons.
There never was, nor will be, but one man worthy of Ladybird," said Miss Pross and that was my brother Solomon, if he hadn't made a mistake in life."
Here again Mr. Lorry's inquiries into Miss Pross's personal history, had established the fact that her brother Solomon was a heartless scoundrel who had stripped ber of everything she possessed, as a stake to speculate with, and had abandoned her in her poverty for evermore, with no touch of compunction. Miss Pross's fidelity of belief in Solomon (deducting a mere trifle for this slight mistake) was quite a serious matter with Mr. Lorry, and had its weight in'his good opinion of her.
"As we happen to be alone for the moment, and are both people of business," he said, when they had got back to the drawing-room, and had'sat down there in friendly relations, "let me ask you-does the Doctor, in talking with Lucie, never refer to the shoemakingtime, yet ?"
1\Tever."
And yet lfeeps that bench and those tools beside him P" Ah returned Miss Pross, shaking her head. "Bnt 1 dml't say he don't refer to it within himself."
Do you believe that he thinks of it much P"
do," said Miss Pross.
Do you imagine-" Mr. Lorry had begun, when Miss Pross took him up short with
6c Never imagine anything. Have no imagination at all."
1 standcorrected; do you suppose-you go so far as to suppose, sometimes ?" ZD
Now and then," said l\iiss Pross.
Do you suppose, Mr. Lorry went on, with a laughing t~-inkle in his bright eye, as it looked kindly at her, that Doctor Manette bas any theory of his own, preserved through aU those years, relative to the cause of his being so oppressetl; perhaps, even to the name of his oppressor ?"
I don't suppose anything about it but »-hat Ladybird tells me. And that is 2"
That she thinks he has."
lTow don't be angry at 111Y asking all these questions because I am a mere dull man of business, and you are a woman of business."
Dull ?" Miss Pross inquired, with placidity
R.ather wishing his modest adjective away, 1\11'. Lorry replied, No, no, no. Surely not. To return to business :-Is it not remarkable that Doctor l'Ianette, unquestionably innocent of any crime as we are well assured he is, should never touch upon that question ? I will not say with me, though he had business relations with me many years ago, and we are now intimate 1 will say with tbe fair daughter to whom lie is so devotedly attached, and who is so devotedly attached to him ? P Believe me, Miss Pross, I don't approach the topic with you, out of curiosity, but out of zealous interest."
Well To the best of my understanding, and bad's the best you'll tell me," said Miss Pross, softened by the tone of the apology, lie is afraid of the whole subject."
Afraid ?"
"It's plain enough, I should think, whyhe may be. It's a.dreadful remembrance. Besides tbat, his loss of himself grew out of it. Not knowing how he lost himself, or how he recovered himself, he may never feel certain of not losing himself again. That alone wouldn't make the subject pleasant, l should thitik."
It was a profounder remark than Mr. Lorry had looked for. True," said he, and fearful to reflect upon. Yet, a doubt lurks in my mind, Miss Pross, whether it is good for Doctor Manette to have that suppression always shut up within him. Indeed, it is this doubt and the uneasiness it sometimes causes me that has led me to our present confidence."
Can't be helped, said Miss Pross, shaking her head. Touch tbat string, and he instantly changes for the worse. Better leave it alone. ln short, must leave it alone, like or no like. Sometimes, he gets up in the dead of the night, and will be heard, by us overhead there, walking up and down, walking up and down, in his room. Ladybird has learnt to know then, that his mind is walking.up and down, walking up and down, in his old prison. She humes to him, and they go on together, walking up and down, walking ne and down, until he is composed. But he never says n word of the true reason of his restlessness, to her, and she finds it best not to hint at it to him. In silence they go walking up and down together, walking up and down together, tillller lov e and company have brought him to himself."
N otwithstandÏi1g Miss Pross's denial of her own imagination there was a perception of the pain of being monotonously haunted by one sad idea in her r epetition of the phrase, walking up and down, which testified to her possessing such a thing.
The corner has been mentioned as a wonderful corner for echoes it had begun to echo so resoundingly to the tread of coming feet, that it seemed as though the very mention of that weary pacing to and fro had set it going.
Here they are said Miss Pross, rising to break up the conference "and now we shall have hundreds of people pretty soon It was such a curious corner in its acoustical properties, such a peculiar Ear of a place, that as Mr. Lorry stood at the open window, looking for the father and daughter whose steps he heard, he fancied they would never approach. Not only would the echoes die away, as though the steps had gone but, echoes of other steps that never came, would be heard in their stead, and would die away for good when they seemed close at hand. However, father and daughter did at last appear, and Miss Pross was ready at the street door to receive them.
Miss Pross was a pleasant sight, albeit wild, and red, and grim, taking off her darling's bonnet when she came up-stairs, and touching it up with the ends of her handkerchief, and blowing the dust off it, and folding her mantle ready for laying by, and smoothing her rich hair w ith as much pride as she could possibly have taken in her own hair if she had been the vainest and handsomest of women. Her darling was a pleasant sight too, embracing her and thanking her, and protesting against her taking so much trouble for herwhich last she only dared to do playfully, or Miss Pross, sorely hurt, would have retired to her own chamber and cried. The Doctor was a pleasant sight too, locking on at them, and telling Miss Pross how she spoilt Lucie, in accents and with eyes that had as much spoiling in them as Miss Pross had, and would have had more if it were possible. Mr. Lorry was a pleasant sight too, beaming at all this in his little wig, and thanking his bachelor stars for having lighted him in his declining years to a Home. But, no Hundreds of people came to see the sights, and 3IEr. Lorry looked in vain for the fulfilment of Miss Pross's prediction.
Dinner-time, and still no Hundreds of people. In the arrangements of tbe little household, Miss Pross took charge of the lower regions, and always acquitted herself marvellouf3ly. Her dinners, of a very modest quality, were so well cooked and so well served, and so neat in their contrivances, half English and half French, that.nothing could be better. Miss Pross's friendahip being of the thoroughly practical kind, she had ravaged Soho and the adjacent provincea, in search of lm verished French, who, tempted by shillings and halfcrowns, would impart culinary mysteries to her. From these decayed sons and daughters of Gaul, she had acquired. such wonderful arts, that the woman and girl who formed the staff of domestics regarded her as quite a' Borceress, or CindereUas Godmother: who would send out for a fowl, a rabbit, a vegetable or two from the garden, and change them into anything she pleased.
On Bandays, Miss Pross dined a1; the Doctor's table, but on other
F
days persisted in taking her meals, at unknown periods, either in the lower regions, or in her own room on the second floor-a blue chamber, to which no one but her Ladybird ever gained admittance. On this occasion Miss Pross, responding to Ladybird's pleasant face and pleasant efforts to please her, unbent eaceedingly so the dinner was very pleasant, too.
It was an oppressive day, and, after dinner, Lucie proposed that the wine should be carried out under the plane-tree, and they should sit there in the air. As everything turned upon her and revolved about her, they went out under the plane-tree, and she carried the wine down for the special benefit of I%lr. Lorry. She had installed herself, some time before, as Mr. Lorry's cup-bearer and while they sat under the plane-tree, talking, she kept his glass replenished. Mysterious backs and ends of houses peeped at them as they talked, and the plane-tree whispered to them in its own w ay above their heads.
Still, the Hundreds of people did not present themselves. Lxr. Darnay presented himself while they were sitting under the planetree, but he was only One.
Doctor Manette received him kindly, and so did Lucie. But, Miss Pross suddenly became afllicted with a twitching in the head and body, and retired into the house. She was not unfrequently the victim of this disorder, and she called it, in familiar conversation, a fit of the jerks."
The Doctor was in his best condition, and looked specially young. The resemblauce between him and Lucie was very strong at such times, and, as they sat side by side, she leaning on his shoulder, and he resting his arm on the back of her chair, it was very agreeable to trace the likeness.
He had been talking, all day, on many subjects and with unusuaI vivacity. Pray, Doctor Manette," said Mr. Darnay, as they sat under the plane-tree-and he said it in the natural pursuit of the topic in hand, which happened to be the old buildings of Londonhave you seen much of the Tower ?"
"Lucie and I have been there but only casually. We have seen enough of it, to know that it teems with interest little more." "Ihave been there, as you remember," said Darnay, with a smile, though reddening a little angrily, "in another character, and not in a character that gives facilities for seeing much of it. They told me a curious thing when I was there."
What was that ?" Lucie asked.
"In making some alterations, the workmen came upon an old dungeon, which had been, for many years, built up and forgotten. Every stone of its inner wall was covered with inscriptions wroch had been cnrved by prisoners-dates, names, complnints, and prayers. Upon a corner stone in an angle of the wall, one prisoner who seemed to have gone to execution, had eut, as his last work, three letters. They were done with some very poor instrument, and hurriedly, with an unsteady hand. At first, they were rend as D. I. C. but, on being more carefully examined, the last letter was found to be G. There was no record or legend of any prisoner with those initials, and many fruitl.ess guesses were made what the name could have
been. At length, it was suggested that the letters were not initiala, but the complete word, DIG. The floor was «amined very carefully under the inscription, and, in the earth beneath a stone, or tile, or some fragment of paving, were found the ashes of a paper, mingled with the ashes of a small leathern case or bag. What the unknown prisoner had written will never be read, but he had written something, and hidden it away to keep it from the gaoler."
My father exclaimed Lucie, you are ill
He had suddenly started up, with his hand to his head. His manner and his look quite terrified them all.
No, my dear, not ill. There are large drops of rain falling, and they made me start. We had better go in."
He recovered himself almost instantly. Bain was really falling in large drops, and he showed the back of his hand with rain-drops on it. But, he said not a single word in reference to the discovery that had been told of, and, as they went into the house, the business eye of Mr. Lorry either detected, or fancied it detected, on his face, as it turned towards Charles Darnay, the eame singular look that had been upon it when it turned towards him in the passages of the Court 1-louse.
He recovered himself so quickly, however, that Mr. Lorry had doubts of his business eye. The arm of the golden giant in the .haU was not more steady than he was, when he stopped under it to remark to them that he was not yet proof against slight surprises (if he ever would be), and that the rain had startled him.
Tea-time, and Miss Pross making tea, with another fit of the jerks upon her, and yet no Hundreds of people. Mr. Carton had lounged in, but he made only Two.
The night was so very sultry, that although they sat with doors and windows open, they were ov erpowered by heat. When the tea-table was done with; tley all moved to one of the windows, and looked out into the heavy twilight. Lucie sat by her father Darnay sat beside her Carton leaned against a window. The curtains were long and white and sonie of the thunder-gusts that whirled into the corner, caught them up to the ceiling, and waved them like spectral wings. The rain-drops are still falling, large, heavy, and few," said Doctor Manette. It comes slowly."
It comes surel.\r," said Carton.
They spoke low, as people watching and waiting mOBtly do as people in a dark room, watching and waiting for Lightning, always do. There was a great hurry in the streets, of people speeding away to get shelter before the storm broke the wonderful corner for echoes resounded with the echoes of footsteps coming and going, yet not a footstep was there.
A multitude of people, and yet a solitude 1" said Darnay, when they had listened for a while.
Is it not impressive, Mr. Darnay P" asked Lucie. Sometimes, I have sat here of an evening, until 1 have fancied-but even the shade of a foolish fancy makes me shudder to-night, when all is so black and solenm
Let us shudder too. We may know what it is ?"
"It will seern nothing to you. Such whims are on1y impressive as
we origiriate them, 1 think j they are not to be communicated. 1 have BometimeB sat alone here of an evening, listening, until I have made the echoeF3 out to be the echoes of all the footstepB that are coming by-and-by into our lives."
There is a great crowd coming one day into our livea, if that be so," Sydney Carton struck in, in his moody way.
The footsteyei were incessant, and the hurry of them became more and more rapid. The corner echoed and re-echoed with the trend of feet; some, as it seemed, under the windows j aome, as it seemed, in the room some coming, Bome going, some breaking off, some stopping altogether all in the distant streets, and not one within sight. "Are all these footsteps destined to come to all of us, 3iliss Manette, or are we to divide them among us P"
"1 don't know, Mr. Darnay I told you it was a foo1ish fancy, but you asked for it. When I have yielded myself to it, 1 have been alone, and then I have imagined them the footateps of the people who are to come into my life, and my father's."
1 take them into mine said Carton. I ask no questions and make no stipulations. There is a great crowd bearing down upon us, Miss Manette, and 1 Bee them!-by the Lightning." He added thfi' last words, after there had been a vivid flash which had shown him lounging in the window.
"And 1 hear them 1" he added again, after a peal of thunder. Here they come, fast, fierce, and furious P'
It was the rush and roar of rain that he typified, and it stopped him, for no voice could be heard in it. A memorable storm of thunder and lightning broke with that sweep of water, and there was not a moment's interval in crash, and fire, and rain, until after the moon rose at midnight.
The great bell of Saint Paul's was i3triking One in the cleared air, when Mr. Lorry, escorted by Jerry, high-booted and bearing a lantern, set forth on his return-passage to Clerkenwell. There were' solitary patehes of road on the way between Soho and Clerkenwell, and Mr. Lorry, mindful of footpads, always retained Jerry for this service though it was usually performed a good two hours earlier. What a night it has been 1 Almost a night, Jerry," said Mr. Lorry, to bring the dead out of their graves."
1 never see the night myself, master-nor yet I don't expect to it-what would do that," answered Jerry.
Good night, Mr. Carton," said the man of business. Good night, Mr. Darnay. Shall we ever see such a night again, together Perhaps. Perhaps, see the great crowd of people with its rusb and roar, bearing down upon them, too.
CHAPTER Vil.
MONSEIGNEUR IN TOWN.
MONSEIGNEUR, one of the great lords in. power at the Court, held his fortnightly reception in his grand hotel in Pa:is. Monseigneur was in his inner room, his sanctuary of sanctuaries, the Hohest of Holiests to the crowd of worshippers in the suite of l'DOmS without. lTonseigneur was about to take his chocolate. Monseigneur could swallow a great many things with ease, and was by some few sulle;n minds supposed to be rather rapidly swallowmg. France but, his mornmC7's chocolate could not so much as get into the throat of ~Ionseigneur, without the aid of four strong men besides the Cook.' Yes. It took four men, all four a-blaze with gorgeous decoration, and the Chief of them unable to exist with fewer than two gold watches in his pocket, emulative of the noble and chaste fashion set. br Monseigneur, to conduct the happy chocolate to Monseigneur's lips.. One lacquey carried the chocolate-pot into the eacred presence; a second, milled and frothed the chocolate with the little instrument lie bore for that function; a third, presented the favoured napkin; a fourth (he of the two gold watches) poured the chocolate out. It was impossible for Monseigneur to dispense with one of these attendauts on the chocolate and hold his high place under the admiring Heavens. Deep would have been the blot upon his escutcheon if his chocolate had been ignobly waited on by only three men; he must have died of t\Vo. 0
Monseigneur had been out at a little supper last night, where the Comedy and the Grand Opera were charmingly represented. Monseigneur was out at a little supper most nights, with faecinating company. So polite and so impressible was Monseigneur, that thé Comedy and the Grand Opera had far more influence with him in the tiref3ome articles of state affaira and state secrets, than' the needs of all France. A happy circumstance for France, as the like alwaps is for all countries similarly favoured !-always. was for England (by way of example), in the regretted days of the merry Stuart who Bold it.
Monseigneur had one truly noble idea of general public business, which was, to let everything go on in its own way; of particular public business, Monseigneur had the other truly noble idea that it must all go his way-te~d to' his own power and' pocket. @ Of his pleasures, general andparticular, Monseigneur had the other truly noble idea, that the world was' made for them. The text of his order (altered from the original b y only a pronoun, which is not much) ran The earth and the fulness thereof are mine, saith Monseigneur." Yet, Monseigneur had slowly found that vulO'ar embarrassments crept into his affaira, both private and public and he had, as to both ,classef3 of affairs, allied himself per force with â Farmer-General. As to finances publie because Monseigneur could not make anything at all of them, and must conF3equently let th~m out to soinebodp:who could; as to finances pnvate, because Farmér-Gi-enerals were rich, and Monseigneur, after generations of great luxury and expense, was growing poor. Hence, Monseigneur hna'ta«ken his sigter from a conc~
vent, ..hile there w as yet time to ward off the impendillg veil, the cheapest garment she could wear, and had bestowed her as a prize upon a very rich Farmer-General, poor in family. Wliieh FarmerGeneral, carrying an appropriate cane with a golden apple on the top of it, was now among the company in the outer rooms, much prostrated before by mankmd-u,lway~ eacepting>auperior manlciud of the blood of Monseigneur, who, his own wifé.mcluded, loohed down upon -him with the loftiest contempt.
Wsumptuous man was the Farmer-Genernl. Thirty:horses stood in his.stables, twenty-four male domestics sat in his halls, six body.women wliited on his ~cife. 9s one who pretended to do nothing but ,plunder and forage where he could,.the li7armer-General-lioivsoever, his matrimonial relations conduced to social morality-wns at least the. greatest reality amoing the personages who attended at the hotel of Monseigneur that day.
For, the rooms, though a beautiful scene to look at, and adorned .withevery device of decoration that the taste and skill of the time ,could-a~bieve, were, in truth, not a sound business; considered with .any réference to the scarecrows in the rags and nightcnps elsewhere (andnot so far off, either, but that the watching towers of Notre.Dame,nlmost .eqriidistant from the two extremes, could see them both), they would have been an exceedingly uncomfortable business -if thatcoúld',have.been anybodj's business, at the house of Monseigneur. Military Ófficers destitute of military 'knowledge; naval -officers with no idea of a ship.; civil officers without a notion of a~airs brazen ecclesiastics,.of the worst world worldjy, with sensual Seyes, loose tongues,and"looser lives; tiU tot~lly.unfit~for their several callings, nllljing horiibly in pretending to belong to them, but all nearly or remotely of the order of Monseigneur, and therefore foistéd on.an pnblic'employments from which anything was to be -got these were to-be tôld off by-the score and the score. 'People not immeiliately connecteil With Monseigneur or the State, yet equally unconnected with anything that was real, or with lives ,passc'd in travelling by.any str8ight road to any true earthly end, were no'less.abundant. ~Doctors who made great fortunes out of. dainty remedies forimagi.nary~ ilisorders that never xi srriiled upon their courtly patients 'in .the ante-chambers of'l\fonsèjgneur.Pr9jectors who had discovered.every kiiicl of remedy for thelittle evils withwhich-the.~3tate was toucheü, exc~pt the remedy of setting to work ln earnest to root out a.single Sin, .¡>oured their distracting babble into any 'ears.th~y .could 1ay.hÓld of, at the reception of Monseigneur. 'Unbelieving -T-hilosopliers who were remodelling the world with words, and :making1 cnrd-towera. Óf Babel to scale the skies ~ith; talked with Un:bèlieving Chemists'who'hatl an eye on the transmutation of -metale ..at.this'wonderl'ul gathering accumulated "Qy'Monseigneur. Exquisite ,.gentlemen of theïinest'breeding,.which was at thlit remarkable:time -and -bas «been, aince-to be :known by its'fruits tif inllifference to every naturivl su~ject of'human interest, were-in -the most exemplary :state of exhaustion, at the hotel of 'Monselgneur.~Suéhhomes'had .these'.various.notabilities left behind them in the fine wor1dof.'Paris, .that.the~S p'iea.among the assembled devoteeF3 tif Monseigneur-=forma.goodly half ô£ thepolite company-woald 'have 'found'it.hard.to diecover amo~.the. a1).gels.Óf;that sphere one solitary wife;who/in her mannera and appearance, owned to being é, Mother. "'Indeed, 'ex-
cept for the mere act of bringing aaroublesome -creature into this world-which does not go far. towards the -reahsatlon.o.f.the name'of mother-there was no-such thing known ~to the fashion.'l?eaeant women kept the unfashionnble .babies':close,and~brought.themtup; and charming. grandmam~as~o~ sixty-drei5sed aucl-ijupped af;,at.twenty. The leprosy of unre~lity. disfigured :every human (1reature 1l1,at~tendnnceupon Mons~lgneur..1n:the outermostroom 'were.half. à dozen exceptional people who had had,' for. a Ifew.~eara, some vague misgiving m them that things in geI?-eralwere:gomg rather.wrong. As a promism, way of Bettm~ :them right,half-of.the half-dozen,had become members of a fantastlC sect of ConvulslOmsts,. and;wereleven then considering within;themselves'.whether. theY.8ho~d foam, .yecge, roar, and turn cataleptie on the spot-"thereby setting:up a:l~ghly intelligible finger.ost to the Future, for MonseIgneur s :guidan.ce. Beside these Dervishes, were other three who 'had rushed into 1D.1lother'sect which mended matters with a jargow about ".the Centre of trutli:" holding ~that lblan bad got out '01' the Centre of truthwhich did not need much demonstration~buthnd not.got. outùf the Circumference, and that he -was to be .kept from flying .out of ~the. Circumference, and was even to be-shoved .back into the .Centre, byfasting .and seeing of spirits. Among these, !accordingly, much: dis-coursing with spirits went on-and it did a w orld of good which nerer became-rrianifest.
But,the comfortwns, that all the company ~at ahe. grand hdtel-of w Monseigneur were perfectly.dressed. If .the lDay'of.Judgment;had only been ascertained.to be a dress day, everybodp ahere ~vould.have~ been teternauy correct. Such frizzling.and'powdering.and sticking up .of 'hair, 'such ¡delicate complexions 'artificiallY:1IJl'eservediand mended, such.gallant :swords to look at, :and.Buch 'delicate ho n our -t 0 the sense of amell, would surely .keep :an~hing'lgoing,¡ for'ever.and :ever. The exquisite gentlemen .of the finest breeding wore .little. pendent trinkets that chinked as:they.languidly..moved. theselgolden fetters rang like precious little beils;and''What-with rthnt. ringing,. "nnd with,the rustle'of ailk and brocade and:/fine :linen,.there iWfts. B !flutter.in the-air that.fanned Saint Antoine;and: his;devouringrhunger far-away.
Dr~8s ":8S othe.' one unfailing ,talisman 'andcharm. used for !keepmg;a11 thmgsIn .theIr places. 'iEverybody'was..dressedfor;B¡]'ancy;]3all ~that -was never to leave 'off.œ'rom the .-Palace ,of the Tuileries, through Monseigneur :and the;whole Court;;through:.the,Chambers:. .the Tribuiali3. àf JuBtice,!and. aU 'BoCIety i(except --the, f3carecrowi§), -the Fancy ':Bnll descended to the Common !Executioner: -who, in, pur.suance of.the charm, was required to~officiate ":mzzled"powdered,= .in a gold-laced coat,.pumps, and white silk,stockings." .Àt the.gallows. an~thew.heel-the axe was a,rarity-Monaieur Paris, as it was.thE? episeopal .mode amonghls':brother:Professors 'of/the ;provinces, Monsieur Orleans, and the rest, to call him,l.presidedAn ¡this. dainty dresfi.. And who among:th~ .companr'at 'Monseïgnenr~s reception in .'that weeventeen 'hundred .and eightieth year.Óf'our¡;Lor.d, coùld .po8sibly doubt, that ~a spstem rooted in,a frizzled jhaugman,:powdered,tgold-. :laced, pu~ped,;and 'Yhite-éilk stockingéd; 1W0uld's~ethe vcrY:8~ars out t ~.Monselgneur :havmg'eased his fOllr(men of.~heJrburdens 'and taken 7his .chocolate, :caused ~he!doora :of the Hollest. of Holie~ts ~to rbethrown.open,:and:issued-forth. ',Then,.what,submissionwhat,-Cring-
G2
ing and fawning, what servility, what abject humiliation As to bowing down in body and spirit, nothing in that way was left for Heaven-whieh may have been one among other reasons why the worshippers of Monseigneur never troubled it.
Bestowi:i1g a 'wordof promise here and a smile there, a whisper on one happy slave and a wave of the hand on another, llonseiâneur affably passe~through his-rooms to the remote region of the Circumference of Ti'uth.. Theré, Monseigneur turned, and came back again, and-so in due course of -ti'me got himself shut up in his saiictuary by the chocolate sprites, and was seen no more.
,'The show being over; the flutter in the air became quite a little storm; and .t~e precious.little bells went ringing down stairs. There waâ soon but'one- person'left-of: all .the.crowd, and lie, with his hat urider his arm 'and .his sn' ff-box in his hand, slowly passed among the iniÍTors on his way ont.
"~I devote you," said this person, stopping at the last door on his way, and turning in the direction of the sanctuary, "to tlie Devil!" With that, he shook the snuft' from his fingers as if he had shalœn the dust from his feet, and quietly whlkèd down stairs. .He was a man of about sixty, handsomely. dressed, liauglity in manner, and with a face liIre a fine mask. A face of a transparent paleness;" every feature in it clearly defined one set expression on it. The nose, beautifully formed otherwise, was very slightly pinched at thé top'of eaéh nostril. In those t\vocompressions; or dints, the only'little change that'the.face 'ever showed, resided. They persisted in changing. colour sometimes, and they would be ôccasionally dilated and ~cÓritracted by something like a faint pulsation then, they gave a:look:~f:trea~hérÿ, andcruelty,io the whole countenance. Examined with:attention, its- capncity.of helping such a look was to be found in the line'of the 'mouth, and the lines of the orbits of the eyes, being much-.too- horizontal and thin; still, in the effect the face made, it wàs:a'hnndsÓmeface, and a remarkable on'e.
Its' owner went down stairs into the court-yard, got into bis carriage, and.arove away. Not many people had talked with him at the~reqeption hehad stood in a littlè space apart, and Monseigneur might have been warmer in his manner. It appeared, under the .circumstances;rather agreeable to him to sée the common people dispersed before 'hishorsesj and. often barely escaping from being run dovPn.~ l3iâ man drove as if he' we're charging an enemy, and the furious recklessness of the man brought no checkirito the face, or to the'lips, of the master. Thecomplaint had sometimes. made itself audible; even in that deaf city and dumb age, that, in the narrow streets without fo.otways;the fierce patrician custom of bard driving endangered amI inairiléd the mere'v~gar in a barbarous manner. But, few'cared 1 enougli for that to -think of it a second time, and, in this matter, as in all others; the common wretches were left to get out of their difficulties as they could:
With a wild rattle and clatter, and an inhuman abandonment of .consideration not easy to' be understood in these days, the carriage dashed through streets and swèpt round corners, with women screaming before i4 and men clutching each other and clutching children .out of its way. At last, swooping at a street corner by a fountain, .one of its wheels came to a sickening little jolt, and there was a loud ery from a number of voices, and the horses reared and plunged.
But for the latter inconvenience, the carriage probably would not have stopped carriages were often known to drive on, and leave their wounded béhind, and why not P But, the frightened valet had got dow n in a hurry, and there were twenty .hands at.the horf3e"s' bridles. What has gone wrong ?" said Monsieur, calmly looking. out. A tall man in a nightcap had caught up a bundle froni among the feet of the horses, and had laid it on the basement of the fountain, and was down in the mud aIld wet, howling over it like a wild animal. Pardon, Monsieur the Marquis said a ragged and submissive man, it is a child."
"\Vhy does he make that abominable noise ? Is it his child P" Excuse me, -Monsieur the Marquis-it is a pity-yes." The fountain was a little removed for the street opened, where it was, into a space some ten or twelve yards square. As the tall man suddenly got up from the ground, and came running at the carriage, Monsieur the 1%,Iarquis clapped his hand for an instant on his swordhilt. Killed!" shrieked the man, in wild desperation, extending both arms nt their length abov e his head,- and staring at him. Dead!" The people c10sed round, and looked at Monsieur. the Marquis. There was nothing revealed by the many eyes that looked at him:but watchfulness and eagerness there was no visible menacing or anger. 1\'either did the people say anything; after the first'ery, they-had been silent, and they remained so. The voice of the submissive man who had spoken, was flat and tame in its extreme submission. Monsieur the Marquis ran his eyes over them all, as if they had been mere rats come out of their holes.
He took out his purse.
It is extraordinary to me," said he, that you people cannot take care of yourselves and your children. One or the other of you is for ever in the way. How do l know what injury you have done my horses. See Give him that."
He threw out a gold coin for the valet to pick up, and all the heads craned forward that all the eyes might look down at it as it fell. The tall man called out again with a most unearthly cry, Dead He was nrrested by the quick arrival of another man; for whom the rest. made way. On seeing him, the miserable creature fell upon his shoulder, sobbing and crying, and pointing to the fountain, where some womeIl were stooping over the motionless bundle, and moving gently about it. They were as silent, however, as the men. 1 know all, I know all," said the last comer. Be a brave man, my Gaspard! It is better for the poor little plaything to die so, than to live. It has died in a moment without pain. Could it have lived an hour as happily ?"
You are a philosopher, yon. there," said the Marquis, smiling. How do they call you P"
They call me Dèfarge.
Of what trade pu
Monsieur the Marquis, vendor of wine."
Pick up that, philosopher and vendor of wine," said the Marquis throwing him another, gold coin, and spend it. as you will. The horses there are they right ?"
Without deigning to look at the assemblage a second time, MonSIeur the Marquis leaned back in his seat, and was just being driven
away with the air of a gentleman who had'accidentaUy broken some common thing, and had paid for it, and could eord to pay fôr it; when his ease was suddenly: disturbed by- a coin flying iuto his carriage;.and-ringing on its floor.
Hold 1" Baid .Monsieur the D2arquis. Hold the hors es 1 Who threw. that ?"
He Jo oked. to the spot where Defarge the vendor' of wine lad 5toodja moment:before;- but\thewretcheq fà~thervvus grovelling on his face on the pavement in that spot, and the figure that stood beside him was the figure of a darli stout woman, knitting. You dogs. said the 1\fnrquis, but smoothly; and with an unchanged frmit; excepli as to the spots on his nose I would ride over any of you.,very willingly, an exterminate you from the .earth. If I knew which rascal. threw at the caitiage, and if that brigand were;sufficientlynear'it, he'should be crushed under the wheels." So cowed, was their condition, and so long and so hard their experience of what such a man could do to them, within the law and beyond' it; that not a voice, or a hand, or even an eye ivas raised. Aniong.the men;. not one. But.the woman who stood knitting.looked up: steadily, and 'looked the<J.\farquis in:the facel It was not; for bis dignity to notice it his .contemptuous eyes passed. over her, and over all the other, rats and he leaned back in his seat again, and gave the word. Go on!"
He- was. driven on, and other; carriages came whir1ing by. in quick succession:; the Minister, the State-Prqjector, the Farmer. Generals the.Dootor, the Lawyer, tlie Ecclesiastic, the Grand Opera, the Co- medy, the whole Fancy Ball in a bright continuous flow, came whirling by. Tlie rats had crept out of their holes to look on and: they remained looking on for hours;.soldiers and police.often. passing between: them and the spectacle, and. making~ a barrier béhind. which they slunIt, and. through.-which they. peeped. The.father had long ago' taken up his bundle and hidden himself away with it, when the womew whohad. tendéd. tbe. bundle while it lay on the base of the fountain; sat there watching therunning of the water:and the olling, of the Fancy Ball-wheIl.the one woman: who had stood conspicuous, Jmitting, still lmitted on with the steadfastness of Fate. The water of the~tôuntain~ ~ran, the. swift river ran, the day ran into evening; so much life in the city ran~ into death according. to rule, time'and tide:o zvaited for no man, tlie rats:were sleeping' close: together in their'dark. holes again, the Fancy Ball was lighted upy at supper, all things. ran their:collrse..
CHAPTER yIII.
MONSEIGNEUIL IN TUE COUNTRY.
A DEAUTIFUL landscape, with the corn bright in- it but: not nbundant. Patches of poor rj,e, wLere corn should have been, hatches. of Roor.. peas~ and beansi patches:o£.most coarse vegetablè substitutes fOl"wheat. On inanimate nature, as. on the. men.. and women who cultivated it, a prevalent tendency townrdsnD'appear-. of vegetating-.unwilliilgly-a dejected disposition:- to give 'up, and. wither àway;
Monsieur the Marquis in, his travelling carriage (whioh.mig4t,. have been lighter), conducted by four post-horses and two postilions, fhgged up a ateep hill. A blush on the countenance of .Monsieur-the Marquis was no Impeachment of his high breedinir; it:wae.not:from within; it was occasioned by an external circumstance beyond. hie control-the setting sun.
The sunset struck so brilliantly into the travelling,carriàge.when.it gained the hill-top, that its occupant was steeped in crimson.. "It:will die out," said Monsieur the Marquis, glancing.athisiliands, direotly." In e$'ect, the sun was. so low that -it dipped at the moment."WJien the heavy draghnd been. adjufitea to the wheel, and:the ~arria.ge.Blid. down hill, with a cinderous amell" in a .cloud of dust; the red'glow' departed quic1dy; the. sun and; the Marquis -going down together, there was no glow left when the drag was taken off.
But, there remained a broken country, bold and open,, a- little village at the bottom of the hill, a broad sweep and rise beyond,it,~a church-tower, a.windmill, a forest. for the. chase, and. a crag. with. a fortress on it, used as a prison. Round upon- all these, a oUjects as the night drew on, the Marquis looked, with the air, off one who was,commg~near. home.
The village had its one poor street, with its. poorbrewery-" poor tanner~, poor tavern, poor atable-yard for~relc,ys of.post-horses, .poor fountam; all uaual. poor appointments. It hadits, poor peop~6',toO. All its people were poor,. and: many of them were sitting at.,their ,doors, shredding Bpare onions and the like. for- supper,;while:many were. at the. fountain, washingJeaves, and grasses, and.any suchf3mzt yieldings of the earth,that.could be eaten. Expressive signF3.of what, made them poor, were not wanting the tax: for the state,.thé~ta~ for the church, the tax' for the lord, tax. local and taxgeneraI"were to be paid here and to be paid there, according to solemn insorip,tion. in the. little village, until the. wonder, was, that there.was any village left unswallowed.
Few. children.were to.be seen,.and, no dogs. As- to the men,and women, their choice on earth was stated in the prospect--Life on.the.. lowest .terms that could: suatain. it; down: in the little villag~ under themill; or captivity:and Death in.the dominant.grison.on.the.crag.. Heralded' by a courier~ in. advnnce,. and by. the cracking. of: his: postilions' whips, which twined snake-like, about their heads!in..the ,evening air, as if lie came attended by the Furies,. Monsieur..the Marquis.drew up inhis.travelling carriage nt.the.posting-house'gate: J:t. was. hard by thefountain,,and.the peaf3ants isuiipàudea theID opera. tions to look at him. He looked at them, and saw'in tbem,. withont. knowing it, the slow sure~:6.ling down'of miseq-worn.faca and:figure, that,was. to make the meagreness'ofFrencbmen';nn~English superstition which.should survive the truth through..the~best part of 3:. hundred,year,s.
Monsieur the Marquis cast -his,eyef3~ over the Bubmis8ive faces that drooped before,him,,aF3,,the likeofhimself had. droopedbefore Monseigneur of the.. Court.-only. the difference was, that; these, faces. dronped~. merely to suffer and.. not. to prQpitiate-when a grizzled:; mender of the roads Joined. the.group..
]Bring me hither. that. fellow, said .the. Marquis to ~thoi courier~ The fellow!was brought;, cag: in hand" and.. the-other fellowe,closed
round to look and listen, in the manner of the people at the Paris. fountain.
1 passed you on the road P"
Monseigneur, it is true. 1 had the honour of being passed on the road."
ci Coming.up the hill, and at the top of the hill, both P" Monseigneur, it is true."
«What did you look at, so fixedly P"
Monseigneur, I looked at the man."
He Btooped a little, and with hi5 tattered bIne cap pointed under the carriage. All his fellowa stooped to look under the carriage. What man, pig P And why look there ?"
Pardon, 1\fonseigneur; he swung by the chain of the shoe-thedrag.
~4'ho P" demanded the traveller.
Monseigneur, the man."
May the Devil carry away these idiots 1 llow do you call the man ? You know all the men of this part of the country. Who was he ?"
Your clemency, Monseigneur 1 He was not of this part of the country. Of all the days of my life, I never saw him." Swmging by the chain P To be suffocated ?"
With your gracious permission, that was the wonder of it, Monseigneur. His head hanging over-like this 1"
He' turned himself sideways to the carriage, and leaned back, with his face thrown up to the sky*, and his head hanging down then recovered himself, fumbled with his cap, and made a bow. What was he like P"
"Monseigneur, he was whiter than the miller. All covered with dust, white as a spectre, tall as a spectre
The pictùre produced an immense sensation in the little crowd but all eyes, without comparmg notes with other eyes, loolced at Monsieur the Marquis. Perhaps, to observe whether he had any spectre on his conscience.
Truly, you did well," said the Marquis, felicitously sensible that such vermin were not to rtiffle him, to see a thief accompanying my carriage, and not open that great mouth of yours. Bah Put him aside~ MonsieÚl' Gabelle
Monsieur Gabelle was the Postmaster, and some other taxing functionary, unitéd he had come out with great obsequiousness to. assist at this examination, and had held the examined by the drapery. of his arm in an officiaI manner.
Bah 1 Go aside 1" said Monsieur Gabelle.
Lay liands on this stranger if he seeks to lodge in your village to-night, and be sure that his business is honest, Gabelle." Monseigneur, I am flattered to devote myself to your orders." il Did he"orun away, fellow ?-where is that Accursed ?" The'accursed was aIreildy under the carriage with some half-dozen pàrtiëùlar friends, pomting out the chain with his blue cap. Some alf-dozeii'other particular friends promptly haled him out, and presented him breathless to ;Monsieur the Marquis..
Did the man run away, Dolt, when we stopped for the drag P" Monseigneur, he precipitated himself over the hill-side, head first, as a person plunges into the river."
See to it, Gabelle. Go on The half-dozen who were peering at the chain were still amoiig the wheels, like sheep the wheels turned so suddenly- that they were lucky to save their skins and bones they had very little else to save, or they might not have been so fortunate.
The burst with which the carriage started out of the village and up the rise beyond, was soon checked by the steepness of the hill. Gradually; it subsided to a foot pace, smnging and lumbering upward among the many sweet sce"nts of a summér night. The postilions, with a thousand gossamer gnats circling about them in lieu of the Furies, quietly mended the points to the lashes of their whips the valet walked by the horses the courier was audible, trotting on ahead into the dim distance.
At the steepest point of the hill there was a little burial-ground, with a Cross and a new large figure of Our Saviour on it it was a poor figure in wood, done by some inexperienced rustic carver, but he had studied the figure from the life-his own life, maybe-for it was dreadfully spare and. thin.
To this distressful emblem of a great distress that had long been growing worse, and was not at its worst, a woman was kneeling. She turned her head as the carriage came up to her, -rose quickly, and presented herself at the carriage-door.
It is you, Monseigneur Monseigneur, a petition." With an exclamation of impatience, but with his unchangeable face, Monseigneur looked out.
How, then 1 What is it ? Always petitions 1"
Monseigneur. For the love of the great God 1 My husband, the forester."
What of your husband, the forester ? Always the same with you people. He cannot pay something ?"
He has paid all, Monseigneur. He is dead."
Well 1 He is quiet. Can I restore him t o you ?"
Alas no, Monseigneur 1 But he lies yonder, under a little heap of poor grass."
Well P"
Monseigneur, there are so many little heaps of poor grass P" Again, weIl?"
She looked an old woman, but was young. Her manner was one of passionate grief by turns she clasped her veinous and knotted hands together with wild energy, and laid one of them on the carriage-door-tenderly, caressingly, as if it had been a human breast, and could be expected to feel the appealing touch.
Monseigneur, hear me 1 Monseigneur, hear my petition 1 My husband died of want so many die of want so many more will die of want."
Again, well ? Can 1 feed them ?"
Monseigneur, the good God knows but I don't ask it. My petition is, that a morsel of stone or wood, with my husband's name, may be placeaover him to show where he lies. Otherwise, the place will be qwckly forgotten, it will never be found when l am dead of thé same mâlady, 1 shall be laid under some other heap of poor grass. Monseigneur, they, are so many, they increase so fast, there iF3 so much want. Monseigneur! 1 Monseigneur!"
The valet had put her away from the door, the carriage had broken
into a brisk trot, the postilions had quickened the pace, she was.left far, behind,. and, Monseigneur, again, escorted by the Furies, was rapidly. diminishing the league. or two of distance that remained between:bim.and',his.château.
The sweet scents of the summer: wight rose. all around.him;and. rose, u. the rain falls, impartially,. on, the dusty, ragged; and. toil~worn group atEthe fountain. not-, far. away. to whom: the mender of., roads,. ,th..the nid, of the blue.cap..without,which. he: was;no~hing,.still: en~ Inrge«Lupon his,man.like a.spectre,.as.longas.theycouldbenr.it.. By degrees, as they could, bear, no- more, they dropped: off. one. by one, and. lights: twinkled in little C8sements;: which lights j as the casements,darkened~andmore stars.came. out,.seemed.to have shot,up into the sky instead of having been extinguished.
The shado", ,0£. a large high-roofed:house, and of.many:overhanging trees,. was uRon. Monsieur the J\lnrquis by.that .time;; and.the shadow. waa-exchanded for. the, light: of a flambeau, as his. carriage stopped" and..the. great door of his château. was opened to. him.
Monsieur Charles, whom I expect; is-he arrived:from England P" Monseigneur, notyet."
CHltPTER IX.
THE GORGON'S IIEAD.
IT,. was, a. heavy musso£ building, that. château of Monsieur, the Marquis, with a large stone court-yard before it, and two fitoue. 8weeps- of staircase- meeting. in. a stone terrace ,before the principal door. A stony business altogether, with. heavy stone balustrades, and stone urns, and stone~flowers, and.stone.faces of men,:and..stone heads of lions; in.aIl directions. As. if.the (~orgon's~ head hnd=surveyed it;when.it.was.:finished, two centuries ago..
the broad flight of'shallow steps, Monsieur the.. Marquis; flambeau preceded, went from his carriage, sufficiently disturbing~ the darkness.to elioit 101ld.remonstrance from.an owlin the roof. of. the great pile of away among the trees..A1l.else was so quiet,. that .theAlnmbeau carried up the; steps; and.tlie:other.flambeau held at the. great,door, burnt.as,if.thQywere:in a closB.room¡o£state; instead of being in the. open. night-air.. Other: sound than- the.- owl's:J voice- there:was none,save the. faDing or. a .fountain.into..its, stone basin for, it was one-of, those~ dark nigbta,that:hold.-tbeir-breath by, the,houraogether, and then. heave a~ long! low sigh,. and hold. their
breath.again.
The great door clanged behind him, and Monsieur the Marqp.ÏB:. crossed a hall, grim witli certain. old~.boar-spears; swords, and kmves of the chai3e,; grimmer: with. certain heavy. ridifig-roù-7 anil. riding-%vhipî3i.of whinhs many, Ri peasant, gone to his, benefà.ctor Deatb,;had. felt:the weight,whan-his,lorcl.wa8.angry,
9.voiding:.the;la~eg~er:rooms, whioh: wera dnrk'.and. made. fast. for; the njght,. Monsieur: the- Marquie, with. bis. flambeaurbearen. going,. on befone, went Up.thB;~BtaU:oaBe;" to,~a door;Ïn 9.1 corridor; Thia:thrown' open, admitted him to his'own,pmvate.apartment.of,three rooms:, his;, bed-ch1UIlber and. twÓ ~othe.ra.: High. vaultsd. roome witlu: cool un-
carpeted floors, great dogs upon tthe. heartbs. for the .b.Urn.ing¿ofnvood ill' winter.time,.and allluxuriesioefitting. the state,of n..ma.rquiain:a luxurious age and country. The fashion of the.last:L'ouia' but; oneï. of the line that. vras never to break-the fourteenth,. Ilouis:was eonspicuous in their rich furniture but; it:.waB~,diver:5ifi.ed .by-many¡' objects that were illustratiôns ofold. -pages7iii,~ the~histor~p ofF.rànce: A.supper-table was laidi for two, in .the ,thirclo£ the rooms:, a~round room,. in. one: of the, château's ftiur egtinguisher-topped~: towers. A. small loftyroom, with its window wide! open; .and the~ooden.j~lausie- blinds closed, so that.the.dark.night only showedjn sligbt .horiZontaL lines.of blaok, alternating with.their broadJines.of.Btonelcolour~ w "1\Iy; nephew," said ,the' Marquisj ,glancing~ at. the 'Buppe» .prepara~ tion.; they said he wnsnot arrmed.
Nor was he; but, he had been expected with Monseigneur. "Ah-! 1 Ib. is not:. probable he will. arrive to~night ;never.thelésB, lcave:the table asiÎtjs. I shall be.ready iD. a.quarter o£a~:haur.?' In a.~ quarter. of an hour,. Monseigneur was ready; and~.F3at.down- alone to his sumptuous,and-choice supper. Ilià, chair' wus\ opposite to.the window, and he-had -takenh~B..soup,;andwa8~raising! his .;glass..of.Bordeaux: to his-lips, when he put it:down..
"What is that P" he calmly asked, .looking ~-ith attention ait, the: horizontal lines~of black and stone colour;.
ll~onseigneur il That il"
Outside the blinds, Open the blinds."
It was done.
WeU r,"
"l\fonseigneur, it isnothing. The trees and the:night:are all..that.. are here."
The servant.- who spoke, had thrown the blinda. wide,. had looked out.into the -vacant -darkness, and stood, with-that blank.behind. bii~4-~ looking round for instructions.
Good," saicl- the -imperturbable mafiter., .11 <iJlose.them;agtÜJL' That:was done too,.and the 11'Iarquisvvent.on.with~.hie..supper:He was half way through it, when he again stopped with his glasa:Ïn :his., liand~heariiig,thef3ouncl'ofwheels. It. came onl briskly, and: came up to the front -of the château.
Ask who is arrived."
It was the nephew. of' Monseigneur. He: had¡, been Borne few leagues behind DZonseigneur, earlyin.the.afternoon.. He.had dirair. nished the' distance rapidly, but notso!rapidlY.!RB to; come ~up; with :M:bnseigneur on. the. road: He had heard, of. Monseigneur; ah: the,, posting-houses, as. being: before hlln.
He- was to be. told (said: Monseigneur) that auppew awnited:,him then. and, theret, anddha1:4:he wns.prayedrto;.come :to:it.. IiLaJittle. while, he came. He had been knowmn Fng~nd:as.Çharles:Darnay. 1!'Ibnseigneur~receired~ him in a courtly: manner;:but.they did not shake hands:
"Y~u,.left:.Parià:' yesterday, .sir:?" ho- eaid:to;Monseigneur;us he took. hiè sea;~3a,t-.tablè.
"'Yesterday. And.yauP"
E come dir.ect.
From :London:.P"
".ges
"Y ou hnve:been'a!loDg:time 'coming," said.theMtœquia, with..alsmilân.
Il On the contrary; I come direct."
"Pardon me 1 1 menn, not a long time on the journey a long time intending the journey."
"1 have been detamed by"-the nephew stopped a moment in his answer-" various business."
Without doubt," said the polished uncle.
So long as a servant was present, no other word passed between them. When coffee had been served and they were alone togetler, the nephew, looking at the unc1e and meeting the eyes of the face that was like a fine mask, opened a conversation.
Il I have come back, sir, as you anticipate, pursuing the object that took me away. It carried me into great and unexpected peril but it is a sacred object, and if it had carried me'to death I hope it would have sustained rrie."
"Not to'death," said the uncle; "it is not necessary to say, to death." I doubt, sir," returned the nephew, whether, if it had carried me to the utmost brink of death, you would have cared to stop me there." The deepened marks in the nose, and the lengthening of the fine straight lines in the cruel face, looked ominous as to that the uncle made a graceful gesture of protest, which was so clearly a slight form of good breeding that it was not reassuring.
Indeed, sir," pursued the nephew, for anything I know, you may have expressly worked to give a more suspicious appearance to the suspicious circumstances that surrounded me."
No, no, no," said the uncle, pleasantly.
"But, however that may be," resumed the nephew, glancing at him with deep distrust, I know that your diploritacy would stop me by any means, and would know no scruple as to means." Mp friend, I told you so," said the uncle, with a fine pulsation in the two marks. Do me the favour to recal that I told you so, long ago." I recal it."
"Thank you," said the Marquis-very sweetly indeed.
Ris. tone lingered in the air, almost like the tone of a musical instrument.
«'In"effect, sir," pursued the nephew, I believe it to be at once your bad fortune, and my good fortune, that has kept me out of a prison in France here."
I do not quite understand," returned the uncle, sipping his coffee. Dare I ask you to explain ?"
I believe that if you were not in disgrace with the court, and had not been overshadowed by that cloud for years past, a letter de cachet would have sent me to some fortress indefinitely." It is possible," said the uncle, with great calmness. For the honour of the family, I could even resolve to incommode you to that extent.. Pray excuse me 111
I perceive that, happily for me, the Reception of the day before yesterday was, as usual, a cold one," observed the nephew. I woúld not say happily, my friend," returned the uncle, with refined politeness; I would not be sure of that. A good opportunity for consideration, surrounded by the advantages of solitude, might influence your destiny to far greater advantage than you influence it for yourself. But it is useless to discuss the question. I am, as you say, at a disadvantage. These little instruments of correction; these gentle aids to the power and honour of families, these t3light favours
that might so incommode you, are only to be obtained now by interest and importunity. They are sought by so many, and. the are granted (comparatively) to so few It used not to be so, but France in all such things is changed for the worse. Our not remote ancestors held the right of life and death over the'siirrounding vulgar. From this room, many such dogs have béen taken out to bé hanged in the next room (my bedroom), one fellôw, to our knowledge; was poniorded on the spot for professing some insolent delicacy respecting his daughter-his daughter We have lost many privileges a new philosophy has become the mode and the assertion of our station, in these days, might (I do not go so far as to say would, but might) cause us real inconvenience. All very bad, very bad 1" The Marquis took a gentle little pinch of snuff, and shook his head j as elegantly despondent as he could becomingly be, of a country still containing himself, that great means of regeneration.. We have so asserted our station, both in the old time and in the modern time also," said the nephew, gloomily, that 1 believe our name to be more detested than any name in France."
Let us hope so," said the uncle. Detestation of the high, ie the involuntary bOl!1age of the low."
There is not," pursued the nephew in his former tone, a face I can look at, in all this country round about us, which looks nt me with any deference on it but the dark deference of fear and slavery." A compliment," said the Marquis, "to the grandeur of. the family, merited by the manner in which the family has sustained its grandeur. Rah!" And he took another gentle little pinch of snuff, and lightly crossed his legs. But, when bis nephew, leaning an elbow on the table, covered his eyes thoughtfully and dejectedly with his hand, the fine mask looked at him sideways with a stronger concentration of keenness,.closeness, and dislike, than was comportable with its wearer's assumption of indifference.
Repression is the only lasting philosophy. The dark deference of fear and slavery, my friend," observed the Marquis, will keep the dogs obedient to the whip, as long as this roof," looking up to it, shuts out the sky."
That might not be so"long as the l\-farquis supposed. If.a picture of the château as it was to be a very few years hence, and of fifty like it as they too wére to be a very few years hence, could have. been shown to him that night, he might have been at a loss to claim» his own from the ghnstIy, fire-charred, plunder.wrecked~:ruins. As for the roof he vaunted, he might have found that shutting out the sky in a new way-to wit, for ever, from the eyes of the bodies into which its lead was fired, out of the barrels of a. hundred thousand muskets. Meanwhile," said the Marquis, I will preserve thé:honour and repose of the family,' if you will not. But you múst 1ie :fatigued. -8hall we terminate our conference for the night P"
A moment more."
Au hour, if you please."
Sir," said the nephew, "we have done wrong, and are reaping the fruits of wrong."
We have done wrong P" repeateathe Marquis,.with an inquiring smile' and delicately pointing, first to his nephew, then to himself. et Our family our honourable family, whose honour is of so much
<oaccoull1ï.to:both,of~uB;in'Buch difierent' rays. Even in.my father's .,time, we did a 'world, of' wrong, injuring every human creature who raame:between u,3 ,and';our~pleaBUre,whatever it- was. 'Whyneed I ~speak of.myJfather's:time,'when it is equally yours ? Can I separate .'1Ily :fatber's .twin-brother, joint inheritor, and next successor, from himF3elf ?"
Death has done .that 1" 'said .the Marquis.
~nd ~ha9~léft me," answered.the nephew, ".bound.to a system that is frightfùl.to me, responsible for it, butapowerless in it .seeking to ,execute -the- last request of ~my dear :mothel"s lips, and, obey the last .1ook.-of~iny dear'mother's eyes,whichimplored'me to hnve'mercymul to redress and tortured by seeking.assiatance and power in vain." ":Seeking.them from me, my nephew,said the l~Zarquis,.touchinb :,him onithe 'breast.with his forefinger-they avere nowstanceng by the hearth-"pou will¡for'ever:seek them in-vain, be"assured." Every fine -straight line in the clea «r whiteness of his face, was icruery, !craftily, and closély compressed, while ~he stood looliing quietly at his nephew, vcith his snuff-box in his hand. Once agaiu .he touched'him on the breast, asthough'his'finger were the fine point of a small sword, with -%vhich, in delicate finesse, he ran him through body,,and said,
My :friend, I will die, perpetuating the system under 'which 1 have' Iived."
When:he-had said it, he took a culminating pinch ofsnuff, and put 'bis .box in;bis'.pocket.
Il Betterito De. a' rational creature, "he added then,; after ringing a. small bell on the table, and accept your natural:destiny..But you are «lost, Monsieur Charles, I. 8ee."
This property and France are -lost-to me," said the'nephew,sadly; I-:renounce!them."
Are;they both youre to -renounce ? Trance may be, but isthe property P It is scarcely worth mentioning but, is it yet P" ']>had.no'intention, in the worà '1 used, to claim'it'yet. If it pas,3ea .to-me from .y'ou, ,to;.morrow-"
Whieh I have the'vanity tohope.iB:Jlotrprobable."
"-or twenty years hence
"You do me1too'much.honour," said:the'Marquis; "~still, l prefer that' supposition;"
w`~ --sIwould:abandon~it,°and live otherwise and,elsewhere. It is 'little to relinquish. What is it but.a -wilderness tifmisery and -ruin 1" Hah 1" said' the :Marquis, glancing round the luxurious- room. cc-To :the 'eye itdB fair,enough;here; but-î3emin.-itsi-ntegrity,.under -the -sky,!and by:the daylight, it is a erumbling~tov~er~ of waste, mis-. :ma.nagems;Dt,. te~ortion, debt, mortgage, oppression, rhunger;nakedness;¡andfsufFermg."
~Hâh~ 0 'aidtheiMarquisagain,ina-well;BatiBfiedma=er. "If it ever becomes mine; it'shall'be put'into'some:hands better qualified to free it slowly (if such a thing is possible) -1from the -weight that drags it down, so that the miserable'people'who cannot leave it '.and".who'have:been,long'wrung.to the 'last point of endurance, may, in another generation, suffer Iess; but it is not :£01' ¡me. There is a it- androniall~this:land.11
"9~d you:.?" said:tthe -uncle. Forgive ~my ,curiosity; .do you, :tlIIder,your'new..philoBophy;graoiously intend tolive'P"
"I 'must ',do, to live, ~vhat .others tof'lIIlY ;countrymen,~even'with nobility nt. their baékf3,,may-:haveto--do--f3ome~day~work" "'In@England, for: ;exnmple'P"
.99 Yes. 'The family. honour, --f3ir, -ise-atfe ~from..me mwhiecountry. The familyname can suffer ¡£rom me:.in .no other,:for~'I':bear.it :in~no other.11
The'l'inging of:thebell hail cau8ed!the adjoining'bed;,chamber rto :be lighted. It now shone brightly,7through ~,the -door!ofi communication. The Marquis -looked ,that ,way, and Jistened:for.:the iretreating'step of :his valet.
"England iF3 very attraotive ~to you, ~seeing how indifferently ~ou have prospered~there," he observed,then, :turning:his ca1m'face to ,his ;nephew mth ~a~smile.
I have'already:said, Itbàt for my iprospering -,thore, -1-. am .sensible Imay berindebtedao 3,ou,sir. For-thoirest, it is'my:.iRefuge." "They'say,-those 'bonstful Englishy-,that;it~~iF3 the. Refuge. of ~many. You know a compatriot~who:has found a.Refugethere'P A fDoctor~?" Yes.
With a daughter ?"
"yea.
":y es/' said the Marquis. You 'are Ifatigued. "Good :night 1" As he bent his head in his'most :courtly manner,therewas.o,secrecy- in his'smiling face, nnd'he lconveyed'o.n..air;of.mystery¡to-those words, which struck the eyes and ears of his nephew.forcibly. At thesnme.time, thethin.straight lines!of:the aetting df the: eyes, !and the thin straight lips, and the markin,-E; tin the ~nose, 'curved with:a sa.rcasm~ that looked handsomeJy- diabolic.
Yes," repeated the 'Marquis. ".A,-Do(}tor-.with a. daughter. -YeE;. wSo commences the-new philosophy'! .You are fatigned. G'oodinight 1" It. would have been of as 'much' a-vàillto ,Ïnterrogate aDY'stone ,face outside the èhilteau as -to -interrogate:othàt!face' of- his. The-nephew looked at~him,M'Yam,,M- 1?assing unitoithw.door.
",Good night 1" fiaid theuncle. 1 :look,to.'the ploosure oft8eeing -you again in 'the morning..6~ood 'repose'! JLight ;Monsieur :my nephew to his chamber'~there And burn' ~Ionxieur~ my inephew im his bed, if' 'you-will," the added to 'hÍID1~e1f,before he ''r8D.g !his 'little beU; again, and -summoned his vàlet ~to: his ow~i;bedroom. -to The'valet-come and gone, ¡Monsieur:1ihe ~Marquisr.wàlked;to"and fro in'his 10ose'chamber..robe,'to ''Prep8'l'e himsélf ~gently.=for ~f3leep, thatvhot :BtiU night..1Rnstling ~about 'the' room, ¡his F8jjftly.slippere'd eet making-no noiseJQD:the'floor,he moved !lilœJa réfuied'tiger.looked like some enchanted 'mR1'quis !of-.the.impenitenily!wicked: sort, in story, 'whose 'periodicfil change into~`tiger~form wu ieitherjust 'going ofi'or just' coming on. He ~moye2-fro'm erid :to. end of his.voluptuo'nB "betIroom,looking ngain' at,the scraps' Óf,theday~-s journey'thati came- unbÍdden mto his mind'; the up,the ~Èill~.àt -i3unset,, --the@sêtting-,Bun, the 'de~scent, -.thelm 'ill,,the-prison~-on,-thelera-thelittle -virace 0 -in.-the 'hollow, the peaeantsat the fountain, and~the~mender of roads.with!his'blne'ca.p pointing out the chain under the carriage. That':fountain'Buggested ~~he.B 1 fo untiin-ithe-~little,'bunfllejI~'m i 'le i bunt1!e 0 g~on;-tbe ~ste~the women ,bending over'lt, andithe:tiill:1IlaU'Wlth h1B:arms up,;crymg," Dea'ti~
l'am' cool 'Jlmv~ saia'i.MonBieur.thefM8l'quis~ "'and 'm~y:go:to'.betl~"
'-Bo, eleaving only 'one ~light burning on the= large'hearth,: 'he'!let :1iis
thin gauze curtains fall around him, and heard the night break its silence with a long sigh as he composed himself to sleep. The stone faces on the outer walls 'stared blindly at the black night for three heavy hours for three heavy hours, the horses in the stables rattled at their racks, the dogs barked, and the owl. made a noise with very little resemblance in it to the noise conventionally assigned to the owl by men-poets. But, it is the obstinate custom of such creatures hardly ever to say what is set down for them. For three heavy hours, the stone faces of the château, lion and human, stared blindly at the night. Dead darkness lay on all the landScape; dèad darkness added its own hush to the hushing dust on all the roads. The burial-place had got to the pass that its little heaps of poor grass were undistinguishable from one another the figure on the Cross might have come down, for anything. that could be seen of it. In the village, taxers and taxed were fast asleep. Dreaming, liaps, of banquets, as the starved usually do, and of ease and l'est, as the driven slave and the yoked ox may, its lean inhabitants slept soundly, and were fed and freed.
The fountain in the village flowed unseen and unheard, and the fountain at the château dropped unseen and unheard-both melting awày, like the minutes that were falling from the spring of Timethrough three dark hours. Then, the grey water of both began to be ghostly in the light, and the eyes of the stone faces of the château were opened.
Lighter and lighter, until at last the sun touched the tops of the still trees, and poured its radiance over the hill. In the glow, the water of the château fountain seemed to turn to blood, and the stone faces crimsoned. The carol of the.birds was loud and high, and, on the wenther-beaten sill of the great window of the bed-chamber of Monsieur the Marquis, one little bird sang its sweetest song with all its might. At this, the nearest stone face seemed to stare amazed and, with open mouth and dropped under-jaw, looked awe-stricken. Now, the sun was full up, and movement began in the village. Casement windows.opened, crazy doors were unbarred, and people came forth shivering-chilled, as yet, by the new sw eet air. Then began the rarely lightened toil of the day among the vil1age popula. tion. Some, to the fountain some, to the fields men and women here, to dig and delve men and women there, to see to the poor live stock, and lead the bony cows out, to such pasture as could be .-round by the roadside. In the church and at the Cross, a kneeling figure or two attendant on the latter prayers, the led cow, trying for a breakfast among the weeds at its foot.
The château awoke later, as became its quality, but awoke gradually and surely. First, the lonely boar-spears and knives of the .chase had been reddened as of old; then, had gleamed trenchant in the.morning sunshine now, doors and windows were thrown open, horses in the stables looked round over their .f3hoùlders at the light and freshness pouring in at doorways, leaves sparkled and rustled at iron-grated windows, dogs pulled hard at their chains, and reared impatient to be loosed..
All these tripial incidents belonged to the routine of life, and the retum of morning.. Surely, not so.the ringing of the great bell of the château, nor the running up and down the stairs, nor the hurried figures on the terraée, nor the booting and tramping here and there and everywhere, nor the quick gaddling of horses and riding nway P
What winds conveyed this hurry to the grizzled mender of roadsr already at work on the hill-top bayond the village, with his day's dinner (not much to carry) lying in a bundle that it was worth no crow's while to peck at, on a heap of stones ? Rad the birds, carrying some grains of it to a distance, dropped one over him as they sow chance seeds P Whether or no, the mender of roads ran, on the sultry morning, as if for his life, down the hill, knee-high in dust, and never stopped till lie got to the fountain.
All the people of the village were at the fountain, standing about in their depressed manner, and whispering low, but showing no other- emotions than grim curiosity and surprise. The led COW8, hastily brought in and tethered to anything that would hold them, were looking stupidly on, orlying down chewing,the cud of nothing earticularly repaying their trouble, which they had picked up in their interrupted saunter. Some of the people of the château, and some of those of the posting-house, and all the taxing authorities, were armed more or less, and were crowded on the other side of the little f3treet in a purposeless way, that was highly fraught with nothing. Already, the mender of roads had penetrated into the midst of a group of fifty particular friends, and was smiting himself in the breast with his blue cap. What did all this portend, and what portended the swift hoisting-up of Monsieur Gabelle behind a servant on horseback, and the conveying away of the said Gabelle (double-laden though the horse was), at a gallop, like a new version of the German~banad of Leonora P It portended that there was one stone face tao many, up at the château.
The Gorgon had surveyed the building again in the night, and had added the one stone face wanting;. the stone face for which it had waited through about two hundred years.
It lay back on the pillow of Monsieur the Marquis. It was like a fine mask, suddenly startled, made angry, and petrified. Driven home into the heart of the stone figure attached to it, was a knifeRound its hilt was a frill of paper, on which W8B scrawled Drive 7aim fast to his tomb. Thzs, from JdcQ~s"
CHAPTER X.
T'w0 PRO 111 SE B.
MORE months, to the number of twelve, had come and gone, and Mr. Charles Darnay was established in England as a higher teacbe~ of the French language who was conversant with French literature. In this age, he would have been a Professor; in that age, he was a Tutor. He read with young men who could find. any leisure and interest for the study of a living tongue,spoken all over the world, and he cultivated a taste for its stores of knowledgo and fancy. IE[e 'could write of them, besides, in sound English, and render them into sound English. Such masters were not at that time easily found; Princes that h,ad been, and Kinga that were to be, were not yet of the Teacher class, and. no ruined nobility had dropped out of Tellson's ledgers, to turn cooks and carpenters. As a tutor, whose attainments made the student's way unusually pleasant and profitable, and as an
H
elegant translator who brought something to his work besides mere 'dictionary knowledge, young Mr. Darnay Boon became known-and encouraged. He was well acquainted, moreover, with the circumstances of his country,-and those were of ever-growing interest. So, with great perseveranco and untiring industry, he prospered. ln London, he had expectedneither to walk on pavements of gold, nor to lie on beds of roses if he had had any such exalted expectation, he would not have prospered. He had expected labour, and he found it, and did it, and made the best of it. In this, his proi3perity consisted. A certain -portion of bis time was passed at Cambridge, where he read with undergraduates,as a sort of tolerated smuggler who drove .8, contraband trade in European languages, instead of conveying Greek and Latin through the Custom-house. The rest of his time he passed. in London.
Now; from the days when it was always summer in Eden, to these days. when it.is -mostly winter in fallen latitudes, the world of a man bas invariably gone oneway-Charles Darnay's way-the way of the love of a woman.
'He had loved Lucie Manette from the hour of his danger. He had never heard a sound so sweet and dear as the sound of her compassionate voice; he had never.seen a face so tenderly beautiful, as.hers when it 'was confronted with his own on the edge of the grave that had- been :dug. for him. But, he had not yet spoken to her on the subject the assassination at the deserted château far away beyond the heaving water anathe long, long, dusty roads-the- solid stone château which had itself become the mere mist of a dream-had been done a year, and he .had never yet, by so much as a single spoken .word, disclosed to her the state of his heart.
That he had his reasons for this, he Imew full well. It was again a summer day,when, lately arrived in London from his college occupation, he turned into the quiet corner in Soho, bent on seeking an opportunity of opening his mind to Doctor Manette. It was the close of the summer. day, and he knew Lucie to be out with Miss Pross. He found the Doctor reading -in his arm-chair at a. window. The energy which had at once supported him under his old sufferings and aggravated their sharpness, had been graduàuy restored to him. He was now a very energetic man indeed, with great firmness of purpose, strength of resolution, and vigour of action. In his recovered energy he was sometimes a little fitful and sudden, as he had at first been in the exercise of his other recovered faculties but, this had never been frequently observable, 'and had grown more and more rare. He studied mnch, slept little, sustained a great deal of fatigue with ease, and w as equably cheerful. To him, now entered Charles Darnay, at sight of whom he laid aside his book and held out his hand. Charles Darnay! I-rejoice to see you. We have been counting on your' return these three or four days past. Mr. Stryver and Sydney Carton were both here yesterday, and both made you out to be more than-due."
l,am obliged to them for their interest in the matter," he answered, a little coldly as to them, though-very warmly as to the Doctor. Miss-Manette
la well,"lsaidthe,Doctor, as he stopped short; ".and.your return will délightus all. -She has gone out:on some houaehold matters,:but will soon be homê."
"Doctor -Manette, l knew she :was from home. I toak the opportunity of her-being from home, to beg to apeak to you.' There was a blank silence.
"Yes pu said- the Doctor, with evident constraint. "Bring.your chair here, and speak on."
He complied as to the chair; but appeared to find the-speaking_on less easy.
"1 have hlld-the happiness, Doctor Manette, of 'being:so intimate here," so he at length began, for some year.:mid '3 half;: tbat:I hope the topic on which l am about to touch may not-2'
He was stayed by the Doctor's putting out his hand to. stop him. ,Vhen he had kept it so a little while, he said, drawing it back "Is Lucie the topic P"
She is."
It is bard for me to speak of her, at any time. It is very hard for me to hear her spoken of in that tone of yours, Charles Darnay." It is a tone of tervent admiration, true homage and deep love, Doctor Manette he said, deferentially. There was another blank silence before her father rejoined I believe it. l do you jnstice 1 believe it.n
His constraint was so manifest, and it was so manifest, too, that it originated in an unwillingness to approach the subject, that Charles .~arnay hesitated.
Shall I go on, sir pu
Another blank.
Yes, go on."
"You anticipate what I would-eay, though you cannot know how earnestly l say it, how eamestly I feel it, without knowing my secret heart, and the hopes and fears and anxieties with which ~it has long beenladen. Dear Doctor-Manette, Ilove your danghter fondly, dearly, disinterestedly, devotedly. If ever there were love in the world, l love her. You have loved yourself let your old love speak for me The Doctor. sat~with, bis' face' turned away,- and his, eyesi-bent on the ground. At, the last words, he stretched- out his handagain, hurriedly, and cried
Nat that, sir! Let that be I adjure you, do not recal that His cry was so like a cry of actual pain, that it rang in( Charles Darnay,i3 ears long after he had ceased. He motioned.with. -the hand he had extended, and it seemed to be an appeàl to Darnayto pause. 1 The Iatter,so--received it, and remained Bilent.
1 ask your pardon," said' the Doctor, in a i3ubcluecl tone; after some moments. '« 1 -do' not :doubt yonr loving Lucie; you may be satisfied of it."
He.turned towardsbim in~ his chair, but did not look at 'him,.or rnise his eyes. His chin drooped upon his hand, and bis .white. hair overshadowed his face
Have you spoken to Lucie P"
No."
Nor written ?"
-«"Never.11
It.~cvo~.d- ~be ungenerous ~to .afFect -to know that your"8é1fdemaI1sto:.be referredw to y.our -consideration for her father. Her father than\syou."
He ,offered. his' .hand but,' his-,eyes.did: not go -with it.
n 2
I know," said Darnay, respectfully, how can I fail to know, Doctor Manette, I who have seen you together from day to day, that between you and Miss' Manette there is an affection so unusual, so touching, so belonging to the circumstanees in which it has been nurtured, that it can have few parallels, even in the tenderneas between '8. father and child. l know, Doctor Manette-how can I fail to know-that, mingled with the affection and duty of a daughter ,who has become a woman, there is, in her heart towards you, all the love and reliance of infancy itself. l know that, as in her childhood she had no parent, so she is now devoted to you with all the constancy and fervour of her present years and character, united to the trustfulness and attachment of the early days in which you were lost to her. I know perfectly well that if you had been restored to her from the world beyond this life, you could hardly be invested, in her sight, with a more sacred character than that in which you are always with her. l know that when f3he is clinging to you, the hands of baby, girl, and woman, all in one, are round your neck. I know that in loving you she seea and loves her mother at ber own age, sees and loves you at my age, loves her mother broken-hearted, loves you through your dreadful trial and in your blessed restoration. I have known this, night and day, since I have known you in your home." Her father sat silent, with his face bent down. His breathing was a little quickened but he repressed all othersigns of agitation. Dear Doctor Manette, always knowing this, always seeing her and you with this hallowed light about you, l have forborne, forborne, as long as it was in the nature of man to do it. I have felt, and do even now feel, that to bring my love-even mine-between you, is to touch your history with something not quite so good as itself. But I love her. Heaven is my witness that I love her 1" I believe it," answered her father, mournfully. Il 1 have thought so, before now. l believe it."
But, do not believe," said Darnay, upon whose ear the mournful voice struck with a reproachful sound, that if my fortune were so cast as that, being one day so happy as to make her my wife, I must at any time put any separation between her and you, I could or would breathe a word of what I now say. Besides that I should know it to be hopeless, I should know it to be a baseness. If l had any such possibility, even at a remote distance of years, harboured in my thoughts and hidden in my heart-if it ever had been thereif it ever could be there-I could not now touch this honoured hand." He laid his own upon it as he spoke.
No, dear Doctor Manette. Like you, a voluntary exile from France like you, driven from it by its distractions, oppressions, and miseries like you, f3triving to live away frôm it by my own exertions, and trusting in a happier future I look only to sharing your fortunes, sharing your life and home, and being faithful to you to the death. Not to divide with Lucie her privilege as your child, companion, and friend but to come in aid of it, and bind her closer to you, if such a thing can be."
His touch still lingered on her father's hand. Answering the touch for a moment, but not coldly, her father rested his hands upon the arms of his chair, and looked up for the first time since the beaminning of the conference. A struggle was evident in his face; a struggle with that occasional look which bad a tendenciin it to dûrk doubt and dread,
You speak so feelingly and so manfully, Charles Darnay, that 1 thank you with all my heart, and will open all my heart-or nearly so. Have you any reason to believe that Lucie loves you ?" "None. As yet, none."
Is it the immediate object of this confidence, that you may at once ascertain that, with my knowledge P"
N ot even so, I might not have the hopefulnesa to do it for weelo; 1 might (mistaken or not mistaken) have that hopefulnef3s to-morrow." Do you seek any guidance from me P"
I ask none, sir. But I have thought it ~ossible that you.might have it in your. power, if you should deem it right, to give me some.11 Do you seek any promise from me r"
I do seek that."
What is it P"
1 well understand that, without you, I could have no hope. 1 well understand that, even if Miss Manette held me at this moment in her innocent heart-do not think 1 have the presumption to assume so much-I could retain no place in it against her love for her father." If that be so, do you Bee what, on the other hand, is involved in it ?" I understand equally well, that a word from her father in;any suitor's favour, would outweigh herself and aU the world. For which reason, Doctor Manette," said Darnay, modestly but firmly, Il 1 would not ask that word, to save my lüe."
I am sure of it. Charles Darnay, mysteries arise out of close love, as well as out of wide division in the former case, they are subtle and delicate, and difficult to penetrate. My daughter Lucie is, in this one respect, such a mystery to me I can make no gness at the state of her heart."
May I ask, sir, if you think she is-" As he hesitated, her father supplied the rest.
Is sought by any other suitor P"
It is what 1 meant to say."
Her father considered a little before he answered
You have seen Mr. Carton here, yourself. Mr. Stryver is here too, occasionally. If it be at all, it can only be by one of these." Or both," said Darnay.
I had not thought of both I should not think either, likely. You w ant a promise from me. Tell me what it is." It is, that if Miss Manette should bring to you nt any time, on her own part, such a confidence as I have ventured to lay before you, you will bear testimony to what I have said, and to yoùr belief in it. l hope you may be able to think so well of me, as to urge no infinence against me. I say nothing more of my stake in this this is what I ask. The condition on which I ask it, and which you have an undoubted right to require, I will observe immediately." "1 give the promise," said the Doctor, without any condition. believe your object to be, purely and truthfully, as you have stated .l~. 1 believe your intention is to perpetuate, and not to weaken, the ties between me and my other and far dearer self. If 8he should ever tell me that you are essential to her perfect happiness, I will give her to you. If there were-Charles Darnay, if there were-" The young man had taken his hand gratefully their handa were joined as the.Doctor spoke
"-any fancies, any reas.ons, any apprehensions, anything whatao-
ever; new ,or; old, against the man she really loved the direct respon,sibilitythereof:notlyingonhis,head-they,should-allbeobliteratecl. for her sake. She is:everything to me more to'me than suffering, more to me than wrong, more to me-WeU 1 This is idle talk." So'strange was the._way in which lie faded into silence, and so strange his fixed look when he had ceased to speak, that Darnay felt; his.:own -hand turn cold in the hand.,that slowly released and dropped it.
"You said something to me," said Doctor Ilanette, breaking into a r mile. "What.was it you said to me ?"
He was at a losa how to anawer; until lie remembered having spoken of a condition. Relieved as his mind reverted to that, lie answered Il Your confidence in me ought to be returned with full confidence on my art My present name, though but slightly changed from my mother's,. is not, as 'you will remember, my own. 1 w ish to tell youwhat.thatis; and why I am in England."
Stop said the Doctor of Beauvais.
Ir wish it, that 1 may the better deserve your confidence, and have¡no secret from you."
Il Stop-
For 'an instant, the Doctor even hadhis.twohands at-1risears; for-. another.instant, even had his twohands laid.onDarnny's lips. Tell me when I ask you, not now. If your suit should. prosper, if Lucie ehould love you, you shall tell me on your.marriage morning. Do you:promise Pis
"yPi>~gly.
"~(Iive.me your hand. She will be home directly, and it is better she shouId not Bee us together to-night. Go! Gi~od .bless you 1" It was dark when Charles Darnay left him, and it W8S-.an hourlater and darker when Lucie came.home she hurried;into the room alone-for Miss Prose had gone straight up-stairs-and wae surprised to find his reading-chair empty.. · father 1"' she called to him. "Fatherdear!"
Nothingwas:said in answer; .but she heard a:low hammering sound in his bedroom. Passing lightly across the intermediate room, she looked in at his door.and came running back frightened, crying.to herself, with her blood all. chilled, What shall 1. do 1 What shall I do 1"- Rer uncertainty lasted. but a moment; she hurried back,. and tapped at bis door, a.ndsoftly called ta bim. The noise ceased at the sound ôf her voice, and he preaently came out to her, and they walked up :and down together for a long .time:
She; came down from her bed, to look at-himin his sleep.that night. He s1ept heavily, and his ,trny of shoemaking tools, and hisoldun-. :finisheâ work, were all as usual.
CHAPTER gI.
A COMPAMON. PICTURE.
SYDNEY," 1 said Mr: Stryver, on that self-same, night, or morning, to his jackal; Il miz. another bowl of punch; I have something to sa.y:: te~ yoa."
Sydney had been workingdouble tides-that night; and.¡the.:nightbefore, and the night before that, and a good many night8.in'succes-sion, making a grand clearance among Mr:~ Stryver's.-papera ,before the setting in of the long vacation. The clearance was effected at last -the Stryver arreara, were. handsomely fetehed up everythingiwas got rid of, until November should come with its fogs atmospheric' and fogs-legal, and bl'ing--grist ,to the mill again.
Sydney'wns none the livelier and none the 'soberer 'for so much application.. It had taken,a deal of extra-wet-towelling to pull him. through the night a correspondingly extra qunntityof.wine.had preceded the towellinc, and he was in a very damaged condition; as lie nowpulled his turbaw off and threw it into the basin'in which lie had steeped it at intervals for the last six hours.
"'Are you mixiug that other 'bowl of punch ?" said Stryver the portly, with his hands in his waistband, glancing round from the sofa- where lie lay on his back.
"1 am."
"Now,look,here.! I am: going to tell you something .that:will rather surprise you, and that perhaps will make you think me -not: quite as shrewd.as you usually do think me. lintend to marry." Do y ou P" ·
"Yes.: And not for money. Whatdoyousaynow?" 1 .don't feel disposed to say mueh. Who is she ?"
Guess."
«'-Do I know her P"
Guess."
1 am not going to guess, at five o'clock in. the morning,-with my; brains fryinn aud sputtering in my head. If you want me to guess, you must ask me to dinner."
Well then, FII tell you," said Stryver,- coming slowly-into a sitting posture. Sydney; I rather despair of making myself intel- ligible to you, because you are such an insensible dog." And you," returned Sydney, busy concocting the punch; cc are such a sensitive and poetical spirit." ice ome. 132 rejoine Stryver, laughingboflstfully, "thoughtl 'don't prefer any claim to being the soul of Romance (for l hope l.know. better), still, I am a tenderer sort of fellow- than~ you." "'You are a luckier, if you mean that."
I don't mean that: 1 mean, 1 am a man. of more-more- "Say gallantry, while you are about it," euggested Carton: Well! I'll say gallantry. My. meaning is that,: I am a man," said Stryver, inflatmg himself at his friend 'RB lie made the punch, who cares more to be agreeable, who takes more pains to be. agreeable, who 'knows better 'how to be: agreeable, in a woman's society, than :you do."
Go on," said Sydney Carton.
"No; but beforeI.go on," said Stryver, shaking his head.in. his', bully~g way, ~` I'll have this out with you. 'You have been at Doctor.' Manette's house as much as I have, or more than I have.. Why, 1: have been ashamea of your moroseness there! 1 Your manners bave been of that Bilent and sullen and hang-dog kind, that, upon -my)ife and soul, I have been asliamed of you, Sydney It should be very beneficial to a man in yourpractice.at.the bar,
to be asbamed of anything," returned Sydney; "you ought to be much obliged to me."
"You shall not get off in that way," rejoined Stryver, shouldering the rejoinder at him no, Sydney, it'E3 my duty to tell you-and 1 tell you to your face to do you good-that you are a de-vilish ill-conditioned fellow in that sort of society. You are a disagreeable fellow." Sydney drank a bumper of the punch lie bad made, and laughed. Look at me said Stryver squaring himself "1 have less need to maké myself ngreeable than you have, being more independent in circumstances. 'VPhy do I do it ptt
I never saw you do it yet," muttered Carton.
I do it because it's politic I do it on principle. And look at me I get on."
cc You don't get on with your account of your matrimonial intentwns," answered Carton, with a careless air, 1 wish you w ould keep to that. As to me-will you never understand that I am incorrigible pu He asked the question with some appearance of scorn.
You have no business to be incorrigible," was his friend's nnswer, delivered in no very soothing tone.
1 have no business to be, at all, that I know of," said Sydney Carton. Who is the lady pu
Now, doil't let my announcement of the name make you uncomfortable, Sydney," said Mr. Stryver, preparing him with ostentatious friendliness for the disclosure lie was about to make, "because I know yon don't mean half you say; and if you meant it all, it would be of no importance. I make this little preface, because you once mentioned the young lady to me in slighting terms."
I did Y
Certainly and in these chambers."
Sydney Carton looked at his punch and looked at his complacent :triend; drank his punch and looked at his complacent friend. You made mention of the young lady as a golden-baired doll. 'The young lady is Miss Manette. If you had been a fellow of any .sensitivenesei or delicacy of feeling in that kind of way, Sydney, I might have been a little resentful of your employing such a designation but you are not. You want that sense altogether therefore, I am no more annoyed when 1 think of the expression, than 1 should be annoyed bp a man's opinion of a picture of mine, who had no' eye for pictures or of a piece of music of mine, who had no ear for music."
'Sydney Carton drank -the punch at a great rate; drank it by bumpers, looking at his friend.
"Now you know all about it, Syd," said Mr. Stryver. "I don't care about fortune she is a charming creature, and I have made up my mind to please myself on the whole, I think I can affora to please myself. She will have in me a man already pretty well off, .and a rapidly rising man, d a man of soma distinction it is a piece .of good fortune for her, but she is worthy of good fortune..Are you nstonished pu
Carton, atill drinking the punch, rejoined, Why should 1 .be .astonished ?"
You approve ?"
,-Carton, 'still drinking tho punch, rejoined, Why-F3hould 1 'not approve ?YS
w eU!" said his friend Stryver, cc.you take to it more easily than I fancied you \vould, and are less mercenary on my behalf than 1 thought you would be though, to be sure, you-know well enough by this time that your ancient chum is a man of a pretty strong will., 'K,es, Sydney, I have had enough of this style of life, with no other as a change from it I feel that it is a pleassnt thing for a man to have a home whén he feels inclined to go to it (when he doewt, he can. stay away), and I feel that Miss Manette will tell well in any station, and will always do me credit. So I have made up my mind. And now, Sydney, old boy, I want to say a word to you about your prospects. You are in a bad way, you know you really are in a bad way. You dori't know the value of money, you live hard, you'll knock up one of these days, and be ill and poor you really ought to. think about a nurse."
The prosperous patronage with which he said it, made him look t1\ice as big as he was, and four times as offensive.
"lVTow, let me recommend you," pursued Stryver, Il to look it in the face. 1 have looked it in the face, in my different way; look it in the face, you, in your different way. Marry. Provide somebody to take care of you. Never mind your having no enjoyment of women's society, nor underatanding of it, nor tact for it.Find out somebody. Find out Bome respectable woman with a little property -somebody in the landIady way, or lodging-letting way-and marry her, against a rainy day. That's the kind of thing for you., N OW, think of it, Sydney."
I'll think of it," said Sydney.
CHAPTER XII.
THE FELLOW OF DELIOAOY.
Mn. STRYVER having made up his mind to that magnanimous bestowal of good fortune on the doctor's daughter, resolved to make her happiness known to her before he left town for the LongVacatinn. After some mental debating of the point, he came to the conclusion that it would be as well to get all the preliminaries done with, and they could then arrange nt their leisure whether he should give her his hand a week or two before Michaelmas Term, or in the little Christmas vacation between it and Bilary.
As to the strength of his case, he had not a doubt about it, but clearly saw his way to the verdict. Argued with the jury. on 8~t: etantial worldJy grounds-the only grounds ever worth taking into account-it was a plain case, and had not a weak spot in it. He called himself for the plaintiff, there was no gettin(? over his evidence, the counsel for the defendant threw up his brief, and the jury did not even turn to consider. After trying it, Stryver C. J. was satisfied that no plainer case could be.
Accordingly, Mr. Stryver inaugurated the Long Vacation with a formal proposai to take ,Miss Manette to Yauzhall Gardens; that failing, to ltane1a.gh that unaccountably failing too, itbehoved.~ to present himself in Soho, and there declare his noble mind. Towards Soho, therefore, Mr. Stryver shouldered his way.from the Temple, while the bloom of the Long Vacation7a.i~i~4 was stil,l
upon it. Anybody who had seen him projecting himself into Soho while ben-as yet on Saint Dunstan's side 0.1' Temple Bar, bursting in his full-blown way along the pavement, to the jostlement of all weaker people, might have seen how safe and strong lie was. Ris way taking him past Tellson's, and lie both bauking at Tellson's and knowing Mr. Lorry as the intimate friend of the ~fanettes, it entered Mr. Stryver's mind to enter the bank, and reveal to 1\'11'. Lorry the brightness of the Soho horizon. So, lie pushed open the door with the weak rattle in its throat, stumbled down the two steps, got past the two ancient CRshiers, and shouldered himself into the musty. back eloàet where :l~Ir. Lorry sat at great bool{8 ruled for figures, with. perpendicqlar iron bars to his window as if tlat were ruled for figures too, 3.nd.everything under the. clouds were a SUlU. IE[alloa 1" said 1\1:r. Stryver. 1-loiv do you do ? I hope you are well L"
It was Stryver's grand peculiarity that lie alwass seemed too big for -an:y ,place; tir space. He was: so much too big for-Tellson's, that old clerks in distant:cÓrners loolced up with loola of remonstrance, as though ~he squeezed.thèm against the wall. The House itself, l1UIgnificentIy reading the Paper. quite in the. far-off perspective, lowered displeased,.as if the Sti-yver head had :been .butted into its responsible waistcost:.
The discreet Mr. Lorry said; iri a sampletane.of the.voice lie would recommend under the circumstances, How do you do, blr. Stryver ? How do you do, sir P" and shoolc hands. There was a peculiarity in his manner of shaking hands, always to be seen iIi "any ~lerk at Tellson's who shook hands with a custorner vhen thé House pervaded the air. He s1l()-ok in a. self-abnegating way, as one who -shoo1\: for Tellson and Co.
Can I do anything for you,- Mr. Stryver P" asked 1\11'. Lorry, in his business character.
"Why,. no thank ~ou this is a private visit to yourself, l\Ir. Lorry; I have' corne fora private ,word."
Il Oh indeed said Mr. Lorry, bending down his ear, wliile his eye etrayed to the';House afar ofr.
"J. am 'going," said l\:lr. Stryver, leaning his arms confidentially on t~e:.desk: whéreupon, although it was.a large double one, there appéarëd to be not- half desk enough for him "1 am going to- make an offer of myself in marnage to your agreeable little friend Miss Manette, 1\:11'. ~orry.
Oh dear me 1"' crledcMr.:Lorry, l'ubbing his chin, and looking at his. visitor dubibusly.
Oh'dear me, sir?" repeated Stryver, drawinâ back. Oh dear. you,- sir ? What; may your meaning be, Ml'~ Lorry r"
My meaning P" answered the man of business, is, of course, friendly and, appreciative, and that it does you the greatest credit, and-in short, my meaning is everything you could desire. Butreally, you know, Mr. Stryver-" 1\ir. Lorry paused, and shook his head at him in the oddest manner, as if lie were compelled against his will to add, internally, you know there really is so much too much of you
"Welli" said Str3wer, slapping the desk with his contentious hand, opening his eyes wider, and taking a long breath, "if 1 understand you, R'fr.~ Lorry, l'Il be hanged
Mr. Lorry adjusted his little wig at both ears as a means towards that end, and bit the feather of a-pen.
D-n it all, sir 1" said Stryver, staring at him, am I not.eligible ?" Oh dear yes 1 Yes. Oh yes, you're eligible 1" said Mr. Lorry. If you say eligible, you are eligible."
Ain11 not prosperous ?" asked Stryver. fil
Oli if you come to prosperous, you are prosperous," said IlEr. Lorry
And advancing P"
If you come to advancing, you know," said 31~ Lorry,delighted to be able to make another admission, nobody can doubt that." Then what on earth is your meaning, Mr. Iiorry P" demanded. Stryver, perceptibly crestfallen.
WeIl 1 1- W ere you going there now P" asked 3.fr. Lorry. Straight said Stryver, with a plump of his -fist on the desk: Then l think I wouldn't, if I was you."
Why r" said Stryver. Now, 1'11 put you- in a corner," forensically shaking a forefinger at him. "You are a man of business and bound to have a reason. State your reason. Why wouldn't.you go P" Because," said Mr. Irorry, I wouldn'tgo' on such an object without having some cause to believe that I should -succeed." D-n :ME 1" cried Str.vver, but this beats everything.1' Mr. Lorry glanced at the distant House, and glanced at the.angry Stryver.
Here's a man of business-a man of years--a man of experience -in a Bank," said Stryver and 118ving' sumnied up three leading reasons for complete success, he says there's ,no reason at all 1 Says- it with his head on l" Mr. Stryver remarked. upon the pecu1iarity as if it would have been infinitelyless remarkable if he.hadsaid.:it. with his head off.
When I speak. of success, I speak of success with the youngJady'; and when l speak of causes and reasons to make success probable; l speak of causes and!reasons that will, tell nEi such with the; young:. lady. The young lady, my good sir/, said Mr..Lorry, mildly tapping the Stryver arm, the young lady. The young lady goes before all." Then you mean to tell me, Mr~ Lorry, said Stryver, squaring his elbows, that it is your deliberate opinion that the young lady at present in question is a mincing Fool P"
Not exactly so. I mean to tell you, Mr: Stryver/' said Mr. Lorry, reddening,- that I will hear no disrespectful word of tbat. young .lady from any lips and that if 1: knew any man-which' I hope I do not-whose. taste was so coarse, and whose temper was 80 overbearing, that he could not restrain himself frôm speaking disrespectfully of that young lady at this desk, not even Tellson's should prevent my giving him a piece of my mind."
The necessity of being angry in a suppressed tone had'put Mr~ Stryver's blood-vessels into a dangerouBstate when. it was his turn ,to be angry Mr. Zorry's veins, methodical as their courses could usually be, were in no better state now it was hia-tom. That is what l mean to tell you, sir," said Mr. Lorry. "}Tay let there be no mistake about it."
Mr. Stryver sucked the end of a ruler for a little while, Pond then stood hitting a tune out of his teeth with it, which probably gave him the toothache. He broke the awkward silence by saying
"This ÍB something new to me, Mr. Lorry. You deliberately advise me not to go up to Soho and offer myself-myself, Stl'yver of the King's Bench bar pu
Do you ask me for my advice, Mr. Stryver ?"
"Yes 1 do."
Very good. Then I give it, and you have repeated it correctly." And all I can say of it, is," laughed Stryver with a vexed Iaugb, that this-ha, ha !-beats everything past, present, and to -corne." "Now understand me," pursued Mr. Lorry. "As a man of business, I am not justified in saying anything about this matter, for, as a man of business, I know nothing of it. But, as an old fellow, who bas carried Miss- Manette in his arms, who is the trusted friend of Miss Manette and of her father too, and who has a great affection for them both, I have spoken. The confidence is not of my seeking, recollect. Now, you think 1 may not be right P"
Not I said Stryver, whistling. "1 can't undertake to find third parties in common sense; 1 can only find it for myself. l suppose sense in certain quarters you suppose mincing 'bread-andbutter nonsense. It'a new to me, but you are right, I dare say." What l suppose; Mr. Stryver, I claim to characterise for myself. And understand me, air," said -Mr. Lorry, quickly fiushing again. I will not-not even at Tellson's-have it characterised for me by any gentleman breathing."
There! l beg your pardon said Stryver.
Granted. Thank you. Well, Mr. Stryver, l was about to say: -it might be painful to you to find yourself mistaken, it might. be painful to Doctor Manette to have the task of being explicit with you, it might be very painful to Miss Manette to have the task of being explicit with you. You know the terms upon which I have the honour and happiness to stand with the family. If you please, committing you in no way, repreaenting you in no way, I will undertake to correct my advice by the exercise of a little new observation and judgment expressly brougbt to bear upon it. If you should then be dissatisfieawith it, you can but test its f3oundness for yourself; if, on the other band, you ahould be satisfied with it, and it ahould be wbat it now is, it may spare all sides what is best spared. What do you say ?"
How long would you keep me in town P"
Oh 1 It is only a question of a few hours. 1 could go to Soho this evening, and come to your chambers afterwards."
Then 1 say yea," said Stryver I won't go up there now, l am not so hot upon it as that comes to l say yes, and I shall expeqt you to look in to-night. Good morning."
Then Mr. Stryver turned and burst out of the Bank, causing such a concussion of air on his passage through, that to stand up against itbowing behind the two counters, required the utmost remaining strength of the two ancient clerks. Those venerable and feeble persans were always seen by the public in the act of bowing, and were popularly believed, when they had bowed a customer out, still to keep on bowing in the empty office until they bowed another customer in.
The 'barrif3ter was keen enough to divine that the banker would not have gone sa far in his eapression of opinion on any less solid ground tban morarcertain~y. Unprepared as lie was for the large
pill lie had to swallow, lie got it down. "And now," aaid Mr. Stryver, shaking his forensic forefinger at the Temple in general, when it was down, my way out of this, is, to put you all in the wrong." It was a bit of the art of an Old Bailey tactician, in which lie found great relief. You shall not put me in the wrong, young lady," said Mr. Stryver Il l'Il do that for you."
Accordingly, when Mr. Lorry called that night as late as ten o'clock, Mr. Stryver, among a quantity of books and papers littered out for the purpose, seemed to have nothing less on his mind than the subject of the morning. He even show ed surprise when lie saw Mr. Lorry, and was altogether in an absent and preoccupied state. Well 1" said that good-natured emissary, after a full half-hour of bootless attempts to bring him round to the question, I have been to Soho."
To Soho r" repeated Mr. Stryver, coldly. Oh, to be liure-L What am l thinking of 1"
And l have no doubt," said bir. Lorry, "that I was right in the conversation we had. iMy opinion is confirmed, and I reiterate my advice."
I assure you," returned Mr. Stryver, in the friendliest way, that l am sorry for it on your account, and sorry for it on the poor father's account. I know this must D1ways be Do sore subject with the family; let us say no more about it."
I don't understand you," said 'jVlr. Lorry.
I dare say not," rejoined Stryver, nodding his head in a smoothing and final way no matter, no matter."
But it does matter," Mr. Lorry urged.
No it doesnt; I assure you it 'doesn't. Having supposed that there was sense where there is no sense, and a laudable ambition where there is not a laudable ambition, l am well out of my mistake, and no harm is done. Young women have committed similar follies often before, and have repented them in poverty and obscurity often before. In an unselfish aspect, l am sorry that the thing has dropped, because it would have been a good thing for others in a worldly point of view in a selfish aspect, l am glad that the thing bas dro~ped, because it would have been a bad thing for me in a worldly pomt of view-it is hardly necessary to say l could have gained nothing by it. There is no harm at all done. I have not proposed to the young lady,"and, between ourselves, I am by no means certain, on reflection, that lever should have committed myself to that extent. Mr. Lorry, you cannot control the mincing vanities and giddinesses of emptyheaded girls you must not expect to do it, or you will always be disappointed. N ow~ pray say no more about it. I tell you, I regret it on account of others, but I am satisfied on my own account. And l am really very much obliged to you for allowing me to sound you, and for giving me your advice you know the young lady better than I do you were right, it never would have done."
Mr: Lorry was so taken aback, that he looked quite stupidly at Mr: Stryver shouldering him towards the door, with an appearance of sliowering generosity, forbearance, and good-will, on his erring head. Make the best of it, my dear air," saad Stryver say no more about it; thank you again for allowing me to sound you good night 1" Mr. Lorry was out in the night, b -he knew where he was. Mr. Stryver was lying back on his so ceiling.
~f~n 1,' ~?'
';t~ kt, ~r v
·
'9. .O"
`rrf i t:
CHAPTER XIII,
TiiE FELLOW OF NO DELICACY.
IF Sydney Carton ever shone anywhere, he certainly never shone in the house of Doctor Manette. He had been there often, during a 'whole year, and had always been tbe same moody and morose lounger there. ~'Phen lie cared to talk, lie talked well but, the cloud of caring for nothing, which overshadowed him with such a £'\tal dark.nef3s, was very rarely pierced by the light within him.
And yet lie did care something for the streets that environed that house,- and for the senseless atones that made their pavements. J\fany a night he' vaguely and unhappily wandered there; when wine had br ought no transitory gladness to him many a dreary daybreak revealed his solitary figure lingering there, and still lingering there when the mst beams of the sun brought into strong relief, removed beauties of architecture in spires of churches and lofty buildings, as perhaps the quiet time brought some sense of better things, else forgotten and unattainable, into his mind. Of late, the neglected bed in the.Temple court had known him more Bcantily than ever and often when lie bad thrown himself upon it -no longer than a few minutes, lie had-got up,again, and haunted that neighbourhood. On a day in August, w hen Mr. Stryver (after notifying to his jackal that "he had thought better of that marrying matter") had :carried his delicacy into Devonshire, and when the sight and scent of flower8 in the City streets had some waifs of goodnessin them' for the worst, of health for the sickliest, and of youth for the oldest, Sydney's feet still. trod those stones. From being irresolute and purposeless bis feet became animated by an intention, and, in the working out of that intention, they took him to the Doctor's door. He was shown up-stairs, and found Lucie at.herwork,.alone..She had -never been quite at her ease with him, and received him with some little embarrassment as he seated himself near her table. But, looking up at his face in the interchange of the first few commonplaces, she observed a change in it.
I fear you are not well, Mr. Carton
No. But the life I lead, Miss Manette, is not conducive to health. ,What is to be expected of, or by, sucli profligates ?" Is it not-forgive me I have begun the question on my lipsa pity to live no better life ptt
God knows it is a shame
Then why not change it p"
'Looking gently at him again, she was surprised and saddened to see that there were tears in his eyes. There were tears in his voice too, as he answered
Il It is too late for that. I shall never be better than I :am. l shall sink lower, and be.worse."
33e leaned an elbow on her table, and covered his eyes with his hand. The' table trembled in the silence that followed. She had never. seen bim t3oftened, and -was much distressed. Ne knewher to be so; without looking at -lier, and said:
Pray forgive 'me, ~MisF3 Manette. I -break -down before. the knowledge of. what. 1 want ta-say ta you. Willyou hear'me pu "If. it will dO' you any'good. Mr. Carton, if it would make you happier, it would make me very glad
God bless you for your sweet compassion
He unsbnded his face after. a little while, and spoke steadily. Dou't be afraid to hear me. Don't shrink from nnytbingT say. l am like one who died young. All my life-might:have been." No, Mi. Carton. ;1 am sure that the best..part of it .might still be I am. sure that you might be much, much, worthier of yourself." Say of you, .Miss Manette, and although l know better-although in the mystery of my own wretched heart I know better-jI ahall never forget it
She was pale and trembling. He came to her relief with a fixed despair of himself which made the interview unlike' any other th~t could have been holden.
"If it had been possible, Miss Manette, that you -cOlùd have returned the love of the man you see before you-selfzgung away, wasted, drunken, poor creature of -misuse as you. know him to behe would have been conscious this day-and hour, in spite of his happiness, that he would bring you to misery, bring you to sorrow and repentance, blight you, dis-race you, pull you down with him. I know very well that you can have no tenderness for me I ask for none I am even th~nkful that it cannot be."
~Yithout it, can I not save you, Mr. Carton P Can I: not recal you-forgive me again !-to a better course ? Can l in no wayrepay your confidence P 1 know this is a confidence," she modestly said, after little heBitation, and in earnest tears, I know you would eay this to no one else. Can I turn it to no good account for yourself,-Mr. Cartorit" He shook his head.
"To none. No, Miss ~Ianette, to none. If you-will hearme through a very little more, all you can ever do for me is done. I wish you to linow that you have been the last dream of my soul. ln my degradation, I have not been so degraded but that the sight tif you with your father,and of this home made such a home by you, .;1mB stirred old shadows that l thought had died out of me. Since l knew you, I have been troubled by a, remors~ that I thought -would never reproach me ,again, and have heard whispers from old voices impelling me upward, that I-thonght were silent forever. l haveJ18dunformed ideas of strivng.afresh, beginning anew, shaking off sloth..and sensuality, and fighting out the abandoned fight. A .dream,:al1 a' dream, that ends in nothing, and leaves the sleeper where he lay down, but I wish you to know that you Ínspjred-it."
"Willnothintyofit-remain? P 0 Mr. Carton, think.again!: Try.again!" "No, Miss 'Manette;. aU throughit, I hfbTe lmown myself to be quite-undeserVing. 'And-yet I have had the!weaJmess, and havestill the weakness, to wish you to know with what a sudden mastery'you kindled ~me, heap of- ashes that l am,. intofire-a .fue, however, inseparable in its nature from myself, quickening nothing, lighting nothing, doing no.service, idIy burn*mg~away.2p
Since it is 'my misfortune,Mr. Carton, to have made you more linbappy than you were.before you knew me
"Don't.say.that,-Miss Manette, for you:would have reclaimed me, if anything. could. You will not be the cause of my:becoming worse." cc. Sincethe ~state.of your mind that'youdescribe, is,;at .sllevents, attributable to somefinfluence oflJIlÍne-this if3,-what I--mean,ifTcan malce :it .plain-ean I mge no influence to serve you P Have, 1 .-no power for good, with you, .at:all ?"
The utmost ,good thut l am capable of .now, .:Miss Manette, I
have come here to realise. Let me carry through the rest of my misdirected life, the remembrance that l opened my heart to you, last of all the world and that there was something left in me at this time which you could deplore and pity." 0
Which I entreated you to believe, aghin and again, most fervently, with all my heart, was capable of better things, ]~Ir. Carton Entreat me to believe it no more, Miss Manette. I have proved myself, and I know better. I distress you I draw fast to an end. Will you let me believe, when l recal this day, that thé last confidence of my life was reposed in your pure and innocent breast, and that it lies there alone, and will be shared by no one ?" If that will be a consolation to you, yes."
Not even by the dearest one ever to be known to you P" Mr. Carton," she answered, after an agitated pause, the secret is yours, not mine and I promise to respect it."
Thank you. And again, God bless you."
He put her hand to his lips, and moved towards the door. Be under no apprehension, Miss Manette, of my ever resuming this conversation by. so much as a passing word. I will never refer to it again. If 1 were dead, that could not be surer than it is henceforth. In the hour of my death, l shall hold sacred the one good remembrance-and shall thank and bless you for it-that my last avowal of myself was made to you, and that my name, and faults, and miseries, were gently carried in your heart. May it otherwise be light and happy
He was so unlike what lie had ever shown himself to be, and it was so sad to think how much lie had thrown away, and how much he every day kept down and perverted, that Lucie Manette wept mournfully for him as lie stood 1001ting back at her.
Be comforted lie said, I am not worth such feeling, Miss Manette. Au hour or two hence, and the low companions and low habits that I scorn but yield to, will render me less worth such tears as those, than anv wretch who creeps along the streets. Be comforted! 1 But, witbin myself I shaH always be, towards you, what I am now, though outwnrdly I ehall be what you have heretofore seen me. The last supplication but one I make to you, is, that you will believe this of me."
ci I will, Mr. Carton."
My last supplication of all, is this and with it, I will relieve you of a visitor with whom I well know you have nothing in unison, and between whom and you there is an impassable space. It is useless to say it, I know, but it rises out of my soul. For you, and for any denr to you, l would do anything. If my career were of that better kind that there was any opportunity or capacity of sacrifice in it, I would embrace any sacrifice for you and for those dear to, you. Try to hold me in your mind, at some quiet times, as. ardent and sincere in this one thing. The time will come, the time will not be long in coming, when new ties will be formed about you-ties that will bind you yet more tenderly and strongly to the home you so adorn-the dearest ties that will ever grace and gladden you.. 0 Miss Manette, when the little picture of a happy father's face looks up in yours, when you see your own bright beautr springing up anew at your feet, think now and then that there is a man who would give his life, to keep a life you love beside you
He said, Farewell saad "A last God blesa you and left her.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE nONESl' TRADESMAN.
To the eyes of Mr. Jeremiah Cruncher, sitting on his stool in Fleet-street with his grisly urchin beside him, a vast number and vuriety of objects in movement were every day presented. Who could sit upon anything in Fleet-street during the busy hours of the day, and not be dazed and deafened by two immense processions, one ever tending westward with the sun, the other ever tending eastward from the sun, both ever tending to the plains beyond the range of red and purple where the sun goes down
With his straw in his mouth, Mr. Cruncher sat watching the two streams, like the heathen rustic wlio has for several centuries been on duty watching one stream-saving that Jerry had no expectation of their ever running dry. Nor would it have been an exvectation of a hopeful kind, since a small part of his income was dermed from the pilotage of timid women (mostly of a full habit and past the middle term of life) from Tellson's side of the tides to the opposite shore. Brief as such companionship was in every separate instance, Mr. Cruncher never failed to become so interested in the lady as to express a strong desire to have the honour of drinking her very good health. And it was from the gifts bestowed-upon him towards the execution of this benevolent purpose, that he recruited his finances, as just now observed.
Time was, when a poet sat upon a stool in a public place, and mused in the sight of men. Mr. Cruncher, sitting on a stool in a public place, but not being a poet, mused as little as possible, and looked about him.
It fell out that lie was thus engaged in a season when crowds were few, and belated women few, and when his affairs in general were so unprosperous as to awaken a strong suspicion in his breast that Mrs. Cruncher must have been "flopping" in some pointed manner, when an unusual concourse pouring down Fleet-street westward, attracted his attention. Irookmg that way, Mr. Cruncher made out that some kind of funeral ",as coming along, and that there was popular objection to this funeral, which engendered uproar. Young Jerry," said Mr. Cruncher, turning to his offspring, "it's a buryin'
Hooroar, father cried Young Jerry.
The young gentleman uttered this exultant sound with mysterious significance. The elder gentleman took the cry so il4 that he watched his opportunity, and smote the young gentleman on the ear. 0
fVhat d'ye mean ? What are you hooroaring at P What do you want to conwey to your own father, you young Rip ? This boy is a getting too many for mel" said Mr. Cruncher, surveying him. "Him and his hooroars 1. Don't let me hear no more of you, or you shall feel some more of me. D'ye hear ?"
1
1 warn't doing no harm," Young Jerry protested, rubbing his cheek.
Drop it then," said Crtinclier; I won't hazTe none of yorcs· no harms. Get a top of that there seat, and look at the crowd." His son obeyed, and the crowd approached; they v-ere bnv-ling and hissing round a dingy liearse and dingy mournillg coach, in which mourning coach there was only one mourner, (ù'essed in the dingy. trappings that were considcrcd essential to the digl1ity of the position. The position appeared by no means to please him, however, withan increasing rabble surrounding the coach, deriding him, malilng grimaces at him, and incessantly groaning and calling out: ~ah Spics 1 Tst 1 Spics!" with many compliments too numerous and forcible to'rèpeat.
Funerals had at all timès a remarlm"ble attraction for l'Ir. -Cruncher lie always prick~d up his sens'es, and becmne excited, when. n funeral passed Tellson's. lTaturally, therefore, fi funeral .with this uncommon attendancecxcited him greatly, and he asked of the first man who ran against him
~"Phat is it, brother ? What's it about ?"
don't know," said the man. Spics! Yaba! Tst Spies ne asked another man. \Vho is it P"
ce 1 don't Iznow," returned the man clapping his hands to his mouth nevertheless, and vociferating in a surprisiiig heat and with the greatest ardour, Spies Yaba! Tst, tst Spi-ies At length, a person better informed on the merits of the case, tumbled against him, and from this person lie learned that the funeral was the funeral of one Roger Cly.
"\Vas He a spy P" asked l\Ir~ Cruncher.
Old. Bailey spy,returned his informant. "«Eaha! Tst Ya~i 'Old ']3ailey Spi-i-ies
Why, to be sure exclaimed Jerry, recalling the Trial at which 11e had assisted. "I've seen him. Dead, is lie P"
Dead as mutton," returned the other, and can't be too dead. Have 'em out, there Spies Pull 'em out, there Spies .1" The idea was so acceptable in the prevalent absence of any idea, that the crowd caught it Jlp with eagerness, and loudly repeating the suggestion to have 'em out, and to pull 'em out, mobbed the two vehicles so dosely that they came to a stop. On the crowd's opening the coach doors, the one mourner seuffled out of himself and was in their hands for a moment but lie was so alert, and made such good use" of his time, that in another moment he was scouring away up a by-street, after shedding his cloak, hat, long hatband, white pocket-hnndkerchief, and other sym1Jolical tears.
These, the people tore to pieces and scattered far and wide with great enjoJ1llent, while the tradesmen hurriedly shut up their shops for a crowd in those times stopped at nothing, and was a monster much dreàded. They had already got the length of opening the hearse to take the coffin out, when some brighter genius proposed instead, its being escorted to its destination amidst general rejoicing. Practical suggestions being much needed, this suggestion, too, was received with acclamation, and the coach was immediately filled with eight inside and a dozen out, while as many people got on the roof of the hearse as could by any exercise of ingenuity stick upon it.
Among the first of these volunteers was Jerry Cruncher himself, Who modestly concealed his spiky head from the observation of Tellson7fi, in the further corner of the mourning coach.
The officiating undertakers made some protest against these changes in the ceremonies but, the river being alarmingly near, and several voices remarking on the efficacy of cold immersion in bringing refractory members of the profession to reason, the protest ,as famt and brief. The remodelled procession started, with a chimney-sweep driving the hearse-advised by the regular driver, who was perched beside him, under close inspection, for the purpose -and with a pieman, also attended by his cabineb minister, driving tle mourning coach. A bear-leader, a popular street character of the time, was impressed as an additional ornament, before the cavalcade had gone far down tle Strand and his bear, who was black and very mangy, gave quite an Undertaking air to that part of the procession in which lie walked..
Tlius, with beer-drinking, pipe-smoking, song-roaring, and infinite caricaturing of woe, the disorderly procession went iti3 way, recruiting at every step, and all the shops shutting up before it. Its destination was the old church of Saint Paneras, far off in the fields. It got there in course of time insisted on pouring into the burialground finally, accomplished the interment of the deceased Roger Cly in its own way, and highly to its own satisfaction. 0 The dead man disposed of, and the crowd being under -the necessity of providing some other entertainmentfor itself, another brighter genius (or perhaps the same) conceived the humour of impeaching casual passers-by, as Old Bailey spies, and wreaking vengeance on them. Chase was given to some scores of inoffensive persons who had never been near the Old Bailey in their lives, in the realisation of this fancy, and they were roughly hustled and maltreated. The transition to the sport of '\vindow-breaking, and thence to the plundering of public-houses, was easy and natural. At last, after several hours, when sundry summer-houses had been pulled down, and some area railings had been torn up, to arm the more belligerent spirits, a rumour got about that the Guards were coming. Before this rumour, the crowd gradually melted awav, and perhaps the Guards came, and perhaps they never came, and this was the usual progressof a mob.
1\11'. Cruncher did not assist at the closing sports, but had remained behind in the churchyard, to confer and condole with the undertakers. The place had a soothing influence on him. He rocured a pipe from a neighbouring public-house, and smoked it, looking in at the railings and maturely considering the spot.
Jerry," said Mr. Cruncher, apostrophieing himself in his usual way, you see that there Cly that day, and you see with your own eyes that he was a young 'un and a straight made 'un." Having smoked his pipe out, and ruminated :a little longer, lie turned himself about, that lie might appear, before the hour of c10Bin~, on his station at Tellson's. Whether his meditations on mortality had touched his liver, or whether his general health had been previously at all amiss, or whether he desired to show a little attention to an eminent man, is not so much to the purpose, as that lie made
12
a short call upon his medical adviser-a distinguished surgeon-on his way back.
Young Jerry relie\'ed bis father with dutiful interest, and reported No job in his absence. The bank closed, the ancient clerks came out, the usual wateh was set, and Mr. Cruncher and his son went home to tea.. Now, l tell you where it is said Mr. Cruricher to his wife, on entering. If, as a honest tradesman, my wenturs goes wrong tonight, I shall make sure that you'v e been prnying again me, and I shall work you for it just the same as if I seen you do it." The dejected Mrs. Crunelier shook her head.
Why, you're at it afore my face said J\Ir. Cruncher, with signs of angry apprehension.
I am saying nothing."
Well, then don't meditate nothing. You might as well flop as meditate. You may as well go again me one way as anotheI'. Drop it altogether."
Yei3, Jerry."
Yes, Jerry," repeated Mr. Cruncher, sitting down to tea. Ah It is es, Jerry. That's about it. You may say yes, Jerry." Mr. Cruncher bad no particular meaning in these sulky corroborations, but made use of them, as people not unfrequently do, to express general ironical dissatisfaction.
You and your yes, Jerry," said DIr. Cruncher, taking a bite out of his bread and butter, and seeming to help it down with a large invisible oyster out of his saucer. Ah .I think so. I believe you."
"'You are going out to-night r" asked his decent wife, when he took another bite.
Yes, I am."
May I go with you, father ?" asked his son, briskly. N o, you mayn't. l'm a going-as your mother knows-a fishing. That's where I'm going to. Going a fishing." -Your fishing-rod gets rayther rusty don't it, father P" Never you mind."
Shall you bring any fish home, father P"
If I don't, you'U have short commons to-morrow," returned that gentleman, shaking his head that's questions enough for you l an't a going out, till you'~e been long a-bed."
He devoted himaelf during the remainder of the evening to keeping a most vigilant watch on Mrs. Cruncher, and eullenly holding her in conversation that she might be prevented from meditating any petitions to his disadvantage. With this view, he urged his son to hold her in conversation also, and led the unfortunate woman a hard life by dwelling on any causes of complaint he could bring against her, rather than he would leave her for a moment to her own reHections. The devoutest person could have rendered no greater homage to the efficacy of an honest prayer than he did in this distrust of his -wife. It was as if a professed unbeliever in ghosts should be fright.ened by a ghost story.
And mind you said Mr. Cruncher. N o games to-morrow If l, as a honest tradesman, succeed in providing a jinte of meat or two, none of your not touching of it, and sticking to bread. If l, as
a honest tradesman, am able to provide a little beer, none of your declaring on water. When you go to Rome, do as Rome does. Rome will be fi, ugly customer to you, if you don't. l'm your Rome, you know."
Then lie began grumbling again
With your flying into the face of your own wittles and drink 1 I don't know how. scarce you mayn't make the wittles and drink here, by your flopping tricks and your unfeeling conduct. Look at your boy he is your'n, ain't lie P He as thin as a lath. Do you call yourself a mother, and not know that a mother's first duty is to blow her boy out ?"
This touched Young Jerry- on a tender place who adjured his mother to perform her first duty, and, whatever else she did or neglected, above all things to lay especial stress on the discharge of that maternal function so affectingly and delicately indicated by bis other parent.
Thus the evening wore away with the Cruncher family, until Young Jerry was ordered to bed, and his mother, laid under similar injunctions, obeyed them. Mr. Cruncher beguiled the earlier watches of the night with solitary pipes, and did not start upon his excursion until nearly one o'clock. Towards that small and ghostly hour, lie rose up from his chair, took a key out of his pocket, opened a locked cupboard, and brought forth a sack, a crowbar of convement size, a rope and chain, and other fishing-tackle of that nature. Disposing these articles about him in a skilful manner, he bestowed a parting defiance on Mrs. Cruncher, extinguished the light, and went out.
Young Jerry, who had only made a feint of undressing when he went to bed, was not long after his father. »Under cover of the darkness lie followed out of the room, followed down the stairs, followed down the court, followed out into the streets. He was in no uneasiness concerning his getting into the house again, for it was full of lodgers, and the door stood ajar all night.
Impelled by a laudable ambition to study the art and mystery of his father's honest calling, Young Jerry, keeping as close to housefronts, walls, and doorways, as his eyes were close to one another, held his honoured parent in view. The honoured parent steering Northward, had not gone far, when he was joined by another disciple of Izaak Walton, and the two trudged on together.
Within half an hour from the first starting, they were beyond the winking lamps, and the more than winking watchmen, and were out upon a lonel road. Another fisherman was picked up here-aud that so silently, that if Young Jerry had been superstitious, he might have supposed the second follower of the gentle craft to have, all of a sudden, split himself into two.
The three went on, and Young Jerry went on, until the three stopped under a bank overhanging the road. Upon the top of the bank was a low brick wall surmounted by an iron railing. In the shadow of bank and wall, the three turned out of the road, and up a blind lane, of which the wall-there, risen to some eight or ten feet high-formed one side. Crouching down in a corner, peeping up the lane, the neat object that Young Jerry saw, was the form of his honoured parent, pretty well defined agamst a watery and clouded
moon, nimbly scaling an iron gate. He was soon over, and then the second fisherman got over, and then the third. They all dropped softly on the ground within the gate, and lay there a little-listelling perhaps. Then, they moved away on their hands and knees. It was now Young Jerry's turn to approach the gate which lie did, holding his breath. Crouching down again in a corner there, > and looking in, lie made out the three fishermen creepil1g through some rank grass and all the gravestones in the churchyard-it was a large churchynrd that they were in-Ioolcing on like ghosts in white, while the church tower itself looked on like the ghost of a monstrous giant. They did not creep far, before they stopped and stood upright. And then they began to lisli.
They fished with a spade, at first. Presently tle honoured parent appeared to be adjusting some instrument like a great corkscrew. Whatever tools they worked with, theyworked hard, until the awful striking of the church clock so terrified Young Jerry, that lie made off, with his hair as stiff as his father's. ZD
But, his long-eherished desire to know more about these matters, not only stopped him iu his running away, but lured him back again. They were still fishing perseveringly, when lie péepëd in at the gate for the second time but, now they seemed to have got a bite. There was a screwing and complaining sound down below, and their bent figures were strained, as if by a weight. By slow degrees the weight broke away the earth upon it, and came to the surface. Young Jerry very well knew what it would be but, when lie saw it, and saw his honoured parent about.t9 wrench it open, lie was so frightened, being new to the sight, that lie made ofl' again, and never stopped until lie had run a mile or more.
He would not have stopped then, for anything less necessary than breath, it being a spectral sort of race that he ran, and one highly desirable to get to the end of. He had a strong idea that the coffin lie had seen was running after him and, pictured as hopping on behind him, bolt upright upon its narr ow end, alwafs on the point of overtaldng him and hopping on at his side-perhaps taking his arm-it was a pursuer to sliun. It was an inconsistent and ubiquitous fiend too, for, while it was making the whole night behind him dreadful, lie dal'ted out into the ro adway to avoid dark alleys, fearful of its coming lopping out of them like a dropsical boy's-Kite without tail and wings. It hid in doorways too, rubbingits horrible shoulders against doors, and drawing them up to its ears, as if it were laughing. It got into shadows on the road, and lay cunningly on its back to trip lmm up. All this time, it was incessantly hopping on behind and gaining on him, so that when the boy got to his own door lie had reason for being half dead. And even then it would not leave him, but followed him up-stairs with a bump on every stair, serambled into bed with him, and bumped down, dead and lieavy, on his breast when lie fell asleep.
From his oppressed slumber, Young Jerry in his closet was awakened, after daybreak and before sunrise, by the presence of his father in the familyroom. Something had gone wrong with him at least, so Young Jerry inferred, from the circumstance of his holding Mrs. Cruncher by the ears, and knocking the back of her head flgainst. th e headbonrd of the bed.
1 told you I would," said Mr. Cruncher, "and l ~d." Jerry, Jerry, Jerry 1" his wife implored.
"You oppose yourself to the profit of the business," Baid Jerry, and me and my partners suffer. You was to honour and obey why the devil don't you P"
I try to be 3. good wife, Jerry," the poor woman protested, with tears.
Is it being a good wife to oppose your husband's business ? la it honouring your husband to dishonour his business ? Is it obeying your husband to disobey him on the wital subject of his business pu You hadn't taken to the dreadful business then, Jerry." It's enough for you," retorted 2J:r. Cruncher, to be the wife of a honest tradesman, and not to occupy your female mind with calculations when lie took to his trade or when lie didn't. A honouring and obeying wife would let his trade alone altogether. Call yourself a religious woman P If you're a religious woman, give me a irreligious one 1 You have no more nat'ral sense of dut Y than the bed of this here Thames river has of a pile, and similarly it must be knocked into you."
The altercation was conducted in a low tone of voice, and; terminated in the honest tradesman's kicking. off his clay-soiled .boots, and lying down at his length on the floor. After taking a timid peep at him lying on his back, with his rusty hands under his head for' a pillow, his son lay down too, and fell asleep again.
There was no fish for breakfast, and not much of anything else. Mr. Cruncher was out of spirits, and out of temper, and kept an ironpot-lid by him as a projectile for the correction of Mrs. Cruncher, in case lie should observe any symptoms of her saying Grace. He was brushed and washed at the usual hour, and set off with his son to pursue his ostensible calling.
Young Jerry, walking with the stool under his arm at his father'a side along sunny and crowded Fleet-street, was a very differènt. Young Jerry from him of the previous night, running home through darkness and solitude from his grimpursuer. Ris cunning was fresh. with the day, and his qualms were gone with the night-in which. particulars it iF3 not improbable that he had compeers in Fleet-street and the City of London, that fine morning. Father," said Young Jerry, as they walked along taking care to keep at arm's length and to have the stool well between them what's a Resurrection-Man ptt
Mr. Cruncher came to a stop on the pavement before lie answere<:J., How should I know ptt
I thought you Imowed everything, father," said the artless boy. liem! 1 WeIl," returned Mr. Cruncher, going on again, and lifting off his. hat to give his spikes free play, h~e's a tradesman." "What's his goods, father P" asked the brisk Young Jerry. .cc Ris goods," said 1\1:1'. Cruncher, after turning it over in his mind,. is a brnnch of Scientific goods."
"PersonB' bodies, ain't it, father ?" asked the-lively boy. I believe it is somethink of that Bort," saiamr. Cruncher. Oh, father, I should so like to be a. Resurrection-Man when I'm quite growed up 1"
Mr. Cruncher was soothed, but shook his head in a dubious and
moral way.. It depends upon how you dewelop your talents. Be careful to dewelop your talents, and never to say no more than you can help to nobody, and there's no telling at the present time what you may not come to be fit for." As Young Jerry, thus encouraged, went on a few yards in advance, to pliint the Btool in the shadow of the Bar, Mr. Cruncher added to himself Jerry, you honest tradesman, there's hopes wot that boy will yet be a blessing to you, and a recompense to you for his mother
CHAPTER xv. KMTTING.
TaE$E had been earlier drinking than usual in the wine-shop of Monsieur Defarge. As early as six o'clock in the morning, sal10w faces peeping through its barred windows had descried other faces within, bending over measures of wine. Monsieur Defarge sold a, very thin wine at the best of times, but it would seem to have been an unusually thin wine that he sold at this time. A sour wine, moreover, or a souring, for its influence on the mood of those who drank it was to make them gloomy. No vivacious Bacchanalian flamé leaped out of the pressed grape of Monsieur Defarge but, a smouldering fire that burnt in the dark, lay hidden in the dregs of it.
This had been the third morning in succession, on which there had been early drinking at the wine-shop of Monsieur Defarge. It had begun on Monday, and here was Wednesday come. There had been more of early brooding than drinking for, many men had listened and whispered and slunk about there from the time of the opening of the door, who could not have laid a piece of money on the counter to save their souls. These were to the full as interested in the place, however, as if they could have commanded whole barrels of wine; and they glided from seat to seat, and from corner to corner, f3wallowing talk in lieu of drink, with greedy looks.
Notwithstanding an unUBual flow of comJ?any, the master of thé wine-shop was not visible. He was not missed; for, nobody who crossed the threshold looked for him, nobody asked for him, nobody wondered to see only Madame Defarge in her seat, presiding over the distribution of wine, with a bowl of battered aman coins before her, as much defaced and beaten out of their original impress as the small coinage of humanity from whose ragged pockets they had come.
A suspended interest and a prevalent absence of mind, were perha s observed by the spies who looked in at the wine-shop, as they looked in at every place, high and low, from the king's palace to the-c~iminal's gaol. Games at cards languished, players at dominoes musingly built towers with them, drinlters drew figures on the tables with spilt drops of wine, Madame Defarge hersel!' picked out
the pattern on her sleeve with her toothpick, and saw and heard something inaudible and invisible a long way off.
Thus, Saint Antoine in this vinous feature of his, until mid-day. It was high noontide, when two dusty men passed through his streets and under his swinging lamps of whom, one was Monsieur Defarge: the other, a mender of roads in a blue cap. All adust and athirst, the two entered the wil1e-shop. Their arrmal had lighted a kind of fire in the breast of Saint Antoine, fast spreading as they came along, which stirred and flickered in flames of faces at most doors and windows. Yet, no one had followed them, and no man spoke when they entered the w ine-shop, though the eyes of every man there were turned upon them.
Good day, gentlemen said Monsieur Defarge.
It may have been a signal for loosening the general tongue. It elicited an answering chorus of Good day
It is bad weather, gentlemen," said Defarge, shaking his head. Upon which, every man looked at his neighbour, and then all cast down their eyes and sat silent. Except one man, who got up and went out.
My wife," said Defarge aloud, addressing Madame Defarge 1 have trav elled certain lengues with this good mender of roads, called Jacques. l met him-by accident-a day and a half'13 journey out of Paris. 1-le is a good child, this mender of roads, called Jacques. Give him to drink, my tv ïfe P'
A second man got up and went out. Madame Defarge set wine before the mender of roads called Jacques, who doffed his blue cap to the company, and drank. In the breast of his blouse, he carried some coarse dark bread he ate of this between whiles, and sat munching and drinking near Madame Defarge's counter. A third man got up and went out.
Detarge refreshed himself with a draught of wirié-but, he took less than was given to the stranger, as being himself a man to whom it was no rarity-and stood waiting until the countryman had made his breakfast. He looked at no one present, and. no one 'now looked at him not even Madame Defarge, who had taken up her kriitting, and was at work..
Have you finished your repast, friend r" he asked, in due season.
Yes, thank you."
Come then 1 You shall see the apartment that 1 told you you could occupy. It will suit you to a marvel."
Out of the wine-shop into the street, out of the street into a courtyard, out of the court-yard up a steep staircase, out of the staircase into a garret-formerly the garret where a white-haired man sat on a low bench, stooping forward and very busy, making shoes. No white-haired man was there now but, the three men were there who had gone out of the wine-shop singly. And between them and the white-haired man afar off, was the one smaillink, that they bad once looked in at him through the chinks in the wall. Defarge closed the door carefully, and spoke in a subdued voice Jacques One, Jacques Two, Jacques Three This is the witness encountered by appointment, by me, Jacques Four. 1-le will tell you all. Speak, Jacques Five
The mender of roads, blue cap in hand, wiped his swarthy forehead with it, and said, Where shall I commence, monsieur ?" cc. Commence," was Monsieur Defarge's not unreasonable reply, "at-the commencement."
1 saw him then, messieurs;" began the mender of roads," a year ago this running summer, underneath the carriage of the Marquis, hanging by the chain. Behold the manner of it. I leaving my work on the road, the sun going to bed, the carriagé of the Marquis alowly ascending the hill, he hanging by the chain=like this." Again, the mender of roads went through the old performance in which he ought to have been perfect by that time, seeing that it had been the infauible resource and indispensable entertainment of his village during a whole year.
J aeques One strtlck in, and asked if he had ever seen the man before
"Never," answered the mender of roads, recovering his perpendicular.
Jacques Three demanded howhe afterwarda recognised him then ? P "By his tall figure," said the mender of roads, softly, and with his finger at his nose. When Monsieur the Marquis demands that evening, 'Say, what is he like P' l make response, 'TaR as a spectre.'
"You should have said, short as a dwarf," returned Jacques Two. But what did I know 1 The deed was not then accomplished, neither did he confide in me. Observe 1 Under those circumstances even, I do not offer my testimony. Monsieur the Marquis indicates me with his finger, standing near our little fountain, and says, 'To mEt! Bring that rascal l' My faith, messieurs, I offer nothing." "He is right there, Jacques;" murmured Defarge, to him who had interrupted. Go on
Good said the mender of roads, with an air of mystery. "The taU man is lost, and he is sought-how many months P Nine, ten, eleven pu
No matter, the number," said Defarge. He is well hiddent but~at Iast be is.unluckily found. Go on!"
I am again at work upon the hill-side, and the sun is again about. to go to bed. 1 am collecting my tools to descend to my cottage down in the village below, where it is already dark, when I raise my eyes, and Bee coming over the hill, six soldiers. In the midst of them is a taU man with his arms bound-tied to hie sides,. like this
With the aid of his. indispensable cap, he represented a man-with his elbows bound fast at his hips, with cords that were knotted behind him.
"I stand aside, messieurs, by my heap.of stones, to see the soldiers. and their prisoner pass (for:it is a solitary road, that, where any spectacle is well worth looking at), and at-firet, as they approach, I see no more than that they are six soldiers with a-tall man. bound, and that they are almost black, to my sight-except on the side of the SUll going to:bed, where they have ared edge, messieurs. Also, l Bee that their long shadowB are on the hollow ridge on the opposite side of the road, and are on the hill above it, and are like the shadows of giants. Also, I see that they are covered with dust, and that the dust moves
with them as they come;. tramp, tramp 1 But when they' advance quite near to me, l the tall man, and lie recognises..me. Ah,- but lie would be weil content to precipitate himself over the hillside once again, as on the evening when lie and I mst encountered, close to the same spot!"
He described it as if lie were there, and it was evident that he saw it vividly perhaps lie had not seen much in his life.
"1 do not show the soldiers that I recognise the taU man; he does not show the soldiers that lie recognises me we. do it, and we know it, with our eyes. Come on says the chief of that-company, pointing to the village, 'bring him fast to his tomh l' andl they bring him faster. I follow. His arms are swelled because of being-bound so tight, his wooden shoes are large and clumsy, and bel is lame. Because lie is lame, and consequently slow, they drive- him with their guns-like this
He imitated the action of st man'a being impelled forward by the butt-endr3 of muskets.
c; As they descend the hill like madmen running a race, ha. faile. They laugh and pick lim up again. His face is bleeding and covered with dust, but lie cannot touch it thereupon they laugh again. They bring him into the village all the. village runs to look;- they take him past the mill, and up to the prison; all the village sees the prison gate open in the darkness of the night, and swallow him-like this
He opened his mouth as wide as lie could, and shut ,itwith a sounding snap of his teeth. Observant of his unwillingness to- mar:the e$éct by opening it again, Defarge said, Go on, Jacques." All the vill~ge," pursued the mender of roads, on- tiptoe and in a low voice, "withdraws; all the village whiapers by the fountain; all the village sleeps; all the village dreams of that unhappy one, within the locks and bars of the prison on the crag, and never to come out of it, except to perish. In the morning, with mytools upon my shoulder, eating my morsel of black bread as I go, I 1nake a circuit by the prison, on my way to my work. There, I see him, high' up, behind the bars of a, lofty iron cage, bloody and dusty as last night, loolting through. He has no hand free, to wave to me l dare-not caU to him; lie regards me like a dead man."
Defarge and the three glanced darklyat-one another. The looks of all of them were dark, repressed, and revengeful, as they listened to the countryman's atory the manner of all of them, while it was. secret was authoritative too. They had the air of a rough tribunal Jacques One and Two sitting on the old pallet-bed, each:with his chin resting on his hand, and his eyes intent. on the road mender; Jacques Three, equally intent, on one knee behind them, with bis, agitated hand always gliding over the network of fine nerves about his, mouth and nose Defarge standing between them and the narrator, whom lie had f3tationed in the light of the window, by turns looking from him to them and from them to him.
Go on, Jacques," said Defarge.
"He remains. up there in his iron cage, eome~ da,ys: The -village looks at him by F3tealth, for it is afraid. But it always looks up, from 0,' distance, at the. prison on the crag and. in the evening when the work of the day is achieved and it assembles to gossip at the fountain,
all faces are turned towards the prison. Formerly, they were turned towards the posting-house; now, they are turned towards the prison. They whisper at the fountain, tlat although condemned to death lie will not be executed; they say that petitions have been presented in Parie, showing that lie was enraged and made mad by the death of his child they say that a petition has been presented to the King himself. What do I know ? P It is possible. Perhaps yes, perhaps no."
"Listen then, Jacques," Number One of that name sternly interposed. Il Know that a petition was presented to the King and Queen. All here, yourself excepted, saw the King take it, in his carriage in the street, sitting beside the Queen. It is Defurge whom you see here, who, at the hazard of his life, darted out before the horses, with the petition in his hand."
And once again listen, Jacques!" said the kneeling Number Three hie fingers ever wandering over and over tbose fine nerves, with a strikingly greedy air, as if he hungered for sornething-that was neither food nor drink; "the guard, horse and foot, surrounded the petitioner, and struck him blows. You hear ?"
1 hear, messieurs."
Go on then," said Defarge.
"Again; on the other hand, they whisper at the fountain," rei3umed the countryman, "that he is brought down into our country to be executed on the spot, and that lie will very certainly be executed. They even whisper that because lie has slain Monseigneur, and because Monseigneur was the father of his tenants-serfs-=what you will-he will be egecuted as a parricide. One old man says at the fountain, that his right hand, armed with the knife, will be burnt off before his face that, into wounds which will be made in his arms, his breast, and his legs, there will be poured boiling oil, melted lead, hot resin, wax, and sulphur; fin.ally, that lie will be torn limb from limb by four strong horaes. That old man says, aIl this was actually done to a prisoner who made an attempt on the lire of the last King, Louis Fifteen. But how do I know if lie lies? Iamnotascliolar." Listen once again then, Jacques saidthemanwiththerestless hand and the craving air. "The name of that prisoner was Damiens, and it was all done in open day, in the open streets of this city of Paris and nothing was more noticed in the vast concourse that saw it done, than the crowd" of ladies of quality and fashion, who were full of eager attention to the last-to the last, Jacques, prolonged until nightfull, when be had lost two legs and an arm, and still b.reathed! And it was done-why, how old are you P"
Thirty-five," said the mender of roads, who looked sixty. "It was done when you were more than ten years old; you might have seen it."
Enough said Defarge, with grim impatience. "Long live the Devil Go on."
Well Some whisper this, some whisper that they speak of nothing else; even the fountain appears to fall to that tune. At length, on Sunday night when all the village is asleep, come soldiers, winding down from the prison, and their guns ring on the stones of the little street. Workmen dig, workmen hammer, soldiers laugh and
sing; in the morning, by the fountain, there is raised a gallowe forty feet high, poisoning the water."
The mender of roads looked through rather than at the low ceiling, and pointed as if lie saw the gallows somewhere in the sky. ci AU work is stopped, all assemble there, nobody leude the cows out, the cows are there with the rest. At mid-day, the roll of drums, Soldiers have marched into the prison in the night, and lie is in the midst of many soldiers. He is bound as before, and in his mouth there is a gag-tied so, w ith a tight string, making him look almost as if lie laughed." He suggested it, by creasing his face with his two thumbs, from the corners of his mouth to his ears. On the top of the gallows is med the knife, blade upwards, with its point in the air. 1-le is hanged there forty feet high-and is left hanging, poisoning the water."
They looked at one another, as lie used his blue cap to wipe his face, on which the perspiration had started afresh while he recalled the spectacle.
It is frightful, messieurs. How can the women and the children draw water Who can gossip of an evening, under that shadow Under it, have I said P When l left the village, Monday evening as the sun was going to bed, and looked back from the hill, the shadow struck across the church, across the mill, across the prison-seemed to strike across the earth, messieurs, to where tlie sky rests upon it The hungry man gnawed one of his fingers as he looked at the other three, and his finger quivered with the craving that was on him. "That's all, messieurs. I left at sunset (as I had been warned to do), and I walked on, that night and half next day, until I met (as I was warned I should) this comrade. With him, I came on, now riding and now walking, through the rest of yesterday and through last night. And here you see me 1"
After a gloomy silence, the first Jacques said, "Good! You have acted and recounted, faithfully. Will you wait for us a little, outside the door P"
V ery willingly," said the mender of roads. Whom Defarge escorted to the toJ.> of the stairs, and, leaving seated there, returned. The three had risen, and their heads were together when he came back to the garret.
"How say you, Jacques ?" demanded Number One. To be registered P"
To be registered, as doomed to destruction," returned Defarge. Magnificent croaked the man with the craving.
The château, and all the race ?" inquired the first.
The château and all the race," returned Defarge. Extermination."
The hungry man repeated, in a rapturous croak, Magnificent and began gnawing another finger.
"Are you sure," asked Jacques Two, of Defarge, "that no embarrassment can arise from our manner of keeping the register P yvithout doubt it is safe, for no one beyond ourselves can decipher it; but shall we always be able to decipher it-or, I ought tô say, will she P"
Jacques," returned Defarge, drawing himself up, "if madame my
wife undertook to keep the register in her memory alone, she would not lose a word of it-not a syllable of it. Knitted, in ber own stitches and her own symbole, it will always be as plain to her as the sun. Confide in Madame Defarge. It would be easier for the weakest poltroon that lives, to erase 1lÏmself from existence, than to erase one letter of his name or crimes from the knitted register of Madame Defarge."
There was a murmur of confidence and approval, and then the man who hungered, asked Is this rustic to be sent back soon ? l hope so. He is very simple is lie not a little dangerousP"
He Imows nothing," said Defarge "at least nothin g more than would easily elev ate himself to a gallows of the same height. I charge myself with him let him remain with me l will take care of him, and set him on his road. He wishes to see the fine world-the King, the Queen, and Court let him see .them on Sunday."
"What p" exclairned the hungry man, staring. Is it a good sign, that lie wishes to see Royalty and lTobility ?" tD
Jacques," said Defarge judiciously show a cat, milk, if you wish her to thirst for it. Judiciously show a dog his natural prey, if you wish him to bring it down one day."
Nothing more was said, and the mender of roads, being found already dozing on the topmost stair, was advised to lay himself down on the pallet-bedand take some rest. He needed no persuasion, and was Boon -asleep.
~Porse quarters than Defarge's wine-sbop, could easily have been found in Paris for a provincial slave of that degree. Saving for fi mysterious dread of madame by which lie was constantly haunted, his -life was very new and agreeable. But, madame sat all day at her counter, so -expressly unconscious of him, and so particularly determined not to perceive that his béing there had any connexion with anything below the surface, that lie shook in his wooden shoes whenever his eye lighted on -her. For, -lie contended with himself that it was impossible to foresee what that lady might pretend nen; and lie felt assured that if.she should take it into her brightly ornamented head to pretend that she had seen him do a murder and nfterwards flay the victim, she would infallibly go through with it until -the play was played out.
Therefore, when Sunday came, the mender of roads was not enc1mnted (though lie said lie was) to find that madame was to accompany monsieur and himself to Yersailles. It was additionally disconcerting to have madame :knitting all the way there, in a public conveyance it was additionally ~isconcerting yet, to have madame in -tlie erowd in the afternoon, still with her knitting in her hands as the crowd waited to see the carriage of the King and Queen. "¥ou work ha-r:d, madame," said a 'man near her.
"'Yes," answered Madame Defarge "1 have a good deal ta ;do." What :do you make, madame ?"
luny things."
"For instance
.99 For instance," returned Madame Defarge, composedly, "shrouds." The man moved a little further away, as soon as lie could, and .the mender of roads fanned himself with his blue cap feeling it ,mightily close and oppressive. If lie needed a King and Queen to restore him,
lie was fortunate in having his remedy at hand for, soon the largefaced King and the fair-faced Queen came in their golden coach, attended by the shining Bull's Eye of their Court, a glittering multitude of laughing ladies and fine lords and in jewels and silks and powder and splendour and elegantly spurning figures and handsomely disdninful faces of both sexes, the mender of roads bathed himself, so much to his temporary intoxication, that lie cried Long live the King, Long live the Queen, Long live every'body and everything as if he had never heard of ubiquitous Jacques in his time. Then, there were gardens, court-yards, terraces, fountains, green banks, more King and Queen, more Bull's Eye, more lords and ladies, more Long live they all until he absolutely wept with sentiment. During the whole of this scene, which lasted eome three houra, lie had plenty of shouting and weeping and sentimental company, and throughout Defarge held him by the collar, as if to restrain him, from flying at the objecte of his brief devotion and tearing them to pieces.
Bravo 1" eaid Defarge, clapping him on the back when it was over, like a patron you are a good boy
The mender of roads. was now coming to himself. and was mistrustful of having made a mistake in his late demonBtrations; but no.
You are the fellow we want," said Defarge, in hie ear "you make these fools believe that it will last for ever. Then, they are the more insolent, and it is the nearer ended."
Hey cried the mender of roads, reflectively that's true." These fools know nothing. While they despise your breath, and. would stop it for ever and ever, in you or in a hundred like you rather than in one tif their own harses or doge, they only know what your breath tells them. let it deceive them, then, a little longer; it cannot deceive them too much."
Madame Defarge looked Buperciliously at tlie client, -and 'nodded in confirmation.
As to you," said she, "you would shont and F3«hea.tears for anything, if it made a show and a noise. Say 1 Would you not-?" ".Truly, madame, I think so. For the moment."
If you were shown a great heap of dolls, and were set upon them to pluck them to pieces and despoil them for your own advantage, you would pick out the richest and gayest. Say Would you not
Truly yes, madame."
"Yes. And if you were sbown a flock of birds, unable tofly,and were set upon them to strip them of their feathers for your own advantage, you would set upon the birds oftheiinest feathers.; would you not P"
It is true, madame."
You have seen both dolls and birds to-day," gaid Madame Defarge, with a wave of her hand towards the place where they bad last been apparent; now, go home
CHAPTER XVI.
STILL KNITTING.
MADAME DEFARG-E and monsieur her husband returned amicably to the bosom of Saint Antoine, while a speck in a blue cap toiled through the darkness, and through the dust, and down the weary miles of avenue by the wayside, slowly tending towards that point of the compass where the château of Monsieur the Marquis, now in his grave, listened to the whispering trees. Such ample leisure had the stone faces, now, for listening to the trees and to the fountain, that the few village scarecrows who, in their quest for herbs to eat and fragments of dead stick to burn, strayed within sight of the great stone court-yard and terrace staircase, had it borne in upon their starved fancy that the expression of the faces was altered. A rumour just lived in the village-had a faint and bare existence there, as its people had-that when the knife struck home, the faces clanged, from faces of pride to faces of anger and pain; also, that when that dangling figure was hauled up forty feet above the fountain, they changed again, and bore a cruel look of being avenged, which they would henceforth bear for ever. la the stone face over the great window of the bed.chamber wbere the murder was done two fine dints were pointed out in the sculptured nose, which everybody recognised, and which nobody had seen of old and on the scarce occasions when two or three ragged peasants emerged from the crowd to take a hurried peep at Monsieur the Marquis petrified, a skinny finger would not have pointed to it for a minute, before they all started away among the moss and leaves, like the more fortunate hares who could find a living there.
Château and hut, stone face and dangling figure, the red stain on the stone 1Ioor, .and the pure water in the village well-thousands of acres of land-a whole province of France-all France itself-lay under the night sky, concentrated into a faint hair-breadth line. So does a whole world with all its greatnesses and littlenesses, lie in a twinkling star. And as mere human knowledge can split a ray of light and analyse the manner of its composition, so, sublimer intelligences may read in the feeble shining of this earth of ours, every thought and act, every vice and virtue, of every responsible creature on it.
The Defarges, husband and wife, came lumbering under the starlight, in their public vehicle, to that gate of Paris whereunto their journey naturally tended. There was the usual stoppage at the barrier gùard-hougie, and the usual lanterns came glancing forth for the usual examination and inquiry. Monsieur Defarge alighted knowing one or two of the soldiery there, and one of the police. The latter lie was intimate with, and affectionately embraced. When Saint Antoine had again enfolded the Defarges in his dusky
wings; and they, having finally alighted near the Saint's'boundaries, were picking their way on foot through the blacli mud and offal of his streets Madame Defarge BpolΠto her husband
Say then, my friend what did Jacques of the police tell thee ?" Very little to-ninht,' bùt all he knows. There ia another spy commissioned for our quarter. There may be many more, for all that lie can say, but lie knowa of one."
Eh well 1" said Madame Defarge, raising her eyebrows with a cool business air. It is necessary to register him. How do they caR that man P"
He is English."
So much the better. His name pu
Barsad," said Defarge, making it French by pronunciation. But, lie had been so careful to get it accurately, that lie then spelt it with perfect correctness.
Barsad," repeated madame. Good. Christian name P" John."
John Barsad," repeated madame, after murmuring it once' to herself: Good. His appearance is it known P"
Age, about forty years height, about five feet nine black hair comple~ion dark generally, rather handsome visage eyes dark, face thin, lon~, and sallow; nose aquiline, but not straight, having a peculiar mclination towards tle left cheek expression, therefore, sinister."
Eh my faith. It is a portrait said madame, laughing. He ahall be registered to-morrow."
They turned into the wine-shop, which.was closed (for it was midnight), and where Madame Defarge immediately took her post at her desk, counted the small moneys that had been taken during her absence, examined the stock, went through the entries in the book, made other entries of her own,' checked the serving man in every possible way, and finally dismissed him to bed. Then ahe turned out the contents of the bowl of money for the second time, and began knotting them up in her handkerchief, in a chain of separate lmots, for safe keeping through the night. All tbis while, Defarge, with his pipe in -his mouth, walked up and down, complacently admiring, but never interfering; in which condition, indeed, as to the business and his domestic-affairs, lie walkéd up and down through life.
The night .was hot, and the shop, close ahut and surrounded by so foui-a neighbourhood, was ill-amelling. Monsieur Defarge's olfactory sense was by no means delicate, but the stock of wine f3melt much atronger than it ever tasted, and so did the stock of rum and brandy and aniseed. He whi~ed ~the compound of scentB away, as lie put down his .smoked-out pipe.
"You are fatigued," said madame; raising her glance as she knotted the money. There are only the usual odours."
I am a little tired," her husband acknowledgeù.
"You,are a little depressed, too," said madame, whose quick eyes had never been so intent on the accounts, but they -had 'had a ray or two for him. "Oh, the men, the men 1"
But my dear," began Defarge.
K
"But my dear repeated madame, nodding firmly but my dear You are faint of heart to-night, my dear
Well, then," said Defarge, as if a thought were wrung out of hil3 breast, it is a long time."
It is a long time," repeated his wife and when is it not a long.timc ? P Yengeance and retribution require a long time it is the rule."
It does not take a long time to strike a man with Lightning," said Defarge.
How long," demanded madame, composedly, does it take to make and store the lightning ? P Tell me P"
Defarge raised his forehead thoughtfully, as if there were something in that, too.
It does not take a long time," said madame, "for an earthquake to Bwallow a town. Eh well [ Tell me how long it takes to prepare the earthquake ?"
A long time I suppose," said Defarge.
But when it is. ready, it takes place, and grinds to pieces everything before it. In the mean time, it is always preparing, though it is not seen or heard. That is your consolation. Keep it." She tied a knot with flashing eyes, as if it throttled a.foe. I tell thee," said madame, extending her right hand, for emphasis, that although it is a long time on the road, it is on the road and coming. I tell thee it never retreats, and never stops. I tell thee it is always advancing. Look around and consider the lives of all the world that we linow, consider the faces of all the world that we know, consider the rage and discontent to which- the Jacquerie addresses itself with more and more of certainty every"hour. Can such things last ? Bah 1 l mock you."
My brave wife," returned Defarge, standing before her with his head a little bent, and his hands clasped at his back, like a docile and attentive pupil before his catechist, I do not question all this. But it has lasted a long time, and it ia possible-you know well, my wife, it is poasible-that it may not corne, during our lives." Ehwell 1 How then ?" demanded madame, tying another knot, as if there were another enemy f3traugled.
W ell l"~ said Defarge, with a half complaining and half apologetic shrug. We shall not see -the triumph."
We ahall have helped it," returned madame, with her egtended hand in strong action. Nothing that we do, ia done in vain.. I believe, with all my soul, that we shall see the triumph. But even if not, even if I knew certainly not, show- me the neck of an aristocrat and tyrant, and still I would
There madame, with her teeth set, tied a very terrible knot indeed. Hold [JI cried Defarge, reddening a little as if he felt charged with cowardice I too, my dear, will stop at nothing." Yes! [ But it ia your wealmess that you sometimes need to Bee your victim and your opportunity, to suf3tain you. Sui3tain yourself without that. ~'Phen the time comes, let loose a tiger and a devil; but wait for the time with the tiger and the devil chained-not shown-yet always ready."
Madame enforced the conclusion of this piece of advice by striking her little counter with her chain of money as if she knocked ita
brains out, and' then gathering.the heavy handkerchief under her arm in a serene manner, and observing that it was time to go to bed.. Next noontide saw the admirable woman. in her usual. place in: the wine-shop, knitting away assiduously. A rose lay beside her, and if she now' and; then glanced at the flower, it was with no infraction= of her usual preoccupied air. There were a~ few customere;. drin~king or not drinking, standing or seated, sprinkled. about.. The .day was very hot, and heaps of flies, who were extending their inqmsitive and, adventurous perquisitions into all the glutinous -little glasses near madame, fell dead at the bottom. Their decease made no impression on the other flies out promenading, who looked at them in the'coolest manner (as if they themselves were elephants, or somethingj as far removed), until they met the same fate. Curious to consider how Ileedless flies are !-perhaps they thought as much at Court that sunny summer day.
A figure entering at the door threw a shadow on Madame .Defarge which she felt to be a new one. She laid down her knitting; and began to pin her rose in her head-dress, before, she looked at the
figure.
It was curious. The moment Madame Defarge took up. the rose, the customers ceased talking, and began gradually~to~drop. out of the wine-shop.
Good day, madame," said the new comer.
Good day, monsieur."
She said it aloud, but added to herseU, as she resumed her knitting: Hah 1 Good day, age about forty, height about five feet nine, black hair, generally rather handsome visage, complexion dark, eyes dark, thin long and sallow face, aquiline nose but not straight, having a peculiar inclination towards the left cheek which imparts a sinister expression Good day, one and aU!"
Have the goodness to give me a. little glass of old cognac; and a mouthful of cool fresh water, madame."
Madame complied with a polite air.
"Marvellous cognac this, madame!"
It was the first time it had ever been so complimented,.and,Madame Defarge knew enough of its antecedenta to know better. She. said, however, that the cognac was Hattered, and took up her knitting. The visitor watched her fingers for a few moment.8, and took.. the opportunity of observing the place in general.
You knit with.great skill, madame."
1 am accustomed to it."
A pretty pattern too
You think so ?" said madame, looking at him with a smile.. Decidedly. May one ask what it is for P"
Pastime," said madame, still looking at him, with a-. smile, while her fingers moved nimbly.
Not for use P"
That dependei I may find a use for it, one day. If I dowell," said madame, drawing a breath and nodding her head with a stern. kindlof coquetry; ci l'Il use it!"
It was remarkable; but- the. taste of Saint Antoine seemed, to be decidedly opposed to a rose on the head-dress of Madame Defarge. x2
Two men bad entered separately, and had been about to order drink, when, catching sight of that novelty; they faltered, made a pretence of looking about as if for some friend who vras not there, and went away. Nor, of those who had .been there when this visitor entered, was there one left. They had all dropped off. The spy had kept his eyes open, but had been able to detect no sign. They had lounged away m a poverty-stricken, purposeless, accidental manner, quite natural and unimpeachable.
JOHN," thought madame, checking off her work as her fingers knitted, and her eyes looked at the stranger. Stay long enough, and I shaU knit before you cyo."
You have a husband, madame t"
I have."
Children ?"
No children."
Business seems bad ?"
Business is very bad the people are so poor."
Ah, the unfortunate, miserable people So oppressed too-as you say."
As you say," madame retorted, correcting him, and deftly knitting an extra. something into his name that boded him no good. Pardon me certainly it was I who said so, but you naturally think so. Of course."
I think 2" returned madame, in a high voice. "1 and my husband have enough to do to keep this wine-shop open, without thinking. AU we think, here, is, how to live. That is the subject zve think of, and it gives us, from morning to night, enough to think about, without embarrassing our heads conceming others. I think for others ? P No, no."
The spy, who was there to pick up any crumbs lie could find or make, did not allow his bafflea state to express itself in his i3iniister face but, stood with an air of gossiping gallantry, leaning his elbow on Madame Defarge's little counter, and occasionally sipping his cognac.
A bad business this, madame, of Gaspard's execution. Ah the poor Gaspard With a sigh of great compassion.
My. faith returned madame, coolly and lightly, if people use knives for such purposes, they have to pay for it. He knew beforehand what the price of his luxury was lie has paid the price." "1 believe," said the spy, dropping his soft voice to a tone that invited confidence, and expressing an injured revolutionary susceptibility in every muscle of his wicked face "1 believe there is much compassion and anger in this neighbourhood, touching the poor fellow P Between ourselves."
Is there ?" asked madame, vacantly.
la there not pu
-1-lere iF3 my husband!" said Madame Defarge.
As the keeper of the wine-shop entered at the door, the spy saluted him by touching his hat, and saying, with an engaging smile, Good day, Jacques Defarge stopped short, and stared at him. Good day,. Jacques the spy repeated with not quite so much confidence; or quite so easy a smile under the stare.
"You deceive.yourself,. monsieur," returned the keeper of 'the wine-shop. "You mistake me for another. That is not my name. I am Ernest Defarge."
"It is all the same," said the spy, airily, but discomfited too; good day 1" Good day answered Defarge, dryly.
I w as saying to madame, with whom l had the pleasure. of chatting when you entered, that they tell me there is-and no wonder!-much sympathy and anger in Saint Antoine, touching the unhappy fate of poor Gaspard."
No one bas told me so," said Defarge, shaking his head; "1 know nothing of it."
Having said it, he passed behind the little counter, and stood with his hand on the back of his wife's chair, looking over that barrier at the person to whom they were both opposed, and whom either of them would have shot with the greatest satisfaction.
The spy, well used to his business, did not change his unconscious attitude, but drained his little glass of cognac, took a sip of. fresh water, and asked for another glass of cognac. Madame Defarge poured it out for him, took to her knitting again, and hummed a little~ song over it.
You seem to know this quarter well that is to say, better than I do P" observed Defarge.
Not at all, but I hope to know it better. 1 am so profoundly interested in its miserable inhabitants."
Hah 1" muttered Defarge.
The pleasure of conversing with you, Monsieur Defarge, recals to me," pursued the spy, "that I have the honour of cherisbing sonie interesting associations with your name."
Indeed r" said Defarge, with much indifference.
Yes indeed. When Doctor Manette was released, you his old domestic had the charge of him, I know. He was delivered to you. You see I am informed of the circumstances ?" Such is the fact, certainly," said Defarge. He had had it conveyed to him, in an accidental touch of his wife's elbow as she knitted and warbled, that he would do best to answer,. but always with brevity.
It was to you," said the spy, that his daughter came and it was from your care that his daughter took him, accompanied by a neat brown monsieur how is he called ?-in a little wig-Lorry~of the bank of Tellson and Company-over to England." Such is the fact," repeated Defarge.
"Very interesting remembrances said the spy. "1 have known Doctor Manette and his daughter, in England."
?" said Defarge.
You don't hear much about them now," said the spy. No," said Defarge.
lu effect," madame struck in, lool~ng up from her work and her little song, we never hear about them. We received the news of their safe arrival, and perhaps another letter or perhaps two but Slllce then, they have gradually taken their road in life-we, ours-. and we have held no correspondence."
Perfectly so, madame," replied the spy. "'She is going to be married."
Going P" ecboed madame. "She was pretty enough to have been married long ago. You English are cold, it seems to me." Oh 1 You know I am English ?"
"1 perceive your tongue is," returned madame and what the tangue is, l suppose the man is."
He did not take the identification as a compliment; but, -lie made the :best :of it, and turned it off with a laugh. Mter sipping his cognac to the end, lie added 0
Yes, .Miss Manette is going to be married. But not to an Englishman; to one who, like herself, is French by birth. And speaking of Gaspard (ah, poor; Gaspard! It was cruel, cruel !), it is a curious thing that she js going to marry the nep11ew of Monsieur the Marquis, for whom -Gaspard was exalted to that height of so many feet in other words, the present Marquis. But lie liv es unknown in England, .he is no Marquis there -lie is Mr. Charles Darnay. D'Aulnais is the name of his mother's family."
Madame Defarge knitted steadily, but tlie -intelligence 1ad a palpable.effect upon lier husband. Do what lie would, behind the little counter, as to the striking of a light and the lighting of his pipe, lie was troubled, and bis hand was not trustworthy. The spy would have been no spy if lie had failed to see it, or to record it in his mind.
Having made, at least, this one hit, whatever it might-prove to be worth, and no customers coming in to help him to any other, Mr. Barsad .paid for what lie had drunk, and took his Ienve: taking occasion to say, in a genteel manner, before lie departed, that lie looked forward to the pleasure of seeing Monsieur -and Madame Defarge again. For some minutes after lie had emerged into the outer presence of Saint Antoine, the husband and wife remained exa,ctly as lie had left them, lest lie should come back.
Can it be true," said Defarge, in a low voice, looking down at his wife as lie stood smoking with his hand on the back of lier chair what lie has said of Ma'amselle Manette ?"
As lie has said it," returned madame, lifting her eyebrows a little, it is probably false. But it may be true."
If it is-" Deftirge began and stopped.
If it is P" repeated his wife.
"-And if it does come, while we live to see it triumph-I hope, for her sake, Destiny will keep her husband out of France." Her husband's destiny," said Madame Defarge, with her usual composure, will take him .where lie is to go, and will lead him to the end that is to end him. That is all I know."
But it is very strange-now, at least is it not very strange said Defarge, rather pleading with his wife to induce -lier to admit it, that, after all our sympathy for :Monsieur her father and herself, her husband's name should be proscribed under your hand at this moment, by the aide of that infernal dog's who ,has just left us P" %anger things than that, will happen when it does come;" answered madame. I have them both here, of a certainty and they are both here for their merits that is enough."
She rolled up her knitting when she had said those words, and prèsently took the rose out of the handkerchief that was wound about her heàd. Either Saint Antoine had an instinctive sense that the objectionable decoration was gone,.or Saint Antoine was on the watch for its disappearance howbeit, the Saint took courage to lounge in, very shortly afterwards,- and the wine-shop recovered its habitual aspect..
In the evening, at which season of all others, Saint Antoine turned himself inside out, and sat.-on door-steps and window-ledges, and came to the corners of vile streets and courts, for a breath of air, Madame Defarge with her work in her-hand w8s-accustomedto pass from place to place and from group to group a Mis8Ïonary-there were many like her-such as the world will do well never to breed again. AI the women knitted. They knitted worthleas thinga but, the mechanical work was a mechanical substitute for eating and drinking; the hands moved for the jaws and the digestive apparatus; if the bony fingers had been still, the stomachs would have been more famine-pinched.
But, as the fingers went, the eyes went, and the thoughts. And as Madame Defarge moved on from group to group, all three went quicker and fiercer among every little knot of women that she had spoken with, and left behind.
Her husband smoked at his door, looking after her with admiration. A great woman," said lie, "a strong woman, a grand woman, a frightfully grand woman
Darkness closed around, and then came the ringing of church bells and the distant beating of the drums of the Royal Guard, as the women sat lmitting, Itnitting. Darkness encompassed them. Another darkness was closing in as surely, when the church beUs, then ringing pleasantly in many an airy steeple ov er France, sbould be melted into thundering cannon when the drums should be.'beating to drown a wretched voice, that night all potent as the voice of Power and Plenty, Freedom and Life. So much was closing in about the women who sat knitting, Itnitting, that they their very selves were c10sing in around a structure yet unbuilt, where they were to Bit knitting, knitting, countiug dropping heads.
CHAPTER XVII.
ONE NIanT.
NEVER did the sun go down with a brighter glory on the quiet corner in Soho, than one memorable evening when the Doctor and his daughter sat under the plane-tree together. Never did the moon rise with a milder radiance; over great London, than on that night when it found them still seated under the tree, and shone upon their faces through its leaves.
Lucie was to be married to-morrow. She had reserved this last evening for ber father, and they sat alone under the plané-tree. You are happy, my dear father P"
Quite, my child."
They. had. said little, though they had been there a long time. When it was yet light enough to work and read, she had neither engaged herself in her usual work, nor had she read to him. She had employed herself in both ways, at his side under the tree, many and many a time but, this time was not quite like any other, and nothing could make it so.
And l am very happy to-night, dear father. I am deeply happy in the love that Heaven has so blessed-my love for Charles, and Charles's love for me. Dut, if my life were not to be, still consecrated to you, or if my marriage were so arranged as that it would part us, even by the length of. a few of these streets, l should be more unhappy and self-reproachful now, than l can tell you. Even as it is-"
Even as it was, she could not command her voice.
ln the sad moonlight, she clasped him by the neck, and laid her face upon his breast. In the moonlight which is always sad, as the light of the sun itself is-as the light called human life is-at its coming and its going.
Dearest dear Can you tell me, this last time, that you feel quite, quite sure no new affections of mine, and no new duties of mine, will ever interpose between us P I know it well, but do you know it ? In your own heart, do you feel quite certain P" Rer father answered, with a cheerful firmness of conviction lie could ecarcely have assumed, Quite sure, my darling 1 More than that," lie added, as lie tenderly kissed her my future is far brighter, Lucie, seen through your marriage, than it could have been-nay, than it ever was-without it."
If l could hope t7~at, my father!
Believe it, love Indeed it is so. Consider how natural and how plain it is, my dear, that it should be so. You, devoted -and young, cannot freely appreciate the anxiety I have felt that your life should not be wasted
She moved her. hand towards his lips, but he took it in his, and repeated the word. "-wasted, my child-should not be wasted, struck aside from the natural- order of things, for my. sake.. Your unselfishness cannot entirely comprehend how much my mind has gone on this but, only ask yourself, how could my happiness be perfect, while yours was incomplete P"
If 1 had never seen Charles, my father, I should have been quite happy *th U.33
lie smile at her unconscious admission that she would have been unhappy without Charles, having seen. him, and replied 111y child, you did.see him, and it is Charles. If it had not.been Charles, it would have been another. Or, if it had been no other, I should have been the cause, and then the dark part ofmy life would have cast its shadow beyond myself, and would have:fallen on you." It was the first time, except at the trial, of her ever he8.ringhim: refer to the period of bis suffering. It gave her a strange and new sensation while his words were in her ears and she remembered' it long afterwards.
See said the Doctor of Beauvaif3, raising his hand towardsthe moon. I have looked at her from my prison-window, .when I could not bear her light. I have looked at her when it has been. such torture to me to think of her shining upon what l had lost, that I havebeaten my head against my prison walls. I have lookedat her, ina state so dulled and lethargic, that I have thought of nothing but the number of horizontal lines I could draw across her at the full; and the number of perpendicular lines with which I could intérsect them." He added in his inward and pondering mannér,-as he looked at the moon, It was twenty either way, I remember, and the twentieth was difficult to squeeze. in."
The strange thrill with which she heard him go back to that time; deepened as he dwelt upon it but, there was nothing to shock her in the manner of his reference. He only seemed to contrast his present cheerfulness and felicity with the dire endurance that was over.
I have looked at her, speculating thousands. of times upon the unborn child from whom l had been rent. Whether it was alive: Whether it had been born alive, or the poor mother's shock had killed it. Whether it was a son .who would .some day avenge his father. (There was a time in my imprisonment, when: my desire for vengeance was unbearable.) Whetber it was a son who would never know his father's story who might even live to weigh the possibility of his father's having disappeared of his own will and act. Whether it was a daughter, who would grow to be a woman."
She drew closer to him, and kissed his cheek and his hand. l have pictured my daughter, to myself, as perfectlp forgetful of me-rather, altogether ignorant of me, and unconscious of me. I have cast up the years of her age, year after year. I have seen her manjed to a man who knew nothing of my fate. I have altogether perished from the remembrance of the living, and in the neat gener ation my placewas a blank."
"1\fy father Even to hear that you had such thoughts of a
daughter who never existed, etrikes to my heart as if l had been that child."
You, Lucie? It is out of the consolation and restoration you have brought to me, that these remembrances arise, and pass between us and the moon on ,this last night.-What did I say, just now P"
She knew nothing of you. She cared nothing for you." "-80 But on other moon1ight nights, when the sadness and the silence have touched me in a different vcay-have affected me with something as like a sorrowful sense of peace, as:any emotion that had pain for its foundations could-I have imagined her as coming to me m my cell, and leading me out into the freedom.beyond the fortress. 1 have seen her image in the moonlight, often, as l now see you except that I never held her in my arms it stood between the litHe grated window and the door. But, you understand that that was not the child I am speaking of ?"
The figure WRB not the-the-image the fancy ?"
No. That was another thing. It stood before my disturbed sense of sight, but it never moved. The phantom that my mind pursued, was another and more real child. Of her outward appearance l know no more than that she was like her.mother. The other bad tbat likeness too-as you have-but was not the same. Can you follosv me, Lucie P Hardly, I think ? P I doubt you must have been a solitary prisoner to understand these perplexed distinctions."
His collected and calm manner could not prevent her blood from running cold, as lie thus tried to anatomise his old condition. In that more peaceful state, I have imagined her, in the moonlight, coming to me and taking me out to show me that the home of -her married life was full of her loving remembrance of her lost father. 31y picture was in her room, and I was in her prayers. Her life was active, cheerful, useful but my poor history pervaded it all."
"1 was that child, my father. I was not half so good, but in my love that was 1."
And she showed me her children," said the Doctor of Beauvais, et and they had heard of me, and had been taught to pity me. When they passed a prison of the State, they kept far from its froR-ning walls, and looked up pt. its bars, and spoke in whispers. She could never deliver me I imagined that she always brought me back after showing me such things. But then, blessed with the relief. of tears, 1 fell upon my knees, and blessed her."
I. airi that child, l hope, my father. 0 my dear, my dear, will you bless me as fervently to-morrow r"
"Lucie, I recal' these old troubles in the reason that I have tonight for loving you better than words can tell, and thanking God for my great happiness. 1\1y thoughts, 'when they were wildest, never rose near the happiness that l have known with you, and that we have before us." · He embraced her, f3olemnly commended her to Heaven, and humbly thanked Heaven for having bestowed her on him. By-and-by, they went into the house.
There was ho one bidden to the marriage but 1\1r. Lorry; there
was even to be no bridesmaid but the gaunt Miss Pross. The marriage was to make no change in their place of residence they had been able to extend it, by taking to themselves the upper rooms formerly belonging to the apocryphal invisible lodger, and they desired nothing more.
Doctor Manette was very cheerful at the little supper. They were only three at table, and Miss Pross made the third. He regretted that Charles was not there was -more than half disposed to object to the loving little plot that kept him away and drank to him affectionately.
So, the time came for him to bid Lucie good night, and they separated. But, in the stillness of the third 'hour of the morning, -Lucie came down stairs again, and stole into his room not free from-unahaped fears, beforehand.
All things, however, were in their places allwab quiet and :he lay asleep, his white hair picturesque on-the untroubled 'pillow, and his hands lying quiet on the coverlet. She put her needtess candle in the shadow at a distance,crept up.to his bed, and.put'herlips.to his -then, leaned.over him and looked at him.
Into his handsome face, the bitter waters of-captivity had. worn; but, he covered up their traclçF3 with a determination so .strong, :that he held the mastery of them, even in his sleep. W more remalkable face in its quiet, resolute, and guarded struggle with an unseen- assailant, 'was not to be beheld in all the wide dominions of sleep, that night.
She timidly laidher ,band on his dear breast, and put up a prayer that she might ever be as true to him as her love aspired to be, and as his sorrows deserved. Then, she withdrew her hand, and kissed his lips once more, and went .away. So, the sunrise came, and the shadows of the leaves of the plane-tree moved upon his face, as aoftly as her lips had moved in praying for him.
CHAPTER XVIII.
NINE DA~s.
THE marriage day was shining brigl1tly, and they were ready outside the closed door of the Doctor's room, where he was speaking with Charles Darnay. They were ready to go to church the beautiful bride, Mr. Lorry, and Miss Pross~to whom the event, through a gradual process of reconcilement to the inevitable, would have been one of absolute bliss, but for the yet lingering consideration that her brother Solomon should have been the bridegroom.
"And so," said Mr. Lorry, who could not sufficiently admire the bride, and who had been moving round her to take in every point of her .quiet, pretty dress and so it was for this, my sweet Lucie, that I brought you across the Channel, such a baby Lord bless me 1 How little l thought what I was doing. How lightly I valued the obligation l was conferring on my friend Mr. Charles
"You didn't mean it," remarked the matter of fact Miss Pross, and therefore how could you know it ? Nonsense 1"
"ReaUy? P Well; but don't cry," said the gentle Mr. Lorry. "1 -am not crying," said Miss Pross you are."
"l, my Pross ?" (By this time, Mr. Lorry dared to be pleasant with her, on occasion.)
You were just now I saw you do it, and l don't wonder at it. Such a present of plate as you have made 'em, is enough to bring tears into anybody's eyes. There's not a fork or a spoon in the collection," said Miss Pross, that 1 didn't cry over, last night after the box came, till I couldn't see it."
I am highly gratified," said Mr. Lorry, though, upon my honour, I had no intention of rendering those trifling articles of remembrance, invisible to any one. Dear me This is an occasion that makes a man speculate on all he has lost. Dear, dear, dear To think that there might have been a Mrs. Lorry, any time these fifty years almost
Not at all From Miss Pross.
"You think there never might have been a Mrs. Lorry?" asked the gentleman of that name.
Pooh rejoined Miss Pross; you were a bachelor in your cradle."
Il Well 1" observed Mr. Lorry, beamingly adjusting his little wig, that seems probable, too."
"And you were cut out for a bachelor," pursued Miss Pross, before you were put in your cradle."
"Then, I think," said Mr. Lorry, "that I was very unhandeomely dealt with, ~nd that I ought to have had a voice in the selection of
my pattern. Enough 1 Now, my dear Lucie," drawing his arm soothingly round her waist, I hear them moving in the neat room, and Miss Pross and l, as two formal folks of business, are anaious not to lose the final opportunity of saying something to you that you wish to hear. You leave your good father, my dear, in hands~ asearnest and as loving as your own he shall be. taken evéry conceivable care of during the neat fortnight, while you are in 'Varwickshire and thereabouts, even. Tellson's shall go to the wall (comparatively speaking) before him. And wheu, at the fortnight's end,.he comes to join you and your beloved husband, on your other !ortnight's trip in Wales, yôu shall say that we hav e sent him'to you in the best health and in the happiest frame. Now, I hear Somebody's. step coming to the door. Let me kiss my dear girl with an old-fashioned bachelor blessing, before Somebody comes to claim his own." For a moment, he held the fair face from him to look at the wellremembered expression on- the forehead, and then laid the bright golden hair against his little brown wig, with a genuine tenderneas and delicacy, which, if such things be old fashioned, were a~ old as Adam. The door of the Doctor's room opened, and he came out with Charles Darnay. He was so deadly pale-which had not been the case when they went in together-that no vestige of colour was to be seen in his face. But, in the composure of bis manner he was unaltered, except that to the shrewd glance of Mr. Lorry it disclosed some shadowv indication that the old air of avoidance and dread had lately passedwover him, like a cold wind.
He gave his arm to his daughter, and took her down stairs. tti-the chariot which l\ir. Lorry had hired in honour of the day. The rest followed in another carriage, and soon, in a neighbourin:g church where no strange eyes looked on, Charles Darnay and Lucie Manette were happily married. · Besides the glancing tears that shone among the. smiles of the little group when it was done, some diamonds, very bright and sparkling, glanced on the bride's hand, which were newly released from the. dark obscurity of one of Mr. Lorry's. pockets. They returned home, to breakfast, and all went well, and in due course the golden hair that had mingled with the poor shoemaker's white locks in the Paris garret, were mingled with them again in the morning sunlight, on the threshold of the door at parting.
It was a hard parting, though it was not for long. But, her father cheered her, and said at last, gently disengaging himself from her enfolding arms, "Take her, Charlés 1 She is yours 1" And her agitated hand waved.to them from a chaise window,"and she was gone. The corner being out of the way of the idle and curious, and the preparations having been very simple and few, the Doctor, Mr. Lorry, and Miss Pross, were left quite alone. It was whewthey-turned into the welcome shade of the cool old hall, that Mr. Lorry observed'a great change to have come over the Doctor; as if the. golden arm uplifted there, had struck him a poisoned blow..
He had naturally repressed much, and some revulsion might have been expected in him when the occasion for repression was .gone.
But, it was the old scared lost look that troubled Mr. Lorry; and through bis absent manner of clasping his head and drearily wander. ing: away into his own room when they got up-stairs, Mr. Lorry was reminded of Defarge the wine-shop keeper, and the starlight ride.
"1 think," lie whispered to Miss Pross, after anxious consideration, "1 think we had best not speak to him just now, or at alldisturb. him. I must look in at Tellson's so I will go there at once and come back presently. Then, we will take him a ride into thecountry, and dine there, and all will be well."
It was easier for Mr. Lorry to look in at Tellson's, than to look out of Tellson's. He was detained two hours. Whenhecameback, lie ascended the old staircase alone, having asked no question of the servant going thus into the Doctor's rooms, lie was stopped by a Iow sound of knocking.
Good God 1" lie said, with a start. What's that ?" Miss Pross, with a terrified face, was at his ear. 0 me, 0 me Ail is lost 1" cried she, wringing her hands. What is to be told to Ladybird? He doesn't know me, and is making shoes Mr~ Lorry said what lie could to calm her, and went himself into the Doctor.'s room. The bench was turned towards the light, as it had.been.when he had seen the shoemaker at his work before, and his head .was bent down, and lie was very busy."
"Doctor Manette. My dear friend, Doctor Manette The Doctor looked at him for a moment-half inquiringly, half as if lie were angry at being spoken to-and bent over his work again.. 0
He had. laid aside his coat and waistcoat'; his shirt was open at the throat, as it used to. be when lie did that work; and even the old haggard, faded surface of face had come back to him. 13e worked hard-impatiently-as if in.some sense of having been interrupted.
Mr. Lorry glanced at the work in his hand, and observed that it was a shoe of the old size and shape. He took up another that was lying by him, and asked him what it was P
A young lady'î3 walking shoe," lie muttered, without looking up. "It ought to have been finished long ago. Let it be."
"But, Doctor Manette. Look at me
He. obeyed, in the old mechanically submissive manner, without pausing in his work.
You know me, my dear friend P Think again. This is not your proper occupation.. Think, dear friend 133
Nothing would induce him to speak more. He looked up, for an instant at a time, when lie was requested to do so but, no persuasion would ex-tract a word from him. He worked, and worked, and worked, in. silence, and words fell on him as they would have fallen on an echoless wall, or on the air. The only ray of hope that Mr.. Lorry could discover, was, that lie sometimes f'urtively looked. up without being asked. In that, there seemed a faint expression of curiosity or perplexity-as though lie were Írying to reconcile some doubts in his mmd.
Two things at once impressed themselves on Mr. Iorry, ae im. portant above all others the first; that this must be kept. secret from Lucie; the second,.that it must be kept secret from all who knew him. In conjunction with Miss Prose, lie took immediate steps towards the latter.. precaution,.by giving out that the Doctor was not well, and required a few days of complete rest. In aid of the kind deception'to be practised on his daughter, Miss Proîjs vas to write, describing his having been called away. professionally, and referring to an imaginary letter of two or three hurried lines in' bis own hand, represented to have been. addréssed to her by the same post.
These measures, advisable to be taken in any case, Mr. Lorry took in the hope of his coming to himself. If that should happen soon, he kept another course in reserve which was, to have a certain opinion that lie thought the best, on the Doctor's case.
In the hope of his recovery, and of resort to this third course being thereby rendered practicable, Mr. Lorry resolved to watchhim attentively, with as little appearancé as possible of doing so. He therefore made arrangements to absent himself from Tellson's for the first time in his life, and took his post by the window in the.same room.
He was not long in discovering that it was worse than useless to speak to him, since, on being pressed, lie became worried. He abandoned that attempt on the first day, and resolved merely to keep himself always before him, as a silent protest against the delusion into which he had fallen, or was falling. He remained, therefore, in his seat near the window, reading and writing, and expressing in as many pleasant and natural ways as he could think of, that it was a free place.
Doctor Manette took what was given him to eat and drink, and worked on, that first day, until it was too dark to see-worked on, half an hour after Mr. Lorry could not have seen, for his life, to read or write. When he put his tools aside as useless, until morning, Mr. Lorry rose and said to him:
Will you go out ?"
He looked down nt the floor on either side of him in the old manner, looked up in the old manner, and repeated in the old low voice
Out r"
Yes for a walk with me. Why not P"
He made no effort to say why not, and said not a word more. But, Mr. Lorry thought he saw, as lie leaned forward on his bench in the dusk, with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, that he was in some miaty way asking himself, Why not P" The sagacity of the man of business perceived an advantage here, and determined to hold it.
Miss Pross and lie divided the night into two watches, and observed him at intervals from the adjoining room. He paced up and down for a long time before lie lay down but, when lie did finally lay himself down, lie fell asleep. ln the morning, lie was up betimes! and went straight to his bench and to work.
On this second day, Mr. Lorry saluted him cheerfully by his name,
and spoke to him on topies that had been of late familial' to them. He returned no reply, but it was evident tliat lie heard what was said, and that he thought about it, however confusedly. This encouraged 1\fr. Lorry to have Miss Pross in with her work, several times during the day at those times, they quietly spoke of Lucie, and of her father then present, precisely in the usual manner, and as if there were nothing amiss. This was done without any demonstrative accompaniment, not long enough, or often enough to harass him; and it lightened «.L~ir. Lorry's friendljr heart to believe that he looked up oftener, and that he appeared to be stirred by some perception of inconsistencies surrounding him.
When it fell dark again, ~Ir. Lorry asked him as before Dear Doctor, will you go out?"
As before, he repeated, Out r"
y es; for a walk with me. Why not p"
This time, 1\11'. Lorry feigned to go out when he could extract no answer from him and, after remaining absent for an hour, returned. In the mean while, the Doctor had removed to the seat in the window, and had sat there looking down at the plaue-tree but, on 3U. Lorry's return, he slipped away to his bench.
The time went very slowly on, and ilZr. Lorry's hope darkened, and his heart grew heavier again, and grew yet heavier and heavier every day. The third day came and went, the fourth, the fifth. Five days, six days, seven days, eight days, nine days.
With a hope ever .darkening, and witli a heart always growing heavier and heavier, 1\Ir. Lorry passed through this anxious time. The secret was well kept, and Lucie was unconscious and happy but, he could not fail to observe that the shoemaher, whose hand had been a little out at first, was growing dreadfully skilful, and that he had never been so intent on his work, and that his hands had never been so nimble and expert, as in the dusk of the ninth evenin,
CHAPTER XIX.
AN OPINION.
Wottrr out by anxious watching, Mr. Lorry fell asleep at his poste On the tenth morning of his suspense, he was startled by the shining of the sun into the room where a heavy slumber had overtaken him when it was dark night.
He rubbed his eyes and roused himself; but he doubted, when he had done so, whether he was not still asleep. For, going to the door of the Doctor's room and looking in, he perceived that the shoemaker's bench and tools were put aside again, and that the Doctor himself sat reading at the window. He was in his usual morning dress, and his face (which Mr. Lorry could distinctly see), though atill very pale, was calmIr studious and attentive.
Even when he had satisfied himself that he was awake, Mr. Lorry felt giddily uncertain for some few moments whether the late shoemaking might not be a disturbed dream of his own for, did not his eyes show him his friend before him in his accustomed clothing and aspect, and employed as usual and was there any sign within their range, that the change of which he had so strong an impression had actually happened
It was but the inquiry of his first confusion and astonishment, the answer being obvious. If the impression were not produced by a real corresponding, and sufficient cause, how came he, Jarvis Lorry, there P How came he to have fallen asleep, in his clothes, on the sofa in Doctor Manette's consulting-room, and to be debating these points outside the Doctor's bedroom door in the early morning P Within a few minutes, Miss Pross stôod whispermg nt his side. If he had had any particle of doubt left, her talk would of necessity have resolved it but he was by that time clear-headed, and had none. He advised that they should let the time go by until the regular breakfast-hour, and should then meet the Doctor as if nothing unusual had occurred. If he appeared to be in his customary state of mind, Mr. Lorry would then cautiously proceed to seek direction and guidance from the opinion he had been, in his anxiety, so anxious to obtain.
Miss Pross, submitting herself to his judgment, the scheme was worked out with care. Having abundance of time for his usual methodical toilette, Mr. Lorry presented himself at the breakfasthour in bis usual white linen and with. his usual neat leg. The Doctor was summoned in the usual way, and came to breakfast. So far as it was possible to comprehend him without overatepping those delicate and gradual approaches which Mr. Lorry felt to be the only safe advance, he at first su:pposed that bis daughter's marriage had taken place yesterday. An Incidental allusion, purposely thrown out, to the day of the week, and the day of the month, set him thinking and counting, and evidently made him uneasy. In all other reL
spects, however, lie was so composedly himself, that Mr. Lorry determmed to have the aid lie sought. And that aid was his own. Therefore, when the breakfast was done and cleared away, and lie and the Doctor were left together, Mr. Lorry said, feelingly My dear Manette, I am anxious to have your opinion, in confidence, on a very curious case in which I am deeply interested; that is to say, it is very curious to me perhaps, to your better information it may be less so."
Glancing at his hands, which were discoloured by his late work, the Doctor looked troubled, and listened attentively. He had already glanced at his hands more than once.
Doctor Manette," said Mr. Lorry, touching him affetcionately on the arm, "the case is the case of a particlùarly dear friend of mine. Pray give your mind to it, and advise me well for his sakeand above all, for his daughter's-his daughter's, my dear Manette. If I understand," said the Doctor, in a subdued tone, some mental shock- P"
Il YeB 1"
Il Be expllcit," said the Doctor. "Spare no detail."
Mr. Lorry saw that they understood one another, and proceeded. My dear l\Ianette, it is the case of an old and a prolonged shock, of great acuteness and severity, to the affections, the feelings, thethe-as you express it-the mind. The mind. It is the case of a shock under which the sufferer was borne down, one cannot say for how long, because I believe lie cannot calculate the time himself; and there are no other means of getting at it. It is the case of a shock from which the sufferer recovered, by a process that he cannot trace himself-as I once heard'him publicly relate in a strilting manner. It is the case of a shock from which he has recovered, so completely, as to be a highly intelligent man, capable of close application of mind, and great exertion of body, an of constantly making fresh additions to his stock of knowledge, which was already very large. But, unfortunately, there has been," lie paused and took a deep breath-" a elight relapse."
The Doctor, in a low voice, asked, Of how long duration P" 99 Nine da and nights."
How did it show itself P I infer," glancing at his hands again, in the resumption of some old pursuit connected with the shock P' That is the fact."
Now, did you ever see him," asked the Doctor, distinctly and collectedly, though in the same low voice, engaged in that pursuit originally P"
cc Once."
And when the relapse fell on him, was lie in most respectsor in all respects-as lie was then ?"
I think, in all respects."
"You spoke of his daughter. Does his daughter know of the relapse r"
No. It has been kept from her, and I hope will always be kept from her. It is known only to myself, and to one other who may be trusted."
The Doctor grasped his hand, and murmured, "That was very kind. That" was very thoughtful Mr. Lorry grasped his hand in return, and neither of the two spoke for a little while.
Now, my dear Manette," said Mr. Lorry, at length, in his most considerate and most affectionate way, I am a mere man of busi. ness, and unfit to cope with such intricate and difficult mattere. I do not possess the kind of information necessary; I do not possess the kind of intelligence I want guiding. There is no man in this world on whom l could so rely for right guidance, as on you. Tell me, how does this relaJ>se come about P Is there danger of another P Could a repetition of it be prevented P How should a repetition of it be treated P How does it come about at all ? What can l do for my friend P No man ever can have been more desirous in his heart to serve a friend, than I am to serve mine, if l knew how. But I don't know how to originate, in such a case. If your sagacity, knowledge, and experience, could put me on the right track, I might be able to do so much; unenlightened and undirected, I can do so little. Pray discuss it with me pray enable me to see it a little more clearly, and teach me how to be a little more useful." Doctor Manette sat meditating after these earnest words were spoken, and Mr. Lorry did not press him.
l think it probable," said the Doctor, breaking silence with an effort, "that the relapse you have described, my dear friend, was not quite unforeseen by its Bubject."
Was it dreaded by him pu 1%1r. Lorry ventured to ask. "Very much." He said it with an involuntary shudder. "Ÿ'ou have no idea how such an apprehension weighs on the suff'erer's mind, and how difficult-how almost impossi'ble-it is, for him to force himse1f to utter a word upon the topic that oppresses him." Would he," asked Mr. Lorry, "be sensibly relieved if he could prevail upon himself to impart that secret brooding to any one, when it is on him P"
I think so. But it is, as I have told you, next to impossible. I even believe it-in some cases-to be quite impossible." "Now," said Ml'. Lorry, gently laying his hand on the Doctor's arm again, after a short silence on both sides, Il to what would you refer this attack P"
Il 1 believe," returned Doctor Manette, "that there had been a strong and erlraordinary revival of the train of thought and remembrance that was the mst cause of the malady. Some intense associations of a most distressing nature were mudly rècalled, l think. It is probable that there had long been a dread 1 king in his mind, that those associations would be recalled-say, under certain circumstances-say, on a particular occasion. He tried to prepare himself, in vain; perhaps the effort to prepare himself, made him less able to bear it."
Would he remember what took place in the relapse P" asked Mr. Lorry, with natural hesitation.
The Doctor looked desolately round the room, shook his head, and unbwered, in a low voice, "Not at all."
Now, as to the future," hinted Mr. Lorry.
As to the future," said the Doctor, recoverinl, firmness, "1 ahould liave great hope. As it pleased Heaven in its mercy to restore him so soon, l ehould havegreat hope. He, yielding under the pressure of a complicated something, long dreaded and long vaguely foreseen and contended ngnmst, and recovering after the clou had burst and passed, I should hope that the worst was over."
L2
Well, well That's good comfort. I am thankful 1" said Mr. Lorry.
cc 1 am thankfull" repeated the Doctor, bending bis head with reverence.
"There are two other points," said Mr. Lorry, "on which I am am:ious to be instructed. I may go on P"
You cannot do your friend a better service." The Doctor gave him his hand.
To the first, then. He is of a studious habit, and unusually energetic lie applies himself with great ardour to the acquisition of professional knowledge, to the conducting of experiments, to many thinge. Now, does he do too much P"
cc 1 think not. It may be the character of his mind, to be always in eingular need of occupation. That may be, in part, natural to it in part, the result of affliction. The less it was occupied with healthy things, the more it would be in danger of turning in the unhealthy direction. He may have observed himself, and made the discovery." You are sure that lie is not under too great a strain P" I think I am quite sure of it."
My dear Manette, if he were overworked now-"
My dear Lorry, I doubt if that could easily be. There has been a violent stress in one direction, and it needs a counterweight." "Excuse me, as a persistent man of business. Assuming for a moment, that. he was overworked it would show itself in some re. newal of this disorder P"
1 do not think so. I do not think," said Doctor Mahette with the firmness of self-conviction, that anything but the one train of association would renew it. I think that, hencefortb, nothing but some extraordinary jarring of that chord could renew it. After what has happened, and after his recovery, I find it difficult to imagine any such violent sounding of that string again. I trust, and I. almost believe, that the circumstances likely to renew it are exhausted."
He spoke with the diffidence of a man who knew how slight a thing would overset the delicate organisation of the mind, and yet with the confidence of a man who had slowly won his assurance out of persona! endurance and distress. It was not for his friend to abate tbat confidence. He professed himself more relieved and encouraged than he really was, and approached his second and last point. He felt it to be the most difficult of aU; but, remembering old Sunday morning conversation with Miss Pross, and remembering what he had seen in the last.nine days, he knew that he must face it.
The occupation resumed under the influence of this passing affliction f3o happily recovered from," said Mr. Lorry, clearing his throat, we .wil~call-Blackemith's work. Blacksmith's work. We will say, to put a case and for the sake of illustration, that be had been used in his bad time, to work at a little forge. We will say that he was unexpectedly found .at. his forge again. Is it not a pity that he should keep it by bim P"
The Doctor shaded his forebead with his hand, and beat his foot nervously on the ground.
He bas' alwaye kept it by him," said Mr. Lorry, with an an:rious
look at his friend. Now, would it not be better that he should let it go ?il
Still, the Doctor, with shâded forehead, beat his foot nervously on the ground.
You do not find it easy to advise me P" said Mr. Lorry. "1 quite understand it to be a nice question. And yet I think-" And.there lie i3book »his head, and stopped.
You see, said.Doctor Manette, turning to him after an uneasy pause, it is very hard to explain, consistently, the innermost work. ings of this poor man's mnid. He once yearned so frightfully for that occupation, and. it was so welcome when it came no doubt it relieved bis pain so much, by substituting the perplexity of the fingers for the perplexity of the brain,- and by substituting, 8S he became more practised, the ingenuity of the hands for the ingenuity of the mental torture that he" has never been-able to bear the thought of putting it quitè ont of his..reach. Even now, when, I believe; lie ii3 .more.hopeful of hinisèlf thari'he has ever been, and even speaks of himeélf With'8 .Jfula 'of ,confidence; the idea that ha might-need that old.e~ployment,'ai1d not find it, gives him a sudden sense of térror, like- thât'which one may fancy strikes to the heart of a Idst child."
He looked like his illustration, as he raised his eyes to Mr. Lorry'~ face.
But map, not mind I ask for information, as a plodding man .of businësBwho only deals"with such" materw: objects as guineas, shillings, and bank-no~es~may not the reténtion' of the-thing, involve the rétention ôf téeidéa P If -the thing were gone,. my dear Manette, might not thè fèâr go with it.? In short, is it not a concession to the mIB91vmg,.to keep the' forge pu
There was another eilënce:
You see, too, said, the Doctor, tremitlously, Il it is such an old companion." I would not keep it," said Mr. Lorry; shaking his'head;. for he gained in firmness as he saw the Doctor' disquieted. I..would recommend him to sacrifice it. I only want -pôur aúthority. I am sure it do-es nô good. Come 1 Give me ) our authority, like a dear good man. For bis daughtér'ssakefmydeitr Manetté Very strange to sée what'a th7ere was within him 1 "IIi-her .name; then, lèt it be done 1 sanction it. But, I would not takë it away- whilehe:was present. Let it be removed when lie ÍB not there let.him miss his old companion after an absence." Mr. Lorryreadiltengaged for that, and the conference was ended. They passed the day in the country, and the Docf,ér was quite restored. On the three following days, lie remained erfectly well, and on the .fourteenth day, lie went away to join Lucie and her husband. The precaution that had been taken to account for his. silence, Mr. Lorry had previously explained to him, and lie hadwritten to Lucie m accordance with it, and.she had no suspicions. On the night of the day on which lie left the house, Mr. Lorry went into his room with a chopper, saw, chisel, and hammer, attended by Miss Pross carr~ing a light. There, with closed doors, and in a mysterious and gu~lty manner, Mr. Lorry hacked the shoemaker's bench to pieces, while Miss Pross held the candle as if she were
RBSistIDg at a murder-for which, indeed, in her grimness, she was no unsuitable figure. The burning of the body (previously reduced to pieces convenient for the purpose), was commenced without delay in the kitchen fire and the tools, f3hoes, and leather, were buried in the garden. So wicked do destruction and secrecy appear to bonest minds, that ]\tIr. Lorry and Miss Pross, while engaged in the commission of their deed and in the removal of its traces, almost felt, and almost looked, like accomplices in a horrible crime.
CHAPTER XX.
A PL«Eà..
WREN the newly-married pair came home, the first person who appeared, to offer his congratulations, was Sy dney Carton. They had not been at home many hours, when he presented himself. Be was not im;proved in habits, or in Iooks, or in manner but, there was a certain rugged air of fidelity about him, which was new to the observation of Charles Darnay.
He watched bis opportunity of taking Darnay aside into a window, and of speaking to him wlen no one overheard.
"Mr. Darnay," said Carton, 1« 1 wish we might be friends." We are already friends, l hope."
Ÿou are good enough to say so, as a fashion of speech but, I don't mean an fashion of speech. Indeed, when l say I wish we might be friends, I scarcely mean quite tbat, either."
Charles Darnay-as was natural-asked him, in all good-humour and g09d-fellowship, what he did mean P
Upon my life," said Carton, smiling, I find that easier to comprehend in my own mind, than to convey to yours. However, let me try. You remember a certain famous occasion when I was more drunk than-than usual ?"
I remember a certain famous occasion when you forced me to confess that you had been drinking."
I remember it too. The curse of those occasions 1B heavy upon me, for I always remember them. l hope it may be taken into account one day, when all days are at un end for me!-Dont be alarmed I am not going to preach."
I am not at all alarmed. Eamestness in you, is anything but alarming to me."
Ah said Carton, with a carelesB wave of his hand, as if he waved that away. On the drunken occasion in question (one of a large number, as you ]mow), I was Ínsufièrable about liking you, and not liking you. I wish you would forget it."
1 forgot it long ago."
Fashi.on of speech again i But, Mr. Damay-, oblivion is not so easy to me, as you represent it to be to you. l have by no me forgotten it, and a light answer does not help me to forget it." If it was a light answer," returned Darnay, I beg your forgiveness for it. I had no other object than to turn a slight thing, which,
to my surprise, seems to trouble you too much, aside. 1 dec1are to you, on the faith of a gentleman, that I have long dismisaed it from my mind. Good Heaven, what was there to dismiss 1 Have I had nothing more important to remember, in the great service you rendered me that day pu
As to the great service," said Carton, cc 1 am bound to avow to you, when you speak of it in that way, that it was mere professional clap-trap. I don't. know that I cared what became of you, when 1 rendered it.-31ind! I say when I rendered it 1 am speaking of the 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 was speaking about our being friends. Now, you know me you know I am incapable of all the higher and better flights of men. If you doubt it, ask Stryver, and he'll tell you 80." I prefer to form my own opinion, without the aid of his." ~Yell At any rate you l~now me as a dissolute dog, who has never done any good, and never will."
I don't know that you 1 never will.'
But I do, and you must take my word for it. Well 1 If you could endure to have such a worthless fellow, and a fellow of such mdifferent reputation, coming and going at odd times, I ehould ask that I might be permitted to come and go as a privileged person here that I might be regarded as an useless (and would add, if it were not for the resemblance l detected between you and me, an unornamental) piece of furniture, tolerated for its old service and taken no notice of: I doubt if l should abuse the permission. It is a hundred to one if I should avail mY8elf of it fonr times in a year. It would satisfy me, I dare say, to kno« that I had it."
"Vill you try P"
"That is another way of saying that I am placed on the footin~ l, have indicated. 1 thank you, Darnay. I may use that freedom with your name ?"
l think so, Carton, by this time."
They shook hands upon it, and Sydney turned away. Within a minute afterwards, lie was, to all outward appearance, as unsub-. stantial as ever.
When he was gone, and in the course of an evening passed with Miss Pross, the Doctor, and Mr. Lorry, Charles Darnay made some mention of this conversation in general terms, and spoke of Sydney Carton as a problem of carelessness and reclilessnefis. He spoke of him, in short, not bitterly or meaning to bear hard upon him, but as anybody might who saw him as he showed himself.
He had no idea that this could dwell in the thoughts of his fair young wife; but, when he afterwards joined her in their own rooms, he found her waiting for him with the old pretty lifting of the forehead strongly marked..
We are thoughtful to-night!" said Darnay, drawing his ~arm about her. 0
Yes, dearest" Charles," with her hands on his breast, and the in. quiring and attentive expression fixed upon hia~ "we are ratber thoughtful to-night, for we have something on our mind to-night.11
"What is it, my Lucie P"
et 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 aside the golden hair from the cheek, and his other hand against the heart that beat for him 1 I think, Charles, poor Mr. Carton deserves "more consideration and respect than you expressed for him to-night.
Indeed, my own P Why so ?"
"That is what you are not to ask me. But l think-I know-he does."
If you know it, it is enough. What would you have me do, my Life pu
I would ask you, dearest, to be very generous with him always, and very lenient on his faults when he is not by. I would ask you to believe that he bas a heart lie 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," said Charles 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 is scarcely a hope that anything in his character or fortunes is reparable now. But, I am sure that he is capable of good things, gentle things, even magnanimous things."
She looked so beautiful, in the purity of her faith in this lost man, that her husband could have looked at her as she was, for hours. And, 0 my dearest Love 1" she urged, clinging nearer to him, laying her head upon his breast, and raising her eyes to his, remember how strong we are in our happiness, and how weak he is in his misery lis
The supplication touched him home. I will always remember it, dear Heart 1 I will remember it as long as I live."
He bent over the golden head, and put the roby lips to his, and folded her in his arms. If one forlorn wanderer then pacing the dark streets, could have heard her innocent disclosure, and could have seen the drops of pity kissed away by her husband from the soft blue eyes so loving of that husband, lie might have cried to the night-and the words would not have parted from his lips for the met time-
God bless her for her sweet compassion
CHAPTER XXI.
ECHOING FOOTSTEFB.
A WONDERFUL corner for echoes, it hae been remarked, that corner where the Doctor lived. Ever busily winding the golden thread which bound her husband, and her father, and herselt; and her old directress and companion, in a life of quiet bliss, Lucie sat
in the still house in the tranquilly resounding corner, listening to the echoing footsteps of years.
At firat, there were times, though she was a perfectly happy young wife, when her work would slowly fail from her hands, and her eyes would be dimmed. For, there was something coming in the echoes, something light, afar off, and Bcarcely audible yet, that atirred her heart too much. Fluttering hopes and doubtB-hopes, of a love as yet unknown to her; doubta, of her remaining upon earth, to enjoy that new delight-divided her breast. Among the echoes then, there would we the sound of footsteps at her own early grave.; and thoughts of the husband who would:he left so desolate, and who would mourn for her so much, sweiled to her eyes and broke like waves.
That time passed, and her little Lucie lay on her bosom. Then, among the advancing echoes, there was the tread of her tiny feet and the sound of her prattling words. Let greater echoes reeound as they would, the young mother at the cradle aide could always hear those coming. They came, and the f3haay house was sunny with a child'F3 laugh, and the Divine friend of children, to whom in her trouble she had confided hers, seemed to take her child in his arma, as He took the child of old, and made it a i3acred joy to her. Ever busily winding the golden thread that bound them all together, weaving the service of her ha influence through the tissue of :nl1 their lives, and making it predominate nowhere, Lucie heard in the echoes of years none but friendly and soothing eounda. Her husband's Btep was strong and prosperous 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 the earth under the plane-tree in the garden 1
Even when there were sounde of sorrow among the rest, they were not harsh nor cruel. Even when golden hair, like her own, la in a halo on a pillow round the worn face of a little boy, and he said, with a radiant Bmile, Il Dear papa and mamma, I am very sorry to leave you both, and to leave mypretty sister; but 1 am called, and l muat go those were not tears all of agony that wetted hie young mother's cheek, as the spirit departed from her embrace that had been entrusted to it. Suffer them and forbid them not. They sea my Father'F3 face. 0 Father, blessed words
Thus, the rustling of an Angel's winga got blended with the other echoes, and they were not wholly of earth, but had in them that breath of Heaven. Sighs of the winds that blew over a little garden-tomb were mingled with them also, and both were audible to Lucie, in a hushed murmur-like the breathing of a aummer sea asleep upon a sandy shore-as the little Lucie, comically studioua at the task of the morning, or dressing a doll at her mother's footstool, chattered in the tongues of the Two Cities that were blended in her life.
The echoes rarely anawered to the actual tread of Sydney Carton. Some half-dozen times a year, at most, he claimed bis privilege of coming in uninvited, and would ait among them through the evening as he had once done often. He never came there, heated with wine. And one other thing regarding him was whispered in the echoes, which has been whispered by all true echoes for ages and agas.
No man ever really loved a woman, lost her, and hnew her with a blameless though an unchanged mind, when she was a wife and mother, but her children had a strnnge sympathy with him-an instinctive delicacy of pity for him. What fine hidden sensibilities are touched in such a case, no echoes tell; but, it is so, and it was so here. Carton was the first stranger to whom little Lucie held out her chubby arma, and lie 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 the law, like some great engine forcing itself through turbid water, and dragged his useful friend in his wake, like a boat towed astern. As the boat so fayoured is usually in a rough plight and mostly under water, so, Sydney had a swamped life of it. But, easy and strong custom, unhappily so much 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 be eupposed to think of rising to be a lion. Stryver was rich had married a florid widow with property and three boys, who had nothing particularly shining about them but the straight hair of their dumplin g heads.
These three young gentlemen, Mr. Stryver, exuding patronage of the most offensive quality from every pore, had walked before him like three sheep to the quiet corner in Soho, and had offered as pupils to.lucie's husband delicately saying, Halloa here are three lumps of bread-and-cheese towards your matrimonial pie-nie, Darnay The polite rejection of the three lumps of bread-andcheese had quite bloated Mr. Stryver with indignation, which lie afterwards turned to account in the training of the young gentlemen, by directing them to be aware of the pride of Beggnrs, like that tutor-fellow. He was also in the habit of declaiming to Stryver, over his M-bodiedwine, on the arts Mrs. Da had once put in practice 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 Bencli familiars, who were occasionally parties to the full-bodied wine and the lie, excused him for the latter by saying that lie had told it so often, that he believed it himself-whieh ils surely such an incorrigible aggravation of an originally bad offence, as to justify any such offender's being carried off to some 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 her child's tread came, and those of her own dear father's, always active and i3elf-possesF3ed, and those of her dear. huliband's need not be told. Nor, how the lightest echo of their united home, directed by herself with such a wise and elegant thrift that it was more abundant 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 more devoted to him married (if that could be) than single, and of the many times her husband bad said to her that no cares and duties seemed to divide her love for him or her help to him, and asked her "What is the magic secret,
my darling, of your being everything to all of us, as if there were only one of us, yet never seeming to be hurried, or to have too much to do P"
But, there were other echoes, from a distance, that rumbled menacingly in the corner all through this epàca of time. And it was now, about little Lucie's sixth birthday, that they began to have an awful sound, as of a great storm in France with a dreadful sea rising.
On a night in mid-July, one thousand seven hundred and eightynine, Mr. Lorry came in late, from Tellson'a, and sat himself down by Lucie and her husband in the dark window. It was a hot, wild night, and they were all three reminded of the old 8unday night when they had looked at the lightning from the same place.
I began to think," said 3fr. Lorry, pushing his brown wig back, that l should have to pass the night at Telleon'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, that we have actually a run of confidence upon us Our customers over there, seem not to be able 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 is in 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 he grumbled, "but I am determined to be peevish after mylong 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 these hurrieB and forebodinge by which l have been surrounded all day long, have made me nervous without reason. You are not going out, I hope P" "No; l am going to play backgammon with you, if yon like," i3aid the Doctor.
I don't think I do like, if I mayspeak my mind. I am not fit to be pitted against you to-night. Is the teaboard still there, Lucie P 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 be otherwise 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 the echoes 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 numer ous and very loud, though, are they not P Only hear them 1"
lieadlong, mad, and dangerous footsteps to force their way into anybody's life, footsteps not easily made clean again if once stained red, the footsteps raging m Saint Antoine afar off, as the little circle sat in the dark London window.
Saint Antoine bad been, tbat morning, a vast duslry mass of scarecrows heaving to and fro, with frequent gleams of light above the billowy heads, where steel blades and bayonets shone in the sun. A tremendous roar arose from the throat of Saint Antoine, and a forest of naked arms struggled in the air like shrivelled branches of trees in a winter wind all the fingers convulsively clutching at every weapon or semblance of a weapon that was thrown 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 a time, over the beads of the crowd, like a kind of lightning, no eye in the throng could have told but, muskets were being distributedso 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 in walIs. Every pulse and heart in Saint Antoine was on high-fever strain and at high-fever heat. Every living creature there, held life as of no account, and was demented with a passionate readiness to sacrifice it.
As a whirlpool of boiling waters bas a centre .point, so, all tbis raging circled round Defarge's wine-shop, and every human drop in the caldron had a tendency to be sucked towards the vortex where Defarge himself, already begrimed with gunpowder and sweat, issued orders, issued arms, thrust this man back, dragged this man forward, disarmed one to arm another, laboured and strove in the thickest of the uproar.
Keep near to me, Jacques Three," cried Defarge and do you, Jacques One and Two, separate and put yourselves at the head of as many of these patriots as you can. Where is my wife pu Eh, well Here you see me said madame, composed as ever, but not knitting to-day. Madame's resolute right hand was occupied with an axe, in place of the usual softer implements, and in her girdle were a pistol and a cruel knife.
Where do you go, my wife ?"
I go," said madame, "ith you, at present. You shall see me at the head of women, by-and-by."
Come, then cried Defarge, in a resounding voice. Patriote and friends, we are ready The Bastille
With a roar that souuded as if all the breath in France had been shaped into the detested word, the living sea rose, wave on wave, depth on depth, and overflowed the city to tbat point. Alarm-bells ringing, drums beating, the sea raging and thundering on its new beach, the attack begun.
Deep ditches; double drawbridge, massive stone walls, eight great towers, cannon, muskets, fire and smoke. Through the fire and
through the smoke-in the fire and in the amoke, for the sea cast him up against a cannon, and on the instant he became a cannonier -Defarge of the wine-shop worked like a manful soldier, Two fierce hours.
Deep ditch, single drawbridge, massive stone walls, eight great towers, cannon, muskets, fire and smoke. One drawbridge down Work, comrades all, work Work, Jacques One, Jacques Two, Jacques One Thousand, Jacques Two Thousand, Jacques Five-and..Twenty Thousand; in the name of all the Angela or the Devilswhich you prefer-work 1" Thus Defarge of the wine-shop, still at his gun, which had long grown hot.
To me, women 1" cried madame his wife. ~Phat 1. We can kill as well as the men when the place is taken And to ber, with a slirill thiraty cry, trooping women variously armed, but all armed alike in hunger and revenge.
Cannon, muskets, fire and amoke but, still the deep ditch, the single drawbridge, the massive atone walls, and the eight great towers. Slight displacements of the raging sea, made by the falling wounded. Flashing weapons, blazing torches, smoking waggon-loada of wet straw, bard work at neighbouring barricades in all directions, shrieks, volleye, execrations, bravery without stint, boom smash and rattle, and the furious sounding of the living Bea; 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-ahop at his gun, grown doubly hot by the service of Four fierce hours.
A white flag from within the fortress, and a 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-ahop over the lowered drawbridge, past the massive stone outer walls, in among the eight great towera surrendered 1 So resistless was the force of the ocean bearing him on, that even to draw his breath or turn bis head was as impracticable as if he had been struggling in the surf of the South Sea, until he was landed in the outer court-yard of the Bastille. There, against an angle of a wall, be made a F3truggle to look about him. Jacques Three was nearly at his aide; 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, astounaing noise, yet furious dumb-show.
The Prisoners
The Records
The secret ceus 1"
The instruments of torture
The Prisoners 1"
Of all these cries, and ten thousand incoherencies, cc The Prisoners 111 was the cry most taken up by the sea that rushed in, as if there were an eternity of people, as weU as of time and space. When the foremost billows rolled past, bearing the prison officers with them, and threatening them all with instant death if any secret nook remained undisclosed, Defarge laid his strong hand on the breast of one of these men-a man with a grey head who bad a lighted torch in his hand-separated him from the rest, and got him between himself and the wall.
Show me the North Tower 1" 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 and Five, North Tower ?" asked Defarge. Quick
The meaning, monsieur P"
Does it mean a captive, or a place of captivity ? Or do you mean that I shall sirike you dead P"
Kill him croaked Jacques Three, who had come close up. Monsieur, it is a cell."
Show it me 1"
Pass this way, then."
Jacques Three, with his usual craving on him, and evidently disappointed by the dialogue taking a turn that did not seem to promise bloodshed, held by Defarge's arm as lie held by the turnkey's. Their three heads had been close together during this brief discourse, and it had been as much as they could do to hear one another, even then so tremendous was the noise of the living ocean, in its irruptio~ into the Fortress, and its inundation of the courts and passages and staircases. All around outside, too, it beat the walls with a deep, hoarse roar, from which, occasionally, some partial shouts of tumult broke and leaped into the air like spray.
Through gloomy vaults where the light of day had never shone, past hideous doors of dark dens and cages, do,wn cavernous Hights of steps, and again up steep rugged ascents of stone and brick, more like dry waterfalls than staircases, Defarge, the turnkey, and Jacques Three, linked band and arm, went, with all the speed they- could make. Here and there, especially at first, the inundation started on them and swept by; but, when they had done descending, and were winding and climbing up a tower, they were alone. Hemmed in here by the massive thickness of walls and arches, the storm within the fortress and without was only audible to them in a dull, subdued way, as if the noise out of which they had come had almost destroyed their sense of hearing.
The turnkey stopped at a low door, put a key in a elmhing locli, swung the door slowly open, and said, as they all bent their heads and passed in
One hundred and five, North Tower
There was a small, heavily-grated, unglazed window high in the wall, with a stone screen before it, so that the sky could be only seen by stooping low and looking up. There was a small chimney, heavily barred across, a few feet within. There was a heap of old feathery wood ashes on the hearth. There were a stool, and table, and a straw bed. There were the four blackened walls, and a rusted 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
9.. M. 1" croaked Jacques Three, as he read greedilr. Alexandre Manette," said Defarge in his ear, following the letters with his f3wart forefinger, deeply engrained with gunpowder.
And here he wrote 'a pOOl' phyi3ieian.' And it was he, without doubt, who scratched a e endar on this stone. What is that inyour band P A crowbnr P Give it me 1"
He had still the linstock of his gun in his own hand. He made a sudden exchange of the two instruments, and turning on the wormeaten stool and table, beat them to pieces in a few blows. "Hold the light higher he said, wrathfully, to the turnkey. "Look among those fragments with care, Jacques. And see 1 Here is my knife," throwing it to him rip open that bed, and search the straw. Hold the light higher, you
With a menacing look at the turnkey he crawled upon the hearth, and, peering up the chimney, struck and prised at its sides with the crowbar; and worked at the iron grating across it. In a few minutes, some mortar and dust came dropping down, which he averted bis face to avoid nnd in it, and in the old wood-ashes, and in a crevice in the chimney into which his weapon had slipped or wrought itself, he groped with a cautious touch.
Nothing in the wood, and nothing in the straw, Jacques P" Nothing."
"Let us collect them together, in the middle of the cell So 1 Light them, you il 1
The turnkey fired the little pile, which blazed high and hot. Stooping again to come out at the 10\arched door, they left it burning, and retraced their way to the court-yard seeming to recover their sense of hearing as they came down, until they were in the raging flood once more.
They found it surging and tossing, in quest of Defarge himself. Saint Antoine was clamorous to have its wine-shop-keeper foremost in the guard upon the governor who had defended the Bastille and shot the people. Otherwise, the governor would not be marched to the Hôtel de "Ville for judgment. Otherwise, the governor would escape, and the people's blood (suddenly of some value, after many years of worthlessness) be unavenged.
In the howling universe of passion and contention that seemed to encompass this grim old officer conspicuous in his grey coat and red decoration, there was but one quite steady figure, and that was a woman's. See there is my husband 1" she cried, pointing him out. See Defarge She stood immovable close to the grim old officer, and remained immovable close to him remained immovable close to him through the streets, as Defarge and the rest bore him along remained immovable close to him when he was got near his destination, and began to be struck at from behind remàined immovable close to him when the long-gathering rain of stabs and blows fell heavy was so close to him when he dropped dead under. it, that, suddenly animated, she put her foot upon his neck, and with her cruel knife-long ready-hewed off bis head.
The hour was come, when Saint Antoine was to execute his horrible idea of hoisting up men for lamps to show what he could be and do. Saint Antoine's blood was up, and the blood of tyranny and domination by the iron hand was down-down on the steps of the Hôtel de Ville where the governor's body lay-down on the sole of the shoe of 1\Iadame Defarge where she had trodden on the body to steady it for mutilation. Il ]Lower the lamp yonder pn cried Saint Antoine, after
glaring round for a new means of death; "here is one of his soldiers to be left on guard The swinging sentinel was posted, and the sea rushed on.
The sea of black and threatening waters, and of destructive upheavings of wave against wave, whose depths were yet unfathomed and whose forces were yet unknown. The remorseless sea of turbulently swaying shapes, voices of vengeance, and faces hardened in the furnaces of Buffering until the touch of pity could make no mark on them.
But, in the ocean of faces where every fierce and furious expression was in vivid life, there were two groups of faces-each seven in number-so fixedly contrasting with the rest, that never did sea roll which bore more memorable wrecks with it. Seven faces of prisoners, suddenly released by the storm that had burst their tomb, were carried high over head all scared, all lost, all wondering and amazed, as if the Last Day were come, and those who rejoiced around them were lost spirits. Other seven faces there were, carried higber, seven dead faces, whose drooping eyelids and half-seen eyes awaited the Last Day. Impassive faces, yet with a suspended-not an aboliahed -ex:pression on them faces, rather, in a fearful pause, as having yet to ra~se the dropped lids of the eyes, and bear witness with the bloodless lips, THOU DIDST IT
Seven prisoners released, seven gory heads on pikes, the keys of the accursed fortress of the eight strong towers, soma discovered lettera and other memoriaIs of ~risonera of old time, long dead of broken hearts,-such, and isuch-like, the loudly echoing footsteps of Saint Antoine escort through the Paris streets in mid-July, one thousand seven hundred and eighty-nine. Now, Heaven defeat the fancy of Lucie Darnay, 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.
CHAPTER XXII.
THE BEA. STILL RISES.
H.A.GGARD Saint Antoine had had only one exultant week, in which to soften his modicum of hard and bitter bread to suoh extent as he could, with the relish of fraternal embraces and congratulations, when Madame Defarge sat at her counter, as muaI, presiding over the customerB. Madame Defarge wore no rose in her head, for the great brotherhood of Spies had become, even in one short week, extremely chary of trusting themselves to the saint's mercies. The lamps across his streets had a portentously elastic swing with them.
Madame Defarge, with her arms folded, sat in the morning light and heat, contemplating the wine-shop and the street. In both, there were several knots of 10ungerB,squalid and miserable, but now
with a manifest sense of power' enthroned on their distress. The raggedest nightcap, awry on the wretchedest head, had this crooked significance in it I know how hard it has grown for me, the wearer of this, to support life in myself; but do you know how easy it bas grown for me, the wearer of this, to destroy life in you pn Every lean bare arm, that had been without work before, had this work always ready for it now, tbat it could strike. The fingers of the knitting women were vicious, with the experience that they could tear. There was a change in the appearance of Saint Antoine; the image had been hammering into this for hundreds of years, and the last finishing blows bad told mightily on the expression. Madame Defarge sat observing it, with such su{>pressed approval as was to be desired in the leader of the Saint Antome women. One of her sisterhood knitted beside her. The short, rather plump wife of a starved grocer, and the mother of two children witbal, this lieutenant had a]ready earned the complimentary name of The Vengeance.
Hark said The Vengeance. Listen, then Who comes P" As if a train of powder laid from the outermost bound of the Saint Antoine Quarter to the wine-shop door, had been suddenly fired, a fast-spreading murmur came rushing along.
It is Defarge," said madame. Silence, patriots
Defarge came in breathless, pulled off a red cap lie wore, and looked around him "Listen, everywhere said madame again. Listen to him Defarge stood, panting, ugainst a background of eager eyes and open mouths, formed outside the door; all those within the wine.sbop had sprung to their feet.
Say then, my husband. What is it ?"
News from the other world
"How, then ?" cried madame, contemptuoui3ly. The other world p"
"Does everybody here recal old Foulon, who told the famished people that they might eat grass, and who died, and went to Hell ?" Everybody 1" from all throats.
"The news is of him. He is.among us!"
Among us 1" from the universal throat again. And dead P" "Not dead 1 lIe feared us so much-and with reason-that he caused himself to be represented as dead, and bad a grand mockfuneral.Butthey have found him alive, biding in the country, and have brought him in. I have seen him but now, on bis- way to the Hôtel de Ville, a prisoner. I. have said that lie had reason to fear us. Say all 1 Had he reason P"
Wretched old sinner of more than threeseore yeal's and ten, if lie 'had never known it yet, he would have known it in his heart of hearts 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 a drum was heard as she moved it at her feet behind the counter. «'PatriotF3 1" said Defarge, in a determined voice, are we réady pu Instantly Madame Defarge's knife was in her girdle; the drum was beating in the streets, as if it aud a drummer had flown togethér by magic; and The Vengeance, uttering terrific shrieks, and flmgmg-her arms about her head like all the forty Furies at once, wits tearing from house to house, rousing the women.
ar
The men were terrible, in the bloody-minded anger with which they looked from windows, caught up what arms they had, and came pouring down into the streets; but, the women were a sight to chill the boldest. From such household occupations as their bare poverty yielded;from their children, from their aged and their_ sick crouching on the bare ground famishéd and naked, they ran out with streaming hair, urging ,onè another, and themselves, to madness with the wildest ~cries and actions. Villain Foulon taken, my sister! Old Foulon taken, my mother 1 Mscreaut Foulon taken, my daughter 1 Then, .n score of others ran -into the midst of these, beating their breasts, tearing their hair and screaming, Foulon alive 1 Foulon who told the starving people they wight eat grass 1 Foulon who told my old ..father that he might, e~t. grass, when l had no bread to give him Foulon who -told my baby .it might suck grass, when these breasts w~r~.dry With want 1 0 mother of God, this Foulon 0 Heaven, -pur suffering Hear me,my .dead baby and my withered father swear on my knees, on these stones, to avenge you on Foulon Ilusbands, and brothers, and young men, Give us the blood of .Foulon, Give us the head of F011l~n, Give us the heart of Foulon, Give us, the body and. soul of Foulon, Rend Foulon to pieces, and dig him into the ground, that grass may grow from him Withthese ciïeE3.Iiul:àberEnÉ the women, lashed into b1ind frenzy, whirled about, striking and tearing at their ownfriends until they dropped in a passionate. swoon, and were only saved bp the' men belonging to them fiom bein g tJ;ampledunde¡; foot.
.JNe~ert!1eles. not a mq~Ém~,was lost not a mom,ent! This Foulon wasat the Hôtel de Vine, -and might be loosed..Never, if Saint Antoiné knew his ow« n..su fferingf3, insults, and wrongs 1 Armed men and womén flocked out of the Quarter so fast. and drew even these last drègs after thein with such n force of auction, that within a quarter of an hour there was not a human creature in Saint Antoine's bosom but a few old' crones and the wailing children.
N ~h~y were all by that time choking the Hail of examination wherè this old man, ugly and wicked, was, and overflowing into the adjacent open space andv streets. The Defarges, husband and wife, The Vengeance,. and Jacques Three, were in the first press, and at no ,great distance from him in the Hall.
99*See 1" cried madame, pointing with her knife. See the old villa~ b9und with ropes.. Th[lt was well done to tie a bunch of grass npôn. his_ bacJr.. Ha, ha»!; That was well done. Let him eat it now ~1VI~.daaie:put her knif~ under hér arm, and clapped her hands as at a' p,ay4
The people ..immediately- behind Madame Defarge, explaining the caiisé of: 4er.. satisfaction to those behind them, and those again expla*m~*4g to other~, aud.those to .others, the neighbouring streets r~o~ .withthe cÎa;ppüig of hands Similarly, during two or t4r~e hours. of draw aüd thewinnowing of many bushels of words, Mtidame Defarge'i3 frequent expressions of impatience were taken up, with ,JIlarv:ell~l;l8 quickness, at a distance the more readily, because cértâin ~en; w40 had b'y some wonderful exercise of agility climbed .,1q): architectur e to look in from the windows, knew ~ai~amé Defarge well, and acted as a telegraph between her and the fgikd outside the building.
Ai length, the sun rose so high that it struck a kindly ray, as of
hope or protection, directly down upon the old prisoner's head. The favour was too much to bear in an instant the barrier of dust and chaff that had stood surprisingly long, went to the winds, and Saint Antoine had got him 1
It was Imown directly, to the furthest confines of the crowd. Defarge had but sprung over a railing and a table, and folded the miserable wretch in a deadly embrace-Madame Defarge bad but followed and turned her band in one of the ropes with which he was tied-The Vengeance and Jacques Three were not yet up with them, and the men at the windows hlld not yet swooped into the Hall, like birds of prey from their high perches-when the cry seemed to go up, all over the city, Bring him out 1 Bring him to the lamp 1"
Down, and up, and head foremost on the steps of the building; now, on his linees; 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 bands; torn, bruised, panting, bleeding, yet always entreating and beseeching for mercy now, full 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 tif dead wood drawn through a forest of legs he was hauled to the nearest street corner wbere one of the fatal lamps swung, and there Madame Defarge let him go-as a cat might have done to a mouse -and silently and composedly looked at him while they made ready, and while lie besought her the women passionately screeching at him all the time, and the men sternly callin- out to have him killed with grass in his mouth. Once, he went aloft, and the rope broke, and they caught him shrieking twice, lie went aloft, and the rope broke, and they caught him shrieking; then, the rope was merciful and held him, a11d his head was soon upon a pike, with grass enough iu the mouth 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, on hearing when the day closed in that the son-in-law of the despatched, another of the people's enemies and insulters, was coming into Paris under a guard fire hundred strong, in cavnIry alone. Saint Antoine wrote his crimes on flaring sheets of paper, seized him-would have torn him out of the breast of an army to bear Foulon company-set bis head and heart on pikes, and carried the three spoils of the day, in Wolf-procession through the streets.
Not before dark night did the men and women come back to .the children, wailing and breadless. Then, the miserable bakem' ahops were beset by long files of them, patiently waiting to buy bad bread; and while they waited with stomachs faint and empty, they begniled the time by embracing one another on the triumphB of the day, and achieving them again in gossip. Gradually, these strings of ragged people shortened and frayed away and then poor lights began to shine in high windows, and slender fires were made in the streets1 at which neighbours cooked in common, afterwards supping at their doors.
Scanty and insufficient suppers those, and innocent of meat, as of most other sauce to wretched bread. Yet, human fellowship inîaeed some nourishment into the flinty viands, and struck some eparks of cheerfulness out of them. Fathel'B and mothere who bad had their full share in the worst of the day, played gently with their meagre az 2
children; and lovers, 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 to madame his wife, in husky tones, while fastening the door
At last it is come, my dear 1"
Eh welll" 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 wns the only voice in Saint Antoine, 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 Bastille fell, or old Foulon was seized not so with the hoarlSe tones of the men and women in Saint Antoine's bosom.
CH.APTER XXIII.
FIRE RISES.
THERE was a change on the village where the fountain fell, and where the mender of roads went forth daily to hammer out of the stones on the highway such morsels of bread as might serve for patches to hold his poor ignorant soul and his poor reduced body, together. The prison on the crag was not so dominant as of yore there were soldiers to guard it, but not many there were officers to guard the soldiers, but not one of them knew what his men would do -beyond this that it would probably not be what lie was ordered. Far and wide, lay a ruined country, yielding nothing but desolation.. Every green leaf, every blade of grass and blade 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 tbat bore themall worn out.
Monseigneur (often a most worthy individual gentleman) was a national blessing, gave a chivalrous tone to things, was a polite example 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 expressly for Monseigneur, should be ao soon wruug dry and squeezed out There must be something short-sighted in the eternal arrangements, surely! Thüs it was, however and the last drop of blood having been extracted from the flints, and the last screw of the rack having been turned so often tbat its purchase crumbled, and it now.turned and turned with nothing to bite, Monseigneur began to run away from a phenomenon so low and unaccountable.
But, this was not the change on the village, and on many a village likë it. For scores of years gone by, Monseigneur had squeezed it and WruDg.it, and had seldom graced it with his presence except for the pleasures of the chase=now, found in hunting the people now, found in hunting the beasts, for whose preservation Monseigneur made edifying spaces of barbarous and barren wilderness. No. The
change consisted in tbe appearance of strange faces of low caste, rather than in the disappearnnce of the high-caste, chiselled, and otherwise beatified and beatifying features of Monseigneur. For, in these times, as the mender of roads worked, solitary,in the dust, not often troubling himself to reflect that dust lie was and to dust lie must return, being for the most part too much occupied in thinlcing how little lie had for supper and how "much more he would eat if lie had it-in these times, as lie raised his eyes from hie lonely labour and viewed the prospect, lie would see some rough figure approaching on foot, the like of which was once a rarity in those parts, but was now a frequent presence. As it advanced, the mendèr of roads would discern without surprise, tbat it was a shaggy-hairéd man, of almost barbarian aspect, tau, in wooden shoes that were 'clumsy even to the eyes of a mender of roads, .grim, rough, swart, steeped in the mud and dust of many.higliways, dank with the marBhy moisture of many low grounds eprmkled with the thorns and leaves and moss of many byways through woods.
Sucli a man came u~on him, like a ghost, at noon in the July weather, as lie sat on his heap of stones under a bank, taking such shelter as lie could get from a shower of hail.
The man looked at him, looked nt the village in the hollow, at the mill, and at the prison on the crag. When he had identified these objects in what benighted mind lie had, lie said, in a dialect that was just intelligible
How goes it, Jacques ?"
All well, Jacques."
Touch then 1"
They joined hands, and the man sat down on the heap of stones. No dinner p"
Nothing but supper now," said the mender of 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 nt 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 a puff of F3moke. Touch then." It was-the turn of the mender of roads to say it this time, after observing these operations. They again joined hands. To-night p" said the mender of roads.
To-night," Bllid the man, putting the pipe in his mouth. Where ?"
Here."
He and the mender of roads sat on the heap of stones looking silently at one another, witb the hail driving in between them like a pigmy charge of bayonets, until the sky began to clear over the village.
Show me 1" said the traveller then, moving to the brow of the hill. See returned the mender of roads, with extended :6.nger. You go down here, and straight through the street, and past the fountain-"
To the Devil with all that interrupted the other, rolling his eye over the landscape. I go through n'o streets and past no foun- tains. Well P"
"Well 1 About two leagues beyond the summit of that hill above the village."
Good. When do you cease to work P"
At sunset."
Will you wake me, before departing. I have walked two nights without resting. Let me finish my pipe, and I shall sleep like a child. Will you wake me ?"
Surely."
The wayfarer smoked his pipe out, put it in his breast, slipped off his great wooden shoes, 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-c1ouds, rolling away, revealed bnght bars and streaks of slry which were responded to by silver gleams upon the landscape, the little man (who wore a red cap now, in place of his blue one) seemed fascinated 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 and beard, the coarse woollen red cap, the rough medley dress of homespun stuit and hairy skins of beasts, the powerful frame attenuated by spare living, and the sullen and desperate compression of the lips in sleep, inspired the mender of roads with awe. The traveller had travelled far, and his feet were footsore, and his ankles chafed and bleeding his great shoes, stuH'ed with leaves and grass, had been heavy to drag over the many long leagues, and his clothes were chafed into holes, as lie himself was into sores. Stooping down beside him, the road-mender tried to get a peep at secret wenpons in his breast or where not but, in vain, for he 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 ronds, to be so much air as against this figure. And when he lifted his eyes from it to the horizon and looked around, he saw in his sma,ll fancy similar figures, stopped by no obstacle, tending to centres all over France.
The man slept on, indifferent to showers of hail and intervals of brightness, to sunshine on his face and shadow, to the pattering 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 his tools together and all things ready to go down into the village, roused him. Good 1" said the sleeper, rising on his elbow. "Two leagues beyond the summit of the hill Fil
About.'
About. Good 1"
The mender of roads went home, with the dust going on before him according to the set of the wind, and was soon at the fountain, squeezing himself in among the lean kine brought there to drink, and appearing even to whisper to them in his whispering 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 remained there. A curious contagion of whispering was upon "it, and also, when it gathered together at the fountain in the dark, another curious contagion of looking expectantly at the sky in one direction only. Monsieur Gabelle, chief functionary of the place, became uneasy
went out on his house-top alone, and looked in tbat direction too; glanced down from behind his chimneys at the darkening faces by the fountain below, and sent word to the sacristan who kept the keys of the church, that there might be need to ring the tocsin byand-by.
The nigh1ï deepened. The trees environing the old château, keeping its solitary state apart, moved in a rising wind, as though they threatened the pile of building massive and dark in the gloom. Up the two terrace flights of steps the rain ran wildly, and beat at the great door, lilie a swift messenger rousing those within uneasy rushes of wind went through the hall, among the old spears and hives, and passed lamenting up the stairs, and shook the curtains of the bed where the last Marquis had slept. East, West, North, and South, through the woods, four heavy-treading, unkempt figures crushed the high grass and cracked the branches, striding on eautiously to come together in the court-yard. Four lights broke out there, and moved away in different directions, and all was black again. But, not for long. Presently, the château began to make itself strangely visible by some light of its own, as though it were growing luminous. Then, a flickering streak played behind the architecture of the front, picking out transparent places, and showing where balustrades, arches, and windows were. Then it soared bigher, and grew broader and brighter. Soon, from a score of the great. windows, fIarnes burst forth, and the stone faces, awakened, stared out of fire.
A faint murmur arose about the house from the few people who were left there, and. there was saddling of a horse and riding away. There was spurring and splashing through the darkness, and bridle was drawn in the space by the village fountain, and the horse 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 and fifty particular friends, stood with folded arms at the fountain, looking at the pillar of fire inthe skye "It must be forty feethigh," said they, grimly and never moved.
The rider from the château, and the horse in 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 offieers were looking at the fire removed from them, a group of soldiers. Help, gentlemenofficers 1 The château ia on fire valuable objects may be f3aved from the flames by timely aid Help help The ofâcerb looked towards the soldiers who looked at the fire; gave no ordera; and answered, with shrugs and biting of lips, Il It must burn."
As the rider rattled down the hill again and through the street, the village was illuminating. The mender of roads, and the two hundred and :!ifty particular friends, inspired as one man and woman by the idea of lighting up, had darted into their houses, and were putting candles in every dull little pane of glass. The general scarcity of everything, occaf3ioned candles to be borrowed:in a rather peremptory manner of Monsieur Gabelle; and in; a moment of reluctance and hesitation on that functionary's part, the mender of roade, once so submissive to authority, had remarked that carnages were good to make bonfires with, and that post-horses would roast. The château was left to itself to flame and burn. In the roaring
and raging of the conflagration, a red-hot wind, driving straight from the infernal regionF3, seemed to 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 the smoke again, as if it were the face of the cruel Marquis, .burning at the stake and contending with the fire.
The château burned; the nearest trees, laid hold of by the fire, scorched and shrivelled; trees at a distance, fired by the four fierce figures, begirt the blazing edifice with a new forest of smoke. Molten lead and iron boiled in the marble basin of the fountain the water ran dry the extinguisher tops of the towers vanished like ice before the heat, and trickled down into four rugged wells of flame. Great rents and s~lits branched out in the solid walls, like crystallisation stupified birds wheeled about, and dropped into the furnace four fierce figures trudged away, East, West, North, and South, along the nigbt~enshrouded roads, guided by the beacon they bad lighted, towards their. next destination.. The illuminated village had seized hold of the 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 Gabelle had to do with the collection of rent and taxes-though it was but a small instalment of taxes, and no rent at all, that Gabelle had got in 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 bar his door, and retire to hold counsel with himself. The result of that conference was, that Gabelle again withdrew himself to his house-top behind his stack of chimneys this time resolved, if his door were broken in (he was a small Southern man of retaliative temperament), to pitch himself head foremost over the parapet, and crush a man or two below. Probably, Monsieur Gabelle passed a long night up there, with the distant château for fire and candle, and the beating at his door, cornbined with the joy-ringing, for music not to mention his having an ill-omened lamp slung across the road before bis posting-house gate, which the village show ed a lively inclination to displace in his favour. A trying suspense, to be passing a zvhole summer night on the brink of the black ocean, ready to take that plunge into it upon which Monsieur Gabelle had resolved 1 But, the friendly dawn appearing at last, and the rush-candles of the village guttering out, the people happily dispersed, and Monsieur Gabelle came down, bringing his life with him for tbat while.
Within a hundred miles, and in the light of other fires, there were other functionaries less fortunate, that night and other nights, whom the rising sun found hanging across once-peacefuIstreets, where they had been born and bred; also, there were other.villagers and townspeople less fortunate than the mender of roads and his fellows, upon whom the functionaries and soldiery turned with success, and whom they strung up in their turn. But, the fierce figures were steadily wendinn East, West, North, and South, be that as it would and. whosoever hung, fire burned. The altitude of the gallows that would turn to water and quench it, no functionary, by any stretch of mathematics, was able to calculate successfuhy.
CHAPTER XXIV.
DRA WN' TO THE LOA.1>STONE E00g.
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 was always on the floiv, higher and higher, to the terror and wonder of the beliolders on the shore-three years of tempest were consumed. Three more birthdays of little Lucie had been woven by the golden thread into the peaceful tissue of the life of her home.
Many a night and many a day had its inmatefi listened to the echoes in the corner, with hearts that failed them when they heard the thronging feet.. For, the £oôtstepa had become to their minds as the footsteps of a people, tumultuous under a red flag and with théir country declared in danger, changed into wild beasts, by terrible enchantment long persisted in.
Monseigneur, as a class, had dissociated himself from the phenomenon of his not being appreciated of his being so little wanted inFrance, as to incur considerable danger of receiving his dismissal from it, and this life together. Like the fabled rustic .who raised the Devil with infinite pains, and was so terrified at the sight of him that he could ask the Enemy no question, but immediately fled; so, Monseigneur, after boldly reading the Lord's Prayer backwards for a great number of years, and performing many other potent spells for compelling the Evil One, no sooner beheld him in his terrors than he took to his noble heels.
The shining"Bull's Eye of the Court was gone, or it would hav e been the mark for a hurricane of national 1Jullets. It had never. been a good eye to see with-had long had the mote in it of Lucuer's pride, Sardanapalus's luxury, and a mole's blindness-but it. had dropped out and wds gone. The Court, from that exclusive inner circle to its outermost rotten ring of intrigue, corruption, and dissimulation, was all gone together. Royalty was gone had been besieged in its Palace and" suspended," when the last tidings came over.
The August of the year one thousand seven hundred and ninetytwo was come, and Monseigneur was by this time scattered far and wide. As was natural, the head-quarters and great gathering-place of Monseigneur, in London, was Tellson's Bank. Spirits are supposed to haunt the places where their bodies most resorted, and Monseigneur without a guinea haunted the spot where his guineas used to be. Moreover, it was the spot to which such French 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 high estate. Again: those nobles who had seen- the coming storm in time, and, antici ating under or confiscation, had made provident remittances to Telleon's, were always to be heRrd .of there by their néedy brèthren. To which it must be added that every new comer from France reported himself and his tidings
at Tellson's, almost as a matter of course. For sucli variety of reasons, Tellson's was at that time, as to French intelligence, a kind of IDgh Exchange;. and this was so weIl known to the public, and the inquiries made there were in consequence so numerous, that Tellson's sometimes wrote the latest news out in a line or f3o and posted it in the Bank windows, for a,ll who ranthrough Temple Bar to read.
On a fiteaming, misty afternoon, Mr. Lorry sat at his desk, and Charles Darnay stood leaning on it, talking with him in a low voice. The penitential den once Bet apart for interviewa with the House, was now the news-Exchange, and was fiUed to overflowing. It was within half an hour or so of the time of closing.
But, although you are the youngest man that ever lived," said Charles Darnay, rather hesitating, Il 1 must still Bugge5t to you-"
"1 understand. That 1 am too old ?" said Mr. Lorry. cc Unsettled weather, a long journey, uncertain means of travelling, a disorgani5ed country, a city that may not even be safe for you. 23
Mp dear Charles," said Mr. Lorry, with cheerful confidence, you touch Bome of the reasons for my going: not for my staying away. It is safe enough for me nobody will care to interfere with an oId fellow of hard upon fourscore when there are so many people there much better worth interfering with. As to its being a disorganised city, if it were not a disorganised city there would be no occasion to send somebody from our House here to our House there; who knows the city and the business, of old, and is in Te1laon's confidence. As to the uncertain traveuing, the long journey, and the winter weather, if I were not preparea to submit myself to a few inconveniencef3 for the sake of Tellson's, after all these years, who ought to be pu
1 wish I were going myself," said Charles Darnay, somewhat restlessly, and like one tbinking aloud.
"Indeed! I You are a pretty fellow to object and advise exclaimed Mr. Lorry. You wish you were going yourself ? And you a Frenchman born P You are a wise counsellor."
`~ lYLp dear Mr. Lorry, it is because I am a Frenchman born, that the thought (which l .did not mean to utter here, however) has -passed through my mind often. One cannot help thinking, having had some sympathy for the miserable people, and having abandoned something to them," he spoke here in his former thoughtfuI manner, "that one might be listened to, and might have the power to persuade to some restraint. Only last night, after you had left us, when l was ta1king to Lucie-"
"When you were talking to Lucie," Mr. Lorry repeated. "Y es. I wonder you are not nshamed to mention the name of Lucie l Wishing you were going to France at this time of day 1" "However, I am not going," said Charles Darnay, with a amile. It is more to the purpose that you say are.
And l am, in plain realitr. The truth is, my dear Charles," Mr. Lorry glanced at the distant HouF3e, and lowered his voice, "you can have no conception of the difficulty with which our business is transacted, and of the peril in which our books and papers over yonder
are involved. The Lord above knowi3 what the compromising consequences would be to numbers of people, if some of our documents were seized or destroyed; and they might be, at any time, you know, for who can say that Paris is not set afire to-day, or sacked to. morrow 1 Now, a judicious selection from these with the least possible delay, and the burying of them, or otherwise getting of them out of harm'a way, is within the power (without loss of precious time) of scarcely any one but myself, if any one. And oh 1 hang back, when Tellson's knows this and says this-TeUsoWs, whose bread:1 have eaten these sixty years because 1 am. a little atiif about the joints ? Why, I am a boy, sir, to half a dozen old codgers here 1"
How I admire the gallantry of your yonthful spirit, Mr. Lorry." Tut 1 Nonsense, sir !-And, my dear Charles," said Mr. L01:ry, glancing at the House again, you are to remember, that getting things out of Paris nt this present time, no matter what things, is next to an impoBsibility. Papers and precious matters were this very day brought to us here (I speak in stricli confidence; it is not business-like to whisper it, even to you), by the strangest bearers you can imagine, every one of whom had his head hanging on by a single hair as he passed the Barriers. At another time, our parcels would come and go, as easily as in business·like Old England; but now, everything is stopped."
And do you really go to..night.r"
I really go to-night, for the case has become too pressing to admit of delay."
And do you take no one with you pu
AIl sorts of people have been propoBed to me, but 1 will have nothing to say to any of them. I mtend to take Jerry. Jerry bas been my body-guard on Sunday nights for a long time past, and l am used to him. Nobody will suspect Jerry of being anything but an English bull-dog, or of having any design in his head but to fly at anybody who touches his master."
1 must say again that I heartily admire your gallantry and youthfulness.'
1 must say again, nonsense, nonsense 1 When l have eaecuted this little commission, 1 shall, perhaps, accept Tellson's proposal to retire and live at my ease. Time enough, then, to think about growing old."
This dialogue had taken place nt Mr. Lorry's usual desk, with Monseigneur swarming within a yard or two of it, boastful of what lie would do to avenge himself on the rascal-people before long. It was too much the way of Monseigneur under his reverses as a refugee, and it was much too much the way of native :British orthodoxy, to talk of this terrible Revolution as.ü it were the one only harvest ever known under the skies that had not been sown-as if nothing had ever been done, or omitted to be done, that had led to it-as if observers of the wretched millions in France, and of the mÍsused and perverted resources that ahould have made them prosperous, had not seen it.-inevitably coming, years before, and had not in plain words recorded what they saw. Such vapouring, c~mbined with the extravagant plots of Monseigneur for the restoration of a state of tbings that had utterly exhauf3ted itself, and worn out
Heaven and earth as well as itself, was hard to be endured without some remonstrance by any aane man who knew the truth. And it was snch vapouring all about his ears, like a troublesome confusion of blood in bis own head, added to a latent uneasiness in his mind, which had already made Charles Darnay restless, and which still kept him so.
Among the talkers, was Stryver, of the King's Bencli Bar, far on his way to state promotion, and, therefore, loud on the theine broac11ing to Monseigneur, his devices for blowing the people up and exterminating them from the face of the earth, and doing without them and for accomplif3hing many similar objects akin in their nature to the abolition of eagles by sprinkling salt on the tails of the race. Him, Darnay heard with a particular feeling of objection; and Darnap stood divided between going away that he might hear no more, and remaining to interpose his word, when the thing that was to be, went on to shape itself out.
The House approached Mr. Lorry, and laying a soiled and unopened letter before him, asked if he had yet discovered any traces of the person to whom it was addressed P The House laid the letter down so close to Darnay that lie 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. Evrémonde, of France, Confided to the cares of Messrs. Tellson and Co., Bankers, London, England."
On the marriage morning, Doctor Manette had made it his one urgent and express request to Charles Darnay, that the secret of this name should be-unless lie, the Doctor, dissolved the obligationkept inviolate between them. Nobody else knew it to be his name his own wife had no suspicion of the fact; Mr. Lorry could have none.
cc No," said Mr. Lorry, in reply to the House; I have referred it, I think, to everybody now here, and no one can tell me where this gentleman is to be found."
The hands of the clock verging upon the hour of closing the Bank, there was a general set of the current of talkers past Mr. Lorry's desk. He held the letter out inquiringly; and Monseigneur looked at it, in the pel'Son of this plotting and indignant refugee and Monseigneur looked at it, in the person of that plotting and indignant refugee and This, That, and The Other, all had somethmg dis- paraging to say, in French or in English, concerning'the Marquis who was not to be found. C)
Nephew, I believe-but in any case degenerate successor-of the polished J\lar9.uis who was murdered," said one. Happy to say, I never knew him."
A craven who abandoned his post," said another-this Monseigneur had been got out of Paris, legs uppermost and half suffocated, in a load of hay-" some years ago."
"Infected with the new doctrines," said a third, eyeing the direction through llisg1,ass in passing; set himself in.opposition to the last Marquis, abandoned the estates when he inherited them, and left them to the ruffian herd. Theywill recompense him now, l hope, as he deserves."
Hey P" cried thé blatant Stryver. Il Did he though ? Is that
the sort of fellow P Let us look ut his infamous name. D-n the fellow
Darnay, unable to restrain himself any longer, touched 31r. Stryver on the shoulder, and said
I know the fellow."
Do you, by Jupiter P" said Stryver. "I am sorry for it." "\Vhy p»
Why, 1%1r. Darnay P D'ye hear what lie did P Don't ask, why, in these times."
But I do ask why."
Then l tell you again, ill:r. 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 most pestilent and blasphemous code of devilry that ever was known, abandoned his property to the vilest scum of the earth that ever did murder by wholesale, and you ask me w11y I am sorry that a man who instructs youth knows him ? Well, but I'll answer you. I aul sorry, because I believe there is contamination in such a scoundrél. That's why."
l\'Iindful of the secret, Darnay with great difliculty checked himself, and said Ÿou may not understand the gentleman."
I understand how to put you in a corner, Mr. Darnay," said Bully Stryver, and l'U 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 position to this butcherly mob, I wonder lie is not at the head of them. But, no, gentlemen," said Stryver, looking all round, and snapping his fingers, I know something of human nature, and I tell you that you'll never find a fellow like tbis fellow, trusting himself to the mercies of such precious protégés. No, gentlemen he'll always show 'em a clean pair of heels very early in the souffle, and sneak away."
With those words, and a final snap of his fingers, Mr. Stryver shouldered himself into I17leet-street, amidst the general approbation of his hearers. 112r. Lorry and Charles Darnay were left nlone at the desk, in the general departure from the Bank.
Will you take charge of the letter P" said Mr. Lorry. You know where to deliver it ?"
I do."
Will yoi~ undertake to explain that we suppose it to have been addresseahere, on the chance of our knowing where to forwnrd it, and that it has been here some time pu
I will do so. Do'you atart for Paris from here P"
"From here, nt eight."
1 will come back, to see you off."
Very ill at ease with himself, and with Stryver and most other men, Darnay made the best of his way into the quiet of the Temple, opened the letter, and read it. These were its contents
"Prison of the Abbaye, Paris. June 21, 1792.
MONSIEÛB HERETOFORE TIiE ~'I18~UIS.
After having long been in danger of my life at the hands of the village, I have been seized, with great violence and indignity, and brought a long ~ournep on foot to Paris. On the road I have suffered a great deal. Nor is that all.; my bouse has been destroyed-razed to the ~round..
"The crime for which I am imprisoned, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, and for which l shall be summoned before the tribunal, and shall lose my life
(without your so gcnerous help), is, they tell me, trcnson ac.,ainst the mnjcsty
(without your so ~enerous help), is, they tell me, treason against tUe ma~esty
of the people, in t at I have acted against t for an emigrant. It is in vain 1 represent that I have acted for them, and not against, accordin~ to your commands. It is in vain l represent that, before th sequestmtion of emig rant property, I had remitted the imposts they had ceased to pay; that I had collected no rent; that I had had recourse to no proccss. The only response is, that I have acted for an emigrant, and where is that emigrant P "Ah most gracious Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, where is that emigrant I cryn my sleep where is he l demand of Heaven, will he not come to deliver me No answer. 11h Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, l send m desolate cry across the sea, hoping it may perhaps reacli your cars throu h thegreat bank of Tilson known at Paris 1
"For the love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the honour of your noble name, I supplicate you, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, to succour and release me. My fault is, that I have been truc to you. 0 Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, 1 pray you be you truc to me
"From this prison here of horror, whence I every hour tend nearer and nearer to destruction, I send you, Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, the assurance of my dolorous and unhappy service. Your afRictcd, GABELLE."
The latent uneasiness in Darnay's mind was roused to vigorous life by this letter. The peril of an old servant and a good one, whose only crime was fidelity to himself and bis family, stared him so reproachfully in the face, that, as lie walked to and fro in the Temple considering what to do, lie almost hid his face from the passers-by. He knew very well, that in his horror of the deed whicli 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 fabric that lie was supposed to uphold, he had acted imperfectly. He knew very well, that in his love for Lucie, his renunciation of his social place, though by no means new to his own mind, had been hurried and incomplete. He knew that lie ought to have systematicnlly worked it out and supervised it, and that he had meant to do it, and tbat it had never been done..
The happiness of his own chosen English home, the necessity of being always actively employed, the swift changes and troubles of the time which had followed on one another so fast, that the events of this week annihilated the immature plans of last week, and the events of the week following made all new again lie knew very well, that to the force of these circumstances lie had yielded :-not without disquiet, but still without côntinuous and accumulating resistance. That lie had watched the times for a time of action, and that they had shifted and struggled until the time had gone by, and tbe nobility were trooping from France by every highway and by-way, and their property was in course of confiscation and destruction, and their very names were blotting out, was as well known to himself as it could be to any new authority in France tbat might impeach him for it.
But, lie had oppressed no man, lie had imprisoned no man; lie was so far from having harshly exacted payment of his dues, that lie had relinquished them of 'his own will, thrown himself on a world with
no favour in it, won his own private place there, and earned his own bread. Monsieur Gabelle had held the impoverished and involved estate on written instructions to spare the people, to give them what little there was to give-such fuel as the heavy creditore would let them have in the winter, and such produce as could be saved from the same grip in the summer-and no doubt lie had put the fact in plea and proof, for his own safety, so that it could not but appear now.
This favoured the desperate resolution Charles Darnay had begun to make, that lie would go to Paris.
Yes. Like the mariner in the old storv, the windF3 and streamB had driven him within the influence of the"Loadstone Rock, and it was drawing him to itself, and lie must go. Everything that arose before his mind drifted him on, faster and faster, more and more steadily, to the terrible attraction. His latent uneasiness had been,. that bad aims were being worked out in bis own unhappy land by bad instruments, and that lie who could not fail to know that he was better than they, was not there, trying to do something to etay bloodshed, and assert the claims of mercy and humanity. With this uneasiness half stifled, and half reproaching him, he had been brought to the pointed comparison of himself with the brave old gentleman in whom duty was so strong; upon that comparison (injurious to himself), had instantly followed the sneers of Monseigneur, which had stung him bitterly, and those of Stryver, which above all were coarse and gaUing, 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.
Hia resolution was made. He must go to Paris.
Yes. The Loadstone Rock was drawing him, and he must sail on, until lie struck. Ho knew of no rock he saw hardly any danger. The intention with which lie had done what he had done, even although he had left it incomplete, presented it before him in an aspect'that would be gratefully acknowledged in France on his presenting himself 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 he even saw himself in the illusion with some influence to guide this raging Revolution that was running so fearfully wild.
As lie walked to and fro with his resolution made, he considered tbat neither Lucie nor her father must know of it. until lie was gone. Lucie should be spared the pain of sepamtion; and her father, alwaya reluctant to turn his thoughts towards the dangerous ground of old, should come to the knowledge of the step, as a step taken, and not in the balance of suspense and doubt. How much of the incompleteness of his situation was referable to her father, thro~gh the painful anxiety to avoid reviving old associations of France in bis .mind, he did not discuss with himself. But, that circumstance too, had had its influence in his course.
lIe walked to and fro, with thoughts very busy, until it was time to return to Tellson's, and take leave of Mr. Lorry. As soon as he arrived in Paris lie would present himself to this old friend, but ha must say nothing of his intention now.
A carriage with post-horses was ready nt the 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 charged with any written answer, but perhaps you will take a verbal one p"
That I will, and readily," said Mr. Lorry, "if it is not dangerous"
Not at all. Though it is to a prisoner in the Abbaye." "What is his name said Mr. Lorry, with his open pochet-booh in his hand.
Gabelle."
Gabelle. And what is the message to the unfortunate Gabelle in prison r"
Simply, 'that he has received the letter, and will come.' "Any time mentioned r"
"He will start upon his journey to-m.orrow night."
Any person mentioned P"
lTo."
Ile helped Mr. Lorry to wrap himself in a number of coats and cloaks, and went out with him from the warm atmosphere of the old bank, into the misty air of Fleet-street. My love to Lucie, and to little Lucie," said :1\11'. Lorry at parting, and take precious care of them till I come back." Charles Darnay shook his head and doubt-fully. amiled; as the carriage rolled away.
That night-it was the fourteenth of August-he sat up late, and wrote two fervent letters one was to Lucie, explaining the strong obligation lie was under to go to Paris, and ehowing her, at length, the reasons that he had, for feeling confident that he could becoine involved in no personal danger there; the other was to the Doctor, confiding Lucie and their dear child to his care, and dwelling on the same topics with the strongest assurances. To both, lie wrote that he would despatch letters in proof of his safety, immediately after bis arrival.
It was a hard day, that day of being among them, with the first reservation of their joint lives on his mind. It was a hard matter to preserve the innocent deceit of which they were profoundly unauspicious. But, an affectionate glance at his wife, so happy and busy, made him. resolute not to tell her what impended (he had been half moved to fto it, so strange it was to him to act in nnything without her quiet aid), and the day passed quickly. Early in the evening he embraced her, and her scarcely less de~ar namesake, pretending that he would return by-and-by (an imaginary engagement took him out, and lie had secreted a valise of clothes ready), and so lie emerged into the heavy mist of the heavy streets, with a heavier heart. The unseen force was drawing him fast to itself, now, and all the "tides and winds were setting straight and strong towards it. He left his two .letterswith a trusty porter, to ~be delivered half an hour before midnight, and no sooner; took horse for Dover; and began bis journey. "For the love of Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the honour of your noble name 1" was the poor prisoner's cry with which he strengthened his sinking heart, as he left all thnt was dear on earth behind him, and floated away for the Loadstone Rock.
THE END OF THE SECOND BOOK.
BOOK TRhJ THIRD.
TI-1-E~ TRACK OF ~1 STOI~DZ.
CHAPTER I.
zrr SECRET.
TUE traveller fared slowly on his way, who fared towards Paris from England in the autumn of the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety-two. More than enough of bad roads, bad equipages, and bad horses, lie would have encountered to delay him, though the fallen and unfortunate King of France had been upon his throne in all his glory but, the changed times were frnught with other obstacles than these. Every town gate and village taxing-house had its band of citizen-patriots, with their national muakets in a most explosive state of readiness, who stopped all comers and goers, cross-questioned them, inspected their papers, looked for their names in lists of their own, turned them back, or sent them on, or stopped them and laid them in hold, as their capricious judgment or fancy deemed best for the dawning Republic One and Indivisible, of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death.
A very few French leagues of his journey were accomplished, when Charles Darnay began to perceive that for him along these country r oads there was no hope of return ùntil he should have been declared a good citizen at Paris. Whatever might befal now, lie must on to his ourney's end. Not a mean village closed upon him, not a common barrier dropped across the road behind him, but lie knew it to be another iron door in the series that was barred between him and England. The universal watchfulness so encompnssed him, that if lie had been taken in a net, or were being forwarded to his destination in a cage, he could not have felt his freedom more completely gone. This universal watchfulness not only stopped him on the highway twenty times in a stage, but retarded his progress twenty times in a day, by riding after him and taking him back, riding before him and stopping him by anticipation, riding with him and keeping him in charge. He had been a up on his journey in France alone, when lie went to bed tired out, in a little town on the high road, still a long way from Paris.
Nothing but the production of the afIlicted Gabelle's letter from his prison of thé Abbaye would have got him on so far. His difficulty at the guard-house in this aman place had been such, that lie felt his journey to have come to a criais. And lie was, therefore, as little surN
prised as a man could be, to find himself awakened at the small inn to which he had been remitted until morning, in the middle of the night.
Awakened by a timid local functionary and three armed patriots in rough red caps and vitli pipes in their mouths, who sat down on the bed.
"Emigrant," said the functionary, "I am going to send you on to Paris, under an escort."
Citizen, I desire nothing more than to get to Paris, though l could dispense with the escort."
Silence 1" growled a red-cap strikine at the coverlet with the butt-end of his musket. Peace, aristocrat 1"
"It is as the good patriot says," observed the timid flillctio11al'Y. You are an aristocrat, and must have an escort-and must pay for it."
I have no choice," said Charles Darnay.
Choice 1 Listen to him 1" cried the same scowling red-cap. As if it was not a favour to be protected from the lamp-iron 1" "It is always as the good patriot says," observed the functio11ary. ":Bise and dress yourself, emigrant."
Darnay complied, and was taken back to the guard-house where other patriots in rough red caps were smoking, drinking, and sleeping, by a watch-fire. Here he paid a heavy price for his escort, and hence he started with it on the wet, wet roads at three oclock in the morning.
The escort were two mounted patriots in red capa and tricolored cockades, armed with national muskets and saures, who rode one on either side of him. The escorted governed his own horse, but a loose line was attached to his bridle, the end of which one of the patriots kept girded round his wrist. In this state they set forth, with the sharp rain driving in their faces clattering at a heavy dragoon trot over the uneven town pavement, and out upon the mire-deep roads. In this state they travel'Bed without change, except of horses and pace, all the mire-deep leagues that lay between them and the capital. They travelled in the night, halting an hour or two after daybreak, and 1'ying by until the twilight fell. The escort were so wretchedly clothed, that they tw isted straw round their bare legs, and thatched their ragged shoulders to keep the wet off. Apart from the personal discomfort of being so attended, and apart from such considerations of present danger as arose from one of the patriots being chronically drunk, and carrying his muaket ver! recklesf3ly, Charles Darnay did not allow the restraint that was laid upon him to awaken any serious fears in his breast for, he reasoned with himself that it could have no reference to the merits of an individual case that was not yet stated, and of representations, confirmable by the prisoner in the Abbaye, that were not yet made.
.But, when they came to the town of :Beauvais-which they did at eventide, when the streets were filled with people-he could not conceal from himse that the aspect of a~aira was very alarming. An ominous crowd gathered to see him dismount at the posting-yard, and many -voices in it called out loudly, Down with the emigrant 1" He ~topped in the act of Bwinging himself out of his saddle, and, resuming it as bis safest place, said
Emigrant, my friends l Do you not see me here, in France, of my own will ?"
Ÿou are a cursed emigrant," cried a farrier, making at him in a furious manner through the press, hammer in 'hand and yon are a cursed aristocrat 1"
The postmaster interpoaed himself between tbis man and the rider's bridle (at which he was evidently ma1ring), and aoothingly said, ~` Let him be let him be 1 He will be judged at Paris" Judged repeated the farrier, swinging bis hammer. Ay 1 and condemned as a traitor." At this, the crowd roared approval. Checking the postmaster, who was for tmmulg his horse's head ta the yard (the drunken patriot eat composedly m his saddle looking on, witli the line round his wrist), Darnay said, as soon as ne could make his voice heard
I`riends, you deceive yourselves, or you are deceived. l am not a traitor."
Il Ile lies 1" cried the smith. "He ifi a traitor since the decree. His life is forfeit to the people. Hia cursed life is not his own 1".» At the instant when Darnay saw a rush in the eyes of the crowd, which another instant would have brought upon him, the postmaster turned hie ho1'8e into the yard, the escort rode in close upon his horse's flanks, and the postmaster ehnt and barred the crazy double gates. The farrier struck a blow upon them with his .hammer, and the crowd groaned but, no more was done.
What is this decree that the emith spoke of P" DamayaBK:ed the postmaster, when he bad thanked him, and stood beside him in the yard.
Truly, a decree for selling the property of emib ants:' When paueii?"
On the fourteenth."
The day I left England lie
Everybody says it iF3 but one of several, and that there will be others-if there -are not a1ready-banlshing all emigrante, and condemning all to death who :eturn. That is what ne meant when he said your life was not your own:
But there are no such deerees yet
What do 1 know 1" Baid the postmaster, shrngging.nis Bnon1ders there may be, or there will be. It is all the same. What would you have P"
They rested on some straw in a loft -until the middle of the mgnt, and then rode îarward again when all the town was asleep. Among the many wild -chamgesdbwrvable on familial' things which make tbis wild ride unreal, not the least was the seeming rarity of sleep. After long and lonely BpUlTing over dreary roads, they would come to a cluster of poor cottages, not steeped in dar1mess,but all glittering with lights, ana would find the people, În a -ghostly manner in the dead of the night, circling hand in hand round a shrivelled tree of Liberty, or all drawn up together singing a Liberty song. Happily, however, there was sleep in Beauvais that night to help them out of it, and they passed on once more into solitude and IonelinesB jingling through the untimely cold and wet, among impoverished fields that had yelded no fruits of the earth that year, diveisified by the blackened remains of burnt houses, and by the sudden .emergence
N2
from ambuscade, and sharp reining up across their way, of patriot patrols on the watch on all the roads.
1. Pàylight at last found them before the wall of Paris. The barrier wâs:cloaed and ~troIlgly guarded when they rode up to it. ere are the papers of this prisoner ?" demanded a resolute.l()p~g:~anin l.1~th.oriFY; .w:howas summoned out by the guard. 'aturallys~~ckby. the., disagreeable word, Charles Darnay r eqùested the .spealœr to take notice that lie was a free traveller and .French citizen, in charge of an escort which the disturbed state of the 'comitry had imposed upon him, and which lie had paid for. Where," repeated the same personage, without taliing any heecl of 'him. whatever, "are the papers of this prisoner i'"
The drunkéù patriot had them in his cap, and produced them. Casting his èyes over Gabelle's letter, the same personage in autl~ori~I~s~eq's~p1e disorder and surprise, and looked at Darnay with a close attention..
He'left. escort and escorted without saying a word, however, filld went.into the g~ard-~oom meanwhile, they sat upon their horses outside thègate.Lo04ingabout him while in this state of suspense, C~l;1rlesDarnay: ob~~rved that. the gate was held by a mi~ed guard of s1ol~Uers and patriots, the latter far outn:umbering the former and thât 'Yh~~ ingress into the city for. peasants' carts bringing in supplies,for ,s~p~,t~affic, and traffickers, was easy enough, egress, èveri for the home1iest people; was very difficult. A numerous medley of men ,and women, mot ,to mention beasts and vehicles of variotis sorts;as'wÏ1iti;I.lg. to iÉ!~Ü'e' forth 'but, the previous identification was so strict tbat they filtered through the barrier very slowly. Some of these peoplé .lo?:ew..their~1;ll'Il for examination to be so far off, that they.lay down ôri the grôûnd'to sleep or smoke, while others talked together, or loitered about.. The red cap and tricolor eoclmde were universül, both among rüen and women:
Wh .en.- b:e..Iiad-sat.in lris saddle some half-hour, taking note of these ,t~g~, ',p~y. found himself confronted by the same man in au,t~ority1;'Yh~~ directed, the guard to open the barrier. Then lie delivered to the escort, drunk and sober, a receipt for the escorted, and requested him to dismount. He did so, and the two. patriots, leadiDg. his .tired horse, turned and rode away without entering the city.
Hé -accompamied' his conductor into a guard-room, smelling of common wine and tobacco, where-certain soldiers and patriots, asleep and awàke, drunk and sober, and in variouf3 neutral states' ~between sleeping ànd waking, drUnkenness. and. eobriety, were standing and .lying about: The light in.the guard-house, half derived from the )ù'éil-lamps'of the night, and, half from the overcast day, was in aê?rre~pop~gly un .certain condition. Sorrie registers were lying op~ri.'on a désk, and an officer of a coarse, dark aspect, presided over
,these.'
Citizén Defarge," said lie to Darnay's conductor, as lie took a ,sl,ip. of pap~r. t~, mite on. Is this the emigrant Evrémonde ?" ~cThis.-is the man."
".1~.our' age,-Evrémonde rIt
'hirij--seven~"
MillTIed; Evrémonde P"
yes."
Where married?"
In England.
Without doubt. Where is your wife, Dvrémonde ?"
In Enbland."
Without doubt. You are consigtied, Evrémonde, to the. Prison of La Force."
Just Heav en 1" etclaimed Darnay. Under what law, and for what oflence ?"
The officer looked up from his slip of paper for a moment. "Ye have new 1,.tws, Evrémonde, and new offences, since you were lere." 1-le said it with a lard smile, and went on writing. I entreat you to observe that I have come here voluntarily,:in. response to that written appeal of a fellow-countryman which lies before you. I demand no more than the opportunity to do so without delay. Is not that my ri~,lit?"
Emigrants have no rights, Evrémonde," was the stÓlid reply. The officer wrote until lie had :6.nished, read over to himself what lie had written, sanded it, and handed it to Defarge, with the words In secret."
Defarge motioned with the paper to the prisoner that he must accompany him. Tlie prisoner obeyed, and a guard of two armed patriots attended them.
It is yoli," said Defarge, in a low voice, us they went down the guard-house steps and turned into Paris, "who married the daughter of Doctor Illanette, once a prisoner in the Bastille tbiLt is no more."
Yes," replied Darnay, looking at him with surprise.
My name is Defarge, and l keep a wine-shop in the Quarter Saint Antoine. Possibly you have heard of me."
My wife came to your house to reclaim her father P Yes1" The word "\Vire" seemed to serve as a gloomy reminder to Defarge, to say with sudden impatience, Il lu the name of that sharp female newly born and called La Guillotine, ichy did you come to France P"
You heard me say wh3·, a minute ago. Do Sou not believe it ie the-truth ?" A bad truth for you," said Defarge, speaking with knitted brows, and looking straight before him.
"lndeed,Iamlosthere. All here is so unprecedented, so chan ged, so sudden and unfair, that l am absolùtely lost. Will you render me a little help pu
None." Defarge spoke, always looking straight before him. Will you answer me a single question?"
Perhaps. According to its nature. You can say what it is." In this prison that 1 am going to so unlustly shall I have some free communication with the world outside t" shall I have some
you will see."
I am not to be buried there, prejudged, and without any meana of presenting my case ?"
You will see. But, what then P Other people have been similarly buried in worse prisons, before now."
But never by me, Citizen Defarge."
Defarge glanced darkly at him for answer, and walked on in a steady and set silence. The deeper lie sank into tbis silence, the fainter hope there was-or so Darnay thought-of his softening in any slight degree. He, therefore, made haste to say
It is of the utmost importance to me (you know, Citizen, even better than I, of how much importance), that I should be able to communicate to Mr. Lorry of Tellson's Bank, an English gentleman who is now in Paris, the simple fact, without comment, that I have been thrown into the prison of La Force. Will you cause that to be done for me pu
"1 will do," Defarge doggedly rejoined, nothing for you. l'Iy duty is to my country and the People. l am the sworn servant of both, against you. I will do nothing for you."
Charles Darnay felt it hopelesa to entreat him further, and his pride was touched besides. As they walked on in silence, he could not but see how used the people were ta the spectacle of pi~isoners pasaing along the streets. The very children scnrcely noticed him. A few passers turned their heads, and a few shook their fingers at him as an aristocrat; otherwise, that a man in good clothes should be going to prison, was no more remarliable than that a labourer in working clothes should be going to work. In one narrow, dark, and dirty street through which they passed, an excited orator, mounted on a stool, was addressing an excited audience on the crimes against the people, of the king and the royal family. The few words that lie caught from thia man's lips, first made it known to Charles Darnay that the king was in prison, and that the foreign ambassadors had one and all left Paris. On the road (except at Beauvais) lie had heard absolutely nothing. The escort and the universal watchfulness had completely isolated him.
That he had fallen among far greater dangers than those which had developed themselves when lie left England, lie of course knew now. That perils had thickened about him fast, and might thicken faster and faster yet, lie of course knew now. He could not but admit to himself that lie might not have made this journey, if lie could have foreseen the events of a few days..And yet his misgivings were not BO dark as, imagined by the light of this later time, they would appear. Troubled as the future was, it was the unknown future, and in its obscurity there was ignorant hope. The horrible massacre, days and nights long, which, within a few rounds of the clock, was to set a great mark of blood upon the blessed garnering time of harvest, was as far out of his knowledge as if it had been a hundred thousand yèars away. The sharp female newly-born, and called La Guillotine," was hardly known to him, or to the generality of people, by name. The frightful deeds that were to be soon done, were probably unimagined at that time in the brains of the doers. How could they have a place in the shadowy conceptions of a gentle mind p Of unjust treatment in detention and hardship, and in cruel separation from his wife and child, lie foreshadowed the likelihood, or the certainty but, beyond this, lie dreaded nothing distinctly. With this on his mind, which was enough to carry into a dreary prison court-yard, lie arrived at the prison of La Force.
A man with n bloated face opened the strong wicket, to whom De-. farge presented The Emigrant Evrémonde~"
What the Devil 1 How many more of them 1" exclaimed the man with the bloated face.
Defarge took his receipt without noticing the exclamation, and withdrew, with his two fellow-patriots.
What the Devil, I say again 1" exclaimed the gaoler, left with his wife. How many more 1
The gaoler's wife, being provided with no answer to the question, merely replied, One must have patience, my dear l" Three turnkeys who entered responsive to a bell she rang, echoed the sentiment, and one added, For the love of Liberty which sounded in that place lilre an inappropriate conclusion.
The prison of La Force was a gloomy prison, dark and filthy, and with a horrible smell of foul sleep in it. Extraordinary how soon the noisome flavour of imprisoned sleep, becomes manifest in all such places that are ill-cared for 1
In secret, too," grumbled the gaoler, looking at the written paper. As if I was not already full to bursting
He stuck the paper on a file, in an ill-humour, and Charles Darnay awaited his further pleasure for half an hour sometimes, pacing to and fro in the strong nrched room sometimes, resting on a stone seat in either case detained to be imprinted on the memory of the. chief and his subordinates.
Corne 1" aaid the chief, at length taking up his keys, "come with me, emigrant."
Through the dismal prison twilight, his new charge accompanied him by corridor and ataircase, many doors clanging and locking behind them, until they came into a large, low, vaulted chamber,. crowded with prisoners of both sexes. The women were seatéd at a long table, reading and writing, knitting, sewing, and embroidering; the men were for the most part standing behind their chairs, or lingering up and down the room.
ln the instinctive association of prisoners with shameful crime and disgrace, the new comer recoiled from this company. But, the crowning unreality of his long unreal ride, was, their all at once rising to receive him, with every refinement of manner lmown. to the time, and with all the engaging graces and courtesies of life. So strangely clouded were these refinements by the prison manners and gloom, so spectral did they become in the inappropriate. squalor and misery through whieh they were seen, that Charles Darnay seemed to stand in a company of the dead. Ghosta all L~ The ghost of beauty, the ghost of stateliness, the ghost of elegance, the ghost of pride, the ghost of frivolity, the ghost of wit, the ghost of youth, the ghost of age, all waiting their dismi8Bal from the desolate shore, all turning on him eyes that were changed by the death they had died in coming there.
lt struck him motionless. The gaoler standing at his Bide, and the other gaolers moving about, who would have been well enough as to appearance in the ordinary exercises of their functions, looked so extravagantly coarse contrasted with sorrowing mothers and blooming daughters who were there-with the apparitions of the eoquetter~ the young beauty, and the mature ivoman d.elicately bred-tnat the inversion of all experience and likelihood which the acene of sbadmrs: presented, was heigliteued to its utmost. Surely, ghosts ail. Surely,.
the long unreal ride some progress of disease that had brought him to these gloomy shades
ln the name of the assembled companions in misfortune," said a gentleman of courtly appearance and address, coming forward, I have the honour of giving you welcome to La Force, and of c011doling with » ou on the calamity that has brought you among us. ~llay it soon terminate happily 1 It would be an impertinence elsewhere, but it is not so here, to ask your name and condition?" Charles Darnay roused himself, and gave the required information, in words as suitable as lie could find.
Il But I hope," said the gentleman, following the chief gaoler with his eyes, who moved across the room, that you are not in secret?" "I do not understand the meaning of the term, but 1 have heard them say so." ZD
"Ah, what a pity We so much regret it 1 But take courage several members of our society have been in secret, at first, and it has lasted but a short time." Then lie added, raisillg his voice, I grieve to inform the society-in secret."
There was a murmur of commiseration as Charles I?arnay crossed the room to a grated door where the gaoler awaited him, and many voices-among which, the soft and compassionate voices of women were conspicuous-gave him good wishes and encouragement. He turned at the grated door, to render the thanks of his heart it closed under the gaoler's hand and the apparitions vanished from his sight for ever.
The wickèt opened on a stone staircase, leading upward. When they had ascended forty steps (the prisoner of an hour already counted them), the gaoler opened a low black door, and they passed into a solitary cell. It struck cold and damp, but was not dark. "Yours," said the gaoler.
Why am I confined alone P"
How do 1 lmow
I can buy pen, ink, and paper ?"
Such are not my orders. You will be visited, and can ask then. At present, you may buy your food, and nothing more." There were in the cell, a chair, a table, and a straw mattress. As the gaoler made a general inspection of these objects, and of the four walls, before going out, a wandering fancy wandered through the mind of the prisoner leaning against the wall opposite to him, that this gaoler was so unwholesomely bloated, both in .face and person, as to look like a man who had been drowned and :6.lled with water. When the gaoler was gone, lie thought, in the same wandering way, Now am I left, as if I were dead." Stopping then, to look down at the mattress, lie turned from it with a sick feeling, and thought, And here in these crawling creatures is the first condition of the body after death."
Five paces by four and a half, five paces by four and a half, five paces by four and a half." The prisoner walked to and fro in his cell, counting its measurement, and the roar of the city arose lilce muffled drums with a wild swell of voices added to them. "He made Bhoes, lie made shoes, lie made shoes." The prisoner counted the measurement again, and paced faster, to draw his mind with him from that latter repetition. '.1 Tiie ghosts that vanished when the wicket closed. There was one among them, tlie appearance of a lady dressed
in black, who was lealling in tlle embrasure of a window, and she had a light shining upon her golden huir, and she looked like :!le Let us ride on again, for God's sake, througli the illuminated villages with the people all awake 1 He made shoes, lie made shoes, lie made shoes. Five paces by four and a half." With such scraps tossing and rolling upward from the depths of his mind, the prisoner walked faster and faster, obstinately counting and counting; and the roar of the city changed to this extent-that it still rolled in lilm muffled drums, but with the wail of voices that lie knew, in the swell tliat rose above them.
CHAPTER II.
TUE GILINDSTONE.
TELLSON'S Bank, established in the Saint Germain Quarter of Paris, was in a wing of a large house, approached by a court-yard and shut off from the street by a high wall and a strong gate. The house belongëd to a great nobleman who had lived in it utltil he made a fliglit from the troubles, in his own cook's dress, and got across the borders. A mere beast of the chase flying from hunters, he was still in his metempsyc110sis no other than the same Monseigneur, the preparation of whose chocolate for whose lips had once occupied three strong men besides the cook in question.
Monseigneur gone, and the three strong men absolving themselves from the sin of having drawn 1lis high wages, by being more than ready and willing to cut his throat on the altar of the dawning Republic one and indivisible of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, Monseigneur's house had been first sequestrated, and then confiscated. For, all things moved so fast, and decree followed decree with that fierce precipitation, that now upon the third night of the autumn month of September, patriot emissariea of the law were in possession of Monseigneur's house, and had marked it with tho tricolor, and were drinking brandy in its state apartments. A place of business in London like Tellson's place of business in Paris, would soon have driven the House out of its mind and into the Gazette. For, what would staid British responsibility and respectability have said to orange-trees in boxes in a Bank court-yard, and even to a Cupid over the counter ? Yet such things were. Tellson's Lad whitewashed the Cupid, but he was still to be seen on the ceiling, in the coolest linen, aiming (as he very often does) at money frOID morning to night. Bankruptcy must inevitably have come of this young Pagan, in Lombard-street, London, and also of a curtained alcove in the rear of the immortal boy, and also of a looking-glass let into the wall, and also of clerks not at all old who danced in public on the slightest provocation. Yet, a French Tellson's could. get on with these things exceedingly well, and, as long as the times held together, no man had taken fright at them, and drawn out ma money.
What money would be drawn out of Tellson's henceforth, and what would lie there, lost and forgotten; what plate and jewels
would tarniah in Tellson's hiding-places, while the depositors rusted in prisons, and when they should have violently perished how many accounts with Tellson's, never to be balanced in this world, must be carried over into the next; no man could have said, that night, any more than Mr. Jarvis Lorry could, though lie thonght heavilyof these questions. He sat by a newly lighted wood fire (the blighted and unfruitful year was prematurely cold), and on lis honest and courageous face there was a deeper shade than the pendent lamp could throw, or any object in the room distortedly reflect-a shade of horror.
1-Ie occupied rooms in the I3anlz, in his fidelity to the House o which lie had grown to be a part, like strong root-ivy. It chanced that they derived a hind of security from the patriotic occupation of the main building, but the true-hearted old gentleman never calculated about that. All such circumstances were indifferent to him, so that lie did his duty. On the opposite side of the court-yard, under a colonnade, was extensive standing for carriages-where, indeed, some carriages of Monseigneur yet stood. Against two of the pillars were fastened two great flaring flambeaux, and, in the light of these, standing out in the open air, was a large grindstone a roughly mounted thing which appeared to have hurriedly been brought there from some neighbouring smithy, or other workshop. Rising and looking out of window at these harmless objects, Mr. Lorry shivered, and retired to his seat by the fire. He had opened, not only the gIass window, but the lattice blind outside it, and lie had closed both again, and lie shivered through his frame.
From the streets beyond the high wall and the strong gate, there came the usual night hum of the city, with now and then an inde'bable ring in it, weird and unearthly, as. if some unwonted i3ounds of a terrible nature were going up to Heaven.
"Thank God," said Mr. Lorry, clasping his hands, that no one near and dear to me is in this dreadful town to-night. May He have mercy on all who are in danger!"
Soon afterwards, the bell at the great gate sounded, and lie thought, They have come back and sat Iistening. But, there was no loud irruption into the court-yard as he had expected, and lie heard the. gate clash again, and all was quiet.
The nervousness and dread that were upon him inspired that vague uneasiness respecting the Bank, whieh a great charge would naturally awaken, with such feelings roused. It was well guarded, and lie gotup to go among the trusty people who were watching it, when his door suddenly opened, and two figures rushed in, at sight of which lie fell back in amazement.
Lucie and her father 1 Lucie with her arms stretched out to him, and with that old look of earnestness so concentrated and intenaified, that it seemed as though it had been stamped upon her face expressly to give force and power to it in this one passage of her life. What is this cried Mr. LOITY, breathless and confused. "What is the matter P Lucie Manette What has happened ? What lias brought you here ? What is it P"
With the look fixed upon him, in her paleness and wildness, she panted out in his arms, imploringly, 0 my dear friend 1 My hrurband 1"
Your husband, Lucie pn
Charles."
What of Charles P"
IIere."
Here, in Paris P"
"Has been here, some dnys-tbree or four-I don't know how many-I can't collect my thoughts. An errand of generosity brought him here unlmown to us he was stopped at the barrier, and sent to prison."
The old man uttered an irrepressible cry.. Almost at the eame moment, the bell of the great gate rang again, and a loud noise of feet and voices came pouring into the court-yard.
"Wlmt is that no~se ?" said the Doctor, tnrning towards the window. Don't look 1" cried ]\11'. Lorry. "Don't look out Manette, for your life, don't touch the blind lU
The Doctor turned, with his hand upon the fastening of the window, and said, with a cool, bold smile 0
"7YTy dear friend, I have a charmed life in this city. l have been a Bastille prisoner. There is no patriot in Paris-in Paris ? ln France--who, knowing me to have been a prisoner in the Bastille, would touch me, except to overwhelui me with embraces, or carry me in triumpIl. My old pain has given me a power that has brought us through the barrier, and gained us news of Charles there, and brought us here. l knew it would be sa; I knew l conld help Charles out of all danger I told Lucie so.- What is that noise ?" His hand was again upon the window.
"Don't look lU cried blr. Lorry, a'bsolutely desperate. "Na, Lucie, my dear, nor pou He got his arm round her, and held her. Don't be so terrified, my love. I solemnly swear to yon that l Jmow of no harm having happened to Charles that I had no suspicion even, of his being in this fatal place. What prison is lie in P"
"I~a Force 1"
"L1 Force Lucie, my child, if ever you were brave and Ber. viceable in your life-and yon were alwaY5 both-you will compose yourself now, to do exactly as I bid yon; for, more depends upon it than you ean think, or l can say. There is no belp for you in any action on your part to-night; yon cannot possibly stir out. I say this, because what I must bid you to do for Charles's sake, is the hardest tbing to do of all. You must instantly be obedient, still, and quiet. You must let me put you in a room at the back here. Yeu must leave your father and me a10ne- for two minutes, and as there are Lire and Death in the world you must not delay."
l will be submissive to you. l see in your face that you know l can do nothing else than this. I know you are true."
The old man kissed ber, and hurriecl ber into his room, and turned the key then, came hurrying back to the Doctor, and opened the window and partI y opened the blind~, and put his hand upon the Doctor's arm, and looked out with him into the court"-yard. Looked out upon a throng of men and women not enough in number, or near enough, to fill the court-yard: not more than forty or fifty in all. The people in possession of the house had let them in a.t the gate, and they had ruehed in to work at the grindstone; it had
evidently been set up there for their purpose, as in a convenient and retired spot.
But, such awful worlœrs, and such awful work
The grindstone had a double handle, and, turning at it madly were two men, whose faces, as their long bair flapped bac1c when the whirlings of the grindstone brought their faces up, were more horrible and cruel than the visages of the wildest savages in their most barbarous disguise. False evebrows and false moustaches were stuck upon them, and their hideous countenances were all bloody and and all awry with howling, and all staring and glaring witli excitement and want of sleep. As these ruffians turned and turned, their matted 10cl\B now flung forward over their eyes, now flung backward over their necks, some women held wine to their mouths that they might drink and what with dropping blood, and what with dropping wine, and what with the stream of sparks struck out of the stone, all their wicked atmosphere seemed gore and fire. The eye could not detect one creature in the group, free from the smear of blood. Shouldering one another to get next at the sharpening-stone, were men stripped to the waist, with the stain all over their limbs and bodies; meu in all sorts of rags, mth the stain upon those rags men devilishly set off with spoils of women's lace and silk and ribbon, with the stain dyeing those trifles through and through. Hatchets, knives, bay~nets, swords, all brought to be sharpened, were all red with it. Some of the hacked swords were tied to the wrists of those who carried them, with strips of linen and fragments of dress ligatures various in kind, but all deep of the one colour. And as the frantic wielders of these weapons snatched them from the stream of sparks and tore away into the streets, the same red hue was red in their frenzied eyes ;-eyes which any unbrutalised beholder would have giv en twenty y ears of life, to petrify with a well-directed gun.
All this was seen in a moment, as the vision of a drowning man, or of any human creature at any very great pass, could see a world if it were there. They drew baclc from the window, and the doctor looked for explanation in his friend's ashy face.
They are," Mr. Lorry whispered the words, glancing fearfully round at the locked room, "l\1urdering the prisoners. If you are sure of what you say; if you really have the power you think you have-as l believe you have-make yourselt' known to these devils, and get taken to La Force. It may be too late, I don't know, but let it Dot be a minute later
Doctor Manette pressed his hand, hastened bareheaded out of the room, and was in the court-yard when Mr. Lorry regained the blind. His streaming white liair, his remarkable face, and the impetuous confidence of his manner, as he put the weapons aside like water, carried him in an instant to the heart of the concourse at the stone. For a few moments there was a pause, and a hurry, and a murmur, and the unintelligible sound of his voice and then 1\1r. Lorry saw him, surrounded by all, and in the midst of a line twenty men long, all linked shoulder to shoulder, and hand to shoulder, hurried out with cries of Live the Bastille prisoner Help for the Bastille prisoner's kindred in La Force Room for the Bastille prisoner in front there Save the prisoner Evrémonde at La Force and a thousand answering shouts.
He closed the lattice again with a fiuttering heart, closed the win- dow and the curtain, hastened to Lucie, and told her that her father was assisted by the people, and gone in search of lier husband. He found her child and Miss Pross with her; but, it never occurred to him to be surprised by their appearance until a long time afterwards, when lie sat watching them in such quiet as the night lmew. Lucie had, by that time, fallen into a stupor on the floor at his feet, clinging to,his hand. Miss Pross had laid the child down on his own bed, and her head had gradually fallen on the pillow beside her pretty charge. 0 the long, long night, with the moans of the poor wife. And 0 the long, long night, with no return of her father and no tidings 9
Twice more in the darJmess the bell at the great gate sounded, and the irruption was repeated, and the grindstone whirled and spluttered. What is it ?" cried Lucie, affrighted. "Rush! The soldiers' swords are sharpened there," said Mr. Lorry. The place is National property now, and used as a kind of armoury, my love."
Twice more in all but, the last spell of work was feeble and fitful. Soon afterwards the day begau to dawn, and lie softly detacbed himself from the clasping hand, and cautiously looked out again. A man, so besmeared thnt lie might have been a sorely wounded soldier creeping back to cOllsciousness on a field of slain, was rising from the pavement by the side of the grindstone, and looking about him with a vacant air. Shortly, this worn-out murderer descried in the imperfect light one of the carriages of Monseigneur, and, staggering to that gorgeous vehicle, climbed in at the door, and shut himself up to take his rest on its dainty cushions.
The great grindstone, Earth, had turned when Mr. Lorry looked out again, and the sun was red on tbe court-yard. But, the lesser grindstone stood alone there in the calm morning air, with a red upon it that the sun had never given, and would never take away.
CHAPTER III.
THE SHADOW.
ONE. of the first considerations which arose in the business mind of Mr. I~orry when business hours came round, was this :-that lie had no right to imperil Tellson's by sheltering the wife of an emigrant prisoner under the Bank roof. His own possessions, safety, life, lie would have hazarded for Lucie and her child, without a moment's demur; but, the great trust he held was not his own, and as to that business charge lie was a strict man of business. At first, his mind reverted to Defarge, and lie thought of finding out the wine-sliop again and taking counsel with its master in reference to the safest dwe11ing-place in the distracted atate of the city. But, the same consideration that suggested him, repudiated him; he lived in the most violent Quarter, and doubtless. was influential there, and deep in its dangerous workings.
Noon coming, and the Doctor not returning and every minute's
delay tending to compromise Tellson's, Mr. Lorry advised with Lucie. She said that ber father had spoken of hiring a lodging for a short term, in that Quarter, near the Bankinb house. As there was no business objection to this, and as he foreBaw that even if it were all well with Char1es, and he were to be released, he could not hope to leave the city, Mr. I`orry went out in quest of such a lodging, and found a suitaole one, high up in IL Temoved by-street where the closed blinda in all the other wiiàdows of a highmelancholy square of buildings marked deberteclhomes. To this lodging he at onceremoved Lucie and her child, and Miss Pro,si;: giving them what oomfort he could, and much more than he had himself. He left Jerry with them, as a figure to fill IL doorway that would bear considerable knocking on the head, and returned to hie own occupations. A disturbed and doleful mind he brought to bear upon them, and slowly and heavily the day lagged on with him.
It wore itself out, and wore him out with it, until the Bank c1osed. He was again alone in }ris room of the previous night, considering what to do next, when heheard a foot upon the stair lu a few moments, a man stood in his preeence, who, with a keenly observant look at him, addreaeed him by his name.
"Y our servant," said Mr. Lorry. Do you know me P" He was a strongly made 1I\an with dark curling hair, from fortyfive to fifty years of age. For answer he repeated, without any change of emphasis, the words:
"Do you know me ?"
I have seen you somewhere."
Perhaps at my wine-F3hop pu
Much interested and agitated, J\fr. Lorry said You come from Doctor Manette P"
Yea. I come from Doctor Manette."
And what says he r What does he send me r"
Defarge gave into his anxious band, an open scrap of paper. It bore the words in the Doctor's writing,
H Charles is safe, but I cannot safely leave tlis place yet. I haye obtained the favour that the bearer has a short note from Charles to his wife. Let the bearer see his wife."
It was dated from La Force, within an hour.
Will you accompany me," said Mr. Lorry, joyfully relieved after reading this note aloud, Il to where his wife reudei3 P"
49 -Yes," returned Defarge.
Scarcely noticing, as yet, in what a curionsly reserved and me. chanical way Defarge spoke, Mr. Lorry put on his bat and they went down.into the courfï..yard. There, they fonnd two women; one, knitting.
Madame Defarge, surely 1" said 3L~. Lorry, who had left her in exactly the same attitude some seventeen years ago.
It is she," ob8erved her husband.
"Does:Madame go with .us.P" :inquired Mr. Lorry, seeing that she moved as theymoved.
u Yee. That she may ve :ab1e io recognise the faces and know the persons. It is for their safety."
Beginning to be struck bY Defarge's manner, Mr..Lorq looked
dubiously at him, and led the way. Bath the women followed the second woman being The Vengeance.
They passed through the intervening streets as quickly as they might, ascended the staircase of the new domicile, were admitted by Jerry, and found Lucie weeping, alone. She was thrown into a transport by the tidings Mr. Lorry gave her of her husband, and clasped the hand that delivered his note-little thinking what it had been doing near him in the night, and might, but for a chance, bave done to him.
"DEAREsT,-Take courage. I am wel>, and your father has influence around me. You cannot answer this. Kiss our child for me." That was all the writing. It was i3o much, however, to her who received it, that she turned from Defarge to his wife, and kissed one of the hands that knitted. It was passionate, loving, thankful, womanly action, but the hand made no response-dropped cold and heavy, and took to its knittîng again.
There was something in its tonch that gave Lucie a check. She stopped in the act of putting the note in her bosom, and, with her hands yet at her neck, looked terrified at Madame Defarge. Madame Defnrge met the lifted eyebrows and forehead with a cold, impassive stare.
"1\'ly dear," said Mr. Lorry, striking in to explain; "there are frequent risings in tbe ~treetB; and, although it is not likely that they will ever trouble you, Madame Defarge wishes to see those whom she has the power to protect atsuch times, to the end that sbe may know them-that she may identify them. 1 believe," said Mr. Lorry, rather halting-in bis reassuring worda, as the stony manner df all the three impressed itself upon him more and more, "1 state the case, Citizen Defarge P"
Defarge looked gloomily at his wife, and gave no other answer thnn. a gruff sound of acquiescence.
You had better, Lucie," said Mr. Lorry, doing all he could to propitiate, by tone and manner, have the dear child here, and our good Pross. Our good Pross, Defarge, is an English lady, and knoW8 no French."
The lady in question, whose rooted conviction that she was more than a match for any foreigner, was not to be sbalren by distress and danger, appeared with folded arms, and observed in English to The Vengeance whom ber eyea mat enconntered, Well, 1 am sure, Boldface 1 1 hope you are pretty well She a1so bestowed a British cough on Madame Defarge but, neither of the two took much heed of her.
Is that his child ?" said Madame Defarge, stopping in her work for the first time, and pointing her knitting-needle at little Lucie as if it were the finger of Fate.
Yes, madame, answered Mr. Lorrp Il thie is our poor prisoner's darling daughter, and only child."
The shadow attendant on Madame Defarge and her party seemed to fall so threatening and dark on the child, that her mother instinctively lmeeled on the ground beside her, and held her to her breast. The shadow attendant on Madame Defarge and her party f3eemed then to fall, threatening and dark, on both the mother and the child. 0
It is enough,myhusband," said Madame Defurge. I have seen them. We may go."
But, the suppressed manner had enough of menace in it-not visible and presented, but indistinct and witliheld-to alarm Lucie into saying, as she laid her appealing hand on Madame Defarges dress o~
You will be good to my poor husband. You will do him no harm. You will help me to see him if vou can P"
Your husband is not my business here," returned ~lTadame Defarge, looking down at her with perfect composure. It is the daughter of your father who is my business here."
Il For my sake, then, be merciful to my husbaud. For my child's sake! She will put lier hands together and pray you to be merciful. are more afraid of you than of these others."
Madame Defarge received it as a compliment, and looked at her bqsband. Defarge, who had been unensily biting his thumb-nail and looking at her, collected his face into a sterner expression. What is it that your husband says in that little letter ?" asked Madame Defarge, with a lowering smile. "Influence he says soiiie- thing touching influence ?"
That my father," said Lucie, hurriedly taking the paper from her breast but with her alarmed eyes on her questioner and not on it, bas much influence around him."
Surely it will release Iiim!" said Madame Defarge. Let it do so."
"As a wife and mother," cried Lucie, most earnestly, I implore you to have pity on me and not to exercise any power that you possess, against my innocent husband, but to use it in his behalf. 0 sister-woman, think of me. As a wife and mother
Madame Defarge looked, coldly as ever, at the suppliant, and said, turning to her friend The Yengeance:
The wives and mothers we have been used to see, since we were as little as this child, and much less, lave not been greatly considered ? We have known t7aeir husbands and fathers laid in prison and kept from them, often enough ? All our lives, we have seen our sister-women suffer, in themselves and in their cbildren, poverty, nakedness, hunger, thirst, sickness, misery, oppression alld neglect of all kinds P"
We have seen nothing else," returned The Vengeance. We have borne this a long time," said lZadamé:Defarge, turning her eyes again upon Lucie. Judge you Is it likely that the trouble of one wife and mother would be much to us now rU She resumed ber knitting and went out. The Vengeance followed. Defarge went last, and closed the door.
Courage, my dear Lucie," said Mr. Lorry, as lie raised ber. Courage, courage!. So far all goes well with us-much, much better than it has of late gone with many poor souls. Cheer up, and have a thankful heart."
I am not t~anldess, l hope, but that dreadful woman seems to throw a shadow on me and on all my hopes."
Tut, tut said Mr. Lorry; what is this despondency in the brave little breast P A shadow indeed 1 No substance in it, Lucie." But the shadow of the manner of these Defarges was dark upon himself, for all tbat, and in bis secret mind it troubled him greatly.
CHAPTER IV.
o~r.u STORM.
DOCTOR II~NETTE did not return until the morning of the fourth day of his absence. So much of what had happened in that dreadful time as could be lcept from the ]mowledge of Lucie was so well concealed from her, that not until long afterwards when France and sbe were far apart, did she Imow that eleven hundred defenceless prisoners of both sexes and all ages had been Idlled by the populace that four daJs and nights had been darkened by this deed of horror; and that the air around her had been tainted by the i3lain. She only knew that tlere had been an attnck upon the prisons, that an political prisoners l~ad been in danger, and that some had been dragged out by the crowd and murdered.
To Mr. Lorry, the Doctor communicated under an injunetion of secrecy on which lie had no need to dwell, that the crowd bad taken him tbrough a scene of carnage to tbe prison of La Force. That, in the prison he had found a self-appointed Tribunal sitting, before which the prisoners were brought singly, and by which they were rapidly ordered to be put forth to be massacred, or to be releaEied, or (m a few cases) to be sent back to their cells. That, presented by his conductors to this Tribunal, he had announced himself.by name and profession as having been'for eighteen years a secret and an unaccused prisoner in the Bastille that, one of the body so sitting in judgment bad risen and identified him, and that this man was Defarge..
That, hereupon he had ascertained, through the registers on the table, that his son-in-law was among the living prisoners, and had pleaded bard to the Tribunal-of whom some members; were asleep and some awake, some dirty with murder and some clean, some sober and some not-for his life and liberty. That, in the first frantic greetings lavished on himself as a notable sufferer under the overthrown system, it bad been accorded to him to have Charles Darnay brought before tbe lawless Court, and examined. That~ he seemed on the point of being at once released, when the tide in his'favour met with some unexplained check (not intelligible to the Doctor), which led to a few words of secret conference. That, the man sitting as President had then informed Doctor Manette that the prisoner must remain in custody, but should, for his saké, be held 'inv1Olate in safe custody. That, immediately, on a signal, the prisoner was removed to the interior of the prison again; but, that'he, the Doctor, had then so strongly pleaded for permission to remain and assure himself that his son-in-laiv was, through no malice or mischance, delivered to the concourse whose murderous yells outside the gate had often drowned the proceedings, that he had obtained the permission, and had remained in that Hall of 13lood until the danger waa over..
0
The sights he had seen there, "ith brief snatelies of food and sleep by intervals, shall remain untold. The mad joy over the prisoners who were saved, had astounded him scarcely less than the mad ferocity against those who were -dût to pieces. One prisoner there was, he said, who had been discharged into the street free, but at whom a mistahen savage had thrust a pike as he passed out. I3eing besought to go to lIim and dress the wound, the Doctor had passed out at the same gate, and had found him in the arms of a company of Samaritans, who were seated on the bodies of their victims. Witli an inconsistency as monstrous as anything in this awful nightmare, they had helped the hea1er, and tended the wounded man with the gentlest solicitude-had made a litter for him and escorted him carefully from the spot-had then caught up their weapons and plunged anew into a butchery so dreadful, that the Doctor had covered his eyes ivitli his hands, and awooned away in the midst of it.
As Mr. Lorry received these confideuces, and as he watched the face of his friend now sixty-two years of age, a ll1isgiving arose within him that such dread experiences would revive the old danger. But, he had never seen his friend in -his present aspect; he had never at all known him in his present character. For the first time the Doctor felt, now, that his suffering was strength and power. For the first time, lie felt that in that sharp fire, he had slowly forged the iron which could break the prison door of his daughter's husband, and deliver him. It all tended to a good end, my friend it was not mere vraste and ruin. As my beloved child was helpful in restoring me to myself, I will be helpful now in restoring the dearest part of herself to her; by the nid of Heaven I will do it Thus, Doctor Manette. And when Jarvis Lorry saw the kindied eyes, the resolute face, the calm strong look and bearing of the man whose life always seemed to him to have been stopped, like a dock, for so many years, and then set going again with an energy whicli had lain dormant during the cessation of its usefulness, he believed.
Greater things than the Doctor had at that time to contend with, ~ould have yielded before his persevering purpose. While he kept himself in his J?lace, as a physician whose business was with all degrees of mankind, bond and free, rich and poor, bad and good, he used his personal influence so ",isely, that he was soon the inspecting physician of three prisons, and among them of La Force. He could now assure Lucie that her husband was no longer confined alone, but was mÎxed with the general body of prisoners he saw her husband weekly, and brought sweet messages to her, straight from his 1ips; sometimes her husband himself sent a letter to her (though never by the Doctor's hand), but she was not permitted to write to him for, among the many wild suspicions of plots in the prisons, the wildest of all pointed at emigrants who were known to have made friends or permanent connexions abroad.
This new life of the Doctor's was an anxious life, no doubt still, the sagacious 1l~fr. Lorry saw that there was a new sustaining pride in it. Nothing unbecoming tinged the pride it was a natural and worthy one but he observed it as a curiosity. The Doctor 1mew, that up to that time, his imprisonment had been associated in the minds of hie daughter and his friend, with his personal affliction, deprivation, and weakness. Now that this was changed, and he
knew himself to be invested through that old trial with forces to which they both looked for Charles's ultimate safety and deliverance, Le became so far e~alted by the change, that he took the lead and direction, and required them as the wenk, to trust to him as the strong. The preceding relative positions of himself and Lucie were reversed, yet onlyas the liveliest gratitude and affection could reverse them, for he could have had no pride but in rendering some service to her who had rendered so much to him. "All curious to see," thought IIIr. Lorry, in his amiably shrewd way, but all natural and right; so, take the lead, my dear friend, and keep it; it couldn't be in better bands."
But, though the Doctor tried hard, and never .censed trying, to get Clarles Darnay set at liberty, or at least to get him brought to trial, the public current of the time set too strong and fast for him. The new Era begau the king was tried, doomed, and bebeaded; the Republie of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, declared for victory or death against the world in arms the black flac, waved. night and day from the great towers of Notre-Dame; three hundred thousand men, summoned to rise against the ants of the eartb, rose from all the varying soils of France, as if the dragon's teeth had been sown broadcast, and had pelded fruit equally on hill and plain, on rock in gravel and alluvial mud, under the bright sky of the South and under the clouds of the North, in fell and forest, in the vineyards and the olive-grounds and aIDong the cropped grass and the stubble of the corn, along the fruitful banks of the broad rivers, and in the sand of the sea-shore. What private solicitude could rear itself against the deluge of the Year One of Liberty-the deluge rising from below, not falling from above, and with the windows of Heaven shut, not opened
There was no pause, no pity, no peace, no interval of relenting rest, no measurement of time. Though days and nights circled as regularly as when time was young, and the evening and tbe morning were the first day, other count of'time there was none. 1-Iold of it was lost in the rnging fever of a nation, as it is in the fever of' one patient. Now, breaking the unnatural silence of a whole city, the executioner showed the people the head of the king-and now, it seemed almost in the same breath, the head of his fair wife which had had eight weary months of imprisoned widowhood and misery, to turn it grey.
And yet, observing the strange law of contradiction whicli obtains in all such cases, the time was long, while it flamed by so fast. A revolutionary tribunal in the capital, and forty or fifty thousand revolutionary committees all over the land; a law of the Suspected, which struck away all security for liberty or life, and delivered over any good and innocent person to any bad and guilty one prisons gorged with people who had committed no offence, and could.obtain no hearmg; these things became the established order and nature of appointed things, and seemed to be nncient usage before they were many weeks old. Above all, one hideous figure grew as familiar as if it had been before the general gaze from the foundntions of tle world-the figure of the sharp female called Im Guillotine. It was tbe popular theme for jests it was the best cure for head. ache, it infallibly prevented the hair from turning grey, itimpartcd 02
n peculiar delicacy to the complexion, it was the National Razor which shaved close who kissed La Guillotine, looked through the little window and sneezed into the sack. It was the sign of the regeneration of the human race. It superseded the Cross. l\rode1s of it were wom on breasts from which the Cross was discarded, and it was bowed down to and believed in where the Cross was denied. It sheared off heads so many, that it, and the ground it most polluted, were a rotten red. It was taken to pieces, like a toy-puzzle for n. young Devil, and was put together again where the occasion wanted it. It husbed the eloquent, struck down the powerful, abolished the beautiful and good. Twenty-two friends of high public mark, twenty-one living and one dead, it had lopped the heads off, in one morning, in as many minutes. The name of the strong man of Old 8cripture bad descended to the chief functionary who worlœd it but, so armed, he was stronger than his namesalœ, and blinder, and tore away the gates of God's own Temple m'ery day.
Among these terrors, and the brood belonging to them, the Doctor walked with a steady head confident in his power, cautiously persistent in his end, never doubting that lie would save Lucie's husband at last. Yet the current of the time swept by, so strong and deep, and carried the time away so fiercely, that Charles had Iain in prison one year and three months when the Doctor was thus steady and confident. So much more wicked and distracted had the Revolution grown in that December month, that the rivers of the South were encumbered with the bodies of the violently drowned by night, and prisoners were shot in lines and squares under the southern wintry sun. Still, the Doctor walked among the terrors with a steady head. No man better known than he, in Paris at that day no man in a stranger situation. Silent, humane, indispensable in hospital and prison, using his art equally among assassins and victims, he was a man apart. In the exercise of his skill, the appearance and the story of the Bastille Captive removed him from all other men. He was not suspected or brought in question, any more than if he had indeed been recalled to life some eighteen years before, or were a Spirit moving among mortals.
CHtIPT~R V.
TaE woon-swvvEB.
ONE year and three months. During all that time Lucie was never sure, from hour to hour, but that the Guillotine would strike off her husband's head next day. Every day, through the &tOIlY streets, the tumbrils now jolted heavily, filled with Condemned. Lovely girls bright women, brown-haired, black-haired, and grey youths stalwart men and old gentle born and peasant born all red wine for La Guillotine, all daily brought into light from the dark cellars of the loathsoriie prisons, and carried to her through the streets to slake her devouring thirst. Liberty, equality, fraternity, or death the last, much the easiest to bestow, 0 Guillotine 6
If the suddenness of ber calamity, and the whirling wheels of the time, lad stunned tlie Doctor's daughter into awaiting the result in idle despair, it would but have been with her as it was with many. But, from the hour when she had taken the white head to her fresh young bosom in the garret of Saint Antoine, she had been true to her duties. She was truest to them in the season of trial, as all the quietly loyal and good will ahvays be.
As soon as they were established in their new residence, and ber father had entered on the routine of his avocations, she arranged the little household as exactly as if ber husband had been there. Everything had its appointed place and its appointed time. Little Lucie she tauglit, as regularly, as if they had all been united in their English home. The slight devices with wbich she cheated herself into the show of a belief that they would soon be reunited-the little preparations for his speedy return, the setting aside of his chair and his books-these, and the solemn prayer at night for one dear prisoner especially, among the many unhappy souls in prison and the shadow of death-were almost the only outspoken reliefs of her heavy mind.
She did not greatly alter in appearance. The plain dark dresses, akin to mourning dresses, which she and her child wore, were as neat and as well attended to as the brighter c10thes of happy days. She lost lier colour, aud the old intent expression was a constant, not an occasional, thing; otheriise, she remained very pretty and comely. Sometimes, at night on kissing her father, she would burst into the grief she had repressed all day, and would say that her sole reliance, under Heaven, was on him. He always resolutely answered: "Nothing can happen to him without my knowledge, anal know that 1 can save him, Lucie."
Tley had not made the round of their changed life, many weeks, wLen her fatlier said to her, on coming home one evening My dear, there is an upper window in the prison, to which Charles can sometimes gain access at three in the afternoon. When lie eau get to it-which depends on many uncertainties and incidents -lie might see you in the street, he thinks, if you stood in a certain place that I can show you. But you will not be able to see him, my poor child, and even if you could, it would be unsafe for you to make a sign of recognition."
0 show me the place, my father, and I will go there every day." From that time, in all weathers, she waited there two hours. As the clock struck two, she was there, and at four she turned resignedly away. When it was not too wet or inclement for her child to be with her, they went together; at other times she was alone; but, she never missed a single day.
It was the dark and dirty corner of a small winding street. The hovel ôf a cutter of wood into lengths for burning, was the only house at that end all else was wall. On the third day of her being there, he noticed her.
Good day, citizeness."
Good day, citizen."
This mode of address was now prescribed by decree. It had been establisbed voluntarily some time ago, among the more thorough patriots; but, was now law for everybody.
Wallzing here again, citizeness r"
"Ÿon see me, citizen lis
The wood-sawyer, who was a little man with a redundancy of gesture (he had once been a mender of roads), cast a~ glance at the prison, pointed at the prison, and putting his ten fingers before his face to represent bars, peeped through them jocosely.
But it's not my business," said lie. And went on sawing his wood.
1~est day, he zras loohing out for her, and accosted her the moment she appeared.
"'What! "\V nlking here again, citizeness ?"
Yes, citizen." a
"Ah 1 A child too 1 Your mother, is it not, my little citizeness P"
"Do I say yes, IDamma P" whispered little Lucie, drwring close to her.
Yes, dearest."
Yes, citizen."
Ah 1 But it's not my business. 1Ty v-orh is m3,- business. See my Baw I call ib my Little Guillotine. La, la, la; La, la, la And off his head comes 1"
The billet fell as lie spoke, and lie tlirew it into a basket. I call myself the Samson of the firewood guillotine. Sec here again 1 Loo, loo, loo Loo, loo, loo 1 And off her head comes 1 Now, a child. Tickle, ticl~e Pielile, pickle 1 And off its head comes. All the family ln
Lucie t3huddered as he threw two more billets into his baslzet, but it was impossible to be there while the wood-sawyer was at work, and not be in his sight. Thenceforth, to secure his good will, she always spoke to him first, and often gave him drink-money which he readily received.
He was an inquisitive fellow, and sometimes when she had quite forgotten him in gazing at the prison roofs and grates, and in lifting her heart up to her husband, she would come to herself to find him looking at her, with his knee on his bench and his saw stopped in its work. But it's not my business 1" he would generally say at those times, and would briskly fall to his sawing again.
In all weathers, in tlie snow and frost of winter, in the bitter zcinds of spring, in the hot sunshine of summer, in the rains of autumn, and again in the snow and frôst of winter, Lucie passed twa hours of every day at this place and every day, on leaving it, she 1dssed the prison wall. Her husband saw her (so she learned from her father) it might 1ie once in five or six times it might be twice or thrice running it might be, not for a week or a fortnight together. It was enough that be could and did see her when the chances served, and on thdt possibility she would bave waited out the day, seven days a week.
These occupations brought lier round to the December month, wherein her father walked among the terrors with a steady head. On a lightly-snowing afternoon she arrived at the usual corner. It was a day of some wild rejoicing, and a festival.. She had seen the houses, as she came along, decorated with little pilces, and with little red caps stuck upon them also, with tricolored ribbons also, with
the standard inscription (tricolored letters were the favourite), Republic One and Indivisible. Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death!
The miserable sbop of the wood-sawyer was so small, that its whole surface furnished very indifferent space for this legend. He had got somebody to scrawl it up for him, however, who had squeezed Death in v-ith most inappropriate difficulty. On his house-top, he displayed pike and cap, as a good citizen must, and in a window he had stationed his saw, inscribed as his Little Sainte Guillotine"for the great sharp female was by that time popularly canonised. Ris sliop was shut and lie was not there, whieh was a relief to Lucie and left her quite alone.
But, he was not far ofl3 for presently she heard a troubled movement and a sliouting coming along, which filled her with fear. A moment afterwards, and a throng of people came pouring round the corner by the prison wall, in the midst of whom was the wood-sawyer hand in hand with The Vengeance. There could not be fewer than five lmnclied people, and they were dancing like five thousand demons. There was no other music titan their own singing. They danced to the popular Revoltition song, keeping a ferocious time that was like a gnashing of teeth in unison. Men and women danced together, women danced together, men danced together, as hazard had brought them together. At first, they were a mere storm of coarse red caps and coarse woollen rags but, as they filled the place, and stopped to dance about Lucie, some ghastly apparition of a dance-figure gone raviug mad arose among them. They advanced, retreated, struck at one another's hands, clutched at one another's heads, spun round alone, caught one another and spun round in pairs, until many of them dropped. ~Yliile those w ere down, the rest linked hand in hand, and aU spun round together then the ring broke, and fi separate rings of two and four they turned and turned until they all ,stopped at once, began again, struck, clutched, and tore, and then reversed the spin, and all spun round another way. Suddenly they stopped again, paused, struck out the time afresh, formed into lines the width of the public way, and, with their heads low down and their hands high up, swooped scren.ming off. No fight could have been half so terrible as this dance. It was so emphatically a fallen sport -a sometbillg, once innocent, delivered ov er to all devilry-a healthy pastime changed into a means of angering the blood, bewildering the senses, and steeling the heart Such grace as was visible in it, made it the uglier, showing how warped and perverted aU things good by nature were become. The maidenly bosom bared to this, the pretty almost-child's head thus distracted, the delicate. foot mincing in this slough of blood und dirt, were types of the diajointed time. This was the Carmagnole. As it passed, leaving Lucie frightened and bewildered in the doorway of the wood-sawyer's bouse, the feathery snoR fell as quietly and lay as white and soft, as if it had never been.
ci 0 my father for he stood before her when she lifted up the eyes she had momentarily darkened with her hand such a cruel, bad sight."
I know, my dear, l know. I have seen it many times. Don't be frightened Not one of them would harm you."
"1 am not frightened for myself, ntyfatlier. Butwhen l think of my husband, and the mercies of these people-"
We will eet him above their mercies, very soon. I left him climbing to the window, and I came to tell you. There is no one here to see. You may kiss your hand towards that highest shelving roof."
I do so, father, and I send him my Soul with it
"You cannot see him, my poor dear ?"
"No, father," said Lucie, yearning and weeping as shekissed ber hand, no." 0
A footstep in the snow. Iladame Defarge. I salute you, citizeness," from the Doctor. I salute you, citizen." This in passing. Nothing more. Madame Defarge gone, like a shadow over the white road.
Give me your arm, my love. Pass from here with au air of cheerfulness and courage for his sake. That was well done they had left the spot it sliall not be in vain. Charles is summoned for to-mo-rrow."
For to-morrow
There is no time to lose. I am ~cell prepared, but there ar e precautions to be taken, that could not be taken until he was actually summoned before the Tribunal. He has not received the notice yet, but I know that lie will presently be summoned for to-morrow, and removed to the Conciergerie l have timely information. You are not afraid P"
Sbe could scarcely answer, "1 trust in you."
Do so, implicitly. Your suspense is nearly ended, my darling he shall be restored to you within a few hours I have encompassed him with every protection. I must see Lorry."
He stopped. There was a heavy lumbering of wheels within hearing. They both knew too zvell what it mennt. One. Two. Three. Three tumbrils fariny away with their dread loads over the hushing snow.
III must see Lorry," the Doctor repeated, turning her another way.
The stnunch old gentleman was still in his trust had never left it. He and his books were in frequent requisition as to property confiscated and made national. What he could save for the owners, he saved. No better man living to hold fast by what Tellson's bad in keeping, and to hold his peace.
A murky red and yellow sliy, and a rising mist from the Seine, denoted the approach of darkness. It was almost dark when they. arrived at the Bank. The stately residence of Monseigneur was altogether blighted and deserted. Above a heap of dust and ashes in the court, ran the letters National Property. Republic Olle and Indivisible. Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death. Who could that be with Mr. Lorry-the owner of the riding-coat upon the chair-who must not be seen ? From whom newly arrived, did he come out, agitated and surprised, to take his favourite in his arma P To whom did he appear to repeat her faltering words, when, raising his voice and turning his head towards the door of the room from wbich he had issued, he said Removed to the Conciergerie, and Bummoned for. to-morrow P"
CHAPTER VI.
TRIUMPII.
TrtE dread Tribunal of five Judges, Public Prosecutor, and determined Jury, sat every day. Their lists went forth every evening, and were read out by the gaolers of the various prisons to their prisoners. The standard gaoler-joke was, Come out and listen to the Evening Paper, you inside there 1"
Charles Evrémonde, called Darnay 1"
So, at last, began the Evening Paper at La Force.
~Vlien a name was called, its owner stepped apart into a spot reserved for those who were announced as being thus fatasly recorded. Charles Evrémonde, called Darnay, bad reason to know the usage he had seen hundreds pass away so.
His bloated gaoler, who wore spectacles to read with, glanced over them to assure himself that he had taken bis place, and went through the list, making a similar short pause at each name. There were twenty.three names, but only twenty were responded to for, one of the prisoners so summoned had died in gaol and been forgotten, and two had been already guillotined and forgotten. The list was read, in the vaulted chamber where Darnay had seen the associated prisoners on the night of his arrival. Every one of those had perished in the massacre every human creature lie had since cared for and parted witb, had died on the scaffold.
There were hurried words of farewell and kindness, but the parting was soon over. It was the incident of every day, and the society of La Force were engaged in the preparation of soma games of forfeits and a little concert, for that evening. They crowded to the grates and shed tears there but, twenty places in the projected entertainments had to be refilled, and the time was, at best, short to the lockup hour, when the common rooms and corridors would be delivered over to the great dogs who kept watch there through the night. The prisoners were far from insensible or unfeeling their ways arose out of the condition of the time. Similarly, though with a subtle difference, a species of fervour or intoxication, known, without doubt, to have led some persons to brave the guillotine unnecessarily, and to die by it, was not mere boastfulness, but a wild infection of the wildly shaken public mind. In seasons of pestilence, some, of us will have a secret attraction to the disease-a terrible passing inclination to die of it. And all of us have like wonders hidden in our breasts, only needing circumstances to evoke them.
The passage to the Conciergerie was short and dark the night in its vermin-haunted cells was long and cold. Next day, fifteen prisoners were put to the bar before Charles Darnay's name was called. AU the fifteen were condemned, and the trials of the whole occupied an hour and a half.
Charles Evrémonde, called Darnay," was at length arraigned. His Judges sat upon the Bench in feathered bats but the rough red cap and tricolored cockade was the head-dress otherwise prevailing. Looking at the Jury and the turbulent audience, he might have
thought that the usual order of things was reversed, and that the felons were trying the honest men. The lowest, cruelest, and worst populace of a city, never without its quantity of low, cruel, and bad, were the directing spieits of the scene noisily commenting, applauding, disapproving, anticipating, and precipitating the result, without a check. Of the men, the greater part were armed in various ways; of the women, some wore knives, some dnggers, some ate and drank as they looked on, many knitted. Among these last, was one, with a spare piece of knitting under her arm as she worked. She was in a front row, by the side of a man whom he had never seen since his arrival at the Barrier, but whom he directly remembered as Def'arge. He noticed that she once or twice whispered in his ear, and that she seemed to be his wife but, whathe most noticed in the two figures was, that although they were posted as close to himself as they could be, they never looked towards him. They seemed to be waiting for something with a dogged determination, and they looked at the Jury, but at nothing else. Under the President sat Doctor 1%lanette, in his usual quiet dress. As well as the prisoner could see, he and Mr. Lorry were the only men there, unconnected with the Tribunal, who wore their usual clothes, and had not assumed the coarse garb of the Carmagnole.
Charles Evrémonde called Darnay, was accused by the public prosecutor as an emigrant, whose life was forfeit to the :Republic7 under the decree which banished all emigrants on pain of Death. It was nothing that the decree bore date since his return to France. There he was, and there was the decree he had been taken in France, and his head was demanded.
Take off his head cried the audience. An enemy to tbe Republic 1"
The President rang his bell to silence those cries, and asked the prisoner whether it was not true that he had lived many years in England? P
U ndouotedly it was.
Was lie not an emigrant then P What did he call himself ? Not an emigrant, he hoped, within the sense and spirit of the law. Why not ? the President desired to know.
Because he had voluntarily relinquisbed a title that was distasteful to him, and a station that was distasteful to him, and had left his country-he submitted before the word emigrant in its present acceptation by the Tribunal was in use-to live by his own industry in England, rather than on the industry of the overladen people of France.
What proof had he of this ? P
He handed in the names of two witnesses: Théophile Gabelle, and Alexandre Manette.
But he bad married in England? the President reminded him. True, but not an English woman.
A citizeness of France?
Yes. By birth.
Her nau~e and family P
Lucie Manette, only daughter of Doctor Manette, the good ph3·sician who sits there."
This answer had a happy effect upon the audience. Cries in exaltation of the well-known good physician rent the hall. Sti capriciously
were the people moved, that tears immediately rolled down several ferocious countenances which had been glaring at the prisoner a moment before, as if with impatience to pluck him out into the streets and kill him.
On these few steps of his dangerous way, Charles Darnay bad set his foot according to Doctor Manette's reiterated instructions. The same cautions counsel directed every step that lay before him, and had prepared every inch of his road.
The President askecl why had lie returned to France when he did, and not sooner P
He had not returned sooner, he replied, simply because he had no means of living in France, save those lie had resigned; whereas, in England, he lived by giving instruction in the French language and literature. He bad returned when he did, on the pressing and written entreaty of a French citizen, who represented that his life was endangered by his absence. He bad come back, to save a citizen's life, and to bear his testimony, at whatever personal hazard, to the truth. Was that criminal in the eyes of the Republic P Tlie populace cried enthusiastically, No and the President rang bis bell to quiet them. '~Yhicli it did not, for they continued to cry "l~To until they left off, of their own will.
The President required the name of that Citizen ? The accnsed erplained that the citizen was his first witness. He also referred mth confidence to the citizen's letter, which had been taken from him at the Barrier, but which he did not doubt would be found among the papers then before the President.
The Doctor had taken care that it should be there-had assured him that it would be there-and at this stage of the proceedings it was produced and read. Citizen Gabelle was called to confirm it, and did so. Citizen Gabelle hinted, with infinite delicacy and politeness, that in the pressure of business imposed on the Tribunal by the multitude of enemies of the Republic mith which it had to deal, he had been slightly overlooked in his prison of the Abbaye-in fact, had rather passed out of the Tribunal's patriotic remembrance-until three days ago; when he had been summoned before it, and had been set at liberty on the Jury's declaring themselves satisfied that the accusation ngamst him was tlUswered, as to himself, bv the surrender of the citizen Evrémonde, called Darnay.
Doctor Manette was next questioned. His high personal popularity, and the clearness of his answers, made a great impression but, as he proceeded, as he showed that the Accused was his first friend on his release from his long im~risonment that, the accused had remained in England, always fà.ithful and devoted to his daughter and himself in their exile; that, so far from being in favour with the Aristocrat government there, he had actually been tried for his life by it, as the foe of England and friend of the United States-as lie brought these circumstances into view, with the greatest discretion and with the straightforward force of truth and earnestness, the Jury and tbe populace became one. At last, when he appealed by name to Monsieur Lorry, an English gentleman then and there present, who, like himself, had been a witness on that English trial and could corroborate bis account of it, tbe Jury declnred thllt they had heard enough, and that they were ready with their votes if the President were content to receive them.
At every vote (the Jurymen voted aloud and individually), the populace set ,up a shout of applause. MI the voices were in the prisoner's favour, and the President declared him free. Then, began one of those extraordinsry scenes with which the populace sometimes gratified their fickleness, or their better impulses towarà generosity and mercy, or which they regarded as some set-off against their swollen account of cruel rage. No man can decide now to wbich of these motives such egtraordinary scenes were referable it is probable, to a blending of all the three, with the second predominating. No sooner was the acquittal pronounced, than tears were shed as freely as blood at another time, and such fraternal embraces were bestowed upon the prisoner by as many of both sexes as could rush at him, that after his long and unwholesome confinement he was in danger of fainting from exhaustion; none the less because he knew very well, that the very same people, carried by another current, would have rushed at him with the very same intensity, to rend him to pieces and strew him over the streets. Ris removal, to maIre way for other accused persons who were to be tried, rescued him from these caresses for the moment. }"ive were to be tried together, next, as enemies of the Republic, forasmuch as they had not assisted it by word or deed. So quick was the Tribunal to compensate itself and the nation for a chance lost, that these five came down to him before he left the place, condemned to die within twenty-four hours. The first of them told him so, with the customary prison sign of Death-a raised finger-and they all added in words, "Long live the Republie 1"
The five had bad, it is true, no audience to lengthen their proceedings, for when he and Doctor Manette emerged from the gate, there was a great crowd about it, in which there seemed to be every face he. had seen in Court-except two, for which he looked in vain. On his coming out, the concourse made at him anew, weeping, embracing, and shouting, all by turns and all together, until the very tide of the river on the bank of which the mad scene was acted, seemed to run mad, like the people on the shore.
They put him~into a great chair they had among them, and which theyhad taken either out of the Court itself, or one of its rooms or passages. Over the chair they had thrown a red flag, and to the back of it they had bound a pike with a red cap on its top. In thie car of triumpb, not even the Doctor's entreaties could prevent his being carried to his home on men's shoulders, with a confused sea of red caps beaving about him, and casting up to sight from the stormy deep such wrecks of faces, that lie more than once misdoubted his mind being in confusion, and that he was in the tumbril on his way to the Guillotine.
In wild dreamlike procession, embracing whom they met and pointing him out, they carried him on. Iteddening the i3nowy streets with the prevailing Republican colour, in winding and tramping through them, as they had reddened them below the snow with a deeper dye, they carried him thus into the court-yard of the building where lie lived. Her father had gone on before, to prepare her, and when her liusband stood upon his feet, she dropped insensible in his arms. As lie held her to his heart and turned her beautiful head between bis face and the brawling crowd, so that his tears and her lips might come together unseen, a few of the people feU to dancing.. Instantly,
all the rest fell to dancing, and the court-yard overflowed with the Carmagnole. Then, they elevated into the vacant chair Do young woman from the crowd to be carried as tbe Goddess of Liberty, and then, swelling and overflowing out into the adjacent streets, and along the river's bank, and over the bridge, the Carmagnole absorbed them every one and whirlcd them away.
After grasping the Doctor's hand, as be stood victorioue and proud before him; after grasping the hand of Mr. Lorry, who came panting in breathless from his struggle against the waterspout of the Carmagnole after kissing little I~ucié, who was lifted up to clasp her arms round his neck and after embracing the ever zealous and faitbful Pross who lifted lier he took his wife in his arms and carried her up to their rooms.
Lucie! My own I am safe."
0 dearest Charles, let me tbank God for tbis on my knees as I have praped to Him."
They all reverently bowed their heads and hearts. When she was again in bis arms, he said to ber:
And now speak to your father, dearest. No other man in all this France could bave done what he has done for me."
She laid ber head upon her father's breast as she had laid his poor head on ber own breast, long, long ago. He was happy in the return be had made ber, he was recompensed for bis suffering, ne was proud of his strength. You must not be 'weak, my darling," he remonstrated don't tremble so. l have saved him."
CHAPTER VII.
A KNOCK AT THE Doon.
I gAVE saved him." It was not another of the dreams in wbich he had often come back he was really here. And yet his wife trembled, and a vague but heavy fear was upon her.
AIl the air around was so thick and dark, the people were so passionately revengeful and fitful, the innocent were so constantly put to death on vague suspicion and black malice, itwas so impossible to forget that many as b1ameless as her husband and as dear to otherg as he was to ber, every day sharedtbe" fate from which he had been clutched, tbat her heart could not be as lighteneaof its load as she felt it ought to" be. The sliadows of the wintry afternoon were beginning to fall, and even now the dreadful carts were rolling through the atreeta. Her mind pursued them, looking for him among the Condemned and then she clung closer to his real presence and trembled more.
Her father, cheering her, showed a compassionate superiority to tbis womaws weakness, which was wonderful to see. No garret, no shoemaking, no One Hundred and Five, North Tower, now He had accompliahed the task he had set himself, his promise was redéemed, he bad saved Charles. Let them all lean upôn him.
Their housekeeping was of a very frugal kind not only because that was the safest way' of life, involving the least offence to the people, but because they were not rich, and Charles, throughout hie
imprisonment, bad had to pay heavily for his bad food, and for his guard, and towards the living of the poorer prisoners. Part1y on this account, and partIy to avoid a domestic spy, they kept no servant; the citizen and citizeness who acted as porters at the court-yard gate, rendered them occasional service; and Jerry (almost wholly transferred to them by Mr. Lorry) had become their daily retainer, and had his bed there every night.
It was an ordinance of the Republic One and Indivisible of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, that on the door or doorpost of every house, the name of every inmate must be legibly inscribed in letters of a certain size, at a certain convenient height from the ground. Mr. Jerry Cruncher's name, therefore, duly embellished the doorpost down below and, as the afternoon shadows deepened, the owner of that name himself appeared, from overlooking a pamter whom Doctor Manette bad employed to add to the list the name of Charles Evrémonde, called Darnay.
In the universal fear and distrust that darkened the time, all the usual harmless ways of life were changed. In the Doctor's little household, as in very many others, the articles of daily consumption .that were wanted, were purchased every evening, in small quantities and at various small shops. To avoid attracting notice, and to give as little occasion as possible for talk and envy, was the general desire. For some months past, J\fiss Pross and lflr. Cruncher had discbarged the office of purveyors; the former carrying the money; the latter, the basket. Every afternoon at about the time when the public lamps were ligloted, they fared forth on this duty, and made and brought home such purchases as were needful. Although Miss Pross, through her long association with a French family, might have known as much of their language as of her own, if she bad had a mind, she had 110 mind in that direction consequently she knew no more of "that nonsense" (as she was pleased to call it), than Mr. Cruncher did. So her manner of marlietinly was to plump a nounsubstantive at the bead of a shopkeeper without any introduction in the nature of an article, and, if it happened not to be the Dame of the thing she wnnted;to look round for that thing, lay hold of it, and hold on by it until the bargain was concluded. She always made a bargain for it, by holding up, as a statement of its just priee, one finger less than the merchant held up, whatever his number might be.
Now, Mr. Cruncher," said Miss Pross, whose eyes were red with felicity; "if you are ready, I am."
Jerry boarsely professed himself nt Miss Pross's service. He had ivorn all his rust off long ago, but nothing would file his spiky head down. 0
There's all manner of things wanted," said Miss Pross, "und we shall have a precious time of it. We want wine, among the rest. Nice toasts these Redlieads will be drinking, wherever we buy it." Il It will be much the same to your Jmowledge, miss, l should think," retorted Jerry, whether they drink your health or the Old Un's."
Who's he P" said Miss Pross.
1\£1'. Cruncher, ",ith some diffidence, explained himeelf as me Old Nick's." aniln.,
Ha 1" said Miss Pross, "it doesn't need an interpreter to'explain
the meaning of these creatures. They bave but one, and it's Mdnight Murder, and 1.\fischief."
Hush, dear 1 Proy, pray, be cautious cried Lucie. Ÿ'es, yes, yes, I'll be cautious," said Miss Pross "but I may say among ourselves, that I do hope there will be no oniony and tobaccoey smotherings in the form of embracings all round, going on in the streets. Now, Ladybird, never you stir from that fire till I come back Talce care of the dear husband you have recovered, and don't move your pretty head from his shoulder as you have it now, till you see me again 1 1\fay I ask a question, Doctor Manette, before 1 go ?" I think you may take that liberty," the Doctor answered, smiling. For gracious sake, don't talle about Liberty; we have quite enough of that," said :Miss Pross.
Rush, dear Again rU Lucie remonstrated.
«'Well, my sweet," said Miss Pross, nodding her head emphatically, "the short and the long of it is, that I am a subject of His 3lost Gracious 1\fajesty King George the Third Mes Pross curtseyed at the name and as such, my maxim is, Confound their politics, Frustrate their knavish tricks, On him our hopes we fix, God save the King 1"
1%1r. Cruncher, in an access of 10yaIty, growlingly repeated the words after Miss Pross, like somebody at church.
I am glad you have so much of the Englishman in you, though I wish you had never taken that cold in your voice," said Miss Pross, appr ovingly. But the question, Doctor :Mnnette. Is there"-it ~vas the good creature's way to affect to make light of anything that was a great anxiety with them all, and to come at it in this chance manner-" is there any prospect yet, of our getting out of this place ?" "I fear not'yet. It would be dangerous for Charles pet." Heigb-ho-hum!" said Dliss Pross, cheerfully repressing a sigh as she glanced at her darling'a golden hair in the light of the fire, then we must have patience and wait that's all. We must hold up our heads and fight low, as my brother Solomon used to say. Now, Mr. Cruncher !-Don't you move, Ladybird 1"
They went out, leaving Lucie, and. her husband, her father, and the child, by a bright fire. Mr. Lorry was expected back presently from the Banking IE[ouse. Miss Pross had lighted the lamp, but had put it aside in a corner, that they might enjoy the firelight undisturbed. Little Lucie sat by her grandfather with her hands clasped through his arm and he, in a tone not rising much above a whisper, began to tell her a story of a great and powerful Fairy who had opened a prison-wall and let out a captive who had once done the Fairy a service. All was subdued and quiet, and Lucie was more at ease than she had been.
What is that she cried, all at once.
Mp dear 1" said ber father, stopping in his story, and laying his hand on hers, command yourself. What a disordered state you are in The least thing-nothing-stnrtles you. You, pour father's daughter ?"
I thought, my father," said Lucie, excusing herself, with a pale face and in a faltermg voice, that l heard i3tranae feet upon the stairs." 0
"My love, tbe staircase is as still as Death."
As he said the word, a blow was struck upon the door.
0 father, father. What can this be Ride Charles. Save him 1\'1 Y child," said the Doctor, rising and laying his band upon her shoulder, "1 have saved him. What weakness is this, my dear 1 Let me go to the door."
He took the lamp in his hand, crossed the two intervening outer rooms, and opened it. A rude clattering of feet over the floors, and four rough men in.red-caps, armed with sabres and pistols, entered the ro
The. Citizen Evrémo.nde; called Darnay," said the first. W-lio seeks him, ?"nns\~ered Dürnav.
I seèlw.him: We sec1\ him. I know you, Evrémonde; l saw you .before' the '¡'riburial to-d::iy.. You are again the prisoner of the
Republic."
The four surroundèd'him, where he stood with his wife and child clinging,~Õhiin~'
'~Tell~mè'how and why am I agàin a prisoner 2"
-It is enough. tliat- jou :return straight .to, the Conciergerie, and will.kÎ1ow,.to-morrow. You'are smümonéd for .to-morrow." Dr..llanette, whom' this ,visitation had so ~turned into stone, that he stood with the lamp in his hand, as if lie were a statue made to hold it, moved' after, these words were spolren, put the lamp down, and confronting the 'spea1cer, and taldng him, not ungently, by the loose front of his red woollen shirt, said
"You know him, you have said. 'Do you linow me p"
~"Y.es, I kno\wyou, Citiz~n,Doctor."
"Yé all1mow you,.Citizen Doctor," said the other three. Ho 'Jlo'oked;aosfu:'ncted1y,"frÓm one to. q.nothêr, 'arid' said, in a lower vôicê;:aftër.'a'pause: "')' =
"Will. you nnB\vèr. hisquestion 'ta: Ille .then ? How does this happén~?"
Citizèn Dq~tor, snid,~th~. first, relnctantly; he lias been denouneed-to-,tlie .SectïÓn: of: Saint Antoine. This citizen, pointing out the 8~co,nd'who"had:enterëd, is from Saint Antoine." The citizen here iridiéate'd,I}.odded his head, and added "He is'nccùsed:by Saint Antoine."
Of ~rhat ??'- asked the Doctor..
"Citizen.Doctor," said the first,- with his former reluctance, "ask no .more,ICthè.Republic demandssacrifices from you, without doupt"youl as' awgood 'pntriot'.will be happy to make them. The ublie goes before-ar. The Péople is supreme. Evrémonde, we arb:,pre~sed' One:w?rd," tbe Doctor entreated. "Will you tell me who denôunçed:him P"
"It`is against rule," answered the first; "but you can ask Him of Sainf Antoine here."
T~ Doctor turried his eyes upon that man. Who moved uneasily on. his.: feét;: rú~Jjed .his beard a little, and at length said "'Wall! 3'rùl'y it is against rule. But lie is denounced-and gravelÿ=.by the' Citizen and Citizeness Defarge. And by one other."
"1VJHit,o.ther'P"
Dô ôu:dek; Citizen Doctor ?"
Yes."
Then," said he of Si1int Antoine, with a stranga look, yoti will be answered to-morrow. Now, l am dumb 1" 0
CHAPTER VIII. A IIAND AT CAILDS.
11-~PPTLY unconscious of the new calamity at home, Miss Pross threaded her way along the narrow streets and crossed the river by the bridge of thePont-NeÜf,' reekoning in her mind the number of indispensable" p1;1reùases she had. to make.. Mr. Cruncher, with the basket, walked at her'side. They both looked to the right and to the left into most of theshops they pàssed, had a wary eye for all grebarious assemblages of people, and turned out of their road to avoid any very e~cited groûp of tttlkers. It was a ~raw evening, and, the misty river, blurred to the eye withb1azing lights and to the ear with harsh noises, Bhowed where the barges were stationed in w:hich the smiths worked, makinâ~ guns'for the Army of the Republic; Woe ,to the man wlio p1Q-yed tricks with that. Army, or got uildeserved .pro- motion in it Better for him that his beard had never grown, for.~he National Razor sh~ëd him dose..
Having purchased a fev· small articles of grocery, and a, measure of oil for the lamp, Miss Pross betlibuglit herself of the wine they wanted. After peeping into several wine-shops, she stopped at the sign of The Gocid Republican Bru.tlls ,of. Antiquity, not far from the · National Palace, on~e (and twice) the Tuileries, .yheré the aspect'of thiriâs rather tÓokher: Janey. It had a' quieter look than any -other. p1àce of the sanie description they had passed, and, though red.with patriotic caps, was not so. red as the rest. Sounding ;Mr. Cruncher and finding him of her opinion"l\fiss ,PrQssresQrted. ~o- the Good:Republicau Brutus of Antiquity, attended by.ller~avalier. Slightly.observant.of the smoky lights; of the people, pipe in mouth, playiug with limp cards and Jellow domiuoes;.of the one bare-breasted, bare-arméd, soot-begrimed workman'readiJ?g a journal aloud, and of the.others listening to him of the weapons wqr,[k or laid aside to be resumed; of the two or three-.cut3tomers fallen forward asleep; who hl' the .popular, high-shoulder~d shaggy. QJack spencer lool~e.d;-in..that attitude, 1ike slumbering bears or ~dogs,the two outlandish customers approached the counter, and showed What they wanted. ¡.
As their wine.was measuring out, a man pnrted from'uI.1Qthèr nW~ in a corner, and rose to depart. lngoing, he.had to. Pross. No sooner did.he. face, her, than Miss Pros! uttered a Bcream, and clapped her hands.
In a moment, the whole company were on their feet. That some. body was assassinated by somebody.vindicatitig a difi'erence of opinion, was the likeliest occurrence. Everybody looked to see somebody fall, but only saw a man and w oman standing staring at each other the man witli all the outward aspect of a Frenchman and a thorough Republican; the woman, evidently English.
"\Vhat was said in this disappointing anti-climax, by the disciples of the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, except that it was something very voluble and loud, would have been as so much p
Hebrew or Chaldean to Miss Pross and her protector, th ough they had been all ears. But, they had no ears for anything in their sur:prise. For, it must be recorded, that not only was Miss Pross lost m amazement aud agitation; but, l\Ir. Cruncher-though it seemed on his own separate an dividual account-was in a state of the greatest wonder.
What is the matter P" said the man who 11ad'caused Miss Pross .to scream speakinâ in a vexed, abrupt voice (though in a low tone), and in Fnglisl.
Oh, Solomon, dear Solomon 1" cried Miss Pross, clapping her hands again. "After not setting eyes upon you or hearing of )"011 for so long a time, do l find you here
Il Don't call me Solomon. Do you want to be the death of me P" asked the man, in a furtive, îriglitened way.
"Brother, brother!" cried Miss Pross, bursting into tears. "Have 1 ever been so hard with you that you ask me such a cruel question l"~
Then hold your meddlesome tongue," said Solomon, and come out, if you want to speak to me. Pay for y our wine, and coine out. Who's this man P"
l~Tias Pross, slialcing her lovin; and dejected head at her by no means affectionate brother, said, through hér tears, 1\1:1'. Crul1cher." "Let him come out too," said Solomon. "Does he tbink me a ghost P"
Apparent,ly, Mr. Cruncher did, to judge from his looks. He said not a word, however, and Miss Pross, exp10ring the depths of her reticule through her tears with great difficulty, paid for the wine. As she did so, Solomon turned to the followers of the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, and offered a few words of explanation in the French language, which caused them all tv relapse into their former places and pursuits.
"Now," said Solomon, stopping at the dark street corner, "what do you want r"
How dreadfully unkind in a brother nothing has ever turned my love away.from cried Miss Pross, "to give me sucli a greeting, and show me no affection."
There. Con-found it 1 There," said Solomon, making a dab at Miss Pross's lips with his own. Now are you content p" ::Miss Pross only shook her head and wept in silence.
If you expeet me to be surprised," said her brother Solomon, I am not surprised; I knew you were here 1 know of most people who are here. If you really don't want to endanger my exÍstencewhich Il half believe you do-go your ways as soon as possible, and let me go mine. l am busy. 1 am an officia1."
"My English brother Solomon," mourned Miss Pross, casting up her te:ar-fraught eyes, "that had the makings in him of one of the best and greatest of men in his native country, an official among foreigners, and such foreigners 1 l would almost sooner have sean the dear boy lying in his-
1 said so cried her brother, interrupting. "1 knew it 1 You want to be the death of me. I shall be rendered Suspected, by my own sister. Just.as I am getting on
The gracious and merciful Heavens forbid cried Miss Pross.
Far rather w ould l never see you again, dear Solomon, tbough I have ever loved you truly, and ever shall. Say but one affectionate word to me, and tell me there is nothing angry or estranged between us, and I will detain you no longer." 0
Good Miss Pross 1 As if the estrangement between them had come of any culpability of hers. As if Mr. Lorry had not known it for fi fact, years ago, in tbe quiet corner in Soho, that this precious brother had spent her money and left her 1
He was saying the affectionate word, however, with a far more grudging condescension and patronage tbanhe could have shown if their relative merits and positions }lad been reversed (which is in. variably the case, all the world over), when Mr. Cruncher, touching him on the i3boulder, hoarsely and unexpectedly interposed with the following singular question
1 say Might I ask the favour ? As to whether your name is John Solomon, or Solomon John P"
The official turned towards him with sudden distrust. He had not previously uttered a word.
Corne said J\fr. Cruncher. Speak ont, youknow." (Which, by the way, was more than be could do himself.) John Solomon, or Solomon John ? She calls you Solomon, and she must know, being y our sister. And I know you're John, you know. Which of the two goes first P And regarding that name of Pross, likewise. That warn't your name over the water."
What do you mean P" Well, I don't know all l mean, for 1 can't call to mind what your name was, over the water."
No P"
No. But l'Il swear it was a name of two syllables."
Indeed ?"
Yes. T'other one's was one syllable. I know you. Ÿon waa a spy-witness at. the Bailey. What in the name of the Father of Lies, own father to yourself, was you called at that time ?"
Barsad," said another voice, Btriking in.
That's the name for a thousand pound cried Jerry.
The speaker who struck in, was Sydney Carton. He had his hands behind him under the skirts of bis ridin-coat, and he stood at Mr. Cruncher's elbow as negligently as he might have stood at the Old Bailey itself. 0 ,ht have stoo(l at the
Dont be alarmed, my dear Miss Pross. I arrived at Mr. Lorry's, to his surprise, yesterday evening; we agreed that I would not present m3-self elsewhere until all was well, or unless l could be usetul l present myself here, to beg a little talk with your brother. l wish you had a better employed brother thon Mr. Barsad. I wish for your sake Mr. Barsad was not a Sheep of the Prisons." Sheep wus a cant word of the time for a spy, under the gaolers. The spy, who was pale, turned paler, and asked him how he
dared-
l'Il tell you," said Sydney. «1 l ligbted on you, Mr. Barsad, coming out of the prison of the Conciergerie while 1 was contem- plating the wnlIs, an hour or more ago. You have IL face to be remembered, and l remember faces well. Made curious by seeing you in that connexion, and having a reason, to whicb you are no r2
stranaer, for associating you with the misfortunes of a friend now very ~nfortunate, l walked in your direction. l walked into the wine-sbop here, close after you, and sat near you. I had no difficulty in deducing from your unreserved conversation, and the rumour openly going about among your admirers, the nature of your calling. And gradually, what I had done at random, seemed to shape itself into a purpose, Mr. Bart3ad."
What purpose ?" the spy asked.
Il It would be troublesome, and might be dangerous, to explain in the street. Could you favour me, in confidence, with some minutes of your company-at the office of Tellson's Bank, for instance rI'
"Under a threat r"
Oh 1 Did I say that
Then why shoÙld I go there pu
Really, Mr. Barsad, l can't say, if you can't."
Do you mean that you won't say, sir ?" the spy irresolutely asked.
You apprehend me very clearly, Mr. Barsad. I won't." Carton's negligent recklessness of manner came powerfully in aid of bis quickness and skill, in auch a business as he had in his secret mind, and with such a man as he had to do with. Ris practised eye saw it, and made the most of it.
"No~, l told you so," said the spy, casting a reproachful loolc at hia sister "if any trouble comes of this, it's your doing." Come, come, Mr. Baraad exclaimed Sydney. Don't be ungrateful. But for my great respect for your sister, I might not have led up so ]?leasantly to a little proposal that I wish to malie for our mutual satisfaction. Do you go with me to the Bank r" I'll hear what you have got to say. Yes, 1'11 go with you." "I propose that we first conduct your sister safely to the corner of her own atreet. Let me take your arm, Miss Prosa. This is not a good city, at this time, for you to be out in, unprotected and as your escort knows Mr. Barsad, I will invite him to 1\fr. Lorry's with us. Are we ready ? r Come then
Miss Pross recalled soon afterwards, and to the end of her life remembered, that as she ,preased her hands on Sydney's arm and looked up in his face, imploring him to do no hurt to Solomon, there was a braced purpose in the arm and a kind of inspiration in the eyes, which not only contradicted his light manner, but changed and raised the man. She was too much occupied then, with fears for the brother who so little deserved ber affection, and with Sydney's friendly reassurances, adequately to beed what she observed. They left ber at the corner of the street, and Carton led the way to Mr. Lorry's, which was within a few minutes' walk. John Barsad, or Solomon Pross, walked at his side.. Mr. Lorry bad just finished his dinner, and was sitting before a cheery little log or two of fire-perhaps looking into their blaze for the picture of that younger élderly gentleman from Tellaon'e, who had looked into the red coals at the Royal George at Dover, now a good many years ago. He turned his head as they entered, and showed the surprise with which lie saw a stranger.
Miss ProBs's brother, sir," said Sydney. Mr. :Barsad."
Barsad ?" repeated the old gentleman, Bar sad ? I have an association with the name-and with the face."
I told you you had a remarkable face, Mr. Barsad," observed Carton, coolly. Il Pray sit down."
As he took a chair himself, he supplied the link that Mr. Lorry wanted, by saying to him with a frown, Witness at that trial." 1\'11'. Lorry immediately remembered, and regarded his new visitor with an undisguised look of abhorrence.
1\'Ir. Barsad has been recognised by Miss Pross as the affectionate brother 10U have leard of," said Sydney, and has acknowledged the relationship. I pass to worse news. Darnay has been arrested again."
Struck with consternation, the old gentleman exclnimed, What do you tell me I left him safe and free within these two hours, and am about to return to him
Arrested for all that. When was it done, Mr. 13arsnd P" Just now, if at all."
Mr. Barsad is the best authority possible, sir," said Sydney, and I have it from Mr. Barsad's communication to a friend and brother Sheep over a bottle of wine, that the arrest has taken place. He left the messengers at the gate, and saw them ndmitted by the porter. 1'here is no earthly doubt that he is retaken."
Mr. Lorry's business eye read in the speaker's face that it was losF3 of time to dwell upon the point. Confused, but sensible that something might depend on his presence of mind, he commanded himself, and ",as silently attentive.
Now, I trust," said Sydney to him, that the name and influence of Doctor Manette may stand him in as good stead to-morrowyou said lie would be before the Tribunal again to-morrow, Mr. Barsad ?-"
Yes I believe so."
"-In as good stead to-morrow as to-day. But it may not be so. I own to you, I am shaken, 1\Ir. Lorry, by Doctor Manette's not having had the power to prevent this arrest."
"He may not have known of it beforehand," said Mr. Lorry. But that very circumstance would be alarming, wben we remember how identified he is with his son-in-law."
"That's true," 1\1r. Lorry acknowledged, with his troubled hand at his chin, and bis troubled eyes on Carton.
In short," said Sydney, this is a desperate time, when desperate games are played for desperate stakes. Let the Doctor play the winning game I will play the losing one. No man's life here is worth purchase. Any one carried home by the people to-day, may be condemned to-morrow. Now, thestake I have resolved to plaf for, in case of the worst, is a friend in the Conciergerie. And the friend I purpose to myself to win, is Mr. Barsad."
You need have good cards, sir," said the spy.
l'U run them over. I'll see whab l hold.-Mr. Lorry, you know what a brute l am I wish you'd give me a little brandy." It was put before him, and he drank off a glassful-drank off another glassful-pushed the bottle thoughtfully away.
"1\1r. Barsad," be went on, in the tone of one who really was looking over a hand at cards Sheep of the prisons, emissary of
Republican committees, now turnkey, now prisoner, alwa3rs spy and secret informer, so much the more valuable here for being Englieh that an Englishman is less open to suspicion of subornation in those characters than a F1'enchmnn, represents himself to his emplo~rers under a false name. That's a very good card. Mr. Barsad, now in the employ of the republican French government, was formerly in the employ of tle aristocratie English governmeut, the enemy of France and freedom. Tlat's an excellent card. Inference clear as day in this region of suspicion, thnt Mr. Barsad, still in the pay of the aristocratic Enilisli go\'ernment, is the spy of l'itt, the treacherous foe of the Republic crouching in its bosom, the Englisb traitor aud agent of all mischief so much spolien of and so difficult to find. That's a card not to be beaten. Have you followed my land, :1\11'. Barsad P"
"Not to understand your play," returned the spy, someWnat uneasil'y
"I play my Ace, Denunciation of Mr. Barsad to the nearest Section Committec. Look over your hand, 1\lr. Barsad, and see what you bave. Don't hurry."
He drew the bottle near, poured out another glassful of brandy, and drank it off. He saw that the spy \VaB fea1'ful of his drill king himself into a fit state for the immediate denunciation of him. Seeing it, he poured out and drank another glassful.
Look over your hand carefully, 1\11'. Barsad. Take time." It was a poorer hand than be suspected. 1\fr. Barsad saw losing cards in it that Sydney Carton knew nothing of. Thrown out of his honourable employment in England, through too much unsuccessful hard 8wearing there-not because he was not wanted there our English reasons for vaunting our superiority to secrecy and spies are of very modern date-he knew that he had crossed the Channel, and accepted service in France first, as a tempter and an eavesdropper among his own countrymen there gradually, as a tempter and an eavesdropper among the natives. He knew that under the overthrown government he bad been a spy upon Saint Antoine and Defarge's wine-shop had received from the watcbful police such heads of information concerning Doctor 1\fanette's imprisonment, release, and history, as should serve him for an introduction to familiar conversation with the Defarges had tried them on Madame Defarge, and had broken down with them signally. He always remembered with fear and tremb1ing, that that terrible woman had knitted when he talked with her, and had looked ominously at him as her fingers moved. He li.ad since seen lier, in the Section of Saint Antoine, over and over again produce her knitted registers, and denounce people whose lives the guillotine then surely BwaUO\ed up. He knew, as every one employed as he was, did, that he w as never sa~fe that flight was impossible that he was tied fast under the shadow of the axe; and that in spite of his utmost tergiversation and treachery in furtherance of the reigning terror, a word might bring it down upon him. Once denounced, and on such grave grounds as had just now been suggested to his mind, he foresaw that the dreadful woman of whose unrelenting eliaracter he had seen many proofs, would produce against him that fatal register, and would qU3sh his last chance of life. Besides that dll secret men are men soon terrified, here were
Burely cards enough of one black suit, to justify the holder in growing rather livid as he turned them over.
You scarcely seem to like your hand," said Sydney, with the greatest composure. Do you play ?",
1 think, sir," said the spy, in the meaneBt manner, as he turned to Mr. Lorry, I may apJ?eaI. to a gentleman of your years and benevolcnce, to put it to tlus other gentleman, so much your junior, whether he can under any circumstances reconcile it to his station to play that Ace of which he has spoken. I admit that 1 am a spy, and that it is considered a discreditable station-though it must be filled by somebody; but this gentleman is no spy, and why should he t3o demean himself as to make himself one P"
I play my Ace, 1\fr. Barsad," said Carton, taking the answer on himself, and looking at his watcb, without any scruple, in a very few minutes."
I should have hoped, gentlemen both," said the spy, always striving to hook lîr. Lorry into the discussion, "that your respect for my sister-"
I could not better testify my respect for your sister than by finally relieving her of her brother," said Sydney Carton. You think not, air P"
l have thoroughly made up my mind about it."
The smooth manner of the spy, curiously in dissonance with là ostentatiously rough dress, and, probably vitli his usual demeanour, received such a check from the inscrutability of Carton,-who was Do mystery to wiser and honester men than he-that it faltered here and failed him. While he was at a loss, Carton said, resllming his former air of contemplating cards
And indeed, now l think again, 1 have a strong impression that I have another good card here, not yet enumerated. That friend and fellow-Sheep, who spoke of himself as pasturing in the country prisons who was he ?"
"French. You don't know him," said the spy, quickly. French, eh r" repeated Carton, musing, and not appearing to notice him at all, though he echoed his word. "W eU he may be: Is, 1 assure you," said the spy; though it's not important." "Though it's not important," repeated Carton, in the r3ame mecbanical vray-" though it's not important-No, it's not important. No. Yet l know the face."
1 think not. l am sure not. It can't be," said the spy. "ltr--can't-be," muttered Sydney Carton, retrospectively, and filling his glasa (which fortunately was a small one) again. Can't be. Spoke good French. Yet like a foreigner, l thought?" Provincial," said the apy.
"No. Foreign!" cried Carton, atriking his open hand on the table, as a light broke clearly on bis mind. Cly 1 Disguised, but the same man. We had that man before us at the Old Bailey." Now, there you are hasty, sir," said Barsad, with a amile that gave his aquiline nose an extra inclination. to one aide; "there you really give me an advantage over you. CIy (who I will unreservedly admit, at this distance of time, wu a pllrtner of mine) has been dead several years. 1. attended him in his last illnesa. He was buried in London, at the church of Saint Pancras-ÏD.-the-Fields.
His unpopularity with the blaclrguard multitude .nt the moment, prevented my follow ing bis remains, but I helped to lay him in his co~.n."
Here, Mr. Lorry became aware, from.where lie sat, of a most remar1rabla goblin ehadow on the wall. Tracing it to its source, lie discovered it to ba caused by a sudden extraordinary rising and stiffening of all the risen and stiff hair on Mr. Cruncher's head. Let us be reasonab1e," said the spy, and let us be fair. To show you how mistaken you are, and what an unfounded nssumption yours is, I will lay before you a certificate of Cly's burial, which I happen to lave carried in my pocket-book," with a hurried hand he produced and opened it, ever since. There it is. Oli, look at it, look at it! You may take it in your hand; its no forgery." Hére, Mr. Lorry perceived the reflerion on the wall to elongate, and Mr. Cruncher rose and stepped forward. His hair could not have been more violently on end, if it had been that moment dressed by the Cow with the crumpled horn in the house that Jack built. Unseen by the spy, :1\1:1'. Cruncher stood at his side, and touched him on the shoulder like a ghostly bailiff.
"That there Roger Cly, master," said Mr. Cruncher, with a taciturn and iron-bound visage. "So you put him in his cofn"n P" "1 did."
"Who took him out of it P"
Barsad leaned back in his chair, and stammered, "What do you mean ?"
l mean," said J\1:r. Cruncher, that he warn't never in it. No 1 Not he l'Il have my head took off, if he was ever in it." The spy looked round at the two gentlemen they both looked in unspeakable astonishment nt Jerry.
I tell you," said Jerry, that y ou buried paving-stones and earth in that there coffin. Don't go and tellmc that you buried Cly. It was a take in. Me and two more knows it."
How do you know it ?"
What's that to you ? Ecod growled Mr. Cruncher, it's you l have got a old grudge again, is it, with your shameful impositions upon tradesmen! I'd catch hold of your throat and choke you for balf a guinea."
Sydney Carton, who, with Mr. Lorry, bad been lost in amazement at this turn of the business, here requested Mr. Cruncher to moderate and explain himself.
"At another time, sir," he returned, evasively, "the present time Íe ill-conwenient for e~plainin'. What I stand to, is, that he knows vell wot that there Cly was never in that there coffin. Let him say he was, in so much as a word of one syllable, and l'il either catch hold of his throat and choke him for half a guinea Mr. Cruncher dwelt upon this as quite a liberal offer; or I'll out and announce him
Humph! I see one thing," said Carton. cc.1 hold another card, Mr. Barsad.- Impossible, here in raging Paris, with Suspicion filling the air, for you to outlive denunciation, when you are in communication with another aristocratic spy of the same antecedenta as yourself, who, moreo\'er, has the mystery about him of having feigned death and come to'life ngain! A plot in the prisons, of the forejgner
against tbe Republie. A strong card-a certain Guillotine card Do you play P"
H No P' returned the spy. l throw up. I comess that we were so unpopular with the outrageous mob, that, l only got away froID England nt the riaIt of being ducked to death, and that Cly was so ferreted up and dow:i1, that he never ,ould have got 'away at all but for that sharn. Though how this man knows it was a sham, is a wonder of wondera tome." Never you trouble your head about this man," retorted the contentious Mr. Cruncher; "you'll have trouble enough with giving your attention to that gentleman. And look here Once more 1" -1.'11'. Cruncher could not be regtrained from making rather an ostentatious parade of bis liberality-" rd catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a guinea."
The Sheep of the prisons turned from him to Sydney Carton, and i3pid, with more decif3ion, It has come to a point. I go on duty soon, and can't overstay my time. You told me you had a proposal; what ia it ? Now, it is of no use asking too much of me. Ask me to do anything in my office, putting my head in great extra danger, and l had better trust my life to the chances of refusaI than the chances of consent. In short, l should make that choice. You talk of desperation. We are aU desperate here. Remember 1 1 a denounce you if l think proper, and l can swear my way through stone walls, and so can others. Now, what do you want with me P" Not very much. You are a turnkey nt the Conciergerie pu 1 tell you once for all, there is no such thing as an escape possible," said the spy, firmly.
"Why need you tell me what I have not asked P You are a turnkey at the Conciergerie ?"
1 am sometitnes."
You can be when you choose ?"
1 can pai3s in and out when l choose."
Sydney Carton filled another glass with brandy, poured it slowly out upon the hearth, and watched it as it dropped. It being all spent, he said, rising
So far, we have spoken before these two, because it was as well that the merits of the cards should not rest solely between you and me. Come into the dark room here, and let us have one final word alone."
CHAPTER IX.
TIIE Ci9.3iD 3C.iDE.
Sydney Carton and the Sheep'of the prisons were in the adjoining dark room, speaking 80 low that not a sound was heard, Mr. Lorry looked at Jerry in considerable doubt and mistrust. That honest tradeaman's manner of receiving the look, did not inspire con.. fidence; he changed the leg on which he rested, as often as if he bad fifty of those limbs, and were trying them aU; he examined his finger-
nails with a very questionable cIoseness of attention and whenever Mr. Lorry's eye caught his, he was taken with that peculiar ldnd of Bhort cough requiring the hollow of a hand before it, wliicli is seldom, if ever, known to be an infirmity attendant on perfect openness of character.
Jerry," said 31r. Lorry. Come here."
Mr. Cruncher came forward sideways, with one of his shoulders in advance of him.
What have you been, besides a messenger ?"
After some cogitation, accompanied with an intent look at his patron, Mr. Cruncher conceived the luminous idea of replying, Ai-,ricultooral character."
My mind misgives me mucb," said 1\Ír. Lorry, angrily shaking a forefinger at him, that you have used the respectable and great house of Tellson'B as a blind, and that you have liad an unlawful occupation of an infamous description. If you have, don't expect me to befriend you when you get back to England. If you have, don't expect me to keep your secret. Tellson's shall not be imposed upon."
l hope, sir," pleaded the abashed Mr. Cruncher, that a gentleman like yourself wot I've had the honour of odd jobbing till l'm grey at it, would think twice about harming of me, even if it wos so- l don't Bay it is, but even if it wos. And \Vhich it is to be took into account that if it wos, it wouldn't, even then, be all o' one side. There'd be two Bides to it. There might be medical doctors at the present hour, a picking up their guineas where a. honest tradesman don't pick up bis fnrdens-fardens no, nor yet his half fardens-half fardenb no, nor yet his quarter-a banking away like smoke at Tellson'a, and a cocking their medical eyes at that tradesman on the sly, a going in and going out to their own" carriages-ah 1 equally like smoke, if not more so. Well, that'ud be imposing, too, on Tellson's. For you cannot sarse the goose and not the gander. And here's 1\frs. Cruncber, or leastways wos in the Old England times, and would be to-morrow, if cause given, a floppin' again the business to that degree as iF3 ruina ting-stark ruinating l Z'~hereas them medical doctors' wives don't flop-catch 'em at it 1 Or, if they flop, their floppings goes in favour of more patients, and how can you rightly have one without the t'other ? Then, wot with undertakers, and wot with parish clerks, and wot with sextons, and wot with private watchmen (all awaricious and all in it), a man wouldn't get much by it, even if it was so. And wot little a man did get, would never prosper with him, Mr. Lorry. He'd never have no good of it; he'd want all along to be out of the line, if he could see bis way out, being once in-even if it wos so." CD
U gh 1" cried Mr. Lorry, rather'relenting, nevertheless. "1 am shocked at the sight of you."
lTow, what I would humbly offer to you, sir," pursued DIr. Cruncher, "even if it wos so, which l don't say it is Don't prevaricate," Baid lir. Lorry.
No, I will ~:ot, sir," returned Mr. Cruncher, as if nothing were further from his thoughts or practice-" which I don't say it is-wot l would humbly. offer to you, sir, would be this. 'Upon that there stool, at that there Bar, sets that there boy of mine, brought up and
growed up to be a man, wot will errand you, message you, generallight-job you, till your heels iF3 where your head is, if sach should be your wishes. If it W08 so, which l still don't say it is. (for 1 will not prewairicate to you, sir), let that there boy keep his father's place, and take care of his mother; don't'blow upon that boy's father-do. not do it, sir-and let that father go into the line of the reg'lar diggin', and make amends for what he would have un-dug-if it wos 50-by diggin' of 'em in with a will, and with conwictions respectin' the futur' keepin' of 'em safe. That, Mr. Lorry," said Mr. Cruncher, wiping his forehead with his arm, as an announcement that he had arrived at the peroration of his discourse, Il is wot I would respectfully offer to you, sir. A man don't see all this here a goin' on dreadful round him, in the way of Subjects without heads, dear me, plentiful enough fur to bring the price down to porterage and bardly that, without havin' his serious thoughts of things. And these here would be mine, if it wos so, entreatin' of you fur to bear in mind that wot I said just now, 1 up and said in the good cause when I might have kep' it back."
That at least is true," said Mr. Lorry. Say no more now. It may be that I shall yet stand your friend, if you deserve it, and repent in action-not in words. I want no more words."
Mr. Cruncher knuckled his forehead, as Sydney Carton and the spy returned from the dark room. Adieu, Mr. Barsad 1" said the former our arrangement thus made, you have nothing to fear from me."
He Bat down in a chair on the hearth, over against Mr. Lorry. When they were alone, 1\11'. Lorry asked him what he had doue ? P Not much. If it should go ill with the prisoner, 1 have ensured access to him, once."
Mr. Lorry's countenance fell.
"It is all I could do," said Carton. "To propose too much, would be to put this man'.s head under the axe, and, as he himself said, nothing worse could happen to him if he were denounced. It was obviously the weakness of the position. There is no help for it." But access to him," said Mr. Lorry, if it should go ill before the tribunal, will not save him."
I never said it would."
Mr. Lorry's eyes gradually i3ought the fire hie sympo.thy with his darling, and the heavy disappointment of this second arrest, gradually weakened them; he was an old man now, overborne with anziety of late, and his tears fell.
"You are a good man and a true friend," said Carton, in an altered voice. Forgive me if I notice that you are affected. l could not see my father weep, and sit by, careless. And 1 could not respect your sorrow more, if you were my father. You are free from that misfortune, however."
Though he said the last words, with a slip into bis usual manner, there was a true feeling and respect both in his tone and in his touch, that Mr. Lorry, who had never seen the better side of him, was wholly unprepared for. He gave him bis hand, and Carton gently pressed it.
To return to poor Darnay," said Carton. "DOD't tell Her' of this interview, or this arrangement. It would not enable Her to go
to see him. She might think it was contrived, in case of the worst, to convey to him the means of anticipating the sentence." Mr. Lorrybad not thought of that, and he looked quickly at Carton to see if it were in his miud. It seemed to be he returned the look, and evidently understood it.
She might think a thousand things," Carton said, and any of them would only add to her trouble. Don't speak of me to her. As I said to you when I first came, 1 had better not see her. I can put my hand out, to do any little helpful work for her that my hand eau find to do, without that. You are going to her, I hope ? P She must ba very desolate to-night."
l am going now, directly."
"1 am glad of tbat. She has such a strong attachment to you and reliance on you. How does she look?" 0
Anxious and unhappy, but very beautiful."
"Ah 1"
It was a long, grieving sound, like a sigh-almost like a sob. It attracted 1\fr. Lorry's eyes to Carton's face,. which was turned to the fire. A light, or a shude (the old gentleman could not have said which), passed from it as swiftly as a change will sweep over a hillside on a wild bright day, and he lifted his foot to put back one of the little flaming logs, which was tumbling forward. He wore the white riding-coat and top-boots, then in vogue, and the light of the fire touching their light surfaces made him loolc very pale, with his long brown hair, all untrimmed, hanging loose about him. His indifference to fire was sufficient1y remarkable to elicit a word of remonstrance from Mr. Lorry; his boot was still upon the hot embers of the flaining log, when it had broken under the weight of his foot.
I forgot it," he said.
Mr. Lorry's eyes were again attracted to his face. Taking note of the wasted air which clouded the naturally handsome features, and having the expression of prisoners' faces fresh in his mind, he was strongly reminded of that expression.
And your duties here lave drawn to an end, sir ?" said Carton, turning to him.
Yes. As I was telling you last night wlten Lucie came in so unexpectedly, l have at lcngth done all that I can do here. l hoped to have left them in perfect safety, and then to have quitted Paris. I have my Leave to Passe l was ready to go."
They were both silent.
Yours is a long life to look back upon, sir ?" said Carton, wistfully. I am in my sevents-eighth year."
"You have been useful all your life; steadily and constantly occupied trusted, respected, and looked up to ?"
"1 have been a man of business, ever since I have been fi man. Indeed, l may say that l was a man of business when a boy. See what a place you fill at seventy-eight. How many people will miss you when you leave it empty 1"
A solitary old bachelor," answered Mr. Lorry, shaliing his head. There is nobody to weep for me."
How can you say that ? W ouldn'h She "eep for you? ~'Pouldn't her child ?"
"Y es, yes, thank God. I didn't quite mean wbat I said." It is a thing to thank God for is it not ?"
Surely, surely."
If you could ~ay, with truth, to your own solitary heart, to-night, 'I bave secured to myself the love and attachment, the gratitude or respect, of no human creature l have won myself a tender place in no regard; I have done nothing good or serviceable to be remembered by l' your seventy-eight years would be seventy-eigbt heavy curses would they not ?"
You say truly, i%lr. Carton I think they would be." Sydney turned his eyes again upon the fire, and, after a silence of a few moments, said a
I should like to ask you :-Does your childhood seem far off ? Do the days when you sat at your mother's knee, seem days of very long
ago ?"
Responding to bis softened manner, Mr. Lorry answered Twenty years back, yes at this time of my life, no. For, as I draw closer and closer to the end, I travel in the circle, nearer and nearer to the beginning. It seems to be one of the kind smoothings and preparings of the way. My heart is touched now, by many re. membrances that had long fallen asleep, of my pretty young mother (and l so old !), and by many associations of the dn.ys when what we call the World was not so real with me, and my faults were not confirmed in me."
I understand the feeling 1" exclaimed Carton, with a bright flush. And you are the better for it ?"
I hope so."
Carton terminated the conversation here, by rising to help him on with his outer coat but you," said Mr. Lorry, reverting to the theme, you are young."
Yes," said Carton. I am not old, but my young way was never the way to age. Enough of me."
And of me, I. am sure," said Mr. Lorry. Are you going out I'll walk with you to her gate. You know my vagabond and restless habits. If l should prowl about the streets a long time, don't be uneasy; l shall reappear in the morning. You go to the Court to-morrow ?"
Yes, unhappily."
cc 1 shall be there, but only as one of the crowd. My Spy will find a place for me. Take my arm, sir."
Mr. Lorry did so, and they went down stairs and out in the streets. A few minutes brought them to Mr. Lorry's destination. Carton left him there; but lingered at a little distance, and turned back to the gate again when it was shut, and touched it. He had heard of her going to the prison every day. She came out here," he said, looking about him, "turned this way, must have trod on these stones often. Let me follow in her steps."
It was ten o'clock at night when he stood before the prison of La Force, where she had stood hundreds of times. A little woodf3awyer,« having cloBed. his shop, was rmoking his pipe at his shop. door.
Good night, citizen," said Sydney Carton, pausing in going by; for, the man eyed him inquisitively..
Good night, citizen."
How goes the Republic
"~ou mean the Guillotine. Not ill. Sixty-three to-day. ~Ÿe shall mount to a hundred soon. Samson and his men complain sometimes, of being exhausted. Ha, ha, ha 1 1-le is so droll, that Samson. Such a Barber
Do you often go to sec him-"
Shave P Always. Every day. What fi barber You have seen him at work a"
Never."
Go and see him when be has a good batch. Figure this to yourself, citizen he shaved the si~tjr-three to-day, in less than two pipes Less than two pipes. Word of' honour!"
As the grinning little man held out the pipe be was smoking, to explain how he timed the executioner, Carton was so sensible of a rising desire to strike the life out of him, that lie turned awav. But you are not English," said the wood-sawyer, thoûgh 1 you wear English dress i'"
"'Yes," said Carton, pausing again, and nnswering over his shoulder.
"Y ou speak like a Frenchman."
l am an old student here."
"Aha, a perfect Frenchman! Good night, Englishman." Good night, citizen."
"Dut go and Bee that droll dog," the little man persisted, calling after him. And take a pipe with you
Sydney had not gone far out of sight, when he stopped in the middle of the street under a glimmering lamp, and wrote with his pencil on a scrap of paper. Then, traversing with the decided step of one who remembered the way well, several dark and dirty streets -much dirtier than usuaI, for the best public thoroughfares remained uncleansed in those times of terror-he stopped at a chemiRt's shop, which the owner was closing with his own hands. A small, dim, crooked shop, lrept in a tortuous, up-hill thoroughfare, by a emall, dim, crool{8d man.
Giving this citizen, too, good night, as he confronted him at his counter, he laid the scrap of paper before him. "Whew!" the chemist whistled softly, as he read it. Hi hi hi
Sydney'Carton took no heed, and the chemist said
For you, citizen?"
For me."
"You will be careful to keep them separate, citizen P 'You know the consequences of mixing them P"
Perfectly."
Certain small pac1œts were made and given to him. He put them, one by one, in the brenst of his inner coat, counted out the money for them, and deliberately left the eliop. cc There is nothing more to do," said he, glancing upward at the moon, until to-morrow. I can't sleep."
It was not a reckless manner, the manner in which lie said these words aloud under the fast-sailing clouds, nor was it more expressive of negligence tb.an defiance. It was the settled manner of a tired
man, who bad wandered and struggled and got lost, but who at length struck into his road and saw its end.
Long ago, when lie had been famous among bis earliest competi. tors as a youth of great promise, lie had followed bis father to the grave. His mother had led, years before. These solemn words, which had been read at his father's grave, arose in his mind as lie went down the dark streets, among the heavy shadows, with the moon and tbe clouds sailing on bigh above him. 1 am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: lie that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die."
In a city dominated by the axe, alone at night, with natural sorrow rising in him for the sixty-three who bad been that day put to deatl, and for to-morrow's v ictims then awaiting their doom in the prisons, and still of to-morrow's and to-morrow's, the chain of association that brought the word shome, like a rusty old ship's anchor from the deep, might have been easily found. He did not seek it, but repeated them and went on.
With a solemn interest in the lighted windows where the people were going to rest, forgetful through a few calm hours of the horrors surrounding them in the towers of the churches, where no prnyers were said, for the popular revulsion bad even travelled that length of self-destruction from years of priestly impostors, plunderers, and profligates in the distant burial-places, reserved, as they wrote upon the gates, for Eternal Sleep in the abounding gaols and in the streets along which the sixties rolled to a death which had become so common and material, that no sorrowful story of a haunting Spirit ever arose among the people out of all the working of the Guillotine; with a solemn interest in the whole life and death of the city settling down to its short nightly pause in fury; Sydney Carton croased the Seine again for the lighter streets.
Few coaches were abroad, for riders in coaches were liable to be suspected, and gentility hid its head in red nightcaps, and put on heavy shoes, and trudged. But, the theatres were all well filled, and the people poured cheerfully out as he passed, and went chatting home. At one of the theatre doors, there was a little girl with a mother, looking for a way across the street through the mud. He carried the child over, and before the timid arm was loosed from his neck asked ber for a kiss.
I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lorcl he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall lie live and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die."
Now, that the streets were quiet, and the night wore on, the words were in the echoei3 of his feet, and were in the air. Perfectly calm and steady, lie sometimes repeated them to himeelf as he walked; but, lie heard them always.
The night wore out, and, as he stood upon tbe bridge liatening to the water as it splashed the river-walls of the Island of Paris, where the picturesque confusion of houses and cathedral shone bright in the light of the moon, the day came coldly, looking like a dead face out" of the sky. Then, the night, with the moon and the stars, turned pale and died, and for a little while it seemed as if Creation were delivered over to Death's dominion.
But, the glorioue; sun, rising, seemed to strike those worcls, that burden of the night, f3traight and warm to his heart in its long bright rays.. And looking along them, witli reverently shaded eves, a bridge of lighti appeared to span the air between him and thé sun, w hile the river aparkled under it.
The strong tide, so swift, so deep, and certain, was like a congenial friend, in the morning atillness. He walked by the stream, f:~r from the houses, and in the light and warmth of the sun fell asleep on the bank. When he awoke and was afoot again, he lingered there yet a little longer, watching an eddy that turned and -turned purposeless, until the stream absorbed it, and carried it on to the sea. Like me
A trading-boat, with a -sail of the F3oftened colour of a dead lent~ then glided into bis view, floated by him, and died away. As its silent track in the water disappeared, the prnyer that had broken up out of his heart for a merciful consideration of all his poor blindnesses and errors, ended in tbe words, 1 am the resurrection and the life."
Mr. Lorry was already out ",ben lie got back, and it was easy to surmise where the good old man was gone. Sydney Carton drauk nothing but a little coffee, ate some bread, and, having washed and changed to refresh himself, went out to the place of trial. The court was all astir and a-buzz, when the b1ack sheep-whom many feU away from in dread-pressed him into an obscure corner among the crowd. Mr. Lorry was there, and Doctor Manette was there. She was there, sitting beside her father.
When her husband was brought in, she turned a look upon him, so sustaining, so encouraging, so full of admiring love and pitying tenderness, yet so courageous for bis sake, that it called the healthy blood into his face, brightened bis glance, and animated his heart. If there had been any eyes to notice the influence of her look, on Sydney Carton, it would have been seen to be the same influence e~actly.
Before that unjuF3t Tribunal, there was little or no order of procedure, ensuring to any accused p.erson any reasonable hearing. There could have been no such Revolution, if all laws, forms, aud ceremonies, had not first been so monstrously abused, that the suici~al vengeance of the Revolution was to scatter them all to the ivinds. Every eye was turned to the jury. The same determined patriots and good republicans as yesterday and the day before, and to-morrow and the day after. Eager and prominent among them, one man with a craving face, and his fingers perpetuauy hovering about his lips, whose appearance gave great satisfaction to the spectators. A lifethirsting, cannibal-looking, bloody-minded j juryman, the Jacques Three of Saint Antoine. The whole jury, as a jury of dogs empannelled to try the deer.
Every eye then turned to the five judges and the public prosecutor. No favourable leaning in that quarter to-day. A fell, uncompromising, murderous business-meaning there. Every eye then Bougbt some other eye in the crowd, and gleamed at it approvingly and heads nodded at one another, before bending forward with a strained attention.
Charles Evrémonde, called Darnay. Released yesterday, Re.
accused and re-taken yesterday. Indictment delivered to him last night. Suspected and Denounced enemy of the Republic, Aristocrat, one of a family of tyrants, one of a race proscribed, for that they had used their abolished privileges to the infamous oppression of the people. Charles Evrémonde, called Darnay, in right of 'such proscription, absolutely Dead in Law.
To this effect, in as few or fewer words, the Pllblic Prosecutor. The President asked, was the Accused openly denounced or secretly ?
Openly, President."
By whom p"
Three voices. Ernest Defarge, wine-vendor of Saint Antoine." Good."
Thérèse Defarge, his wife."
Good."
Alexandre Manette, physician."
A great uproar took place in the court, and in the midst of it, Doctor 31anette w as seen, pale and trembling, standing where he had been seated.
President, I indignantly protest to you that this is a forgery and a fraud. 'You l~now the accused to be the husband of my daughter. My daughter, and those dear to her, are far dearer to me than my life. Who and wheré is the false conspirator who says that l denounce the husband of my child P"
Citizen Manette, be tranquil. To fail in submission to the authority of the Tribunal would be to put yourself out of Law. As to what is dearer to you than lite, nothing can be so dear to a good citizen as the Republic."
Loud acclamations hailed this rebuke. The President rang his bell, and with warmth resumed.
If the Republic should demand of you the sacrifice of your cl1i1d herself, you would have no duty but to sacrifice her. Listen to what is to follow. In the mean while, be silent
Frantic acclamations were again raised. Doctor Manette sat down, with his eyes looking around, and his lips trembling; his daughter drew closer to him. The craving man on the jury rubbed bis bands together, and restored the usual hand to his mouth. Defarge was produced, when the court was quiet enough to admit of his being heard, and rapidly egpounded the atory of the imprisonment, and of his baving been a mere boy in the Doctor's service, and of the -release, and of tbe state of the prisoner when released and delivered to him This short egamination followed, for the court was quick with its work.
You did good service at the taking of the Bastille, citizen P" 1 believe so."
Here, an egcited woman screecbed from the crowd: "You were one of the best patriots there. Why not say se P You were a cannonier that day there, and you were among the mst. to enter the accursed fortress when it fell. ~atriota, l speak the truth 1" It .was The Vengeance who, amidst the warm commendations of the audience,- thus assisted the proceedings. The President rang his bell; but, The Vengeance, warming with encouragement,. shrieked, I defy that bell 1" wherein she was likewise niuch commended. 0
Il Inform the Tribunal of what you did that day within the Bastille, citizen."
"1 knew," said Defarge, looking down at his wife, who stood at the bottom of the steps on wliieli he was raised, looking steadily up at him I knew that tlis prisoner, of whom I speak, had been'confined in a cell known as One Hundred and Five, North Tower. I Imewitfromhimself. He knew himself by no other name than One Hundred and Five, Nortli Tower, when he made shoes under my care. As l serve my gun that day, I resolve, when the place shall fall, to examine that cell. It falls. l mount to the cell, witli a fellow-citizen who is one of the Jury, directed by a gaoler. I examine it, very close1y. In a hole in the chimney, where a atone has been worked out and replaced, I find a written paper. This is that written paper. I have made it my business to ex amine some specimens of the writing of Doctor ]:[anette. This is the wl'iting of Doctor ~ianette. l confide this paper, in the writing of Doctor Manette, to the hands of the President."
Let it be read."
In a dead silence and stillness-the prisoner under trial looking lovingly at his wife, his wife only looking from him to look with Bolicitude at her father, Doctor Manette lzeeping his eyes fixed on the reader, Madame Defarge never talag hers from the prisoner, Defarge never taking his from his feasting wife, and all the other eyes there intent upon the Doctor, who saw none of them-the paper was read, as folloics.
CHAPTER X.
THE SUBSTANCE OF THE SUADOW.
I, ALEXANDRE l\IANETTE, unfortunate p11ysician, native of Beauvais and afterwards resident in Paris, write this melancholy paper in my doleful cell in the Bastille, during the last month of the year, 1767. l write it at stolen intervals, under every difficulty. 1 design to secrete it in the wall of the chimney, where I have slowly and laboriously made a place of concealment for it. Some pitying hand may find it there, when I and my sorrows are dust. "These words are formed by the rusty iron point with which I write with difficulty in scrapings of soot and charcoal from the chimney, mixed with blood, in the last month of the tenth year of my captmity. Hope has quite departed from my breast. l know from terrible warnings I have" noted in myself that my reason will not long remain unimpaired, but I solemnly declare that I am at this time in the possession of my right mind-that my memory is exact and circumstantial-and that l write the truth as I shall answer for these my last recorded words, whether they be ever read by men or not, at the EtemaI Judgment-seat.
One cloudy moonlight night, in the third week of December (1
think the twenty-second of the month) in the year 1757, l was walking on a retired part of the quay by the Seine for the refreshment of the frosty air, at an hour's distance from my place of residence in the Street of the School of Medicine, when a carriage came along behii:1.d me, driven very fast. As I stood aside to let that carriage pMS, apprehensive that it might otherwise run me down, a head was put out at the window, and a voice caUed to the driver to stop.
The carriage stopped as soon as the driver could rein in his horf3es, and the same voice called to me by my name. l answered. The carriage was then so far in advance of me that two gentlemen had time to open the door and alight before I came up with it. I observed that they were both wrapped in cloaks, and appeared to conceal themselves. As they stood Bide by side near the carriage door, I also observed that they both looked of about my own age, or rather younger, and that they were greatly alike, in stature, manner, voice, and (as far as 1 could see) face too.
1 You are Doctor Manette?' said one.
I am.'
Doctor Manette, formerly of Beauvais,' said the other; 'the young physician, originally an expert surgeon, who, within the last year or two has made a rising reputation in Paris ?'
Il Gentlemen,' I returned, '1 am that Doctor Manette of whom you speak so graciously.'
1 We have 'been to your residence,' said the first, and not being so fortunate as to find you there, and being informed that you were probably walking in this direction, we followed, in the hope of overtaking.you. Will you please to enter the carriage ?'
The manner of both was imperious, and they both moved, as these words were spoken, so as to place me between themselves and the carriage door. They were armed. I was not.
Il Gentlemen,' said l, 'pardon me but I usually inquire who does me the honour to seek my assistance, and what is the nature of the case to which 1 am summoned.'
"The reply to this, vras made by him who had spoken second. Doctor, your clients are people of condition. As to the nature of the case, our confidence in your skill assures us that you will ascertain it for yourself better than we can describe it. Enough. Will you please to enter the carriage ?'
I could do nothing but comply, and l entered it in silence. They botli entered after me-the last springing in, after putting up the steps. The carriage turned about, and drove on at its former speed. l repeat this conversation exactly as it occurred. I have no doubt that it is,'word for word, the same. I describe everything exactly as it took place, constraining my mind not to wander from the task. Where I make the broken marks that follow here, l leave off for the time, and put my paper in its hiding-place. :1= :1= :1= The carriage left the streets behind, passed the North Barrier, and emerged upon the country road. At two-thirds of a league from the Barrier-1 did not estimate the distance at that time, but afterwards when I traversed it-it struck out of the main avenue, and presently stopped at a solitary bouse. We all three alighted, and walked, by a damp soft footpath in a garden where a neglected fountain had overflowed, to the door of the house. It was not opened Q 2
immediately, in answer to the ringing of the bell, and one of my two conductors struck the man wbo opened it, with his heavy ridingglove, across the face. t>
There was nothing in this action to attract my particular attention, for I had seen common people struck more commonly than dogs. But, the other of the two, being angry lilceW se, struck the man in like manner with Iris arm the look and bearing of the brothers were then so exactly alike, that I then first perceived them to be twin brothers.
"From the time of our alighting at the outer gate (which we found locked, and which one of the brothers 1ad opened to admit us, and had re-10cked), I had heard cries proceeding from an upper cham ber. I was conducted to this chamber straight, the cries growing louder as we ascended the stairs, and l found a patient in a high fever of the brain, lying on a bed.
The patient was a woman of great beauty, and young; assuredly not much past twenty. Her hair was torn and ragged, and her arms were bound to her sides with sashes and lumdkerchiefs. l noticed that these bonds were all portious of a gentleman's dress. On one of them, which was a fringed scarf for a dress of ceremony, I saw the armorial bearing of a Noble, and the letter E.
"I saw this, within the mat minute of my contemplation of the patient; for, in ber restlesa strivings she had turned over on ber face on the edge of the bed, had drawn the end of the scarf into her mouth, and was in danger of suffocation. 1\1y first act was to put out iny hand to relieve her breathing; and in moving the scarf aside, the embroidery in the corner caught my sight.
I turned her gently over, placed my hands upon her breast to calm her and keep her down, and 1001Œd into her face. Her eyes were dilated aud wild, and she constantly uttered piercing shrieks, and repeated the words, 'My husband, my father, and my brother and then counted up to twelve, and said, 'Rush!' For an instant, and no more, she would pause to listen, and thell the piercing shrieks would begin again, and she would repeat the cry, `DZy husband, my father, and my brother and would count up to twelve, and say Rush!' There was no variation in the oider, or the manner. There was no cessation, but the regular moment's pause, in the utterance of these sounds.
How long,' I asked, 'has this lasted p'
To distinguish the brothers, I will call them the elder and the younger by the elder, I mean him who exercised the most authority. It wns the elder who replied, 'Sinee about this hour last night.' She lIas a husband, a father, and a brother ?'
'A brother.'
1 do not address her brother P'
1-Ie answered with great contempt, ` l~To.'
She has some recent association with tlie number twelve P' The younger brother impatiently rejoined, 1 With twelve o'clock Pl See, gentlemen,' said l, still keeping my hands upon her breast, how useless I am, as you have brought me If I had known what I was coming to see, I could bave come provided. As it is, time must be lost. There are no medicines to be obtained in this lonely place.' The elder brother looked to the younger, who said haughtily,
There is a case of medicines here and brought it from a closet, and put it on the table. :)1: :)1: :)1: :)1:
I opened some of the bottles, smelt them, and put the stop:t'ers to my lips. If I had wanted to use anything save narcotic medicines that were poisons in themselves, I would not have administered any of those.
Do you doubt them P' asked the younger brother.
You see, monsieur, I am going to use them,' I replied, and said no more.
I made the patient swallow, with great difficulty, and after many efforts, the dose th~t I desired to give. As I intended to repeat it after a while, and as it was necessary to watch its influence, I then sat down by the side of the bed. There was a timid and suppressed woman in attendance (wife of the man down stairs), who had retreated into a corner. The house was damp and decayed, indi1ferently furnished-evidently, recently occupied and temporarily used. Some thick old hangings had been nailed up before the windows, to deaden the sound of the shrieks. They continued to be uttered in their regular succession, with the cry, '1\ly husband, my father, and my brother the counting up to twelve, and' Rush The.frenzy waF3 so violent, that l had not unfaatened the bandages restraining the arms but, I had looked to them, to see that they were not painful. The only spark of encouragement in the case, was, that my hand upon the suft'erer's breast had this much soothing influence, that for minutes at a time it tranquillised the figure. It had no effect upon the cries no pendulum could be more regular.
For the reason that my hand had this effect (I assume), I had sat by the side of the bed for half an hour, with the two brothers looking on, before the elder said
There is another patient.'
1 was startled, and asked, ` Ia it a pressing case P'
You had better see,' lie carelessly answered; and took up a light. :)1:
The other patient lay in a back room across a second staircase, which was a species of loft over a stable. There was a low plastered ceiling to a part of it the rest was open, to the ridge of the tiled roof~ and there were beams across. Ray and straw were stored in that portion of the place, fagots for firing, and a heap of apples in sand. I had to pass through that part, to gét at the other. My memory is circumstantial and unshaken. l try it with these details, and I see them all, in this my cell in the Bastille, near the close of the tenth year of my captivity, as l saw them all that night. On some hay on the ground, with a cushion thrown under bis head, lay a hnndsome peasant boy-a boy of not more than Beventeen at the most. He lay on his back, with his teeth set, his right hand clencfed on his breast, and. bis glaring eyes looking straight upward. I could not see wbere his wound was, as l kneeled on one knee over him; but, I could Bee that he was dying of a wound from a sharp point.
I am a doctor, my poor fellow,' said l. 'Let me examine it.' I do not want it examined,' ho anawered 'let it be.' It waa under his hand, and I soothed him to let me move bis hand away. The wound was a sword-thrust, received from twenty to
hours before, but no skill could have saved him if it had looked to without delay. He was then dying fast. As I turned my eyes to the elder brother, l saw him looking down at this handsome boy whose life was ebbing out, as if he were a wounded bird, or hare, or rabbit; not at all as if he were a fellow-creature. How 118S this been done, monsieur 2' said l.
A crazed young common dog A serf Forced ni brother to draw upon him, and has fallen by my brotlier's sword-like a gentleman.'
There was no touch of pity, sorrow, or kindred humanity, in this answer. The speaker seemed to acknowledge that it was incon~renient to have that different order of creature dying there, and t1¡nt it would have been better if he had died in the usual obscure routine of his vermin kind. He wns quite incapable of any compassionate feeling about the boy, or about his fnte.. ;m The boy's eyes had slow}y moyed to him as he bad spoken, and they now slowly mO"fed to me.
Doctor, they are very proud, these Nobles; but we common dogs are proud too, sometimes. l'hey plunder us, outrage us, beat us, kill us but we have a little pride left, sometimes. She-bave you seen her, Doctor
"The shrieks and the cries were audible there, though subdued by the distance. He referred to them, as if she were lying in our presence.
tg 1 said, '1 have seen her.'
She is my sister, Doctor. They bave had their shameful rights, these Nobles, in the modesty and virtue of our sisters, many years, but we bave had good girls among us. 1 lmo\V it, and have heard my father say so. She was a good girl. She was betrothed to a good young man, too a tenant of his. We were all tenants of his-that man's ~ho stands there. The other is his brother, the worst of a bad race.'
"It was with the greatest difficulty that the boy gathered bodily force to speak but, bis spirit spoke with a dreadful emphasis. 'W e were so robbed by that man who stands there, as all we common dogs are by those superior Beings-taxed by him without mercy, obliged to work for 'him without pay, obliged to grind our corn at his mill, obliged to feed scores of his tame birds on our wretched crops, and forbidden for our lives to keep a single tame bird of our own, pillaged and plundered to that degree that when we chanced to have a bit of ment, we ate it in fear, with the door barred and the shutters closed, tliat his people should not see it and take it from us-1 say, we were so robbed, and hunted, und were made so poor, that our fatber told us it was a dreadful thing to bring a child mto the world, and that what we should most pray for, was, that our women might be barren and our miserablc race die out l' 1 had never before seen the sense of being oppressed, bursting forth like a fire. I had supposed that it must be latent in the people Bomewhere; but, I had never seen it break out, until l saw it in the dying boy.
Nevertheless, Doctor, my sister married. Ile was ailing at that time, poor fellow, and she married her lover, that she might tend and comfort him in our cottage-our dog-hut, as that man would call
it. She had not been married many weeks, when that man'a brother saw her and admired her, and asked that man to lend her to him -for what are husbands among us! He was willing enough, but my sister was good and virtuous, and hnted his brother with a hatred as strong as mine. What did the two then, to persuade her husband to use his influence with her, to make her willing P'
The boy's eyes, which had been fixed on mine, slowly turned to the looker-on, and I saw in the two faces that all he said waa true. The two opposing kinds of pride confronting one anotber, I can see, ev en in this Bastille the gentleman's, all negligent indifFerence; the peasllnt's, all trodden-down sentiment, and passionate revenge. You lmow, Doctor, that it is among the Rights of these Nobles to harness us common dogs to carts, and drive us. They so harneased himanddrovehim. You know that it is among their Rights to keep us in their grounds all night, quieting the frogs, in order that their noble sleep may not be disturbed. They kept him out in the unwholesome mists at nig11t, and ordered him back into his hamess in the day. But he was not persuaded. No 1 Taken out of harnesf3 one day at noon; to feed-if he could find food-he sobbed twelve times, once for every strolie of the bell, and died on her bosom.' N othmg hum an could have held life in the boy but his determination to tell all his wrong. He forced back the gathering ahadowe of death, as lie forced his c1enched right hand to remain clenched, and to cover his wound.
Then, with that man's permission and even with his aid, his brother took her away in spite of what I know she must have told his brother-and what that is, will not be long unknown to you, Doctor, if it is now-his brother took her away-for his pleasure and diversion, for a little while. I saw her pasa me on the road. ~'Phen I took the tidings home, our father's heart burst; he never spoke one of the words that filled it. I took my young sister (for I have another) to a place beyond the reach of this man, and where, at least, she will never be lais vassal. Then, Itraekeathe brother here, and last night climbed in-a common dog, but sword in hand.Where is the loft window ? P It was somewhere here P' The room was darkening to his sight the world was narrowing around him. l glanced about me, and saw that the hay and straw were trampled over the floor, as if there had been a struggle. She heard me, and ran in. I told her not to come near us till he was dead. He came in and first tossed me some pieces of money; then struck at me with a whip. But l, though a common dog, so struck at him as to make him draw. Let him break into as many pieces as lie will, the sword that he stained with my common blood he drew to defend himself-thrust at me with all his akill for his life.' i~y glance had fallen, but a few moments before, on the fragments of a broken sword, lying among the hay. That weapon was a gentleman's. In another place, lay an old Bword that aeemed to have been a soldier's.
` Now, lift me up, Doctor lift me up. Where is he P' He is not here,' l said, supporting the boy, and thinking that he referred to the brother.
Ile 1 Proud as these nobles are, he is afraid to see me. Where. is the man who was here? Turn my face to him.'
I did so, raising the boy's head against my knee. But, invested for the moment with extraordinnry power, he raised himself completely: obliging me to rise too, or I could not have still supported him.
Marquis,' said the boy, turned to him with his eyes opened wide and his right hand raised, 'in the days when all these thmgs are to be answered for, I summon you, and yours to the last of your bad race, to answer for them. 1 mark this cross of blood upon you, as a sign that I do it. In the days when all these things are to be answered for, I summon your brother, the worst of the bad race, to answer for them separately. l this cross of blood upon him, as a sign that I do it.'
Twice, he put his hand to the wound in his breast, and with his forefinger drew a cross in the air. He stood for an instant with the finger yet raised, and, ns it dr opped, he dropped with it, and I laid him down dead. =1: =II: :]1: :]1:
When I returned to the bedside of the young woman, I found her raving in precisely the same order and continuity. I hnew that this might last for many hours, and that it would probably end in the silence of the grave.
l repeated the medicines I had given her, and I sat at the side of the bed until the night was far advauced. She never abated the piercing quality of her sbrieks, never stumbled in the distinctness or the order of her words. They were always '1\Iy husband, my father, and my brother One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Rush 0
This lasted twenty-six hours from the time when I first saw her. l had come and gone twice, and was again sitting by her, when she began to falter. l did what little could be done to assist that opportunity, and by-and-by she sank into a 1etlIargy, and lay like the dead.
"It was as if the wind and rain had lulÍed at last, after a long and fearful storm. I released her arms, and called the woman to assist me to compose her figure and the dress she had torn. It was then that I knew her condition to be that of one in whom the first expectations of being a mother have arisen and it was then that 1 lost the little hope 1 had had of her.
Il ls she dead ?' asked the Marquis, whom I will still describe as the elder brother, coming booted into the room from his horse. Not dead,' said I but like to die.'
What strength there is in these common bodies he said, looking down at her with some curiosity.
There is prodigious strength,' l answered him, 'in sorrow and despair.'
Il He first laughed at my words, and then frowned at them. He moved a chair with his foot near to mine, ordered the woman away; and said, in a subdued voice,
1 Doctor, finding my brother in this difficulty with these hinds, l recommended that your aid should be invited. Your reputation is high, and, as a young man with your fortune to make, you are probably mindful of your interest. The things that you see here, are things to be seen, and not spoken of.'
il l listened to the patient's breathing, and avoided anstrering.
Do you honour me with your attention, Doctor P'
le Monsieur,' said I, 'in my profession, the communications of patients are always received in confidence.' I was guarded in my answer, for I was troubled in my mind by what I had heard and seen.
Her breatliing was so difficult to trace, that I carefully tried the pulse and the heart. There was life, and no more. Looking round as I resumed my seat, I found both the brothers intent upon me.
I write with so much diffieulty, the cold is so severe, I am so fearful of being detected and consigned to an underground cell and total darkness, that I must abridge this narrative. There is no confusion or fnilure in my memory it can recal, and could detail, every word that was ever spoken between me and those brothers. She lingered for a week. Towards the last, I could understand some few syllables that she said to me, by"plncing my ear close to her lips. She asked me where she was, and I told her who l was, and l told her. It was in vain that I asked her for her family name. She faintly shook her head upon the pillow, and kept her secret, as the boy had done.
1 had no opportunity of asking her any question, until I had told the brothers she was smkinn fast, and could not live another*'day. Until then, though no one was ever presented to her consciotiiiness save the womall and myself, one or other of them bad always jealously sat behind the curtain at the head of the bed when I was there. But when it came to that, they seemed careless what communication I might hold with her as if-the thought passed through my mindl were dying too.
I always observed that their pride bitterly resented the younger brother's (as I call him) having crossed swords with a peasant, and that peasant a boy. The only consideration that appeared really to affect the mind of either of them, was the consideration that this was highly degrading to the family, and was ridiculous. As often ae l caught the younger brother's eyes, their expression reminded me that he disliked me deeply, for knowing what I knew from the boy. He was smoother and more polite to me than the elder; but l saw this. I also saw that I ",as an encumbrance in the mind of the elder too.
My patient died, two hours before midnight-at a time, by my watch, .answering almost to the minute when l bad first seen her. I was alone with her, when her forlorn young head drooped gently on one side, and all her earthly wrongs and sorrows ended. The brothers were waiting in a room down stairs, impatient to ride away. I had heard them, alone at the bedside, striking their boots with their riding-whips, and loitering up and down. At last she is dead P' said the elder, when I went in. She is dead,' said l.
*I congratulate you, my brother,' were his words as he turned round.. He had before offered me money, which I had postponed taking. He now gave me a rouleau of gold. I took it from his hand, but laid it onthe table. l had considered the question, and had resolved to accept nothing.
Pray excuse me,' said J. `'Under the circumstances, no.' "They exchanged looks, but bent their heads to me as I bent mine to them, and we parted without another word on either side.
I am weary, weary, weary-worn down by misery. I cannot read what I have written with this gaunt hand.
Early in the morning, the roulean of gold was léft at my door in a little box, with my name on the outside. From the first, l had anxious1y considered what I ought to do. J decided, that day, to write privately to the Minister, stating the nature of the two cases to which I had been summoned, and the place to which I had gone in effect, stating all the circumstances. I knew what Court influence was, and what the immunities of the Nobles were, and I exthat the matter woiild never be heard of but, I wished to relieve my own mind. I had kept the matter a profound secret, even from my wife; and this, too, I resolved to state in my letter. I had no apprehension whatever of my real danger; but, l was conecious that there might be danger for others, if others were compromised by possessinc, the knowledge that I possessed. 1 was much engaged that day, and could not complete my letter that night. I rose long before my usual time next morning, to finish it. It was the last day of the year. The letter was lying before me just completed, when I was told that a lady waited, who wished to see me.
am growing more and more unequal to the task I have set myself. It is so cold, so dark, my senses are so 'benumbed, and the gloom upon me is so dreadful.
The lady was young, engaging, and hand.~ome, but not marked for long life. She was in great agitation. She presented herself to me, as the wife of the Marquis St. Evrémonde. I connected the title by which the boy had addressed the elder brother, with the initial letter embroidered on the scarf, and, bad no difficulty in arriving at the conclusion that I bad seen that nobleman very lately. My memory is still accurate, but I cannot write the words of our conversation. I suspect that I am watched more closely than I was, and l know not at what times I may be watched. She had in part suspected, and in part discovered, the main facts of the cruel story, of her busband's share in it, and my being resorted to. She did not know that the girl was dead. Her hope had been, she said in great distress, to show her, in secret, a woman's sympathy. Her hope had been to avert the wrath of Heaven from a House that had long been hatefu1 to the suffering many.
She bad reasons for believing that there was a young sister living, and her greatest desire was, to bel}.> that sister. I could tell her nothing but that there was such a sister beyond that, l knew nothing. Her inducement to come to me, relying on my confidence, bad been the hope that I could tell her the name and place of abode. Whereas, to this wretched hour I am ignorant of both. :1: -1= These scraps of paper fail me. One was taken from me, with a warning, yesterday. I must finish my record to-day.
She was a good, compassionate lady, and not happy in her marriage. How could i3he be The brother distrusted and disliked hery and his influence was all opposed to her she stood in dread of
him, and in dread of her husband too. When I handed her down to the door, there was a child, a pretty boy from two to three years old, in her carriage.
For his sake, Doctor,' she said, pointing to hun in tears, l wôuia do all l càn to make what poor amends l can. He will never prospar in his inheritance otherwise. I bave a presentiment that if no other innocent atonement is made for this it will one day be required of him. What I have left to call my own-it is little beyond the worth of a few jewels-I will make it the first charge of his life to bestow, with the compassion and lamenting of his dead mother, on this injured family, if the sister can be discovered.'
She kissed the boy, and said, caressing him, 'It is for thine own dear sake. Thou wilt be faithful, little Charles il' The child answered her bravely, 'Yes!' I kissed her hand, and she took him in her arms, and went away caressing him. l never saw her more. As she had mentioned her husband's name in the faith that l knew it, I added no mention of it to my letter. I sealed my letter, and, not trusting it out of my own hands, delivered it myself that day.
That night, the last night of the year, towards nine o'clock, a man in a black dress rang at my gate, demanded to see me, and softly followed my servant, Ernest Defarge, a youth, up-stairs. When my servant came into the room where l sat with my wifeo my wife, beloved of my heart My fair young English wife !-we saw the man, who was supposed to be at the gate, standing silent behind him.
An urgent case in the Rue St. Honoré, he said. It would not detain me, he had a coach in waiting.
It brought me here, it brought me to my grave. When I was clear of the house, a black mu~er was drawn tightly over my mouth from behind, and my arms were pinioned. The t-vo'brgthers crossed the road from a dark corner, and identified me with a single gesture. The Marquis took from bis pocket the letter l had written, showed it me, burnt it in the light of a lantern that was held, and extin- guisbed the ashes with bis foot. Not a word was spoken. I was brought here, l was brought to my living grave.
If it had pleased Croi) to put it in the hard heart of either of the brothers, in all these frightful years, to grant me any tidings of my dearest wife-so much as to let me know by a word whether alive or dead-I might have thought that He had not quite abandoned them. But, now l believe that the mark of the red cross is fatal to them, and that they have no part in His mercies. And them and their descendants, to the last of their race, I Alexandre Manette, unhappy prisoner, do this last night of the year 1767, in my unbearable agony, denounce to the times when all these things shall be answered for. I denounce them to Heaven and to earth." A terrible sound arose when the reading of this document was done. A sound of craving and eagerness that had nothing articulate in it but blood. The narrative called up the most revengeful passions of the time, and there wu not a head in the nation but must bave dropped before it.
Little need, in presence of that tribunal and that auditory, to show
how the Defarges had not made tbe paper public, with the other captured Bastille memorials borne in procession, and had kept it, biding their time. Little need to show that this detested family name had long been anathematised by Saint Antoine, and was wrought into the fatal register. The man never trod ground, whose virtues and services would have sustained him in that place that day, against such denunciation.
And all the worse for the doomed man, that the denouncer was a well-known citizen, his own attached friend, the father of his wife. One of the frenzied aspirations of the populace was, for imitations of the questionable public virtues of antiquity, and for sacrifices and self-immolations on the people's altar. Therefore, when the President said (else had bis own head quivered on his Eslioulders), that the good physician of the Republic would deserve better still of the Republic by rooting out an obnoxious family of Aristocrats, and would doubtless feel a sacred glow and joy in making his daughter a widow and her c'hild an orpbnn, there was wild excitement, patriotic fervour, not a touch of human sympathy.
l~Zuch influence around him, bas that Doctor P" murmured -i\radame Defarge, smiling to The Vengeance. "Save"him now, my Doctor, save him
At every juryman's vote, there was a ronr. Another and anotler. Roar and roar.
U nnnimously :voted. At heart and by. descent an Aristocrat, an enemy of the Republie, a notorious oppressor of the People. Back to the Conciergerie, and Death within four-and-twenty hours 1
CHAPTER XI. Dusir.
TgE wretched wife of the innocent man thus doomed to die,.fell under the sentence, as if she had been mortally stricken. But, she uttered nô sound and so strong was the voice witbin ber,. representing that it was she of all the world who must uphold him in his misery and not augment it, that it quickly raised her, even from that shock.
The judges having to ~take part in a public demonstration out of doors, the tribunal adjourned. The quick noise and movement of the court's emptying itself by many passages had not ceased, when Lucie stood stretching out her arma towards her husband, with nothing in ber face but love and consolation.
"If I might touch him If l might embrace him once 0, good citizens, if you would have so much compassion for us There was but a gaoler left, along with two of the four men who had taken him last night, and Barsad. The people had all poured out to the show in the streets. Barsad proposed to the rest, «'Let ber embrace him, then; it is but a moment." It was silently acquiesced
in, and they passed her over the seats in the hall to a raised place, ~vhcre he, by leaning over the dock, could fold ber in his arms. 14 rare~~ell, dear darlillg of my soul. lIy parting blessing on my love. 1Ve shall meet again, where the weary are at rest 1" They were her husband's words, as he held her to his bosom. l can bear it, dear Charles. I am supported from above; don't 8uft'cr for me. A parting b1essing for our child."
1 scnd it her by you. I kiss her by you. I say farewell to her by you."
lU Y husband. No A moment He was tearing himself apart from her. 'V 0 shall not be separated long. l feel that this will break my heart by-and-by but l will do my duty while 1 eau, and when I leave her, God will raise up friends for her, as He did for me."
1-le,r father had followed lier, and would have fallen on his knees to botli of them; but that Darnay put out a hand and seized him, crying
No, no What have you done, what have you done, that you should kneel to us We know. now, what a struggle you made of old. We know now,. wh~t you uilderwent when. you suspected my descent, and when you 'knew it. We know now, the natural antipathy you strov e against; and conquered, for her dear. sake. 1Ve th:mk you witli all our hearts, and all our love and duty. Heaven be with you!" 1-ler father's only answer was to. draw his hands through his white hair, and wring them witli a shriek of.anguish..
It could not be otherwise," said the prisoner. All things. have worked togethèr as they have fallen out. It was the always=vain endeav our to discharge. niy poor .mo.thet:'s' -trust, :that first broughn my fatal presence riei~r YOll. Good could never corne of such' ev il, a happier end.wàs not in' nature-to so. unhappy a beginning. Be~ çomforted, and forgive me. Heaven bless you!"
As he wasdrawn' aw£1y,' his wife released him, and stood looking after him withherhands touching one another in the attitude of prayer, and with a radiant look.upon her face, in \V4içh.:tb~re.was even a comforting smile..As he went'out at the.pr.isouE(rs' door, she turned; laid 11er. head lovingly on'her .father'sbreast, tried to speak to .him, and fell at his feet.
Then, issuing from the obscure corner from which he had never moved; Sydney Carton .came and took ber up. Only her father and Mr. Lorry were with. her.. His arm trembled as it raised her, and supported her head. Yet, there was an air about hiin that was not all of pity-that- had. a flush of pride in it.
Shall I takehe.r to a.coach? c I shall~never feel he.r. ~'eight." He carried her lightly to the door, and laid ber tenderly down in a coach. Her father and their old friend got into it, and lie took his seat beside the driver.
\Vhen they arrived at the gateway where he had paused in the darlc not many hours before, to picture to himself on which of the rough stones of the street ber feet had trodden, he lifted her again, and carried her up the staircase to their rooms. There, he laid lier down on a couch, where her child and Miss Pross wept over ber. Don't recal ber to herself," lie said, softly, to the latter, she is better so don't revive her to consciousness, while she only faints."
Oh, Carton, Carton, dear Carton cried little Lucie, Bpringing up and throwing her arms passionately round him, in a burst of grief. Now that you have come, I think you will do something to help mamma, something to save papa 0, look at ber, dear Carton t Can you, of all the people who love her, bear to see her so pl' He bent over the child, and laid her blooming cheek against his face. He put her gently from him, and looked at her unconscious mother.
Before I go," he said, and paused. l may kiss her ?" It was remembered afterwards that when he bent down and touched her face with lis lips, he murmured some words. The child, who was nearest to him, told them afterwards, and told her grandchildren when she was a handsome old lady, that she heard him say, A life you love."
When he bad gone out into the next room, he turned suddenly on llfr. Lorry and her father, who were following, and said to the latter
You had great influence but yesterday, Doctor Manette; let it, at least, be tried. These judges, and all the men in power, are very friendly to you, and very recoguisant of your services; are they not P"
Nothing connected with Charles was concealed from me. l had the strongest assurances tbat I obould save him and I did." He returned the answer in great trouble, and very slowly. Try them again. The hours between this and to-morrow afternoon are few and short, but try."
"1 intend to try. I will not rest a moment."
Thàt's well. I have known such energy as yours do great things before now-though never," he added, with a smile and a sigh together, "such great things as this. But try Of little worth as life is when we misuse it, it is worth that effort. It would cost nothing to lay down if it were not."
l will go," said Doctor Manette, Il to the Prosecutor and the Presidént straight, and l win go to others whom it is better not to name. l will write too, and-But stay 1 There is a celebration in,the streets, and no one will be accessible until dark." That's true. Well 1 It is a forlorn hope at the best, and not much the forlorner for being delayed till dark..1 should like to know how you speed; though, mind I expect nothing 1 When are you likely to have seen these dread powers, Doctor Manette ?" Immediately after dark, I should hope. Within an hour or two from this."
It will be dark soon after four. Let us stretch the hour or two. If I go to Mr. Lorry's at nine, shaH I hear what you have done, either from our friend or from yourself ?"
Yea."
May you prosper
Mr. Lorry followed. Sydney to the outer door, and, touching him on the shoulder as he was going away, caused him to turn. "1 have no hope," said Mr. Lorry, in a low and BorrÓwful whisper.
Nor have L"
If any one of these men, or all of these men, were disposed to
F3pare liim whicli is a large supposition for what is bis life, or any man's, to them !-1 doubt if they durst spare him after the demon.. stration in the court."
And so do I. I heard the fall of the axe in that sound." :Mr. Lorry leaned his arm upon the door-post, and bowed bis face upon it.
Don't despond," said Carton, very gently don't grieve. I encouraged Doctor Manette in this idea, because I felt that it might one day be eonsolatory to her. Otherwise, she might think bis life was wantonly thrown away or wasted,' and that might trouble her." 99 Yes, yes, yes," returned Mr. Lorry, drying bis eyes, "you are right. But lie will perish there is no real hope."
Yes. He will perish there is no real hope," echoed Carton. And walked with a settled step, down stairs.
CHAPTER XII.
DARKNESS.
SYDNEY CARTON paused in the street, not quite decided where to go. At Tellson's banking-house at nine," he said, with a musing face. "ShaU I do well, in the mean time, to show myself i l think so. It is best that these people should know there is such a man as l here it is a sound precaution, and may be a necessary preparation. But care, care, care 1 Let me think it out."
Checlcing his steps whieh had begun to tend towards an object, be took a turn or two in the already darkening street, and traced the thought in his mind to its possible eonse<J.uenees. His first impression was confirmed. It is best," he eaid, finally resolved, that these people should know there is such a man as I here." And he turned his face towarda Saint Antoine.
Defarge had described himself, that day, as the keeper of a wineshop in the Saint Antoine suburb. It was not difficult for one who knew the city well, to find his bouse without asking any question. Having ascertained its situation, Carton came out of those eloser streets again, and dined nt a place of refresbment and feU sound asleep after dinner. For the first time in many years, he had no strong drink. Since last night he had taken nothing but a little light thin wine, and last night he had dropped the brandy slowly down on Mr. Lorry's hearth like a man who had done with it. It was as late as seven o'clock when he awoke refresbed, and went out into the streets agnin. As he passed along towards Saint Antoine, he stopped at a shop-window where there was a mirror, and slightly altered the disordered arrangement of his loose cravat, and his coatcollar, and his wild hair. This done, he went on direct to Defarge's, and went ia.
There happened to be no cuatomer in the shop but Jacques Three, of the restless fingers and the croaking voice. This man whom he had seen upon the Jury, stood drinking at the little counter, in con.
versation with the Defarges, man and wife. The Vengeance assisted in the conversation, liIre a regular member of the establishment. As Carton walked in, took his seat, and asked (in very indiflè1'ent French) for a small measure of wine, Madame Defarge cast a careless glance at him, and then a keener, and then a keener, and then advanced to him herself, and asked him what it was lie had ordered. He repeated wbat he had already said.
"English P" asked 31ad~-ime Defarge, mqUlsltlvely xaising her dark eyebrows.
After looking at her, as if the sound of even a single French word -%vere slow to express itself to him, he answered, in his former strong foreigu accent. Yes, madame, yes. I am English!"
:nladame Defarge returned to her counter to get the wine, and, as lie took up a Jacobin journal and feigned to pore over it puzzling out its meaning, he heard her say, I swear to you, like Evrémonde Defarge brought him the wine, and gave him Good Evening. How P"
Good evening."
Oh! Good evening, citizen," filling his glass. "Ah! and good ivine. I drink to the Republic."
Defarge went back to the counter, and said, Certainly, a little like." Madame sternly retorted, '« 1 tell Sou a good deal like." Jacques Three pacifically remarked, "He is so much in your mind, see you, madame." The amiable Vengeance added, with a laugh, Yes, my faith And you are 1001cing forward with so much pleasure to seeing him once more to-morrow 1"
Carton followed the lines and words of his paper, with a slow forefinger, and with a studious and absorbed face. `1`hey were allleaDing their arms on the counter close together, speaking low. After a silence of a few moments, during which they had all looked towards him without disturbing his outward attention from the Jacobin editor, they resumed their conversation.
It is true, what madame says," observ ed Jacques Three. ~Vliy stop? There ia great force in that. Why stop i"'
Well, well," reasoned Defarge, but one must stop somewhere. After all, the question is still where ?"
At extermination," said madame.
Magnificent!" croaked Jacques Three. The Vengeance, also, highly approved. 0
"Extermination is good doctrine, my wife," said Defarge, rather troubled; "in general, I say nothing against it. But tbis Doctor lias suffered much you have seen him to-day you have observed his face when the paper was read."
"1 have observed his face repeated madame, contemptuously and angrily. "Yes, I have observed his face. l have observed his face to be not the face of a true friend of the Republic. Let him talie care of his face
And you have observed, my wife," said Defarge, in a deprecatory manner, the anguish of his daughter, which must be dreadful anguish to him 0
I have observed his daughter 1" repeated madame yes, I have observed his daughter, more times than one. l have observed her today, and l have observed her other day s. l have observed her in the
court, and I have observed her in the street by the prison. Let me but lift my finger She seemed to raise it (the listener's eyes were always on his paper), and to let it fall with a rattle on the ledge before her, as if the ate had dropped.
The citizeness is superb 1" croaked the Juryman.
She is an Angel 1" said The Vengeance, and embraced her. As to thee," pursued madame, implacably, addressing her husband, if it depended on thee-which, happily, it does not-thou wouldst rescue this man even now.))
".LNo 1" protested Defarge. Not if to lift this glass would do it 1 But I would leave tlie matter there. l say, stop there." See you then, Jacques," said Madame Defarge, wrathfully; "and see you too, my little Vengeance see you both Listen! For other crimes as tyrants and oppressors, l have this race a long time on my l'egister, doomed to destruction and extermination. Ask my husband is that so."
It is so," assented Defarge, without being asked.
In the beginning of the great days, when the Bastille falls, he finds tlis paper of to-day, and he brings it home, and in the middle of the night when this place is clear and shut, we read it, here on this spot, by the light of this lamp. Ask him, is that so."
It is so," assented Defarge.
That night, I tell him, when the papel' is read through, and the lamp is burnt out, and the day is gleaming in above those shutters and between those iron bars, that l have now a secret to communicate. Ask him, is that so."
It is so," assented Defarge again.
I communicate to him that secret. I smite this bosom with these two hands as I smite it now, and l tell him, Defarge, I was brought up among the fisliermen of the sea-shore, and that peasant-family so injured by the two Evrémonde brothers, as that Bastille paper describes, is my family. Defarge, that sister of the mortally wounded boy upon the ground was my sister, that husband was my sistel"s husband, that unborn child was their child, that brother. was my brother, that father was my father, those dead are my dead, and that summons to answer for those things descends to me l' Ask him, is that so."
It is so," assented Defarge once more.
Then teUWind and Fire where to stop," returned madame but don't tell me."
Both her hearers derived a horrible enjoyment from the deadly nature of her wrath-the listener could feel how white she was, without seeing her-and both highly commended it. De:al'ge, a weak minority, interposed a few words for the memory of the compassionate wife of the Marquis; but, only elicited from his own wife a repetition of her last reply. "Tell the Wind and the Fire where to stop not me
Cristomel's entered, and the group was broken up.. The English customer paid for what he had had, perple~edly counted his change, and asked, as a stranger, to be directed towards the National Palace. Madame Defarge took him to the door, and put her' arm on. hie, in pointing out the road. The English customer was not without his n
reflections then, that it might be a good deed to seize that arm, lift it, and strike under it sharp and deep.
But, he went his way, and was soon swallowed up in the shadow of the prison wall. At the appointed hour, lie emerged from it to present himself in Mr. Lorry's room p,gain, where he found the old gentleman walking to and fro in restless anxiety. said he had been with lucie until just now, and had only left lier for a few minutes, to come and keep his appointment. Her father had not been seen, since he quitted the banking-house towards four o'clock. She had some faint hopes that his mediation might save Charles, but they were very slight. He had been more than five liotirs gone where could he be ?
Mr. Lorry waited until ten but, Doctor «,~lanette not returning, and he being unwilling to leave Lucie any longer, it was arranged tlat he should go back to her, and come to the banking-house again at midnight. In the mean while, Car ton would wait alone by the fire for the Doctor.
He waited and waited, and tle dock struek twelve; but, Doctor Manette did not come back. Mr. Lorry returned, and found no tidings of him, and brought none. Where could he be P They were discussing this question, and were almost building up some weak strueture of hope on his prolonged absence, when thev heard him on the stairs. The instant he entered the room, it was plain that all was 10et.
Whether he had really been to any one, or whether he had been wll that time traversing the streets, was never lmown. As he stood ataring at them, they askc(l him no question, for his face told them everything.
I cannot find it," said he, "ilil(1 I must have it. ~Ÿhere is it?" His head and throat were bare, and, as le spoke with a helpless look atraSing all around, he took his coat off, and let it drop on the floor. 0 2
Where is my bench P I have been looking everywhere for mÿ bench, and I can't find it. What have they done wnth my work ? Time presses I must finisli those shoes."
They looked at one another, and their hearts died within them. Come, come said he, in a whimpering miserable way; "let me get to work. Give me my work."
Receiving no answer, he tore his hair, and beat his feet upon the ground, like a distracted child.
"Don't torture a poor forlorn wreteh," he implored them, with a dreadful cry but give me my \Vork! What is to become of us, if those shoes are not done to-night ?" Lost, utterly lost
It was 50 clearly beyond hope, to reason with him, or try to restore him, that-as if by agreement they each put a hand upon his shotilder, and Boothed him to sit down before the fire, with a promise that he should have his work presently. He sank into the chair, and brooded over the embers, and shed tears. As if all that had happened since the garret time were a momentary fancy, or a dream, 1\lr. Lorry saw him shrink into the exact figure that Defarge had had in keeping.
Affected, and impressed with terror as they both were, by this
spectacle of ruin, it was not a time to yield to sueh emotions. His' 1011ely daughter, bereft of her final hope and reliance, appealed to them both, too strongly. Again, as if by agreement, they looked at one another with one meaning in their faces. Carton was the first to speak
H The last chance is gone: it was not much. Yes; he had better be taken to her. But, before you go, will you, for a moment, steadily attend to me ? Don't ask me why I make the stipulations 1 am going to make, and exact the promise 1 am going to exact; I have a reason-a good one."
"I do not doubt it," answered Mr. Lorry. "Say on."
The figure in the chair between them, was all the time monotononsly rocking itself ta and fro, and moaning. They spolm in such a tone as they would have used if they 1ad been watching by n sickbed in the night.
Carton stooped to pick up the coat, which lay almost entangling his feet. As lie did so, a small case in which the Doctor was accustomed to carry the list of his day's duties, fell lightly on the floor. Carton toolc it up, and there was a folded paper in it. eWe, should look at this ?" he said. :1\fr. Lorry nodded his consent. He opened it, and e-xelaiined, "Thank GOD!"
"Vbat is it?" aslied Mr. Lorry, engerly. `
"A moment Let me speak of it in its place. First. he put his hand in his coat, and took another paper from it, "that is the certificate which enables me to pass out of this city. Look at it. You see-Sydney Carton, an Englisliman p"
~Ir. Lorry held it open in his hand, gazing in his earnest face. Keep it for me until to-morrow. 1 shall see him to-morrow, you remember, and I had better not take it into the prison." Why not p"
I doh't know I prefer not to do so. Now, take this paper that Doctor Manette has carried about him. It is a similar certificate, enabling him and his daughter and her child, at any time, to pass the Barr ier and the frontier ? You see ?"
Yes 1"
Perhaps he obtained it as his last and utmost precaution against evil, yesterday. When is it dated P But no matter don't stay to look; put it up carefully with mine and your own. Now, observe I never doubted until within this hour or two, that he had, or could have, such a paper. It is good, until recalled. But it may be soon recalled, and, -1 have reason to think, will be."
They are not in danger ?"
They are in great danger. They are in danger of denuncintion by Madame Defarge. I know it from ber own lips. I have overheard words of that woman's, to-night, which have presented their danger to me in strong colours. I have ]ost no time, and since then, l have seen the spy. Re confims me. He knows that a woodsawyer, living by the prison wall, is under the control of the Defarges, and has been rehearsed by Madaine Defarge as to bis having seen Her"-he never mentioned Lucie's name-" making signs and signaIs to prisoners. It is easy to foresee that the pretence will be the common one, a prison plot, and that it will involve her life-and perhaps her child's-and perhaps her fatler's-for both have been IL 2
seen with her at that place. Don't look so horrified. You will save them all."
Heaven grant I may, Carton But how pu
1 am going to teU you how. It will depend on you, audit could depend on no better man. This new denunciation will certainly not take 'place until after to-morrow probably not until two or three days afterwards more probably a week afterwards.. You know it is a ca.pital erime, to mourn for, or sympathise with, a victim of the ..Guillotin.e. She and her father would unquestionably be guilty of this crime, and this woman (the inveteracy of whose pursuit cannot be described) would wait to add that etrength to her case, and make herself doubly sure. You follow me pu
So attentively, and with 80 much confidence in what you say, that for the moment I lose sight," touching the back of the Doctor's chair, even of this distress."
You have money, and can buy the means of travelling to the seacoast as quickly as the journey can be made. Your preparations have been completed for some days to return to England. Early tomorrow, have your horses ready, so that they may be in starting trim at two o'clock in the afternoon."
It shall be done
His manner was so fervent and inspiring, that Mr. Lorry caught the flame, and was as quick as youth.
"You are a noble heart. Did I say we could depend upon no better man P Tell her, to-night, what you know of her danger as involving her child and her father. Dwell upon that, for she would lay her own fair head beside her husband's, cbeerfully." He faltered for an instant; then went on as before. For the sake of her child and her father, press upon her the necessity of leaving Paris, with them and you, at that hour. Tell her that it was her husband's last arrangement. Tell her that more depends upon it than' she dare believe, or hope. You think that her father, even in this ead etate, will' su~mi~ himself to her do you not P"
I am. sure of it."
1 thought so. Quietly and steadily, have all these arrangements made in the court-yard here, even to the taking of your own seat in the carriage. The moment I come to you, take me in, and drive away."
I understand that 1 wait for you, under all circumstances ?" "You,have my certificate in your hand with the rest, you know, and will reserve my place. Wait for nothing but to have my place occupied, and then for England 1" Whp, then," said Mr. Lorry, grasping his eager but eo firm and steady.hand, ".it does not all depend on one old man, but I shall have a young and ardent man at my side."
By the help of Heaven you shall Promise me solemnly, that nothing will influence you to alter the course on which we now stand pledged to one another."
"Nothing, Carton.
Remember these words to-morrow change the course, or delay in it-for anp reuson-and no life cm possibly be f3aved, and many lives must inevitilbly be sacrificed."
"I will remember them. I hope to do my part faithfully."
Ana I hope to do mine. Now, good-bye
Though he said it with a grave smile of earnestness, and though,' he even put the old man'a hand to his lips, he did not part from him then.. Hè helped him so far to arouse the rockin~ figure before' tbe dying embera, as to get a cloak and hat put upon it, and to tempt it forth to find where the bench and work were hidden tbat it still moaningly besougbt to have. Hewa1ked on the'other side' of it and protected it to the court-yard of the house where the afflictea heart -so happy in the memorable time when he had revealed his own desolate heart to it-outwatched the awful night. He entered the eourt-yard and remained there for a few moments alone, looking up nt the light in the window of her room. Before lie went away, he breathed a blessing towards it, and a -Farewell.
CHAPTER XIII.
FIFTY-TWO.
IN the black prison of the Conciergerie, the doomed of the day awaited their fate.' They were in number as the weeka of tbe year. Fifty-two were to roll that afternoon on the life-tide of the city to the boundless everlasting ses. Before their cells were quit of them, new occupants were ap pointed before their blood ran into the blood apilled yesterday, the blood that was to mingle with theirs to-morrovQ,_ was already set apart.
Two score and twelve were told off. From the farmer-general of seventy, whose riehes could not buy his life, to the seamstress of twenty, whose poverty and ob sc urit y could not save her.. Physiçal diseases, engendered in the vices and neglects of men, will seize on victims of all degrees; and the frightful moral disorder, born of unspeakable suffering, intolerable oppression, and heartlebis indifference, smote equally without distinction.
Charles Darnay, alone in a cell, had suatained himself with no :flattering delui3ion smce he came to it from the Tribunal. In every line of the narrative he had heard, he had heard bis condemnation. He had full~ comprehended that no persona! influence could pos'sibly save b1Dl, that he was virtuàlly senteneed by the millions, and that units c6uld avail him nothing.
Nevertheleas, it was not easy, with the face of his beloved wife fresh before him, to compose bis mind to what it must bear. His hold on life was strong, and it was very, very hard to loosen b~ gradual efforts and degrees unclosed a little'here, it elenched the tighter there and when he brought bis strength tô bear on that hand arid it yielded, this was closed again. There was a hurry, .too, in aU bis thoughts, a turbulent and heated working. ôf his heart, that contended against' resignation. If, for a-moment; he did feel resigned, then bis wife and child who had to live after him, seemed to protest and to make it a selfish thing.
But, all this was at.first. Before long, the conf3iaeration that there was no dii3grace in the fate he must meet, and that numbere went
the same rond ivron-fa3,, and trod it firmly, every day, sprang up to etimulate him. Neat followed the thought that much of the future peace of mind enjoyable by the dear ones, depended on his quiet fortitude. So, by degrees he calmed into the better state, when lie could raise his thoughts much ligher, and draw comfort down.
Before it had set in dark on the night of his condemnation, he had travelled thus far on his last way. Being allowed to purchase the means of writing, and a light, he sat dOW11 t{) write until such time as the prison lamps should be extinguished.
He wrote a long letter to Lucie, showing her that he liad kno,n nothing of her father's imprisonment until he had hear d of it from herself, and that he had been as ignorant as she of his father's and uncle's responsibility for that misery, until the paper had been read. He had already explained to her that his concealment from herself of the name he had relinquished, was the one condition-fully intelligible now-that her father had attached to their betrothal, and was the one promise he had still exacted on the morning of their marriage. He entreated her, for her father's never to seek to ]mow whether her father had become oblivious of the existence of the paper, or had had it recalled to him (for the moment, or for good), by the etory of the Tower, on that old Sunday under the dear planetree in the garden. If he had preserved 11ny definite remembrance of it, there could be no doubt that he had supposed it destroyed with the Bastille, when he bad found no mention of it among the relies of prisoners whieh the populace had discovered there, and which had been described to all the world. He besought her-though he added that he knew it was needless-to console her father; by impressing him through every tender means she could think of, with the truth that he done nothing for which he could justly reproach himself, but bad uniformly forgotten himself for their joint sakes. Next to her preeervation of his own last grateful love and blessing, and her overcoming of her sorrow, to devote herself to their dear child, he adjured her, as they would meet in Heaven, to comfort her father. To her father himself, he wrote in the same strain; but, he told her father that he expressly confided his wife and child to his care. And he told him this, very.strongly, with the hope of roui3in-Y him from any despondeney or dangerous retrospect towards wbich he foresaw he might be tending.
To Mr. I~orry, he commended them all, and explained his worldly affairs. That done, with many added sentences of grateful friendship and warm attachment, all was done. He never thought of Carton. His mind was so full of the others, that he never once thought of him.
He had time to finish these lettera before the lights were put out. When he lay down on his straw bed, he thought lie had done with this world.
But, it beckoned him back in his sleep, and sbowed itself in shining forms. Free and hnJ.>py, back in the old house in Soho (though it had nothing in it like the real house), unaccountably released and light of heart, he was with Lucie again, and she told him it wu all n drenni, and he had never gone away. A pause of forgetfu]ness, and then he had even suffered, and had come back to ber,
dead and ut peace, and yet there was no difference in him. Another pause of oblivion, and lie awoke in the sombre morning, unconscious where lie was or what had happened, until it flasbed upon his mind, this is the day of my death
Thus, had he come through the hours, to the day when the fiftytwo heads were to fall. And now, while he was composed, and hoped that lie could meet the end with quiet heroism, a new action began in his waking thoughts, which vas very difficult to master. 1-le had never seen the instrument that \Vas to terminate his life. How high it was from the ground, how many steps it had, where he wbuld be stood, how he would be touched, whether the touching hands would be dyed red, which way his face would be turned, whether lie would be the first, or might be the lnat: these and many similar questions, iu no wise directed by his will, obtruded themselves over and over again, countless times. Neither were they connected with fear he was conscious of no fear. Rather, they originated in a strange besettinn desire to know wûat to do when the time came; a desire gigantically disproportionate to the few swift moments to which it reterred; a wondermg that was more like the wondering of some other spirit within his, than his own. 0
The hours went on as he walk~d to and fro, and the clocks struck the numbers he 'would never hear apain. Nine gone for ev er, ten gone for ever, elevell gone for ever, twelve coming on to pass away. After a hard contest with that eccentric action of thoughtwhich had last perplexed him, he had got the better of it. He walked up and down, softly repeating their names to himself. The worst of the strife was over. 1-le could walk up and down, free from distracting fancies, praying for himself and for them.
Twelve gone for ever.
He had been apprised that the final hour was Three, and he kne~ he would be summoned some time earlier, inasmuch as the tumbrils jolted leavily and slowly through the streets. Therefore, he resolved to keep Two before his mind, as the hour, and so to strengthen himself in the interval that he might be able, after that time, to strengthen otbers.
Walldng regu1arly to and fro -with his arms folded on his breast, a very difl~erent man from the prisoner who had walked to and fro at La Force, lie heard One strucl~ away from him, without surprise. The hour had measured like most other hours. Devoutly thankful to Heaven for bis recovered self-possession, he thought, There is but another now," and turned to walk again.
Footsteps in the stone passage, outside the door. He stopped. The key \Vas put in the lock, and turned. Before the door was opened, or as it opened, a man aaid in a low voice, in English He has never seen me here I have kept out of bis way. Go you in alone I wait near. LOBe no time
The door was quickly opened and closed, and there stood before him, face to face, quiet, intent upon him, with the light of a mile on his features and a cautionary flnger on his lip, Sydney Carton. There was something so bright and remarhable in his look, that, for the mst moment, the prisorier misdoubted him to be an apparition of his own imagming. But, he spoke, and it was his voice he took the prisoner's band, and it was his real grasp.
Of all the people upon earth, you least expected to see me ?" lie said.
I could not believe it to be you. I can scarcely believe it no«. You are not"-the apprehension came suddenly into his mind-" a prisoner pu
No. l am accidentally possessed of a power over one of the keepers here, and in virtue of it I stand before yo'u. I come from her-your wife, dear Darnay."
The prisoner wrung bis band.
I bring you a request from her."
What is it ?"
A most earnest, pressing, and emphatic entreaty, addressed to you in the most Pllthetie tones of the voice so dear to you, that you well remember."
The prisoner turned his face partly aside.
You have no time to aslz me why I bring it, or what it means I have no time to tell you. You must comply with it-take off those boots you wear, and draw on these of mine."
There was a chair againat the wall of the cell, behind the prisoucr. Carton, pressing forward, had already, with the speed of lightning, got him down into it, and stood over him barefoot.
Draw on these boots of mine. Put your hands to them put your will to them. Quick
Cartou, there is no escaping from this place it never cftn be done. You will only die with me. It is madness."
It would be madness if I asked you to escape but do I When l ask you to pass out at that door, tell me it is mndness and remain here. Change that cravat for this of mine, that coat for this of mine. While you do it, let me take this ribbon from your hair, and shake out your hair like this of mine
With wonderful quiekneas, and with a strength, both of will and action, that appeared quite su gernatural, he forced all these changes upon him. The prisoner was like a young child in his hands. Carton! Dear Carton 1 It is madness. It cannot be accomplished, it never can be done, it has been attempted, and bas always failed. I implore you not to add your death to the bitterness of mine."
Do I ask you, my dear Darnay, to pass the door P When I ask that, refuse. There are pen and ink and paper on this table. Is your hand steady enough to write i"'
It was, when you came in."
Steady it again, and write what I shall dictate. Quick, friend, quick
Pressing his hand to his bewildered head, Darnay sat down at the table.. Carton, with his right hand in bis breast, stood close beside him.
Write exaetly as I speak."
To.whom do I addl'ess it pl'
"To no one." Carton still had his hand in his breast.
Do I date it P"
"No."
The prisoner looked up, at each question. Carton, standing over him witli his hand in his breast, looked down.
'If you remember,' said Carton, dictating, 'the words that passed between us, long ago, you will readily comprehend this when you see it. You do remember them, I know. It is not in your nature to forget them.'
He was drawing his hand from his breast the prisoner chancing to look up in his hurried wonder as he wrote, the hand stopped, closing upon something.
Have you written 'forget them P' Carton asked.
I have. Is that a weapon in your hand ?"
No I am not armed."
"\Vhat is it in your hand P"
You shall know direct-ly. Write on there are but a few words more." He dictated again. I am thankful that the time has come, when l can prove them. That I do so, is no subject for regret or grief.' As he said these words with his eyes fixed on the writer, his hand slowly and softly mov ed down close to the writer's face..
The pen dropped from Darnay's fingers on the table, and he looked about him vacantly.
What vapour is that f" he asked.
Vapour P"
Something that crossed me P"
I am conscious of nothing there can be nothing here. Take up the pen and finish. Hurry, hurry
As if his memory were impaired, or his faculties disordered, the prisoner made an effort to rally his attention. As he looked at Carton with clouded eyes. and with an altered manner of breathing, Carton-his hand again in his breast-looked steadily at him. Hurrs~, hurry
The prisoner bent over the paper, once more.
If it had been otherwise Carton's hand was again watehfully and softly stealing down; II never should have used the longer opportunity. If it had been othenvise the hand was at the prisoner's face Il' I should but have had so much the more to answer for. If it had been otherwise- Carton looked at the pen, and saw that it was trailing off into unintelligible signe. Carton's hand moved back to his breast no more. The prisoner sprang up, with a reproachfullook, but Carton's band was close and firm at his nostrils, and Carton's left arm caught him round the waist. For a'few seconds he faintly struggled with the man who had come to lay down his life for him but, within a minute or so, he was stretched insensible on the ground.
Quickly, but with hands as true to the purpose as his heart was, Carton.dressed himself in the clothes the prisoner had laid aside, combed back his hair, and tied it with the ribbon the prisoner had worn. Then, he softly called Enter there Come la!" and the Spy presented himself..
You see P" said Carton, looking up, as. he kneeled on one knee beside the insensible figure, putting the paper in the breast is your hazard very great P"
Mr. Carton," the Spy answered, with a timid snap of his fingers, ci my hazard is not that, in the thick of business here, if you are true to the whole of your bargain."
Don't fear me. I will be true to the death."
You must be, 1%1r. Carton, if the tale of fifty-two is to be right. Being made right by you in that dress, l shall have no fear." Have no fear l 81)1111 soon be out of the wny of harming you, and the rest will soon be far from here, please God Now, get assistance and take me t-o the coach"
"You?" said the Spy, nervously.
Him, man, with whom I have exehanged. You go out at the gàte by which you brought me in P"
Of course."
1 was weak and faint when you brought me in, and l am fainter now you take me out. The parting interview has overpowered me. Such a thing has liappened here, olten, and too often. Your life is in your own bands. Quick 1 Call assistance
You swear not to betray me?" said the trembling spy, as he paused for a last moment.
Mau, man returned Carton, stamping his foot have l sworn by no solemn vow already, to go through with this, that you waste the precious moments now P Take him yourself to the court-yard you ]mow of, place him yourself in the carriage, show him yourself to l\fr. Lorry, tell him yourself to give him no restorative but air, and to remember my words of last night and his promise of last night, and drive away
The spy withdrew, and Carton seated himself at the table, resting bis forehead on his hands. The spy returned immediately, with two men.
How, then P" said one of them, contemplating the fallen figure. So afflicted to find that his friend has drawn a prize in the lottery of Sainte Guillotine ?" "A good patriot," said the other, "could hardly have been more afflicted if the Aristocrat had drawn a blanlr."
Théy raised the unconscious figure, placed it on a litter they had bronght to the door, and bent to carry it away.
The time is short, Evrémonde," said the Spy, in a warning voice. 0
I know it well," anewered Carton. Be careful of my friend, I entreat you, and leave me."
Come, then, my children," said Barsad. Lift him, and come away
The door elosed, and Carton was left alone. 8training his powers of 1istening to the utmost, he listened for any sound that might denote suspicion or alarm. There was none. Keys turned, doors clashed, footsteps passed along distant passages: no cry was raised, or hurry made, that seemed unusual. Breathing more fl'eely in a little while, he sat down at the table, and listened again until the clocks struck Two. 0
Sounds that he was not afraid of, for he divined their meaning, then began to be audible. Several doors were opened in succession, and finally his own. A gaoler, with a list in his .hand, looked in, merely saying, Il Follow me, Evrémonde and he followed into a large dark room, at a distance. It was a dark winter day, and what with the ahadows within, and what with the shadows without, he could but dimly discern the others who were brought there to have
their arms bound. Some were standing; some seated. Some were lamenting, and in restless motion but, these were few.. The great majority were silent and still, looking fixedly at the ground As he stood by the wall in a dim corner, while some of the fiftytwo were brought in after him, one man stopped in passing, to embrace him, as having a knowledge of him. It thrilled him with a great dread of discovery but the man went on. A- very few moments after that, a young woman, with a slight girlish form, a sweet spare face in which there was no vestige of colour, and large widely opened patient eyes, rose from the seat where he had observed her sitting, and came to speak to him.
Citizen Evrémonde," ahe said, touching him with her cold hand. I am a poor little seamstress, who was with you in La Force." He murmured for answer "True. I forget what you were aceused of P"
Plots. Though the just Heaven knows I am innocent of any. Is it likely P Who would think of plotting with a poor little weak creature like me P" ·
The forlorn smile with whieh she said it, so touched him that tears started from his eyes.
I am not afraid to die, Citizen Evrémonde, but I have done nothing. l am not unwilling to die, if the Republic which is to do so much good to us poor, will profit by my death but l do not know how that can be, Citizen Evrémonde. Such a poor weak little creature
As the last thing on earth that his heart was to warm and soften tô, it warmed and softened to this pitiable girl.
1 heard you were released, Citizen Evrémonde. l hoped it was trueP"
It was. But, l was agmn taken and condemned"
If l may ride with you, Citizen Evrémonde, will you let me hold your hand ? l am not afraid, but I am little and weak, and it will give me more courage."
As the patient eyes were lifted to bis face, lie BaW a Budden donbt in them, and then astoui8hment." lIe ~resaed the work-worn, hungerworn young .fin~ers, and touched biE; hps.
"Are you dymg for him ?" she whispered.
"And his wife and child. Rush! Yes."
0 you will let me bold your brave hand, atranger pst
Hush 1 Yes, my poor sister; to the 1ast."
The same ahadowa that are falling on the prison, are falling, in that same hour of the early afternoon, on the :Barrier with the crowd about it, when a coach going ont of Paris drive,% up to be examined.
Who goes here P Whom have we vftbin ? Papers The papers are handed out, and read.
Aleasndre ~anette. Physician. Frencb. Which is he pu This is he this belplesir, marticulately murmuring, zvandering old man pointed out.
Apparently the Citizen-Doctor is not in bis right mind ? The Revol~on-fever will have been too much for him pu
Greatly too much for him.
Hah Many suffer with it. Irucie. His daughter. French. 'lŸhich is she P"
This is she.
c: A pparently it must be. Lueie, the wife of Evrémonde is it not p~'
It is.
Hah Evrémonde bas an assignation elsewhere. Lucie, her child.. English. This iE\ she ?"
She and no other.
Kiss me, child of Evrémonde. Now, thou hast kissed a good Republican something new in t1y family remember it Sydney Carton. Advocate. English. 1Vhich is he P"
He lies here, in this corner of the carriage. He, too, is pointed out.
"Apparently the English advocate is in a swoon P"
It is hoped he will recover in the fresher air. It is represented that he is not in strong health, and has separated sadly from a friend who is under the displeasure of the Republic."
Is that all ? It is not a great deal, that l\fnny are under the displeasure of the Republic, and must look out at thé little window. Jarvis Lorry. Banker. English. Which is he P"
"1 am he. Necessarily, being the last."
It is Jarvis Lorry who has replied to all the previous questions. It is Jarvis Lorry who has alighted and stands with his hand on the coach door, replying to a group of officials. They leisurely walk round the carriage and leisurely mount the box, to look at what little luggage it carries on the roof the country-people hanging about, press nearer to the coach-doors and greedily stare in a little child, carried by its mother, has its short arm held out for it, that it may touch 1I1e wife of an aristocrat who has gone to the Guillotine. Behold your papers; Jar vis Lorry, countersigned."
One can depart, citizen P"
One ean depart. Forward, my postilions A good journey l saltite you, citizenF3.-Ana the first danger passed These are again the words of Jarvis Lorry, as he clasps his hands, and looks upward. There is terror in the carriage, there is weeping, there is the heavy breathing of the insensible traveller. Are we not going too slowly P Can they not be induced to go faster P" asks Lucie, elinging to the old man.
It would seem like flight, my darling. l must not urge them too much; it would rouse suspicion."
Look back;look back, and Bee if we are pursued
The road is clear, my dearest. So far, we are not pursued." Houses in twos and threes pass by us, solitary farms, ruinous buildings, dye-works tanneries and the like, open country, avenues of lenfless trees. The hard uneven pavement is under us; the soft dee mud is on either side. Sometimes, we strike into the skirting mud, to avoid the sttines-that clatter us and shake us, and sometimes we stick in ruts anasloughs there. The agony of our impatience is then so great, that in our wild alarm and hurry we are for getting out and running-hiding-dding anything but stopping..
Out of the open country, m again among ruinous buildings, soli-
tary farms, dye-works tanneries and the like, cottages in twos and threes, avenues of leafless trees. Have these men deceived us, and taken us back by another road P ls not this the same place twice over P Thank Heaven no. A village. Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued 1 Rush! the posting-house.
Leisurely, our four horses are taken out leisurely, the coach stands in the little street, bereft of horses, and with no likelihood upon it of ever moving again leisurely, the new horses come into visible existence, one by one leisurely, the new postilions follow, sucking and plaiting the lashes of their whi~s leisurely, the old postilions count their money, make wrong additions, and arrive at dissatisfied results. All the time, our overfraught hearts are beating nt a rate that would far outstrip the fastest gallop of the fastest horses ever foaled. At length the new postihons are in their saddles, and the old are left behind. We are through the village, up the hill, and down the bill, and on the low watery grounds. Suddenly, the postilions 'exchange speech with animated gesticulation, and the horses are pulled up, almost on their haunches. We are pursued 1
Ho 1 Within the carriage there. Speak then 1"
What is it ?" aska Mr. Lorry, looking out at window. How many did they say?"
I do not understand you."
"-At the last post. How many to the Guillotine to.day P" Fifty-two."
I said so A brave number 1 My fellow-citizen here, would have it forty-two ten more heads are worth having. The Guillotine goes handsomely.. I love it. Ri forward. Whoop The night comes on dark. He moves more he is beginning to revive, and to speak intelligibly lie thinks they are still together he asks him, by his name, what he has in bis hand. 0 pity us, kincl Heaven, and help us Look out, look out, and see if we are pursued. The wind is rushing after us, and the clouds are fly-iing after us, and the moon is plunging after us, and the whole wild night is in pursuit of.us; but, so far, we are pursued by nothing else.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE :JŒITTING DONE.
IN that same juncture of time when the Fifty-Two awaited their fate, Madame Defarge held darkly ominous eouncil with The Vengeance and Jacques Three of the Revolutionary Jury. Not in the wine-shop did Madame Defarge confer with these ministers, but in the sbecl of the wood-sawyer, erst a mender of roads. The sawyer himself did not participate in the conference, but abided at a little distance, like an outer satellite who was not to speak until required, or to offer an opinion until invited,
"But our Defarge," said Jacques Three, is undoubtedly a good Republicau? Eh?"
There is no better," the voluble Vengeance protested in her shrill notes, in France."
Peace, little Ÿengeance," said Madame Defarge, layincr her hand with a slight frown on lier lieutenant's lips, "hear me speak. ~Iy husband, fellow-citizen, is a good Republican and a bold man he hns deserved well of the Republic, and possesses its confidence. But my- husband has his weaknesses, and he is so weak as to relent tov ~~rds this Doctor."
It is a great pity," croaked Jacques Three, dubiously shaking his head, with his cruel fingers at his hungry mouth; Il it is not quite like a good citizen it is a thing to regret."
See you," said madame, Il 1 care nothing for this Doctor, I. He may wear his head or lose it, for any interest I have in him it is all one to me. But, the Evrémonde people are to be exterminated, and the wife and child must follow the husband and father." She has a fine head for it," croaked Jacques Three. I have seen blue eyes and golden hair there, and they looked charming when Samson held them up." Ogre that he was, lie spoke like an epicure.
l\fadame Defarge cast down her eyes, and reflected a little. The child also," observed Jacques Three, with a meditative enjoyment of his words, "has golden hair and blue eyes. And we seldom have a child there. It is a pretty sigbt!"
In a vcord," said Madame Defarge, coming out of her short abstraction, I cannot trust mv husband in this matter. Not only do I feel, since last night, that l dare not confide to him the details of my projects but also I feel that if I deby, there is danger of his giving warning, and then they might escape."
That must never be," croaked Jacques Three no one must escape. We have not half enough as it is. ~Ÿe ought tô have six score a day."
"In a word," Madame Defarge went on, "my husband has not my reason for pursuing this family to annihilation, aud I have not his reason for regarding this Doctor with any sensibility. I must act for myself, therefore. Corne hither, little citizen."
The wood-sawyer, who held her in the respect, and himself in the submission, of mortal fear, advanced with his liand to his red cap. Touchinc, those signaIs, little citizen," said Madame Defarge, sternly, that she made to the prisoners you are ready to bear witness to them this very day P"
Ay, ay, why not cried the sawyer. "E\rery day, in all weathers, from two to four, always signalling, sometimes with the little one, sometimes without. I Imow what l know, I have seen with my eyes."
He made all manner of gestures while he spoke, as if in incidental imitation of- some 'few of the great diversity of signals that he had never seen.
Clearly plots," said Jacques Three. "TraDsparently!" There is no doubt of the Jury?" inquired Madame Defarge, letting her eyes tiirn to him with a gloomy smile.
"Itely upon the patriotic Jury, dear citizeness. I answer for my fellow-Jurymen."
"Now, let me see," said :i\fadame Defarge, ponderina again. "Yet
once more 1 Can I spare this Doctor to my husbnnd P l have no feeling either way. Can l spare him ?"
He would count as one~head," observed Jacques Three, in a low voice. 99 -~ve renlly have not heads enoua it would be a pity, I think." ~,h; it would be a pity, 1
He wassignalling with her when I saw her," argued llladame Defarge I cannot speak of one without the other; and I must not be silent, and trust the case wholly to him, this little citizen here. For, I am not a bad witness."
The Vengeance and Jacques Three vied with each other in their fervent protestations that she was the most admirable and marvelloUB of "itnesses. The little citizen, not to be outdone, declared her to bo a celestial witness.
He must take his chance," said Madame Defarge. No I cannot spare him! You are engaged at three o'clock; you are going to see the.bateh of to-day exectited.-Yoii ?"
The question was addressed to the wood-s1twyer, who hurriedly 1,"6plied in the affirmative: seizing the occasion to add that he was the most ardent of Republicans, and that lie would be in effect the most desolate of Republicans, if anything prevented him from enjoying the pleasure of smoking his afternoon pipe in the contemplation of the droll national barber. He was so very demonstrative herein, that he might have been suspected (perhaps was, by the dark eyes that looked contemptuously at him out of Madame Defarge's head) of having his small individual fears for his own personal safety, every hour in the day.
I," said madame, "am equally engaged at the same place. After it is over-say at eight to-niglit-come you to me, in Saint Antoine, and we will give information against these people at my Section." The wood-sawyer said he would be proud and flattered to attend the citizeness. The citizeness looking at him, he became embar- rassed, evaded her glance as a small dog would have done, retreated among his wood, and hid hie confusion over the handle of his saw. Madame Defarge beckoned the Juryman and The Venge.ancc a little nearer to the door, and there expounded her further views to them thus:
She will now be at home, awaiting the moment of hie death. She will be mou.rning and grieving. She will be in a state of mind to impeach the justice of the Republie. She will be full of sympathy with its enemies. I will go to her."
What an admirable woman what an adorable woman 1" ex.claimed Jacques Three, rapturously. Ah, my elierished 1" cried The Vengeance and embraced ber.
"Take you my knitting," said Madame Defarge, placing it in her lieutenant's hands, "and have it ready for me in my usual seat. Keep me my usual chair. Go you there, straight, for there will probably be a greater concourse than usual, to-day."
I willingly obey the orderi3 of my Chief," said The Vengeance, with alacrity, and kissing her cheek. "You will not be late pu "I shall be there before the commencement."
And before the tumbrils arrive. Be sure you are there, my soul," said The Vengeance, calling after her, for she had already turned into the street, "before the tumbrils arrive!"
Madame Defarge t3lightly waved her hand, to imply that she heard, and might be relied upon to arrive in good time, and so went through the mud, and round the corner of the prison wall. The Vengeance and the Juryman, looking after her as she walked away, were highly appreciative of her fine figure, and her superb moral endowments. There were many women at that time, upon whom the time laid a dreadfully dis6guring hand but, there was not one among them more to be dreaded than this ruthless woman, now taking her way along the streets. Of a strong and fearless eharacter, of shrewd sense and readiness, of great determination, of that ]Cind of beauty which not only seems to impart to its possessor firmness aud animosity, but to strike into others an instinctive recognition of those qualities the troubled time would have heaved lier up, under any circumstances. But, imbued from ber childhood with a broodiun sense of wrong, und an inveterate hatred of a class, opportunity bad developed her into a tigress. She was absolutely without pity. If she had ever had the virtue in her, it had quite gone out of her. It was nothing to her, that au innocent man was to die for the sins of his forefathers she saw, not him, but them. It was nothing to her, that his wife was to be made a widow and his daughter an orphan; that was insufficient punishment, because they were her natural enemies and her prey, and as such had no right to live. To appeal to her, was made hopeless by her having no aense of pity, even for herself. If she had been laid low in the streets, in any of the many encounters in which she bad been engaged, she would not have pitied herself; nor, if she had been ordered to the axe to-morrow, would she have gone to it with any softer feeling than a fierce desire to change places with the man who sent her there.
Such a heart Madame Defarge carried under her rough robe. Carelessly worn, it was a becoming robe enough, in a certain weird way, and her dark hair looked rich under her coarse red cap. Lying hidden in her bosom, was a louded pistol. Lying hidden at lier waist, was a sbarpened dagger. Thus accoutred, and walking with the confident tread of such a character, and with the supple freedori of a woman who had habitually walked in her girlhood, bare-foot and bare-legged, on the brown sea-sand, Madame Defarge took her way along the streets.
Now, when the journey of the travelling coach, at that very moment waiting for the compJetion of its load, had been planned out last night, the diflicu1ty of taking Miss Pross in it had much engaged Mr. Lorry' attention. It was not merely desirable to avoid overloading the coach, but it was of the highest importance that the time occupied in examining it and its passengers, should be reduced to the utmost since their escape might depend on the saving of only a few seconds here and there. Finally, he had proposed, after anscious consideration, that Miss Pross and Jerry, who were at liberty to leave the city, should leav e it at three o'clock in the ligbtest-wheeled conveyance known to that period. Unencumbered with luggage, they would soon overtake the coach, and, passing it and preceding it on the road, would order its horses in advance, and greatly facilitate its progress during. the precious hours of the night, when delay was the most to be dreaded. Seeing in this arrangement the hope of rendering real service in
that pressing emergency, Miss Pross hailed it with joy. She and Jerry had beheld the coach start, had known who it was that Solomon brought, had passed some ten minutes in tortures of suspense, dnd were now eoncluding their arrangements to follow the coach, even as lladame Defarge, taking her way through the streets now drew nearer and near er to the else-deserted lodging in w hich they held tleir consultation.
Now what do you thinlc, Mr. Cruncher," said Miss Pross, whose agitation was so great that she could hardly speak, or stand, or move, or live what do you think of our not starting from this courtyard? Another carriage baving already gone from here to-day, it might awalœn suspicion."
"lVIy opinion, miss," r eturned Mr. Cruncher, is as you're right. Likewise wot l'il stand by you, right or wrong."
"1 am so distraeted with fear and hope for our precious creatures," said Miss Pross, wildly crying, "that l am incapable of forming any plan. Are yo:c capable of forming any plan, my dear good Mr. Cr uncher P"
Respectin' a future spear o' life, miss," returned Mr. Cruncher, "I hope so. Respectin' any present use o' this here blessed old head o' mine, I think note Would you do me the favour, miss, to take notice o' two promises and wows wot it is my wishes fur to record in this here crisis ?"
Oh, for gracious sake cried Miss Pross, still wildly crying, record them at once, and get them out of the way, like an excellent man."
Tirst," said Mr. Cruncher, who was all in a tremble, and who spoke with an ashy and solemn visage, them poor things well out 0' this, never no more will I do it, never no more
"I am quite sure, Mr. Cruncher," returned Miss Pross, "that yon never will do it again, whatever it is, and I beg you not to think it necessary_to mention more particularly what it is."
No, miss," returned Jerry, Il it shall not be named to you. Second-. them poor things well out o' this, and never no more will 1 interfere with lYlrs. Cruncher'a flopping, never no more Whatever housekeeping arrangement that may be," said Miss Pross, striving to dry her eyes and compose herself, I have no doubt it is best that Mrs. Cruncher should have it entirely under her own superintendence-0 my poor darlinga!"
"1 go so far as to say, miss, morehover," proceeded Mr. Cruncher, with a most alarming tendency to hold forth as from a pulpit-" .and let my words be took down and took to Mrs. Cruncher through yourself-that wot my opinions respeetin' flopping has undergone a change, and that wot I only hope with all my heart as Mre. Cruncher may be a flopping at the present time."
There, there, there 1 1 hope she is, my dear man." cried the distracted Miss Pross, and I hope she finds it answering her expectations." Forbid it," proceeded 3fr. Cruncher, with additional solemnitp, additional slowness, and additional tendency to hold forth and hold out, as anything wot 1 have ever said or done sbould be wisited on my earnest wishes for them poor creeturs now 1 Forbid it as we shouldn't all flop (if it was anyways conwenient) to get 'em out o' s
this here dismal risk Forbid it, miss Wot I say, for-nID it This was Mr. Cruncher's conclusion after a protracted but vain endeâvour to flnd a better one.
And Btin Madame Defarge, pursuing her way along the streets, came nearer and nearer.
If we ever get back to our native land," said Miss Pross, "you may rely upon my telling 1%lrs. Cruncher as much ris I may be able to remeniber and understand of what you have so impressively said and at all events you may be sure tliat I shall bear witness to your being thoroughly in earnest at this dreadful time. Now, pray let us think My esteemed 1\{r. Cruncher, let us think
Still, Madame Defarge, pursuing her way along the streets, came nearer and nearer.
"If you wereto go.before," said Miss Pross, "and stop the vehic1e and horses from coming here, and were to wait somewhere for me wouldn't that be best ?"
Mr. Cruneber thought it might be best.
"Vhere could you wait for me r" asked Miss Pross.
1\ir. Cruncher was so bewildered that he could think of no locality but Temple Bar. Alas, Temple Bar was hundreds of miles away, and Madame Defarge was drawing very near indeed.
Il By the cathedral door," said Miss Pross. Would it be much out of the way, to take me in, near the great cathedral door between the two towers ?"
No, miss," answered Mr. Cruncher.
Then, like the best of men," said Miss Pross, "go to the posthouse straight, and make that change."
"1 am doubtful," said Mr. Cruncher, hesitating and shaking his head, about leaving of you, you see. We don't know what may happen.
Heaven knows we don't," returned Miss Pross, but have no fear for me. Take me in at the cathedral, at Three o' Clock or as near it as you can, and I am sure it will be better than our going from here. I feel certain of it. There 1 Bless you, Mr. Cruneher! Think-not of me, but of the lives that may depend on both of us This "exordium, and Miss Pross's two hands in quite agonised eutreaty clasping bis, decided Mr. Cruncher. With an encouraging nod or two, he immediately went out to alter the arrangements, and left her by herself to follow as she had proposed.
The having' originated a' precaution whieh was already in course of egecution, was a great relief to Miss Pross. The necessity of composing her appearanoe so that it should attract no special notice in the streets,*was another relief. She looked at her watch, and it was twenty. minutes past two.. She had no time to lose, but must get ready at once.
Afrüid, in lier extreme perturbation, of the loneliness of the deserted rooms, and of half-imngined faces peeping from behind every open door in them, Miss Pross got a basin of cold water and began laving ber eyes; which were swollen and red. Haunted DY her feverish apprehensions, she could not bear to have her sight obscured for a minute at a time by the dripping water, but constantly paused and looked round.to see that there was no one watching her. ln
one of those pauses she recoiled and cried out, for she saw a figure standing in the room.
The basin fell to the ground broken, and the water flowed to the feet of Madame Defarge. By strange stern ways, and through much staining blood, those feet had come to meet that water.
Madame Defarge looked coldly at her, and said, The wife of Evrémonde where is she ?" It flashed upon Miss Pross's mind that the doors were all standing open, and would suggest the flight. Her first act was to shut them. There were four in the room, and she shut them all. She then placed herself before the door of the chamber which Lucie had occupied.
lladame Defarge's darlc eyes followed her through this rapid moveinent, and rested on her when it was finished. Miss Pross had nothing beautiful about her; years had not tamed the wildness, or softened the grÏmness, of her appearance but, she too was a determined woman in her different way, and she measured Madame Deforge with her eyes, every inch.
You might, from your appearance, be the wife of Lucifer," said Miss Pross, in her breathing. 1`Tevertheless, you shall not get the better of me. I am an Englishwoman."
Madame Defarge looked at her scornfully, but still with something of Miss Pross's own perception that they two were at bay. She saw a tight, hard, wiry woman before her, as Mr. Lorry had seen in the same figure a woman with a strong hand, in the years gone by. She knew full well that Miss Pross was the family's devoted friend Miss Pross knew full well that Madame Defarge was the family's malevolent enemy.
On my way yonder," said Madame Defarge, with a slight movement of her land towards the fatal spot, "where they reserve .my chair and my knitting for me, I am come to make my compliments to her in passing. l wish to see her."
l know that your intentions are evil," said Miss Pross, "and you may depend upon it, I'll hold my own against them."
Each spoke in her own language neither understood the other's words both were very watchful, and intent to deduce from look and manner,what the unintelligible words meant.
cc it will do her no good to keep herself concealed from me at this moment," said Madame Defarge. Good patriots will. know what that means. Let me see her. Go tell her that I wish to see her. Do y ou hear pl' If those eyes of yours were bed-w inches," returned Miss Pross, "and I was an Euglish four-poster, they shouldn't. loose a splinter of me. No, you wicked foreign woman; I am your match." Madame Defarge was not likely.to follow these idiomntic remarks -in detail but, she so far understood them as to perceive that she was -set at naught.. Woman imbecile and pig-lih:e 1" said Madame Defarge, frowning. I take no answer from you. I demand to sec her. Either tell her that l demand to see her, or stand out of the way of the door and let me go to her 1" This, with an angry explanatory wave of ber right .arm.
little thought," said Miss-Pross, "that I should ever want to understand your nonsensical language but l would give all l have, except the clothes l wear, to know whether you suspect the truth, or any part of it."
Neither. of them for a single moment released the other's eyes. Madame Defarge had not moved from the spot where she stood when 3~ liss Pross first became aware of her; but, she now advanced one ete
`PI am a Briton," said Miss Pross, I am desperate. I don't care an English Twopence for myself. I know that the longer I keep you here, the greater hope there is for my Ladybird. I'll not leave a handful of that dark hair upon your liead, if you lay a finger on me Thus J\fiss Pross, with a shake of her head and a flash of her eyes between every rapid sentence, and every rapid sentence a wh01e' breath. Thus Miss Pross, who had never struck a blow in her life. But, her courage was of that emotional nature that it brought the irrepressible tears into her eyes. This was a courage that Madame Defarge so little comprehended as to mistake for wealmœs. Ha, ha she laughed, "you poor wretch What are you worth 1 1 address myself to that Doctor." Then sbe raised her voice and cal1e~l out, Citizen Doctor Wife of Evrémonde 1 Child of Evrémonde! Any person but this miserable fool, answer the Citizeness Defarge 1" Perbaps the following silence, perhaps some latent disclosure in the expression of Miss Pross's face, perhaps a sudden misgiving apart from either suggestion, whispered to Madame Defarge that they were gone. Tbree' of the doors she opened swiftl:r, and looked in. "Those rooms are all in disorder, there has been hurried pac1ring, there are odds and ends upon the ground. There is no one in that room behind you Let me look."
Never said Miss Pross, who understood the request as perfectly as Madame Defarge understood the answer.
If they are not in that room, they are gone, and can be pursued and brought back," said Madame Defarge to herself.
"As long as you don't lino~r whether they are in that room or not, you are uncertain what to do," said Miss Pross to 7aerself; "and you shall not know that, if l cl1n prevent your knowing it and know that, or not know that, you shall not leave here while l eau hold you." l have been in the streets from the first, nothing has stopped me, l will tear you to -pieces but I will have you from that door," said Madame Defarge.
~Ÿe are alone at the top of a liigh bouse in a solitary court-yard, we are not likely to be heard, and 1 pray for bodily gtrentrth to keep you here, while every minute you are here is worth a hundred thousand guineas to my darling," said Miss Pross.
Madame Defarge made at the door. Miss Pross, on the instinct of the moment, seized her round the waist in both her arms, and held her tight. It was in vain for :Madame Defarge to struggle and to strike; Miss Pross, with the vigorous tenàcity of love, always so much stronger than hate, clasped her tight, and even lifted her from the floor in the struggle that they had.' The two hands of Madame Defarge buffeted. and tore at her f'ace but, l~liss. Pross, with her head down, held her round the waist, imd c1ung to her with more than the hold of a drowning woman.
Soon, Madame Defarge's hands ceased to strike, and felt at her encireled waist. Il It is under my arm," said Miss Pross, in smothered tones, you shall not draw it. I am stronger than you, I bless Heaven for it. I'll hold you till one or other of us faints or dies
Madame Defarge's hands were at her bosom. Miss Pross looked up, saw what it was, struck at it, struck out a flash and a crash, and stood alone-blinded with smoke.
All this was in a second. As the smoke cleared, leaving an awful stillness, it passed out on the air, like the soul of the furious woman whose body lay lifeless-on the ground.
In the first fright and horror of her situation, Miss Pross passed the body as far from it as she could, and ran down the stairs to call for fruitless help. Happily, she bethought herself of the consequences of what she did, in time to check herself and go back. It was dreadful to go in at the door again; but, she did go in, and even went near it, to get the bonnet and other things that she must wear. These she put on, out on the staircase, first shutting and locking the door and takmg away the key. She then sat down on the stairs a few moments, to. breathe and to cry, and then got up and hurried away.. By good fortune she had a veil on ber bonnet, or she éould hardly have 'gone along the streets without being stopped. By good fortune, too, she was naturally so peculiar in appearance as not to show disfigurement like any other woman. She needed both advantages, for the marks of griping fingers were deep in her face, and her hair was torn, and her dress (hastily composed with unsteady hands) was clutehed and dragged a hundred ways.
In crossing the bridge, sle dropped the door key in the river. Arriving at the cathedral some few minutes before her escort, and waiting there, she thought, what if the key were already taken in a net, what if it were identified, what if the door were opened and the remains discovered, what if she w ere stopped at the gate, sent to prison, and charged with murder 1 In the midst of these fluttering thoughts, the escort appeared, took her in, and took her away.
Is there any noise in the streets P" she asked him.
The usual noisès," Mr. Cruncher replied and looked Burprised by the question and by her aspect..
l don't hear you," said Miss Pross. cc What do you say P" It was in vain for Mr. Cruncher to repeat what he said llüss Pross could not hear him. "80 I'll nod my head," thought Mr. Cruncher, amazed, Il at all events she'U see that." And she did. Is there any noise in the streets now ?" usked Miss Pross again, presently.
Again Mr. Cruncher nodded his head.
III don't hear it."
Gone deaf in a hour P" said Mr. Cruncher, ruminating, with his mind much disturbed; "wat's 'eome to 11er P"
Il I feel," said Miss Pross, as if there had had been a flash and a crash, and that crash was the last.thing I should ever hear in this life-21
Blest if she ain't in a queer condition said )fr. Cruncher, more
and more disturbed. ~ot can she have been a to keep her courage up ? Hark 1 There's the roll of them dreadful carts You can hear that, miss
I can hear," said Miss Pross, seeing that he spoke to her, nothing. 0, my good man, there was first Do great crash, and then a great stillness, and that stillness seems to be med and unchangeable, never to be broken any more as long as my life lasts:" If she don't hear the roll of those dreadful carts, now very nigh their journey's end," said DIr. Cruncher, glancing over his shoulder, it's myopinion that indeed she never will hear anything else in this world."
And indeed she never did.
CHAPTER XV.
TIIE FOOTgTEPJ DIE OUT FOR EYEIi.
ALONG the Paris streets, the death-carts rumble, hollow and harsh. Six tumbrils carry the day's wine to La Guillotine. All the devouring and insatiate Monsters imagined since imagination could record itself, are fused in the one realisation, Guillotine.. And yet there is .not in France, with its rich variety of soil and c1imnte, a blade, a leaf, a root, a sprig, a peJ?percorn, which will grow to maturity under conditions more certain than those that have produced this horror. Crush humanity out of shape once more, under similar hammers, and it will twist itself into the same tortured forms. Sow the same seed of rapacious licence and oppression ever again, and it will surely yiéld the same fruit aceording to its kind.
Six tumbrils roll along the streets. Change these back again to what they' were, thou powerful enchanter, Time, and they shall be seen to be the carriages of absolute monarchs, the equipages of feudal nobles, the toilettes of flaring Jezabels, the churches that are not my father's house but dens of thieves, the huts of millions of stàrving peasants No the great magician who majestically works out the appointed order of the Creator, never reverses his transformations. "If thou be changed into this shape by the will of God," say the seers to the enchanted, in the wise Arabian stories, then remain so 1 But, if thou wear this form through mere passing conjuration, then resume thy former aspect Changeless and hopeless, the tumbrils roll along.
As the sombre wheels of the six carts go round, they seem to plough up a long crooked furrow among the populace in the streets. Ridges of faces are throw n to this side and to that, and the ploughs go steadily onward. So used are the regular inhabitants of the houses to the spectacle, that in many windows there are no people, and in some the occupations of the hands is not so much as suspended, while the eyes survey the faces in the tumbrils. Here and there, the inmate .has visitors ta see the sight then he points his finger, with something of the complacency of a eurator or authorised
exponent, to this cart and to this, and seems to tell who sat here yesterday, and who there the day before.
Of the riders in the tumbrils, some observe these things, and all things on their last roadside, with an impassive stare others, with a lingering interest in the ways of life and men. Some, seated witli drooping' heads, are sunk in silent despair again, there are some so heedful of their looks that they cast upon the multitude such glances as they have seen in theatres, and in pictures. Several close their eyes, and think, or try to get their straying thoughts together. Only one, and he a miserable creature of a crazed aspect, is so sbattered and made drunk by horror that he sings, and tries to dance. Not one of the whole number appeals, by look or gesture, to the pity of the people. There is a guard of sundry horsemen riding abreast of the tumbrils, and faces are orteIl turned up to some of them and they are asked some question. It would seem to be always.the same question, for, it is always folloved by a press of people towards the third cart. The horsemen abreast of that cart, frequently point out one man in it with their swords. The leading euriosity is, to know which is he he stands at the back of the tumbril with his head bent down, to converse with a mere girl who sits on the side of the cart, and holds his hand. He has no euriosity or care for the scene about him, and always speaks to the girl. Here and there' in the long Street of St. Honoré, cries are raised against him. If they move him at. aIl, it is only to a quiet smile, as he shakes his hair a little more loosely about his face. He cannot easily touch his face, his arms being bound.
On the steps of a church, awaiting the eoming-up of the tumbrils, stands the Spy and prison-sheep. He looks into the first of them not there. He looks into the second not there. He already asks himselr, "Ras he sacrificed me r" when his face clears, as he looks into the third.
Which is Evrémonde pl' says a màn behind him.
That. At the back there."
With his hand in the girl's P"
Yes."
The man cries Down, Evrémonde To the Guillotine all aristoerats Down, Evrémonde
Hush, hush!" the Spy entreats him, timidly.
"And why not, citizen ?"
"He is going to pay the forfeit; it will be paid in five minutes more. Let him be at peace."
But, the man continuing to exclaim, Down, Evrémonde the face of Evrémonde is for a moment turned towards.him. Evrémonde 'then sees the Spy, and looks attentively at him, and goes his way. The clocks are on the stroke of three, and the furrow ploughed among.the populace is turning round, to come on into the place of execùtion,.and end. The ridges thrown to this side and to that, noW" crumble in and close behind the last plough as'it passes on, for all âre following to the Guillotine. In front of it, seated in chairs 'as in a garden of public diversion, are a number of women, busily knitting. On one of the foremost chairs, stands The Vengeance, looking about for her friend.
Tliér~se she cries, in her shrill toncs. "l~Tho has seen her ( Thérèse Defarge
She never missed before," says a lmitbing-woman of the sisterhood.
No nor will she miss now," cries The Vengeance, l?etulantly. Thérèse."
Louder," the ~roman recommends.
Ay! 1 Louder, Yengeance, muc1~ louder, and still she will scarcelrhear thee. Louder yet, Vengeance, witli a little oath or so added, anèi yet it will hardly bring her. Send other women up and down to seek her, lingering somewhere; and yet, although the messengers have done dread deeds, it is questionable whether of their own wills they will go far enough to find her 1
Bad Fortune cries The Vengeance, stamping her foot in the chair, "and here are the tumbrils! And Evrémonde will be despatched in a wink, and she not here 1 See her knitting in my hand, and her empty chair ready for her. I cry with vexation and disappointment 1"
As The Vengeance descends frOlll her elevation to do it, the tumbrils begin to discharge their loads. The ministers of Sainte Guillotine are robed and ready. Crash !-Á head is held up, and the knitting-women who scarcely lifted their eyes to look at it a moment ago when it could think and speak, count One.
The second tumbril empties and moves on the third comes up. Crash!-And the knitting-women, never faltering or pausing in their work, count Two.
The supposed Evrémonde descends, and the seamstress is lifted out next after him. He lIas not relinquished her patient land in getting out, but still holds it as he promised. He gently places her with her back to the crashing engine that constantly whirrs up and falls, and ahe looks into his face and thanks him.
But for you, dear stranger, I should not be so composed, for I am naturally a poor little thing, faint of heart; nor should l have been able to raise my thoughts to Him who was put to death, that we might have hope and comfort here to-day. l think you were sent to me by Ileaven."
Or you to me," says Sydney Carton. "Keep your eyes upon me, dear child, and mind no other object."
"I mind nothing while l hold your hand. l shall mind nothing when I let it go, if they are rapid."
They Will be rapid. Fear not
The two stand in the fast-thinning throug of victims, but they speak as if they were alone. Eye to eye, voice to voice, hand to hand, heart to heart, these two children of the IJniver8al Mother, else so wide apart and differing, have come together on the dark higlnvay, to repair home together and to rest in her bosom.
Brave and generous friend, will you let me ask you one last question ? I am very ignorant, and it troubles me-just a little." Tell me what it is."
I have a cousin, an only relative and an orphan, like myself, whom I love very dearly. She is five years younger than l, and she lives in a farmer's house in the south eountry. Poverty parted us, and she
knows nothing of my fate-for I cannot write-and if I could, how should l tell her! It is better as it is."
cc Yes, yes better as it is."
"What l have been thinking as we came along, and what l am still thinking now, as I look into your kind strong face which gives me so much support, is this :-If the :Republic really does good to the poor, and they come to be less hungry, and in all ways to suffer less, she may live a long time she may even live to be old."
What then, my gentle sister?"
Do you tbink:" the uncomplaining eyes in which there iB so much endurance, fi1l with tears, and the lips part a little more and tremble "that it will seem long to me, while I wait for her in the better land where I trust both you and I will be mercifully sheltered
Il It cannot be, my child; there is no Time there, and no trouble there."
~ou comfort me so much 1 l am so ignorant. Am I to kies you now P Is the moment come P"
49 Yes.' y
She lasses his lips he kisses hers they solemnly bless each other. The spare hand does not tremble as lie reléases it; nothing worse than a sweet, bright constancy is in the patient face. She goes next before him-is gone the knitting-women count Twenty-o. I am the Resurrection and the Lire, saith the Lord: he that belie\"eth in me, though he were dead, yet shall ho live and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die."
The murmuring of many voices, the upturning of many faces, the pressing on of many footsteps in the outskirts of the crowd, so that it swells forward in a mass, like one great heave of water, all flashes away. Twenty.Three.
They said of him, about the city that night, that it was the peace. fullest man's face ever beheld there. Many added that he looked sublime and prophetic.
One of the most remarkable sufferers by the same age-a womanhad asked at the foot of the same scaffold, not long before, to be allowed to write down the thoughts that were in her. If he had given any utterance to his, and they were prophetic, they would have been these
"1 see Barsad, and Cly, Defarge, The Vengeance, the Juryman, the Judge, long ranks of the new oppressors who have risen on the destruction of the old, perishing by this retributive instrument, before it shall cease out of its present use. I see a beautiful city and a brilliant people rising from this abyss, and, in their struggles to be truly free, in their triumphs and defeats, through long long years to come I see the evil of this time and of the previous time of whieh this is the natural birtb, gradually making expiation for itaelf and wearing out.
I see the lives for wbieb I lay down my life, peaeeful, useful, prosperous and happy, in that England which I shall Bee no more. I see Her with a child upon her bosom, who beari3 my name. I see her father, aged and bent, but otherwise restored, and fuithful to all men T
in'~iiI'h~Ü1~ offiCe, and at peace. i ~.t1ïe'goo~ ~ld. ~tBoJong" their friend, m ten yeara' time 1 enriching them with alI he ha8; snd passing tranquilly to his reward.
"Ivsee~t~T.hold s'sanctuary>in their-hearts, and'Ù¡ithehearts of t1i~ descendants; generatiÓmrhence. 1. see herian.old~ weep.. ing fÓr> me-on:tHe anniversary-ofthis day: 1 see'her'sud:her 'husband; tlleÏf1 come °done; lpi~rg.; side ~by.~ aide' in their l~t':eart~y' bed;. and I know that each'was not'more honoured and held ~samd m.theother.'s soul, than I wu in the soula of both.
"1'seetbat¡c]illd wholay'upoDther'bosom and wbo'bore:mY1Wlle, s'man;:Wiünii1gihÏ8wayup.in'tbat path of.lifé..whioh,once W8S'mÏne.. r8ee'him"winnin~ it'so'well~ tbat my.nameis made'iUUBtrit>11S':ther.e by.tlie.liglit of 1iiS:: 1 8ee-.t1ie'blots T threw upon~it, faded away~' 1 see him, foremost of just judges and honoured men, bringing a boy of my-name, with a dithatl know: and golden:hair, to this place -then fair to look with not a trace of this day's disfigurement -and, rhear him. tell the~ehild'my~ ritory, with a tender and a faltering voice..
It is a far, far better thing that I do, than7.I have ever done-; it is a far, fàr better rest that 1 go to; than I have ever known~"
C. BEAIUPOUT'IEIOUSE, STRAND.
,~N ~atalngttt of A- '0-, O.ft5, PUBLISHED BY
CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, PICCADILLY.
N OVEYBER, 1859.
November, 1859.
LIST OF NE W BOOKS
PUDLISITED DY
CHAPMAN AND HALL.
NEW WORK BY ANTHONY TROLLOPE.
On November the First, in 1 vol. demy Svo, qaith a Dfap,
THE WEST INDIES AND THE SPANISH MAIN. By AMHONY TROLLOPE,
Author of Dr. Thorne,' Barchester Towers,' etc.
NEW VOLUME OF TRAVELS BY J. G. KOHL. In November will be published, in 1 vol. demy 8vo, avitla TŸoodcuts, KITCID-GAMI:
TALES FROM LAKE SUPERIOR.
NEW VOLUME OF POE11IS BY THE AUTHOR OF THE ` WgNDERER.'
MR. DICKENS'S NEW WORK.
On November 2lEit will be published, in one volume, price 9s., with 16 Illustrations, uniform with the Original Editions of 'Pickwiek,' 1 David Copperfield,' etc.,
A TALE OF TWO CITIES.
DY
oH~.RLES DICKENS.
i The atory of our lioea from Year to Year.SaesBerssae.
Just published, V olurne L, handsomely bound, price 58. Gd., of ALL THE YEAR ROUND.
A WEEKLY JOURNAL.
With whioh is incorporated 'Houséhold Words'
Designed for the Instruction and Entertainment of aU Classes of Readers, and ta assist in the Discussion of the Social Questions of the Da.y. CONDUCTED DY CHARLES DICKENS.
THE RELLYS AND THE O'KELL YS.
By ANTHONY TROLLOPE,
Author of Barchester Towers,' Dr. Tliorne,' etc.
1 vol. post Svo, 58. (This day.
TUSCANY IN '49 AND '59.
By THObZAS .ADOLPHUS TROLLOPE.
Post 8vo, 10s. 6d.
"Mr. Trollope knows enough of the History of Tuscany, and enough of its ipresent position, wishes, and chances, to make any book he writes on the subject instructive and mteresting.Saturday 8ecieec.
MR. WALTER WHITE'S NEW BOOK OF HOME TRAVEL. NORTHUMBERLAND AND THE BORDER. 13«r WALTER WMTE, Author of 'A Month in Yorkshire,' etc. Second Edition. Post Svo, lOs. 6d.
AU that it aims at it acbieves, and acbieves well. Higher praise it could not, in its generation, well desire.Prell.
SECRET HISTORY OF THE AUSTRIAN GoVERNMENT,
AND OF ITS SYSTEMATIO PERSECUTIONS OF PROTESTANTS. Compiled from Official Documents. By ALFRED MIO~LS. Post 8vo, lOs. 6d.
"We have read'this book with much gratification. It is a volume for the publication ofwbich Englishmen, Churchmen, have every reason to be thankful, as a1fordiug incontrovertible evidence of the tyrannicalpolicy of Roman Catholic rulers, and of the barbarous cruelties they sanction and encourage.Pre".
TOBACCO: ITS HISTORY AND ASSOCIATIONS. Including an Account of the Plant and its Manufacture, Snuff and Snufi Takers, Tobacco-Pipes, and all the Concomitants of Smoking in all Ages and Countries.
By F. W. FAIILHOLT, F.S.A.
With One Hundred Illustrations by the Author. P08t S'Vo, 9s. "The author of this interesting and well.written volume deserves praise from all good emo?tere: ~forning ddcertiaer. · THE ORDEAL OF RICHARD FEVEREL. A HISTORY OF FATHER AND SON.
By G-EORGE b2~EREDITH.
In 3 vols.
"Mr. Meredith ie an original writer, and his book is a ~owerful book, penetrative in its def.th of insight and rich in its variety of ciperience.emeg.
hi It gives us Lopes that it may prove the prelude to a work that will place Mr. Meredith high in the list of living noveliats. '-Saturday Xeoieto.
DM:OmS OF -ROBERT-HOUDIN,
AlliBA55ADOE, AUTHOR, AND CONJUROR.
WRITTEN BY HIMSELF.
2 vols., post Svo, 21s.
Tlà is a capital translation by Mr. Wrazall of Robert-Houdin's autobiography--a book whose real value is not inconsiderable Ils a record of curious physical and psy c6olog~cal facts, and the interest of which to the geucral reader can hardly be o~erstated. Wu part from these volumes with great reluctance, and recommend them as a useful study and a delightful recreation.Literary Gazette.
OUR ENGINES OF WAR, AND HOW WE GOT TO ~E THEM.
By CAPTAIN JERVIS WHITE JERVIS, M.P.
Post Svo, -68.
ai.so,
THE RIFLE XUSIMT.
1Jy C.APTAIN JERVIS WHITE JERVIS, M.1?.
Second Edition. Post Svo, 2s.
"We have here two very useful and seasonable little books: Preaa.
THE POEMS OF JOHN MILTON,
With Notes by THOMAS KEIGHTLEY.
In 2 vols, demy 8vo, 218.
AMO,
AN ACCOUNT OF THE
LIFE, OPINIONS, AND WMTINGS OF JOHN MILTON,
With an Introduction to 4 Paradise Lost.'
By THOMAS KEIGHTLEY.
In 1 vol., demy Svo, 108. 6d.
Mr. Xei¡lhtley is an Editor nnusnally competent ta trace both the early and the later readiJ1gs of Milton, and so largel,. did the Poet lay his laureate brethren of all times under contn-bntion,thut the ability tu dlscover the pedigree of bis images and expressions is no mean mtue in an editor of his worKs. We can highly commend Mr. Reightleys edition of the I4liltouie Poems.Sreiurday B,eoierv.
MR. CARLYLES NEW WORK.
HISTORY OF FRIEDRICH SECOND, CALLED FREDERICK THE GREAT.
By THOMAS CARLYLE.
2'hird Edition. Vola. I. and 1-1., demy 8vo, 40s. With Portraits and Maps. THE WANDERER.
By OWEN MEREDITH, Author of « Clytemnestra.'
Second Edition, fcap. Svo, 9s. 6d.
Some of the Poems match in beauty of langnage and grace of thought with such masterpieces of music as Herrick's, Carew's, arvel'a, Tennysodo, Moore's, or Edgar Yoe's. Every ,)=volume is remarkable." -AL4en=m.
cc To them honestly is ta declare that the~ aro the best thinge of their kind that have come before tho publie for many a âsy.3fon"ng Chronicle.
A DECADE OF IT~IAN WOMEN,
By THOMAS ADOLPHUS TROLLOPE.
2 vols., post 8vo, 228. With Portraits.
ST. CATHERINE OF SIENA. CATERINA SFORZA.
VITTORIA COLONNA
TULLIA D'ARAGONA. 1
OLYMPIA MORATA. 1 ISABBLIiA. ANDREINL BIANCA CAPPRLTjo. I.
OLYMPIA PAMFILI. FLIZAHB'i'l'A SIRAM, LA. COBILLA.
cc It wu a happy thought on the part of Mr. TroUope to select some of the most remark- able of the women of Italy, and to publish their biopf,hies in a readable and convenient form. His book is very ever, e instructive, and amusmg~-Baturday &-cietD. Il In any case this book must rank as a most valuable contribution tp bistory, while it bas the merit of being at the same time as readable as a romance: '-Preis. DAVENPORT DUNN: A MAN OF OUR DAY. BY CHARLES LEVER.
In 1 vol., 8vo, 23s., With Forty-four illustrations by H. g. Baowx~ Mr. Lever's new novel iB one of the best that he has lately written:&aminer. OUR PARX OF POUR ACRES9
AND THE MONEY WE MADE :BY..IT.
Tive~h Edition. Post 8vo, 2s.
cc This is a genuine little book, full of the most serioua talk about .newotD1llk, 8ceah butter. and poultry. by a lady.~who lett London for a country house, in whichehe,was 10 atudy. 1tealth and a reasonable economy, with six chi1dren to manage, and a sister,.COl' co~aDÍOJ1 and helper. We ehown how the two ladies established ihenu e 1 ves prtlsp¡!roi1s1y. The la ve way of. writing has in it a healthy tone that helps to commend 10 na the country life by which a has been intluenced. It possesses all the charm of a pu» style; and while the language is re$ned by,cultivation. it is also welcome as true, wholesom.e'speech..oPI'n and
fresh:' Fxamixer.
HOUSEHOLD WORDS,
CONDÛ02'~D BY
CH.AIi~LES DICKENS,
Can now be had comp1,ete in Nineteen Volumes, price 58. 6d. per volume and all the Back Numbers, Parts, andvolumes.
Just Published, Price. Six Skillin~8,~
THE NATIONAL RE'V~TEW, .No.. X~II:
CONTENTS~
1. George Canning.
2. Teneriffe Astronomieal EXI)edition. 3. Senior's Journal in Turkey and Greece.
4. Roy er-Collard.
5. 'l'cullyson's Idylls.
6. The Navy: its Want of Men. 7. 'l'odor I,ea~islation Mr. Froude and Mr. Amos.
8. The Poetry of the Old Testament. 9. John Stuart 1%lill.
10. Books of the Quarter.
N~rvember, 1859.
A CATALOGUE OF BOOKS RUBLISUED DL
CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, PICCADILLY.
Aïdé-Eleonore, and other Poems.
Bp HAMILTON AIDÉ. Fcap. 8vo, cloth. 5s.
Ancient Britons, The
A TALE OF FRIMEV AL LIFE. With Illustrations. Small 8vo, clotho 38. 6el.
Andrews-The Eighteenth Century;
Or, ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE MANNERS AND CUSTOMS OF OUR GRANDFATHERS. By ALEXANDER ANDREWS. Post 8vo, clotho 98.
A Series of Diagrams,
ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE PRINCIPLES OF MECHANIC.A.L. P.Hl-- LOSOPHY AND THEIR APPLICATION. Twenty.one large P1B.tea, çimwn on Stone. With descriptive Letterpress. Published under the uperintendence of the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge. large folio V olurne, clotho £2. 12s. 6d.
Atlases and Maps,
FOR STUDENTS AND TRA VELLERS with Railways and Telegraphs, nccurately laid down.
SH.A.RPE'S ATLAS. Constructed upon a System of Scalé and Proportion, from the more recent Authorities. With a Copious Index. Fifty four Maps. Large folio, half morocco; plain, 36s. coloured, 42s. SHARPE'S STUDENT'S ATLAS. With a Copious Index. Twenty-six Coloured Maps, selected from.the above. Folio,.ha1£-bound, 218. LOWRY'S TABLE ATLAS. With a Copious Index. One Hundred Coloured 1tfaps. Largo 4to; ha1£-bound, 12s:
SIDNEY HALL'S TRAVELLING ATLAS OF THE ENGLISH COUNTIES, containing Fifty Maps, bound in a portable 8vo Volumt>, in roan tuck, lOs. fid.
SIDNEY HALL'S 1\IA.PS OF ENGLISH COUNTIES, with all the Railways and Country Seats. Priee 3d. each, coloured. In neat wrapper.
Atlases and lVlaps-~ont=nt~e~.
SHARPE'S TRAVELLING Mil OF EN(~LsIND 9ND WALES, with Railways and Electric Telegraph laid down to the present time. Coloured and mounted, in cIo th. case, ~2s. 6d.
SHARPE'S TRAVELLING biAP OF SCOTLAND, with Railways and Electric Telegraph laid down to the present time. Coloured and mounted, in cIo th case, ls. 6d.
SHARPE'S TRAVELLING 1\IAP OF IREL.A.ND, with Railways and Electric Tclegraph laid down to the present time. Coloured and mounted, in cloth case, ls. 6d.
LOWRY'S ATLAS OF INDIA. ln Eight Maps. Royal 4to, Coloured, in wrapper, priee ls.
1. INDIA (General Diap). 1
2. AF(IHANI3TAN.
3 DELOOCHISTAN.
4. NORTII-MEST :PROVINCES. 1
5. BOMBAY.
6. NEPAUL.
7. BENGAL.
8. MADRAS.
SHA.RPE'S ATLAS OF INDIA. In_ Six Ml1ps, Large folio, Coloured, in wrapper, price 2s. 6d.
1. INDIA ~(~enera111fup).. 1
2. BENGAL, etc.
3. CENTRAL INDIA. 1
4. THE CARNATIC, etc.
6. BELOOCHISTAN AND SCINDE. 6. AFGHANIBTAN AND THE
PUNJAB.
Austin-Two Letters on Girls' Schools,AND ON THE TRAINING OF WORKING WOMEN. By Mns AUSTIN. Post Svo, sewed. ls.
J3agehot-Estirnates' of some-- Eng1ishmen and SCOTCHMEN A Series of Essays contributed principally to the National Review.' ~By WALTER BAGEHOT. Demy 8va, cloth. 14,. arliàmenta-ry R~eform~ An,Essay.
By WALTEP, BAGEHOT.. Svo, cloth. 2s.
Bailey Festus a Poem.
By PHIZIP JAMES BAlLEY (a New Edition in the.Pmib). The Mystic, and other Poems.
By PHILIP JAMES BAILEY. Second Edition, post 8vo, clotho 58. -The-Age; a Colloquial Satire.
By PHILIP JAMES BAILEY' Post Bvo,cI6th. 6s. 6d.
Barham- Fhilàdelphia; or, the Claims -of HumaNITY A PLEA FOR SOCIAL AND RELIGIOUS REFORM. By THOMAS FOSTER BARII.A.M, M.B. Cantab. Post Bvo. clotho 8s, Gd. Barry Cornwall- English Songs, and other Poems. By BARRY CORNWALL. Ne* Editioii, 241110, sowed.- 2s. 6d.
Barry Cornwall- Dramatic Scenes, with other POEMS, nov first printed. By BARRY CORNWALL. Beautifully Illustrated with Fifty-seven woodcuts, and printed on fine paper. In One Volume. Crown 8vo, clotho 1&.
Barwell-The Care of the Sick.
Being the Substance of a course of Lectures delivered at the Working ~'Pomen'e College. By RICHARD BARWELL, F.R.C.S. In One Vol. Fcap., clotho 4s. And a Cheap Edition, fcap., atiff wrapper. ls. Obi*ldliood's Hours.
By MRS. BAR WELL. With Four Illustrations. Fcap. 8vo, cloth, ls. Od. N ovel Adventures of Tom Thumb the GREAT. Showing how he visited the Insect World, and learned much wisdom. By MORS. BARWELL. New Edition. Eight Illustrations. 16mo, eloth. ls. 6d.
Nursery Government;
Or, HINTS ADDRESBED TO MOTHERS.AND NURSERY MAIDS ON THE 31ANAGEMENT OF YOUNG CHILDREN. By Mns. BARWELL. Second Edition. Corrected and Enlarged. Fcap. 8vo, clotho ls. 0
Bennett-Proverbs with Pictures.
By CHARLES H. BENNETT. With about 250 Illustrations, fcap. boards. 7s. 6d.
Poems.
By W. C. BENNETT. Fcap. 8vo, eloth. 68.
Queen Eleanor's Vengeance, and other YOEMS. By W. C. BENNETT. Fcap. 8vo, clotho 3s. 6d. Snngs by a Song-writer. First hundred. By W. C. BENNETT. Post 8vo, clotho 88. 6d.
]3aby May, and other Poems on Infants. Fcap., sewed. ls.
Blanc-Historical Revelations
Inscribed to Lord Normanby. By LOUIS BLANC. Post 8vo, cloth. lOs. 6d.
Boner-Chamois Hunting in the Mountains of BAV~RIA.. By CHARLES BONER. With illustrations by THEODORE HORSCIIELT, of Munich. 8vo, clotho 18s,
The New Dance of Death, and other POEZ~S. Crown 8vo, clotho 28.
Cain, a Dramatic. Poem.
Crown 8vo, cloth. 3s. 6d.
Verse. Feap. 8vo, clotho 48.
Books for the Blind.
Embossed, in the ordinary Roman Type. [printed for the Committee of the Bristol.A.sylum for the Blind.]
OUTLINES OF GEOGRAPHY. Oblong, clotho 58.
MEMOIR OF WATT. Oblong, clotho 38.
HOLY THOUGHTS. Oblong, clotho 2s.
SERMON ON THE MOUNT. Oblong, cloth. 2s.
FIRST READING BOOK. Oblong, clotho 2s.
MAGAZINE FOR THE BLIND. Vol. I. Oblong, clotho lOs. THE ALPHABET FOR THE BLIND. ld.
Border Lands of Spain and France, (The,) WITH AN ACCOUNT OF A VISIT TO THE REPUBLIC OF ANDORRE. Post 8vo, clotho lOs. 6d.
Browning-1'oetical Works.
By ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. Fourth Edition, with Corrections and Additions. Three V oIa. Fcap., clotho 18s. Aurora Leigh; a Poem.
IN NINE BOOKS. By ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. Fourth Edition, with Portrait of Mrs. Browning. In One Vol. Fcap., clotho 7s.
Poetical Works.
By ROBERT BROWNIN(~ 9. New Edition, with numerous Alterations and Additions. Two Vols. Fcap., clotho 168.
Christmas- Eve and Easter Day.
A POEM. By ROBERT BROWNING. Fcap. 8vo, clotho 6s. Men. and Women.
By ROBERT BROWNING. In Two Vols. Fcap. 8vo, clotho 12s. Burchett-l'ractical Perspective.-
THE SUBSTANCE OF THE COURSE OF LECTURES ON LINEAR PERSPECTIVE, delivered at, and forming a p!1rt:of the Course of Instruction in the Training School, and in the Schoo1.a of Art in connection with the Department of Science and Art. By R. BURCHETT, Head Master of the Training and Normal Sehool.. Fourth Edition. Post 8vo, cloth, with Illustrations. 7s.
Practical Geometry.
THE COURSE OF CONSTRUCTION OF :PLANE GEOMETBICAL FIGURES.. By R. BURCHETT.. With 137 Disgrams. Third Edition. Post 8vo, clotho 5s.
efinitions of Geometry.
24mo, L;ewed. 5d.
Butler-The Ileiis- of Blackridge Manor. A TALE OF THE PAST AND :PRESENT. Â NOVEL. By DL4~NA BUTLER. Three Vols. Post 8vo, cloth. 318. 6d.
B
CARLYLE'S WORKS.
UNIFORM EDITION.
Handsomely printed in Crown Octavo, price Six Shillings per Volume. THE FRENCH REYOLUTION AHISTORY. In 2 Volumes. 12s. OLIVER CROl\fWELL'S LETTERS AND SPEECHES. With Elucidations and Connecting Narrative. ln 3 V olurnes. 18s. LIFE OF JOHN STERLING. One Volume. 6s.
LIFE OF S CHILLER. One Yolume. 68.
CRITICAL AND J\IISCELLA.lVEOUS. ESSAYS. In 4 Volumes. 248.
SARTOR RESARTUS. One Volume. Os.-
gERO WORSHIP. One Yolumc. Gs.-
LATTER-DA y PAMPHLETS. One VoIÜme. 6s.
CHARTISM. }
]?A' 4T AND PRESENT. One Volume. 6s.
TRANSLATIONS OF GERMAN ROMANCE. One Volume. ss. WILHELM MEISTER. By GOTHE. A. Translâtion. In° 2 V olurnes. 128.
Carlyle-History of Friedrich the Sèconà? called FREDERICK THE GREAT. By THOMAS CARLYLE, with Portraits and Maps. Third Edition. Vols. I. and II.demy 8vo, clotho 408. Passages selected from the' Writings of THOMAS CARLYLE, with a Biographical Memoir by T. BALLANTYNE. Post 8vo, eloth. 7s.
Coleridge-Seven Lectures on Shakespeare and MILTON. By the late S.. T. COLERIDGE. A List of all the MS. Emendations in Mr. COLLIER'S Folio, 1632 and an Introductory Preface by J. PAYNE COLLIER, EsQ. Demy 8vo, clotho 12s. Cooper-The Purgatory of SUicidés.
By THOMAS COOPER.~ A New Edition. Feap. clôth. 7s: 6d. Craik-The English of Shakespeare
Illustrated in a Philological Commentary on bis Tragedy of 1 Julius CoeE;ar.1 By GEORGE LILLIE CRAIK, Professor of History and of English Literature in Queen's College, Belfast. Second Edition, litist 8vo, eloth. 7s. 6d.
Outlines of the History of the English LANCa-UAG1~E. For the use of the Junior Classes in Colleges, and the Higher Classes in Schools. By GEORGE L. CRAIK. Third Edition, revised and improved. Post 8vo, clot1.t. 2s. Ode
CHAPMAN AND HALL'S
SELECT LIBRARY OF FICTION. PRICE TWO SHILLINCS EACH NOVEL.
MARY BARTON A TALE OP.MuCHESTER Lm.
RUTH. A NOVEL. By the Author of « 31ary Barton: CRANFORD. By the Author of Mary Barton.'
LIZZIE LEIGIi; AND OTHER TALES. By the Author of 'Mary Barton.'
THE HEAD OF THE FAMILY. A NOVEL.
AGATHA'S HTJSBAND~ By the Aiithor of 'John Halifax, Gentleman.'
OLIVE. A Nov.EL: By tho Author of The Head of the Family.' THE OGILVIES. A NOVEL. By the Author of 'The Head of the Family.'
ALTON LOCKE, TAILOR AND POET: Bi the REV. CHARLES KINGSLEY. With a new Preface, addressed to the Working Men of Great Britain.
THE FALCON F AMIL Y or, YOUNG' -IRELAND A ssT~$~oAL NOVEL. ByM. W. SAVAGE.
THE BACHELOR OF THE ALBANY. By W. SAVAGE. MY UNCLE THE CURATE. A NovEL. Bÿ M. W. sAVAC~-E. THE HALF SISTERS. A..TALE. By Miss JEWSBURY. THE WHITEBOY. A STORY OP IRELA!iD lN 1822. By Mrs. 8. C. HALL.
EUSTACE CONYERS. B~ JAMES HANNAY.
]\{ARETIMO: Â STORY OF 9.w~NTVa, By BAYLE ST. JOHN. MELINCO URT. By the Author of'Headlong Hall:·' THE BLITHEDALE ROMANCE. By NATHANIEL HAW. TIIOILNE.
~`, Otlcer Poyular Novels will be issued in thïs Series.
NOTICES OF THE PRESS.
The Fictions published by this Fiim in their Belect Librury' liave aU been of a hihh character.PJ'tu.
"ZYhô would be satisfled with the much~thumbed' Library Booic,' when he can procure. in one handsomo volume, a celebrated Work of Fiction.now offered by Messrs. Chapman and Hall at the low price of Two Bhillings ~Ilrifannia.
Il Capital Novels, well worth the price 8:1ked for tbem.GIUlJ'dian.
WORKS BY MR. CHARLES DICKENS. ORIGINAL EDITIONS.
THE PICKWICK PAPERS. With Forty-threo Illustrations by SEYMOUR and'~Pmz:' 8vo. £1. ls.
NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. With Forty illustrations by PFIIZ." 8v0. £l.ls.
SKETCHES BY "BOZ." A New Edition, with Fort y illustrations by GEORGE CRUIKSHANK. 8vo. £l. ls.
MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. With Fort y illustrations by "PllIZ." 8vo. £1. Is.
THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. WithSeventy-flvo TIlu!!trations by GEORGE CATTEB.YOLE and H. K. BROWNE. Imperial8vo. 13s. BARNABY RUDGE. A TALE 011 THE RIOTS OF 'EIGHTY. With Seventy-eight Illustrations by G. CATTERYOLE and H. K. Biaowim. Imperial 8vo. 13s.
AMERICAN NOTES, FOR GENERAL CmOULA.TION. Fourth Edition. 2 VoIs., post 8vo. «Cl. Is.
OLIVER TWIST; or, THE PARisg-Boy's PROGRESSe Elustrated by GEORGE Camgsaerrg. Tliird Edition, 3 VoIs., 8vo. £1. 5$· CHEAP AND UNIFORM EDITION.
gandsomely ~rinted in Crown Octavo, Clotlc, with Frontzryieces. s. d.
THE PICKWICK PAPERS 5 0 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY 5 0 MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. 5 0 BARNABY RUDGE 4 0 OLD CURIOSITY SHOP 4 0 OLIVER TWIST 3 6 SKETCHES BY BOZ 3 6 CHRISTMAS BOOK8 3 6 AMRICAN NOTES 2 6 CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS.
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. In Prose. Crown 8vo, sewed. 6d. THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH. Crown 8vo, scwed. ôd. THE CRIMES. Crown 8vo, sewed. 6d.
Notv Publishing
lN MONTHLY VOLUMES,
PRICE SIX SHILLINGS EACH,
A
NEW AND COMPLETE LIBRARY EDITION OF
THE WORKS OF
112R. CHARLES DICKENS,
l3eazct fully printed i~a Post 8uo, and carefully revised by tlae ~uthor. ~tl~ Portrait and ~gnettes.
PICKWICK PAPERS, 2 Vols., 128.
NICHOLAS NICKLEBY, 2 Vols., 128.
MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT~ 2 Vols., 128.
OLD CURIOSITY BHOP, 2 Vols., 128.
BARNABY RUDGE, 2 Vols., 128.
SKETCHES BY BOZ, 1 Vol., 6s.
OLIVER TWIST, 1 Vol.~ es,
DOMBEY AND SON, 2 Vols., 128.
DAVID COPPERFIELD, 2 Vols., 128.
PICTURES FROM: ITALY and AMERICAN NOTES, 1 VO! es. BLEAg HOUSE, 2 Vols., 128..
LITTLE DORRIT, 2 Vols., 128.
CHRISTMAS BOOKS,
COMPLETING THE SERIE9, WRLL BL PUBLISHED IN OCTOBER. THIS LIBRA.RY EDITION was undertaken with a view to the presentation of Ma. DICKENS'S Writinge in a far more convenient form, at once for present perusal, and for preservation, than any of them bave yet appeared in. A new fount of type was made expressly for the purpose, and great care has been taken to render the Series legible, compact, and handsome. The LIBRARY EDITION will comprise Twenty-two Montlùy Volumes, price Six Shillings each.
CHAl'MAN & HALL, 193, PICCADILLY; BRADBURY & EVANS, BOUVERIE BT.
Dante's Divine Comedy, The Inferno.
A Literal Prose Translation, ivitli the Test of the original Collated with the best Editions, and Explanl1tory Notes. Dy JOHN A. CARLYLE, M.D. Post 8vo, with a Portrait, eloth. 14s.
Dante's Divine Comedy
or, THE INFERNO, PURGATORY, AND P ARADISE. Rendered into English Metre by FREDERICK POLLOCK. with Fifty Illustratiens,- drawn by GEORGE SCHARF, Jurr. Post Syo, clotl. 14$. Davidson-Drawing for Elementary Schools Being a Manual of the Method of Teacliing Drawing, Specially adapted for the Use of Masters of National and Parocliial Schools. By ELLIS A. DAVIDSON, Head Master of the Chester School of Art, and Professor of Drawing at the Chester.Diocesl1n Training College. Published under tho sanction of the Science and Art Department of the Committee of Council on Education. Post Svo, clotho 3s.
Delamotte-The Oxymel Process in Photography. By PHILIP H. DELAMOTTE, F.S.A., Professor of Drawing in King's College, London. Crown 8vo. h.
De Pontès-Poets and Poetry of Germany. BIOGt-RAPHIC9_L AND CRITICAL NOTICES. By MADAME L. DAVÉSIÉS DE PONTÈS. Two Volumes, post 8vo, eloth. 18s. Dietrich-Russian Popular Tales. -ETRICII. With au
Translated from the C-terman ersion of ANTON DI ,\Yith an Introduction by JACOB GRIMM. Post Svo, clotho 5s.
Direy-Grammaire Française.
Par L. DIREY. 12moJ clotho 3s.
Latin Grammar.
By L. DIREY. l2mo, clotho 4s.
and Foggo's English Grammar.
12mo, cloth. 3s.
Dixon-Robert Blake, Admiral and General at f3EA. Based on Famill and'State Papers. By HEPWORTH DIXON, Author of '«Life of William Penn.' Cheap Edition. Post 8vo, bds. 2s. Post 8vo, cloth, with Portrait. 2s. 6d.
William Penn.
AN HISTORICAL BIOGRAPHY. By WILLIAM HEPWORTH DIXON, Author of 1 life of Howard.' With a Portrait. Second Edition. Foolscap 8vo, cio th. 7s.
Domville-The Mosaic Sabbath
A PAMPHLET SHOWING THE FOURTH C01~14IANDbZENT TO BE NOT OBLIGATORY ON CHRISTIANS. By SIR W. DOMVILLE. It forme the first Chapter of the Volume of the Sabbaths of the Old Testament. 8vo, sewed. 6d.
Domville-The Sabbath
Or, AN EXAMINATION OF THE SIX TEXTS COMMONLY ADDUCED FROM THE NEW TESTAMENT IN PROOF OF A OHRISTIAN SABBATH. By SIR W. DOMYILLE. With a Supplement. Vol. 1. 8vo, clotho 9s.
The Sabbath
Or, AN ll{QUIRY INTO THE SUPPOSED OBLIGATION OF THE SABBATH OF THE OLD TESTAMENT. By SIR ~P. DOMVILLE. Vol. II. 800, cloth. 9s.
Doyle-Overland Journey to the Great ExhibiTION; Showing a few Extra Articles and Visitors. By RICHARD DOYLE. Oblong boards. Plain, 3s. coloured, 5s.
Dyce's Elementary Outlines of Ornament. Fifty Selected Plates. Folio, sewed. 5s.
Edinburgh Tales.
In one thick vol., imp. 8vo, full gilt back. Bs. 6d.
Elementary Drawing Book.
Directions for introducing the Firat Steps of Elementary Drawing in Schools, and among Workmen. With Lista of Materials, Objects, and Models. 'By the Author of 'Dra.wing for ~oung Cliildren,' etc. Prepared and published at the request of the Council of the Society of Arts. Small 4to, clotho 4s. 6d.
Fairholt--Costume in England.
A mSTORY OF DRESS, from the Earliest Period until the close of the Eighteenth Century with a Glossary of Terms for all Articles of Use or Ornament worn about the Person. By F. W. FAIRHOLT, F.S.A. With upwards of 600 Engravings, drawn on Wood by the Author. Nezv Edition in the press.
Tobacco its History and Associations;
Including an Account of the PLANT and its MANUFACTURE, with its Mode of Use in all Agei3 and Countries. By F. W. FAIRHOLT, F.S.A. With 100 Illustrations by the Author. Post 8vo, cloth. 98.' The Home of Shakespeare,
ILLUSTRATED AND DESCRIBED. By F. W. FAIRHOLT, F.S.A., Author of 'Costume in England,' etc. With Thirty-three Engravings. Small 8vo. 2s. 6d.
Finlaison-New Government Succession Duty TABLES for the Use of Successors to Property, their Solicitors and Agents, and others concerned in the Payment of the Duties Levied on all Successions, under Authority of the present Statute, 16 &.17 Victoria, cap. 51. By ALEXANDER (1LEN FINLAISON. Post 8vo, eloth. 5s. Gallenga-The History of Piedmont.
By ANTONIO G1~ALLEN(lA, Member of the Sardinian Parliament, etc. In 8 vols., crown 8vo, clotho 24s.
Gallenga-Country Life in Piedmont.
By ANTONIO Gt~ALLENC-1- Post 8vo, cloth. 89. 6d.
Gaskell-Cranford.
By MRS. GASKELL. Post 8vo, boards. 2s.
Mary J3arton.
A TALE OF MANCHESTER LIFE. By Mr9. GASKELL. Fourth Edition. Two vols., post 8vo, cloth. 18s. And a Cheap Edition, post 8vo, boards, 2s.
Ruth A Novel.
Three vols., post 8vo, cloth, 31s. 6d. And a Cheap Edition, post 8vo, boards, 2s.
Lizzie Leigh, and other Tales.
Post 8vo, boards. 2s.
Libbie Marsh's Three Eras.
A LANCASHIRE TALE. Second Edition. Foolscap, sewed. 4d. Hand and Heart and Bessy's Troubles
AT HOME. Foolscap, sowed. 4d.
The Sexton's Hero and Christmas
STORMS AND SUNSHINE. Foolscap, sewed. 3d.
North and South.
Third and Cheaper Edition. Crown 8vo, eloth. 5s.
Moorland Cottage.
With Illustrations by BmKET FOSTER. Foolscap 8vo, clotho 2s. 6d. German Love.
FROM THE PAPERS OF AN ALIEN. Translated by SUSANNA WINKWORTH, with the sanction of the Author. Foolscap, clotho 4s. 6d.
Godwin- History in Ruins.
A Series of Letters to a Lady, embodying a popular Sketch of the History of Architecture, and the Characteristics of the various Styles which have prevailed. A Hàndbook of Architecture for the unlearned. By GEORGE GODWIN, F.R.S. With Illustrations, etc. Small 8vo, clotho 4s. 6d. Hall-Soldiers and Sailors in Peace as in War. By HERDERT BYNG HALL. Second Edition. Foolscap, clotho 3s. Sayah or, The Courier to the East.
By HERBERT BYNG HALL. Foolscap, boards. 2s. 6d.
Hand Phrenologically Considered (The). Being a Glimps at the Relation of the Mind with the Organization of the Body. Post 8vo, with Four Plates, eloth. 4s. 6d.
Harding-Principles and Practice of Art. Treating of Beauty of Form, Imitation, Composition, Light and Shade, Effect and Colour. By J. D. HARDING, Author of 'Elemento.ry Art,' etc. with numerous Illustrations, Drawn and Engraved by the Author. Imperial 4to, clotho 42s.
Rannay-Eustace Conyers.
A NOYEL. By JAMES HANNAY. Cheap Edition. Post 8vo, 'boards. 2s.
Hawthorne-The Blithedale Romance. BYNATIIANIELIIAWTHORNE. Cheap Edition. Post8vo, boards. 2s. Haxthausen-The Russian Empire
ITS PEOPLE, INSTITUTIONS, AND ITESOU-ROES. By BARON VON .11AXTIIAUSEN, Author of 'Transc8uc8sia,' etc. Translated and issued under the immediate sanction of the Author. ln two vols., 8vo, clotho 28s.
Transcaucasia.
SKETCHES OF THE NATIONS AND RACES BETWEEN THE BLACK SEA AND THE CASPIAN. By BARON VON H.A.XTHAUSEN. With cight Coloured Illustrations by GRAEB. 8vo, clotho 18s.
The Tribes of the Caucasus
WITH AN ACCOUNT OF SCHA1~LYL AND THEMURIDS. By BARON VON HAXTHAUSEN. Post 8vo, clotho 5s.
Heinrich Heine's Book of Songs.
A Translation. By JOHN E. WALLIS. Crown 8vo, clotho 9s. Henslow-Illustrations to be Employed in the PRACTICAL LESSONS ON BOTANY. Adapted to all Classes. Prepared for the South Kensington Museum. By the REV. PROFESSOR HENSLOW. With Illustrations. Post 8vo. 6d.
Hill-Travels in the. Sandwich and Society ISLANDS. By S. S. HILL, Author of « Travelo in Siberia,' etc. Post 8vo, clotho lOs. 6d.
House of Raby (The)
Or, OUR LADY OF DARKMSS. A Novel. Thrce vols., post 8vo, clotho 318. 6d.
Household Words (The).
Conducted by CHARLES DICKENS. 19 vols., roy. 8vo, clotho 5s. 6d. each. (All the back Numbers and Parts may now be had.)
Industrial and Social Position of Women, IN THE MIDDLE AND LOWER RANKS. Post 8vo, clotho lOs. 6d. Italian Cause (The), Its History and Its Hopes. I~.ALY'S APPEAL TO A FREE NATION. 8VOA elotli. 58.
Jervis-The Rifle- Musket.
A Practical Trcatiso on the Enfield-Prichett Rifle, recently adoptcd in the ]3ritish Service. By CAPTAIN JERYIS 'VHITE JERYIS, M.P., Royal Artillery, Author of the' Manual of Field Operations.' Sectind and Cheaper Edition, with Additions. Post Svo, cloth. 2s.
Our Engines of War, and hô« we got to MAKE. THEM. By CAPTAIN JERYIS ~YHI1'I', JERVLS, M.P., Royal Artillery, with many Illustrations. Post 8vo, clotho 6s. Jewsbury-The Half-Sisters.
A NOVEL. By GERALDINE E. JEWSBURY. Cheap Edition. Post Svo, boards. 2s.
Johnson-A Winter's Sketches in the South of FRANCE AND THE PYRENEES. witl Remarks upon the Use of the Climate and Mineral waters in 'the Cure of Disease. By FREDERICK H. JOHNSON, 11LR.C.S. ENG., L.A.C., formerly President of the Hunterian Society of Edinburgh. Crown 8vo, eloth. 8s. 6d. Journal of Design and Manufactures.
Six Volumes. Containing 213 Patterns of actual Fabries, and between 600 and 700 Engravings on Wood. 8vo, eloth. Each Volume, 7s. 6d. Keightley-The Life, Opinions, and Writings of JOHN MILTON WITII AN INTRODUCTION TO '1' ARADISE LOST.' By THOMAS KEIGHTLEY. Second Edition. Demy 8v.0, clotho 108. 6d.
The l'oems of John Milton
WITH NOTES by THOMAS KEIGHTLEY. 2 vols., 8vo, clotho 21s. Kelly-Lue in Victoria in 1853 and in 1858. By THOMAS KELLY. 2 vols., post 8vo, clotho 21s.
Kingsley-Alton I~ocke Tailor and Poet. An Autobiography. By the Rev. CHARLES KINGSLEY. Cheap Edition. Post 8vo, boards. 2s.
Kingston-Westem Wanderings
Or, A PLEASURE 'rOUR IN CANADA. By W. H. G. KINGSTON. 2 vols., post 8vo, cloth, with Illustrations. 24s.
Leaves from the Diary of an Officer of the Guards DURING THE PENINSULAR 'VAR. Fcap., clotho 5s. Lewis-Chess for Beginners,
IN A SERIES OF PROGRESSIVE LESSONS. Showing the most approved mcthods of beginning and ending the Game, together with various Situations and Checkmates. Witli Twenty-four Diagrams printed in Colours. By WILLIAM LEWIS. Third Edition. Small 4to, clotho 2s. 6d.
CHARLES LEVER'S WORKS.
LIBRARY EDITION.
IN DEMY OCTAVO, ILLUSTRATED BY PHIZ.
DAVENPORT DUNN; A l'fan of Our Day. One Thick Volume, demy 8vo, cloth, witli 4-1, Illustrations. 23s.
THE l'fARTINS OF CRO' 1~TARTIN. 2 Vols., with 40 Mustrations. 148.
HARRY LORREQUER. 1 Vol., with 22 Illustrations. 78. CHARLES O'MALLEY, THE IRISH DRAGOON. 2 Vols. with 44 Illustrations. 148.
JACK HINTON, THE GUARDSMAN. 1 Vol., with 26 Illustrations. 78..
TOM BURKE OI` "OURS." 2 Vols., with 44 Illustrations. 148. THE O'DONOGHUE: A TALE OF rnELAND FIFTY YEARB AGO. 1 Vol., with 26 Illustrations. 78.
THE KNIGHT OF GWYNNE. 2 Vols., with 40 Illustrations. 14s.
ROLAND CASHEL. 2 Vols., with 40 Illustrations. 14s. THE 'DALTONS; or, THItEE ROJiD iN LIFE. 2 Vols., with Illustrations. 14s.
THE D ODD FAl'flLY ABROAD. 2 Vols. With 40 Illustrations. 14s.
CHEAP AND ûlITIFORM EDITION OF LEVER'S WOR,gâ. ~VITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY H. K. BROWNE.
This Edition ii3 handsomely printed in Crown Octavo, and each Volume will contain EIGHT EN(~RAP~TQ~S BY H. K. BROWNE.
Bound in Cloth. Prico 4s.
JACK HINTON. 48.
TOM BURKE OF "OURS." In 2 Vols. 88.
HARRY LORRE '~1UER. 48..
CHARLES O'MALLEY, THE IRISH DRAGOON. In 2 Vols. 8s.
THE O'DONOGHUE. 4s.
THE -H1VIGHT OF GWYNNE. In 2 Vols. 88.
-ROLAND CASHEL. In 2 Vols. 88.
THE. DALTONS. In 2 Vols. 8s.
THE DODD FA1VIILY ABROAD. In 2 Vols. 88.
Lever-The Fortunes of Glencore.
By CHARLES LEVER. 3 vols., post 8vo, cloth. 3Is. 6d.
Saint Patrick's Eve
Or, TlIRÈE ERAS IN THE LIFE OF AN IRISH PEASANT. By CHARLES LEVER. With Illustrations by Pmz." Small 8vo, clotho New and Cheaper Edition. 2s. 6d.
Life and Letters of Barthold George Niebuhr. WITH ESSAYS ON HIS CHARACTER AND INFLUENCE. By the CHEVALIER BUNSEN, and Prof essors BRANDIS and LOEBELL. Second Edition. 3 vols., 8vo, clotho 42s.
Little Poems for Iiittle People.
By M. S. O. With numerous illustrations on Wood. Small 8vo, clotho 18. 6d.
Lowry's Table Atlas.
With a Copious Index. 100 Coloured Maps. Large 4to, half-bound. 12s. A New Series of Maps, in large 4to, price One Penny each Map plain, and Twopence with the Boundariei3 Coloured completed in 100 Haps, any of which can be purchased separately, plain, ld., coloured, 2d. LIST OF THE MAPS.
Bheet.
l, 2. World in Hemispheres-2 Afa~s. S, 4. World on Mercatoes Projection -2 Maps.
5. Earope.
6. British Isles.
7,8. EIig1and and Wales-2 Maps. 9. 8cotland-Qeneral.
10. Ireland-(leneral.
11. France, in Provinces.
121015. France,inDe¡>artments-4Maps. 16. Holland and Eelginm.
17. Spain and Portugal-General. 18 to 21. Spain and PortugaI-40 Maps. 22. Italy-General.
2S to 26. Italy-4 Mape.
27. Prussia and Gennan States. 28 to 31. Gennany and Switzerland-4 4 Ma).>s.
82. Anstnan Empire.
33, M. Hungary and Transylcania- 2 Maps.
35. Turkey in Europe, and Greece. 36. Bosphorus and Dardanelles. 37. Greece and the Ionian Islands. 38,39. Sweden and Norway-2 Maps. 40. Denmark.
41. Russia in Europe.
42. Asia, North.
43, 44. Asia, South, and Indian Beas -1 Maps.
45. India-General.
46 to 62. India-7 Mape.
63. Penia and Tartary.
54,55. Turkey in Asia and Western Persia-2 Maps.
Sheet.
56. Eastern Persia.
51,58. Syria and Arabia Petrma -2 Maps.
69 GO. China and Indien Beas-Il M
ci. Australia and New Zealand-
General Map.
62,63. Australia-2 Mape.
64 to 66. New South Wales-S biaps. 67. Victoria, or Port Philip District. 68. New Zealand.
69, 70. Polynesia-2 Mape.
71, 72. Afnca-2 Mays.
73 to 75. Egypt, Nubla, Abyssinia, and iped Sea--3 Mape.
7fi, 77. North Afrlea-comprising lliorocco, Algiers, and Tunis- 2
Maps.
78 to 80. 'West Afriea-comprising 8ene- gambia, Liberia, Soudan, and
Guinea-3 Maps.
81,82, Sonthern Africa-2 Mape. 83. British North America. 84. Aretio Itegi ne.
85, 86. Canada, New Brnnswick, and Nova Seotia-2 Maps.
87. North Ameriea-General. 88, 89. United States-2 Maps-Gene. ral.
90 to 93. United States-4 Maps. 94. Maxie
95. West Indice and Central Ame. rica.
96. South America-General. 97 to 100. South Amerioa-4Maps.
Lytton- Money.
COISIE4 DY, in Five Acts. By SIR EDWARD BULWER Li'l'T'ON. 8vo, sewed. 2s. 6d.
Not so Bad as We Seem
Or, MANY SIDES TO A CHARACTER. A. COMEDY, in Five Acta. By SIR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON. 8vo, aewed~ 2s. 6d. -Richelieu; or, The Conspiracy.
A PLAY, in Five Acta. By sm EDW.RD BULWER LYTTON. 8vo, sewed. 2s. 6d.
The Lady of Lyons;
Or, LOVE AND PRIDE. A PLAY, in Five Acts. By SIR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON. 8vo, sewed. 2s. 6d.
M'Combie-The History of the Colony of Victoria FROM ITS SETTLEMENT TO THE DEATH OF SIR CHARLES HOTHAM. By THE HONOURABLE THOMAS M'COMBIE. 8vo, clotho 158.
l\I'Cullagh-Industrial History of Free Nations, Considered in Relation to their Domestic Institutions and External Policy. By W. TORRENS M'CULLAGH. 2 vols., 8vo, clotho 248.
Use and Study of History.
Being the Substance of a Course of Lectures delivered in Dublin. By W. TORRENS M'CULLAGH. Second Edition. 8vo, clotho 108. 6d. Macknight-History of the Life and Times of EDMUND BURKE.. By THOMAS MA.CKNIGHT, Author of « The Right Hon. B. Disraeli, M.P. a Literary and Political :8iograJ?hy,' and C Thirty Years of Foreign Policy a History of the Secretarysmps of the Earl of Aberdeen and Viscount Palmerston.' Vols. I. and II., demy 8vo, clotho 30s.
Maidstone-Abd-el-Kader. A Poem.
ln Six Cantos. Dy VISCOUNT MAIDSTONE. 8vo, clotho 16s. Manual of French Cookery.
Dedicated to the Housekeepers and Cooks of England who wish to Study the Art. Simplifled for the benefit of the most unlearned. By One who has tested the Receipts. Fcap. 8vo, cloth. 6s.
Mariotti-Italy in 1848.
By L. MARIOTfr. 8vo, clôth. 12s.
Markham-Cuzco and Lima.
Being an Account of a Journey to the Ancient Capital of Peru and a Visit to the Capital and Provinces of modern Peru. By CLEIIE\TTS R. M.A.RKHA~I, F.R.G.S. Post 8vo, cloth, witli Illustrations. 14-s. Marryat-Hemy Lyle.
Or, LIFE AND EXISTENCE. By ElIiILIA J\IARRYA1'. 2 vols. post Svo, eloth. 21s.
Masius-Studies from Nature.
By HERMANN MASIUS. Translated by CHARLES BONER. Beautifully illustrated, crown Svo, clotho Sa. 6d.
Mayhew-Paved with. Gold
Or, THE ROMANCE AND REALITY OF THE LONDON STR~EETS. 9n Unfashionable Novel. By AUGUSTUS MAYHEW (one of theBrothers Mayhew). With Twenty-six illustrations by ccPHlZ." 77emy.8vo, clotho 14s.
Melincourl
Or, SIR ORAN HAUT-TON. By tho Author of Headlong Hall,' etc. Cheap Edition.- Post 8vo, boards. 28.
Memoirs of Robert-Houdin,
AMBASSADOR, AUTHOR;.AND CONJUROR. Written by hÏmself. Copyright Edition. 2 vols., post Svo, eloth. 21s.
Mémoirs. of."a Stomach.
Edited by a Minister of the Interior. Ninth Edition. Fcap., sewed. ls. Menzies-Early Ancient History;
Or, THE ANTE-GREEK PERIOD AS IT APPEARS TO Us SINCE THE MOST RECENT DISCOVERIES IN EGYPT AND .SSYRIA. With Réferences to Wilkinson, Layard, and other Autborities. Intended for popular use. By HENRY.MENZIES. 1 vo1.; post Svo. 4s. 6d. Meredith-The Wanderer.
A POEM. By the Author of 'Clytemnestra,' etc. Second Edition. Foolscap Svo, clotho 9s. 6d.
Meredith-The Shaving of 8hagpat.
An ARABIAN ENTERTAINMENT. By GEORGE MEREDITH. Post 8vo, clotho lOs. 6d.
The Ordeal of Richard Feverel.
By GEORGE MEREDITH. 3 vols., post 8vo, clotho 31s. 6d.
Michiels-Secret History of the Alistrian GovernbiENT, AND OF ITS SYSTEbfATIC PERSECUTIONS OF PROTEST~1NTS. Compiled from official documents. By ALFRED MICHIELS. Post 8vo, clotho 108. 6d.
Mildmayes, The
Or, THE CLER(~-YbZ9.N'S SECRET A Story of Twenty Years Ago. In 3 Vols., post Svo, cloth. 31s. 6d.
l\1:illington- Heraldry
IN HISTORY, POETRY, AND ROM.A.NCE.. With numerous Illustrations. Post 8vo. 9s:-
Miscellanea Graphica
Representations of Ancient, Medieval, and RênaÍssanee' Romains, in the possession of Lord Londesborough. Drawn, engraved, and deacribed by FREDERICK W.. FAIRHOLT, F.S.A., Honorary Member of the Society of Antiquaries of Normandy,Picardy, and Poictiers. The Historical Introduction by THOMAS 'VRIGH'f; M.A., F.S.A., etc., Corresponding Member of the Institute of France. In One volume, imperial 4to, cloth, price £3. lôs., with Forty-sia Plates, some of them printed in colour, and numerous Engravings on wood.
Money-Twelve Months with the Bashi-Bazouks. By EDWARD MONEY. With Coloured Illustrations. Post 8,vo, cloth. 78..
Montalba- Fairy Tales from all N ations~ By ANTHONY R. MONTALBA. Embellished with Twemty-four Illustrations by. RICHARD DOYLE. Small 8vo, extra clotho 58. 6d. Morley-Memoirs. of llartholomew Fair. By HENRY MORLEY. Witli Eighty Illustrations. Demy- 8vo, cloth. 218.
The Life of. Hem)' Cornelius Agrippa VON NETTESHEIM, Doctor and Knight, commonly known as a Magician. By HENRY MORLEY. In 2 vols., post -Svo, cloth. 18s. Jerome Cardan.
A BIOGRAPHY. By HENRY MORLEY. Two vols., post Svo, clotho 18s.
The .Life of Bernard Palissy, of Saintes His Labours and DiBcoveries in Arts and Science. By HENRY MORLEY. Post 8vo, clotb, price 12s. Second and cheaper Edition. ]Elow to Make Home Unhealthy.
By HENRY MORLEY. Reprinted from the Examiner.' Second Edition. Small 8vo, stiff wrapper. l.-r.
Gossip.
By HENRY MORLEY. Reprinted from the Household Words.' Second and Cheaper Edition. Crown 8vo, cloth. 5s.
Morley-A Defence of Ignorance.
By HENRY MORLEY. Small 8vo, clotho 3s.
Muloch-The Head of the Family.
By Miss MLJLOCII. Cheap Edition. Post 8vo, boards. 2,
Olive a Novel.
By Miss MULOOH. Cheap Edition. Post 8vo, boards. 2s.
The Ogilvies a Novel.
By Miss MULOOH. Cheap Edition. Post 8vo, boards. 2s.
Agatha's Husband.
By Mise MULOCH. Cheap Edition. Post Svo, boards. 2.
Mushet,-Book of Symbols.
A Series of Seventy-five Short Essays on lliorals, Religion, and Philosophy. Each Essay illustrating an Ancient Symbol or bZoral Precept. By ROBERT MUSHET. Second Edition. Post 8vo, eloth. 6s.
My Own Treasury.
A Gift Book for Boys and Girls. With Two Hundred Engravings. In a thick post 8vo volume, cio th, gilt back and edges. 58.
Niebuhr-Heroic Tales of Ancient Greece. Relateaby BARTHOLD NIEBUHR to his Little Son :Marcus. Edited, with Notes, by FELIX SUMMERLY. With Four Coloured illustrations by H. J. TÔWNSEND. In small 4to, bound in fancy cloth. 28. 6d. Norton-Child of the Islands a Poem.
By the HON. MRS. NORTON. Second Edition. Square 8vo, eloth. 6s. Nuts and Nutcrackers.
With upwards of 50 Illustrations by CC.PHIZ}' Third Edition. Foolscap, boards. 2s.
Our Farm of Four Acres, and the' Money We MADE BY IT. Ninth Edition. Small post 8vo, boards. 2s. Packe-The Spirit of Travel.
By CHARLES P AOKE, of the Inner Temple. Post 8vo, eloth. 2s. 6d. Picture Book of AnimaIs.
With One Hundred and Eighty Descriptions. Square, boarù, 1,r. Gd.
Raikes-Notes on the North-Western Provinces OF INDIA. By CHARLES RAIKES, Magistrate and Collector of Mynporie. 8vo, eloth. 6s.
Rambles and Recollections of a Fly-Fisher. Illustrated. With an Appendix, containin~ ample Instructions to the Novice. Inclusive of Fly-making, and a List of Really Useful Flies. By CLERICUS. With Eight Illustrations. Post 8vo, clotho 7s. 6d. Reading for Travellers.
A NE W LIBRARY OF RAILZVAY LITERATURE. Printed in a clcar and legible type, cxpressly adapted to the convenience of Railway. Travellers.
OLD ROADS AND NEW ROADS. Foolscap, sewed. Is.
MAGIO AND WITCHCRAFT. Foolscap, sewed. ls.
FRANKLIN'S FOOTSTEPS. By 0. R. MARKHllI. Foolscap, sewed. Is. 6d.
THE VILLAGE DOCTOR. Tramlnted by LADY Duim (~os,noN. Foolscap, sewed. ls..
MONTENEGRO, AND THE SLA VONIANB OF TURIOEY. By COUNT V.A.LERIAN KBABINBKI. Foolscap, sewcd. ls. 6d.
CHAMOTER AND ANECDOTES OF OHARLES II. By the late CIUBLES BABKER, M.A.. Foolscap, sewed. ls.
SAMUEL JOHNSON. By TnoMAS CARLYLE. Foolscap, lit. FLOltLà-N AND CRESCE, NZ. By BEn. AUERBAOH. Foolacap, sewed. Is. THE IITJNGFARIAN EMIG1~RATION INTO TURKEY. By a HONPED. Foolscap, sewed. le.
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY AND THE ARCADIA. By J~s ÜROSSLEY. Foolscap, sewed. ls.
A VISIT TO BELGRADE. Foolscapi sewed. ls.
BURNS. By Tson~s Ommym. Foolscap, sewed. ls.
PIOTURES FROM THE EAST. By JOHN- C~r~$. Foolscap, sewed. ls. 6d.
A VISIT TO THE SEAT OF WAR IN THE NORTH. Foolscap, sewed. 18.
CARDINAL WOLSEY RIS RISE AND FALL, AS RELATED BY CAVENDISH. Foolscap, sewed. ls.
ALFIERI RIS LIFE, ADVENTURES, AND WORKS. A Sketch by C~ea,~s MITCHELL CHARLES. Foolscap, sowed. 18.
Redgrave A Manual anfl Catechism on COLOUR By RICHARD REDGRAVE, RA. 24mo, clotho 9d. Ridge- Health and Disease, their Laws, with PLAIN PRACTICAL PRESCRIPTIONS FOR THE PEOPLE. By BENJAMIN RIDGE, M.D., F.R.C.S. Second Edition. Post 8vo, clotho 128.
Robert Mornay.
By MAX FERRER. Post 8vo, clotho 9s.
Royal Nursery A B C Book..
With Five Hundred Woodcuts, and Eight Coloured Pages. Crown Svo, sewed. ls.
Sala-Gaslight and Daylight,. with some London SCENES THEY SHINE UPON. By GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA. Crown Bvo, clotho 6&.
St. J Ohn" ]3ayle-Montaigne, the Fssa~ist ABiography. By BAYLE ST. JOHN. With Portrait and illustrations. 2 vols., post Svo, cloth. 21s.
The Memoirs of the Duke of
ST. &IMON; Or, THE COURT OF FRANCE: DURING THE LAST PART OF THE REIGN. OF LOUIS XIV. AND THE REGENCY OF THE DUgE OF ORLEANS. Abridged from the French. By BAYLE ST. JOHN. 4 vols.post ~8vo, cloth. 428. The Subalpine Kingdom
OrFEXPERIENOES AND STUDIES IN SAVOY, PIEDMONT, AND ŒENO.A.. By BAYLE ST. JOHN. 2 vols. post 8vo, clotho 21s. Purple Tints of Paris:
Sketches and Mannera in the Empire. By BAYLE ST. JOHN. Second Edition. Post 8vo, clotho 12s.
Two Years'- Residence-in- a Le-
Y~NTINE FAMILY. By BAYLE, ST. JOHN. Cheap Edition. Post 8vo, boards. 28.
Maretimo
A STORY OF ADVENTÛRE. By BAYLE ST. J011N.« Reprinted from the Household Words.' Post Svo, boards. 2s.
The Louvre;
Or, BIOGRAPHY OF A' 1\!LTSEUltr. By BAYLE ST. JOHN. Post 8vo,-doth. 108. 6d.
St. John, Bayle.-Five Views in the Oasis of SIWAH. Designed by BAYLE ST. JOHN and dràwn on Stone by Messrs. AUMONT and HOUSELIN. Large folio, s6wed. 128. St. John, J. A.-The Education of the People~ By JAMES AUGUSTUS ST. JOHN, Author of Isis,' Life of Louis Napoleon,' etc. Post 8vo, clotho 88. 6d. Dedicated to Sir John Pakington, M.P.
Isis au Egyptian Pilgrimage.
By JA1V~S AUGUSTUS ST. JOHN. Second'Edition. 2 vols., post 8vo, clotho 12s.
Louis Napoleon, Emperor of the
FRENCH. A Biography. By J. A. ST. JOHN. Post-,8voj cloth.. 10s. 6d. The Nemesis of Power Causes
AND FORMS OF REYOLÛTION. By JAMES AUGUSTUS ST. JOHN. Fcap. cloth.- 58.
Philosophy at the Foot of the
cROSS. By JAMES AUGUSTUS ST. -JOHN. Fcap. clotho ras. The Preaching of Christ its
NATURE AND CONSEQUENCES. By JAMES: AUGUSTUS ST. JOHN. Small 8vo, sewed. ls. 6d.
Savage-Bachelor of the Albany. A- Novel. By M. W..SA V AGE. Cheap Edition. Post 8vo, boardti. 2s. The Falcon. Family Or, Young Ireland.. A SATIRICAL NOVEL. By M. W.- SAVAGE. Cheap Edition. Post 8vo, boards. 2s.
My Uncle the Curate:
By M. W. SAVAGE.- Cheap Edition. Post 8vo, bbarœ. 38. Clover Cottage;, Or, I Can't Get In.
A NOVELETTE By the Author of The Falcon~ Family, etc. With Illustrations. In Fœp. 8vo, clotho 53..
Sharpe's Atlas
ing.2y.four Maps, constructed upon a system of Scalo and Proportion the most recent Authorities, II.nd engraved on Steel, by J. WILSON Ir0IŸRY. With a Copious Consulting Index. In a largo folio volume. Half-morocco, gilt back and edges, plain, 36s.; or with the maps coloured, 42s.
CONTENTS
1. The World-'Yestern Hemisphern. 2. The World-«Eastern Remisl?here. S. The lYorld-D~fercator's ProJection. 4. Europe, with the Mediterranean. 5. Great Britain and Ireland.
6. En gland and Wales-Rai1way Map,
North.
7. B 1 nd and Wales-Railway Map,
8outh.
8. BcoUand.
9. Ireland.
10. l~anee-Belgium-8witzerland. 11. Belgium and Holland.
12. Prusaia Holland, and German States.
1S. 8witzer~and.
14. Austrian Empire.
15. Turkey and Greece..
16. Greece.
17. Italp.
IB. 8pam and Portugal.
19. Northern Bweden, and Frontier of RusBia.
20. Denmark, 6weden; and RUBBia. on the Baltio.
21. Westem Russia, from the Baltie to the Enxine.
22. Rusaia on the Emne.
23: Russia on the Càucaaus.
24. Russia. in Europe.
25. Northern .Asïa-Asiatic Russis. 26. South.West. Aaia-Overland to India. 27. Bouth.Eaatem Asi--Birmah, China, and Japan.
28. Auatralia and New Zealand.
29. EgY{Jt and Arabia Petrœa.
30. Nubia andabyssinia toBab-el-Matideb Strait.
31. Asia llfinor.
32. Syria and the Turkish Provinces on the Persian Gul£
33. Western Persia.
34. Eastern Persia.
35. Affghanistan and the Punjab. 36. Deloochistan and Scinde.
37. Central India.
38. The Carnatic.
39. Bengal, etc.
40. lndi_General Map.
41. North Africa.
42. South Africa.
4.'J. British North America.
44. Central America.
45. United States-General Map. 46. United 8tates-North-Tast.
47. United Btate!South.East.
48. United Btates-Bouth-West. 49. Jarea nd Leeward and Windward 60. Mexico and Guatemala.
61. South America.
62. Columbian and Peruvian Republica, and Western Brazil.
63. La Plata, Chili, and Southern Brazil. 6!. Eastern Brazil.
The above Maps arc sold Separately.. Each Map, Plain, 4d. Coloured, 6d. Student's. Atlas:
With a Copious Index. 26 Coloured:~âps; selected from the preceding. Folio, half-bound. 21s.
Smith-To China and Back
BEING A DIARY KEPT OUT AND HOME: B'p-. ALBERT SMITH. 8vo, sewed. Is.
Smith-The Divine Drama of History, and' CiviLIZATION. By the Rev. JAMES SMITH. 8vo, clotho 12s. Practical and Economical Côokery, with a Series of Bills of Fare. Also, Directions. on Carving, Trnssing, etc. :By Mrs. SMITH, -many yeara professed Cook to most of tlie leading familles in.the Metropolis. Post 8vo, clotho 5s. 6d.
Surtees:Sketch of the Lives of lorâ Stowell AND ELDON; Comprising, with Additional matter, some Corrections of Mr.Twis8's work on the, Chancellor. By WILLIAU EDWARD SURTEES, D.C.L., Barrister-at-Law. 8vo, elot.li. 58.
Tales of the Trains
Being some CHAPTERS OF RAILROAD ROMANCE. By TILBURY TRAMP. With Numcrous Illustrations by"PHIZ." Fcap., boards. New Edition. le. 6d.
Thackeray-The Irish Sketch-Book.
By M. A. TITMARSH. A Cheap Edition, Uniform with Thackerays '1\Iiscellaneous Essays.' In crown 8vo, cloth, with illustrations. 6s. Notes of a Journey from Cornhill to
GRAND CAIRO, BY WAY OF LISBON, ATHENS, CONSTANTINOPLE, AND JERUSALEM. By W. M. THACKERAY. With a Coloured Frontispicce. Second Edition. Small 8vo, cloth. 6s. Christmas ]3oo«ks:
Containing 'MRS. PERKINS'BALL,' « DR. BIRCH,' OUR STREET.' Cheap Edition. In one squII.re volume, cloth, with all the original Illustrations. 78. 6d.
Thompson-The Passions of AnimaIs.
By EDWARD P. TIIOMPSON. Post 8vo, clotho lOs. 6d. Thomson-The Choice of a Profession.
A CONCISE ACCOUNT AND COMPARATIVE REVIEW OF THE ENGIJISH PROFESSIONS. By H. BYERLEY THOMSON, B.A., of the Inner Temple, Author of 1 The Laws of War affecting Ship. ping and Commerce,' 'The Military Forces and Institutions of Great Britain.' Post 8vo, cloth. lOs. 6d. Thurstan-The Passionate Pilgrim
Or, EROS and ANTEROS. By HENRY J. THURSTAN. Crown 8vo, clotho 8s. 6d.
Tilbury Nogo
Or, PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OF AN UNSUCCESSFUL MAN. By the Author of 'Digby Grand.' 2 vols. post 8vo, clotho 21s. Townshend-Descriptive Tour in Scotland. By CHA«UNCY RARE TOWNSHEND. With twelve illustrations. 8vo, clotho 98.
S ermons in S onnets
WITH A TEXT ON THE NEW YEAR and other Poeme. By CHAUNG'y RARE TOWNSHEND. Small 8vo, clotho 7s. 6d. The Three Gates.
IN VERSE. By CHAUNCY RARE TOWNSHEND. Post 8vo, clotho 108. 6d.
Twilight Thoughts. By M. S. C.,
Author of Little Poems for Little People.' Second Edition, with a Frontispiece. Fcap. clotho ls. 6d.
Trollope-The Girlhood of Catherine de' Medici. By'i'. ADOLPHLUS TROLLOPE. In 1 vol., poat 8vo, eloth. lOs. âd. A Decade of Italian Women.
Dy THOMAS ADOLPHUS TROLLOPE. With Portraits. 2 vols., post 8vo, clotho 22s.
Tuscany in 1849 and in 1859.
By THOMAS ADOLPHUS TROLLOPE. Post 8vo, cloth, 10s. 6d. Doctor Thorne. A Novel.
By ANTHONY TROLLOPE. Third and cheaper Edition. Crown 8vo, clotho 5s.
The Bertrams. A Novel.
By ANTHONY TROLLOPE. Second Edition. 3 vols., post 8vo, clotho 31s. 6d.
Twining-The Elements of Picturesque Scenery Or, STUDIES OF NATURE 31ADE IN TRAVEL, with a W ew to Improvement in Landscape Painting. :By HENRY TWINING. V 01. II. Imp. 8vo, clotho 8s.
Walmsley-Sketches of Algeria during the KaBYLE By HU(1H MULLENEUX WALMSLEY. Post 8vo, clotho 108. 6d.
Wayfaring Sketches among the Greeks and TURKS, AND ON THE SHORES OF THE DANUBE. By a Seven Years' Resident in Greece. Second Edition. Post 8vo, clotho 9s. Weld-A Vacation in Brittany.
By O. R. WELD, Author of 'Vacation Tour in the States and Canada.' With TIlustrations. Post 8vo, clotho lOs. 6d.
The Whist- Player.
THE LAWS AND PRACTICE OF SHORT WHIST. Explained and Illustrated by LIEUT.-COLONEL BU.. With numerous Diagrams printed in Colours. Imp. 16mo. Second Edition. 58. White-Northumberland and the Border. :By WALTER WHITE. Second Edition. With a Map. Post 8vo, cIo th. lOs. 6d.
A Month in Yorkshire.
By WALTER WHITE. Third Edition. Post 8vo, clotho 9s. A July Holiday in Saxony, Bohemia, .A1QD SILESIA. Dy WALTER ~'VHITE. Post 8vo, clotho 9s.
White-On Foot through Tyrol
IN THE SUMMER OF 1855. By ~ŸALTER WHITE. Post 8vo, clotho 9s.
A Londoner's Walk to the Land's End, AND A TRIP TO THE SCILLY ISLES. A New Edition. ~In the Press.
Wilkins- Letters on Connoisseurship
Or, THE ANATOMY OF A PICTURE. By WILLIAM NOY WILKINS. Demy 8vo, cloth. lOs.
Wilkinson-The Human Body and its ConNECTION WITH MAN. Illustrated by the principal Organs. By JAMES JOHN GARTH WILKINSON. Post 8vo, clotho 14s. Wilkinson-Spirit Drawings.
A PERSONAL NARRATIVE. By W. M. WILKINSON. 12mo, clotho 5s.
Williams-Hints on the Cultivation of British AND EXOTIO FERNS AND LYCOPODIUMS with Descriptions of One Hundred and Fifty Species and Varieties. By BENJAMIN SAMUEL WILLIAMS, Author of the' Orchid-Growcr's Manual.' 8vo, clotho 3s. 6d.
The Orchid-Grower's Manual
Containing a Brief Description of upwards of Two Hundred and Sixty Orchidaceous Plants, together with Notices of their Times of Flowering, and most approved Modes of Treatment. By BENJAMIN SAMUEL WILLIAMS. With a coloured Frontispiece. 8vo, clotho 5s. Wornum-The Characteristics of Styles An Introduction to the Study of the History of Ornamental Art. By RALPH N. WORNUM. In royal 8vo, cloth, with very many Illustra- tions. 8s.
Yonge-Parallel Lives of Ancient and Modern HEROES, og EP.&3nNoNDAs, PHILIP oF MAOEDON, GUBTAVUB ADoi.PRUS, AND FREDERICK THE GREAT. By CHARLES DUKE YONGE, Author of A History of England,' etc. Small 8vo, clotho 48. 6d. Zschokke-Autobiography of Heinrich Zschokke. 8vo, clotho 6s.
Hours of Meditation and Devotional
REFLECTION, upon Varions, Subjects connected with the Religions, Moral, and Social Duties of Life. By HEINRICH ZSOHOKKE. Translated from the Twenty-third Germau Edition. Second Edition. Small 8vo, cloth, 6s., or in morocco gilt, 9s. <
.~n1Jks ~~x ~Î~.e I89ûED UNDER THE Science and Art souTA
~:e o~x~ AUTHORITY OF THE Depaxtment,
KENSINGTON.
Y
THE CHARACTERISTICS OF STYLES. An Introduction
to the 8tudy of the. Hietôry of Ornamental Art. By RALPH N.'W OBlfUH. In royal
8vo, with very many Illuetratione. 8a. ByllimpiEN.-Woitzum. Inroyal
BU-ROIIETT'S PIRACTICAL PERSPECTIVE. The Substance of the Course of Lectures on I;inear Pe~ective. delivered at, and forming a part of the Course of Instruction in the Tisinïng Behool, Marlborough House, and in the 8ohods. of Art in connection with the Department of Science and Art. By It. BvsOmrr1'Îi1Head Muter of the Trainüig and Norma18chooL Fourth Edition. Post Bvo.
with ustrations. 1,.
BTTRCHETT'~9 DEFINITIONS OF GEOMETRY. 24mo, e~trèâ. Third Eaition. Price sd.
BmtO~'S PRACTICAL GEOMETR'I. Third Edition~ 8vo, clotho Pricé sa.
DYOEtS- ELEMENTARY 0-UTLINES OF ORNAMENT. 50 Belected Plates, emall folio, sewed. Price 5,.
TEXT TO DYCE'S .DRA WING-J300K. Fenp.8vo. Price 6d. REDGP-AVEIS MANUAL AND CATECHISM ON COLOUR. 8eobnd Edition. 24mo, aewed. Priee 9d.
RFD(~AYË ON THE NECESSITY OF PRINCIPLES IN TÉAOHING DESIGN. Feap. sewed. Price Gd.
A DIA(}RAM TO ILLUSTRATE THE gAB,~orno~s BELATIONB ÔF' COLOUR. 8ma1l folio. Priee 9d.
PRINOIFLES OF DECORATIVE ART. Folio, sewed. Price 1s. I,INDI~FY'S SYMMETRY OF VEGETATION. 8vo, sewed. Price b.
ROBINSON'SLECTITRES ON THE MUSEUM. Fœp. sewed. PriCê aa.
AN ALPHABET OF COLOUR. Reduced from the works of Field, Ray, Chevren~. 4to, sewed. Priee SI.
DIRECTIONS FOR INTRODUCING ELEMENTARY DRAWING IN SOHOOLS AND AhiONQW'PORH3iEN. Publlshedattherequest of the Society of.Arts. Sma1l4OO. cloth.. Price 41. 64.
ILLUSTRATIONS TO BE ÉMPLOYED IN THE PRAO. TIOAI~ LESSON8 ON BOTANY. Adapted to aU classes. Prepared for the South Keneingtoa Mnsenm. BeV,-PBOJP. With Illnetratione. Post 81'0.
Price M. f
DRAWING FOR ELEMFNTARY DOtS; being a htsnnal of the Method of Teaching Drawing, sp for the ûse of Mutera of National and Parôchial Behoole. By EL ead Meater of the Chester Bolinol of Art, and Profesaor of D the Diocesan Training College. Pnbliahed nnder the sanction ~of and'~epartrnent of the Committee of Conncd of Education. Post ~l.i/!t~ rl'
~~).t.