A Tale of Two Cities

A Tale of Two Cities
By Charles Dickens (1859)
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Book the First—
Recalled to Life
A tale of two cities

I
The Period
I t 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 the winter of despair, we had ev-
erything 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 peri-
od, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being
received, for good or for evil, in the superlative 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. In both countries it was clearer than crystal to the
lords of the State preserves of loaves and fishes, that things
in general were settled for ever.
It was the year of Our Lord one thousand seven hun-
dred and seventy-five. Spiritual revelations were conceded
to England at that favoured period, as at this. Mrs. South-
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cott 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 years, after rapping out its messages,
as the spirits of this very year last past (supernaturally defi-
cient in originality) 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 more 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 spiri-
tual than her sister of the shield and trident, rolled with
exceeding smoothness down hill, making paper money and
spending it. Under the guidance of her Christian pastors,
she entertained herself, besides, with such humane achieve-
ments as sentencing a youth to have his hands cut off, his
tongue torn out with pincers, and his body burned alive, be-
cause he had not kneeled down in the rain to do honour to
a dirty procession of monks which passed within his view,
at a distance of some fifty or sixty yards. It is likely enough
that, rooted in the woods of France and Norway, there were
growing 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 movable 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, snuffed
about by pigs, and roosted in by poultry, which the Farmer,
Death, had already set apart to be his tumbrils of the Revo-
lution. But that Woodman and that Farmer, though they
work unceasingly, work silently, and no one heard them as
they went about with muffled tread: the rather, forasmuch
as to entertain any suspicion that they were awake, was to
be atheistical and traitorous.
In England, there was scarcely an amount of order and
protection to justify much national boasting. Daring bur-
glaries 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 fellowtradesman whom
he stopped in his character of ‘the Captain,’ gallantly shot
him through the head and rode away; the mall was waylaid
by seven robbers, and the guard shot three dead, and then
got shot dead himself by the other four, ‘in consequence of
the failure of his ammunition:’ after which the mall was
robbed in peace; that magnificent potentate, the Lord May-
or 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 in London
gaols fought battles with their turnkeys, and the majesty
of the law fired blunderbusses in among them, loaded with
rounds of shot and ball; thieves snipped off diamond cross-

es 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 mus-
keteers fired 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 Tuesday; now, burn-
ing 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 six-
pence.
All these things, and a thousand like them, came to pass
in and close upon the dear old year one thousand seven
hundred and seventy-five. Environed by them, while the
Woodman 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 seventy-five conduct their Greatnesses, and
myriads of small creatures—the creatures of this chronicle
among the rest—along the roads that lay before them.

II
The Mail
I t was the Dover road that lay, on a Friday night late in

November, before the first 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 Blackheath. Reins
and whip and coachman and guard, however, in combina-
tion, had read that article of war which forbade a purpose
otherwise strongly in favour of the argument, that some
brute animals are endued with Reason; and the team had
capitulated and returned to their duty.
With drooping heads and tremulous tails, they mashed
their way through the thick mud, floundering and stum-
bling 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 ‘Wo-ho! so-hothen!’ 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 vis-
ibly 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 coach-lamps 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 all.
Two other passengers, besides the one, were plodding
up the hill by the side of the mail. All three were wrapped
to the cheekbones and over the ears, and wore jack-boots.
Not one of the three could have said, from anything he saw,
what either of the other two was like; and each was hid-
den under almost as many wrappers from the eyes of the
mind, as from the eyes of the body, of his two companions.
In those days, travellers were very shy of being confidential
on a short notice, for anybody on the road might be a rob-
ber 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 low-
est stable non-descript, it was the likeliest thing upon the
cards. So the guard of the Dover mail thought to himself,

that Friday night in November, one thousand seven hun-
dred and seventy-five, lumbering up Shooter’s Hill, as he
stood on his own particular perch behind the mail, beating
his feet, and keeping 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
cutlass.
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 of nothing but the hors-
es; as to which cattle he 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! 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!’
‘Halloa!’ the guard replied.
‘What o’clock do you make it, Joe?’
‘Ten minutes, good, past eleven.’
‘My blood!’ ejaculated the vexed coachman, ‘and not
atop of Shooter’s yet! Tst! Yah! Get on with you! ‘
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
struggled on, with the jack-boots of its passengers squash-
ing 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 hill.
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! Joe!’ cried the coachman in a warning voice, look-
ing 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, leav-
ing his hold of the door, and mounting nimbly to his place.
‘Gentlemen! In the kings name, all of you!’
With this hurried adjuration, he cocked 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; they re-mained in the road below
him. They all looked from the coachman to the guard, and
from the guard to the coachman, and listened. The coach-
man looked back and the guard looked back, and even the
emphatic leader pricked up his ears and looked back, with-
out contradicting.
The stillness consequent on the cessation of the rum-
bling and labouring of the coach, added to the stillness of
the night, made it very quiet indeed. The panting of the
10 A tale of two cities

horses communicated a tremulous 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 by
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 he could roar. ‘Yo
there! Stand! I shall fire!’
The pace was suddenly checked, and, with much splash-
ing and floundering, a man’s voice called from the mist, ‘Is
that the Dover mail?’
‘Never you mind what it is!’ the guard retorted. ‘What
are you?’
‘IS that the Dover mail?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘I want a passenger, if it is.’
‘What passenger?’
‘Mr. Jarvis Lorry.’
Our booked passenger showed in a moment that it was
his name. The guard, the coachman, and the two other pas-
sengers eyed him distrustfully.
‘Keep where you are,’ the guard called to the voice in the
mist, ‘because, if I should make a mistake, it could never be
set right in your lifetime. Gentleman of the name of Lorry
answer straight.’
‘What is the matter?’ asked the passenger, then, with
mildly quavering speech. ‘Who wants me? Is it Jerry?’
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(“I don’t like Jerry’s voice, if it is Jerry,’ growled the guard
to himself. ‘He’s hoarser than suits me, is Jerry.’)
‘Yes, Mr. Lorry.’
‘What is the matter?’
‘A despatch sent after you from over yonder. T. and Co.’
‘I know this messenger, guard,’ said Mr. Lorry, getting
down into the road—assisted from behind more swiftly
than politely by the other two passengers, who immediately
scrambled into the coach, shut the door, and pulled up the
window. ‘He may come close; there’s nothing wrong.’
‘I hope there ain’t, but I can’t make so ‘Nation sure of
that,’ said the guard, in gruff soliloquy. ‘Hallo you!’
‘Well! And hallo you!’ said Jerry, more hoarsely than be-
fore.
‘Come on at a footpace! d’ye mind me? And if you’ve got
holsters to that saddle o’ yourn, don’t let me see your hand
go nigh ‘em. For I’m a devil at a quick mistake, and when
I make one it takes 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 eyes
at the guard, handed the passenger a small 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!’ said the passenger, in a tone of quiet business
confidence.
The watchful guard, with his right hand at the stock of

his raised blunderbuss, his left at the barrel, and his eye on
the horseman, answered curtly, ‘Sir.’
‘There is nothing to apprehend. I belong to Tellson’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: ‘Wait at Dover
for Mam’selle.’ It’s not long, you see, guard. Jerry, say that
my answer was, RECALLED TO LIFE.’
Jerry started in his saddle. ‘That’s a Blazing strange an-
swer, too,’ said he, at his hoarsest.
‘Take that message back, and they will know that I re-
ceived this, as well as if I wrote. Make 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
boots, and were now making a general pretence of being
asleep. With no more definite purpose than to escape the
hazard of originating any other kind of action.
The coach lumbered on again, with heavier wreaths of
mist closing round it as it began the descent. The guard
soon replaced his blunderbuss in his arm-chest, and, hav-
ing 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 which there were a
few smith’s tools, a couple of torches, and a tinder-box.
For he was furnished with that completeness that if the

coach-lamps had been blown and stormed out, which did
occasionally happen, he had only to shut himself up inside,
keep the flint and steel sparks well off the straw, and get a
light with tolerable safety and ease (if he were lucky) in five
minutes.
‘Tom!’ softly over the coach roof.
‘Hallo, Joe.’
‘Did you hear the message?’
‘I did, Joe.’
‘What did you make of it, Tom?’
‘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 shake the wet out of his hat-brim,
which might be capable of holding about half a gallon. Af-
ter 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, I
won’t trust your fore-legs till I get you on the level,’ said this
hoarse messenger, glancing at his mare. ‘Recalled to life.’
That’s a Blazing strange message. Much of that wouldn’t do
for you, Jerry! I say, Jerry! You’d be in a Blazing bad way, if
recalling to life was to come into fashion, Jerry!’

III
The Night Shadows
A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human crea-

ture 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 secret; that every beat-
ing heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there,
is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest
it! Something of the awfulness, even of Death itself, is re-
ferable to this. No more can I turn the leaves of this dear
book that I loved, and vainly hope in time to read it all. No
more can I look into the depths of this unfathomable wa-
ter, 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 I had read but a page. It was ap-
pointed that the water should be locked in an eternal frost,
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 in-

exorable consolidation and perpetuation of the secret that
was always in that individuality, and which I shall carry in
mine to my life’s 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 personal-
ity, to me, or than I am to them?
As to this, his natural and not to be alienated inheri-
tance, 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 passengers
shut up in the narrow compass of one lumbering old mail
coach; they were mysteries to one another, as 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 next.
The messenger rode back at an easy trot, stopping pretty
often at ale-houses by the way to drink, but evincing a ten-
dency to keep his own counsel, and to keep his hat cocked
over his eyes. He had eyes that assorted very well with that
decoration, being of a surface black, with 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 sinister expression, under an old
cocked-hat like a three-cornered spittoon, and over a great
muffler for the chin and throat, which descended nearly to
the wearer’s knees. When he stopped for drink, he moved
this muffler with his left hand, only while he poured his li-
quor in with his right; as soon as that was done, he muffled
again.

‘No, Jerry, no!’ said the messenger, harping on one theme
as he rode. ‘It wouldn’t do for you, Jerry. Jerry, you honest
tradesman, it wouldn’t suit YOUR line of business! Re-
called—! Bust me if I don’t think he’d been a drinking!’
His message perplexed 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 grow-
ing down hill almost to his broad, blunt nose. It was so like
Smith’s work, so much more like the top of a strongly spiked
wall than a head of hair, that the best of players at leap-frog
might have declined 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 Temple Bar, who was to deliver it to greater au-
thorities 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 HER private topics 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 upon its tedious way, with its three fellow-inscru-
tables 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 upon 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, when-
ever 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’s, with all its foreign and home connec-
tion, ever paid in thrice 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 fee-
bly-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 opiate) was always with him, there was an-
other current of impression that never ceased to 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 them-
selves before him was the true face of the buried person,
the shadows of the night did not indicate; but they were
all the faces of a man of five-andforty by years, and they
differed principally in the passions they expressed, and in
the ghastliness of their worn and wasted state. Pride, con-
tempt, defiance, stubbornness, submission, lamentation,
succeeded one another; so did varieties of sunken cheek, ca-

daverous colour, emaciated hands and figures. But the face
was in the main one face, and every head was prematurely
white. A hundred times the dozing passenger inquired of
this spectre:
‘Buried how long?’
The answer was always the same: ‘Almost eighteen
years.’
‘You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?’
‘Long ago.’
‘You know that you are recalled to life?’
‘They tell me so.’
‘I hope you care to live?’
‘I can’t say.’
‘Shall I show her to you? Will you come and see her?’
The answers to this question were various and contra-
dictory. Sometimes the broken reply was, ‘Wait! 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.’ Some-
times it was staring and bewildered, and then it was, ‘I don’t
know her. I don’t understand.’
After such imaginary discourse, 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 crea-
ture out. Got out at last, with earth hanging about his face
and hair, he would suddenly fan away to dust. The passen-
ger 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 shad-
ows 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 strong rooms, 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 he would accost it again.
‘Almost eighteen years.’
‘I hope you care to live?’
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.
‘Almost eighteen years.’
‘You had abandoned all hope of being dug out?’
‘Long ago.’
The words were still in his hearing as just spoken—dis-
tinctly in his hearing as ever spoken words had been in his
life—when the weary passenger started to the conscious-
ness of daylight, and found that the shadows of the night
were gone.
He 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 un-

yoked; beyond, a quiet coppice-wood, in which many leaves
of burning red and golden yellow still remained upon the
trees. Though the earth was cold and wet, the sky was 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!’

IV
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 flourish of ceremony, for a mail journey from
London in winter was an achievement to congratulate an
adventurous traveller upon.
By that time, there was only one adventurous traveller left
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 disageeable
smell, and its obscurity, was rather like a larger dog-kennel.
Mr. Lorry, the passenger, shaking himself out of it in chains
of straw, a tangle of shaggy wrapper, flapping hat, and mud-
dy legs, was rather like a larger sort of dog.
‘There will be a packet to Calais, tomorrow, drawer?’
‘Yes, sir, if the weather holds and the wind sets tolerable
fair. The tide will serve pretty nicely at about two in the af-
ternoon, sir. Bed, sir?’
‘I shall 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 al-
ways 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. Consequently,
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
a gentleman of sixty, formally dressed in a brown suit of
clothes, pretty well worn, but very well kept, with large
square cuffs and large flaps to the pockets, passed 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 un-
der his flapped waist-coat, 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
stockings 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 flaxen 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 linen, though not of a fineness
in accordance with his stockings, was as white as the tops
of the waves that broke upon the neighbouring beach, or
the specks of sail that glinted in the sunlight far at sea. A
face habitually suppressed and quieted, was still lighted up
under the quaint wig by a pair of moist bright eyes that it
must have cost their owner, in 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 princi-
pally 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 to sleep. The arrival
of his breakfast roused him, and he said to the drawer, as he
moved his chair to it:
‘I wish accommodation prepared for a young lady who
may come here at any time to-day. She may ask for Mr. Jar-
vis 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?’
‘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 well as an English
one.’
‘Yes, sir. Not much in the habit of such travelling your-
self, I think, sir?’
‘Not of late years. It is fifteen years since we—since I—
came last from France.’
‘Indeed, sir? That was before my time here, sir. Before
our people’s time here, sir. The George was in other hands
at that time, sir.’
‘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 comfortable atti-
tude, and stood surveying the guest while he ate and drank,
as from an observatory or watchtower. According to the im-
memorial usage of waiters in all ages.
When Mr. Lorry had finished his breakfast, he 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, like a marine ostrich. The beach was a des-

ert 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 hous-
es was of so strong a piscatory flavour that one might have
supposed 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 seaward: particularly at those times when the tide
made, and was near flood. Small tradesmen, who did no
business whatever, sometimes unaccountably realised large
fortunes, and it was remarkable that nobody in the neigh-
bourhood 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 he sat before the coffee-room fire, awaiting his dinner
as he had awaited his breakfast, his mind was busily dig-
ging, 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 has 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 has 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 he.
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?’
Miss Manette had taken some refreshment on the road,
and required none then, and was extremely anxious to see
the gentleman from Tellson’s immediately, if it suited his
pleasure and convenience.
The gentleman from Tellson’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 Mr.
Lorry, picking his way over the well-worn Turkey carpet,
supposed
Miss Manette to be, for the moment, in some adjacent
room, until, having got past the two tall candles, he 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 travellinghat by its ribbon
in her hand. As his eyes rested on a short, slight, pretty fig-
ure, a quantity of golden hair, a pair of blue eyes that met his

own with an inquiring look, and a forehead with a singular
capacity (remembering how young and smooth it was), of
rifting and knitting 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 ex-
pressions-as his eyes rested on these things, a sudden vivid
likeness passed before him, of a child whom he had held in
his arms on the passage across that very Channel, one cold
time, when the hail drifted heavily and the sea ran high.
The likeness passed away, like a breath along the surface of
the gaunt pier-glass behind her, on the frame of which, a
hospital procession of negro cupids, several headless and
all cripples, were offering black baskets of Dead Sea fruit
to black divinities of the feminine gender-and he made his
formal bow to Miss Manette.
‘Pray take a seat, sir.’ In a very clear and pleasant young
voice; a little foreign in its accent, but a very little indeed.
‘I kiss your hand, miss,’ said Mr. Lorry, with the man-
ners of an earlier date, as he made his formal bow again,
and took his seat.
‘I received a letter from the Bank, sir, yesterday, inform-
ing me that some intelligence—or discovery—’
‘The word is not material, miss; either word will do.’
‘—respecting the small property of my poor father,
whom I never saw—so long dead—’
Mr. Lorry moved in his chair, and cast a troubled look to-
wards the hospital procession of negro cupids. As if THEY
had any help for anybody in their absurd baskets!
‘—rendered it necessary that I should 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, sir.’
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 he was than she. He made
her another bow.
‘I replied to the Bank, sir, that as it was considered neces-
sary, by those who know, and who are so kind as to advise
me, that I should go to France, and that as I am an orphan
and have no friend who could go with me, I should esteem
it highly if I might be permitted to place myself, during the
journey, under that worthy gentleman’s 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 the Bank that the gentleman would explain
to me the details of the business, and that I must prepare
myself to find them of a surprising nature. I have done my
best to prepare myself, and I naturally have a strong and ea-
ger interest to know what they are.’
‘Naturally,’ said Mr. Lorry. ‘Yes—I—’
After a pause, he added, again settling the crisp flaxen
wig at the ears, ‘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 expres-

sion—but it was pretty and characteristic, besides being
singular—and she raised her hand, as if with an involun-
tary action she caught at, or stayed some passing shadow.
‘Are you quite a stranger to me, sir?’
‘Am I not?’ Mr. Lorry opened his hands, and extended
them outwards 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 pos-
sible to be, the expression deepened itself as she took her
seat thoughtfully in the chair by which she had hitherto re-
mained standing. He watched her as she mused, and the
moment she raised her eyes again, went on:
‘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. I will, with your leave, relate to you, miss, the
story of one of our customers.’
‘Story!’
He seemed wilfully to mistake the word she had re-
peated, when he added, in a hurry, ‘Yes, customers; in the
banking business we usually call our connection our cus-
tomers. He was a French gentleman; a scientific gentleman;
a man of great acquirements— a Doctor.’
‘Not of Beauvais?’
‘Why, yes, of Beauvais. Like Monsieur Manette, your
father, the gentleman was of Beauvais. Like Monsieur Ma-

nette, your father, the gentleman was of repute in Paris. I
had the honour of knowing him there. Our relations were
business relations, but confidential. I was at that time in our
French House, and had been—oh! twenty years.’
‘At that time—I may ask, at what time, sir?’
‘I speak, miss, of twenty years ago. He married—an Eng-
lish lady—and I was one of the trustees. His affairs, like the
affairs of many other French gentlemen and French fami-
lies, were entirely in Tellson’s hands. In a similar way I am,
or I have been, trustee of one kind or other for scores of our
customers. These are mere business relations, miss; 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.’
Mr. Lorry took the hesitating little hand that confidingly
advanced to take his, and he 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 WAS I. And you will see how truly I

spoke of myself just now, in saying I had no feelings, and
that all the relations I hold with my fellow-creatures are
mere business relations, when you reflect that I have nev-
er seen you since. 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. I pass my whole life, miss, in turning an
immense pecuniary Mangle.’
After this odd description of his daily routine of em-
ployment, Mr. Lorry flattened his flaxen wig upon his head
with both hands (which was most unnecessary, for nothing
could be flatter than its shining surface was before), and re-
sumed his former attitude.
‘So far, miss (as you have remarked), this is the story of
your regretted father. Now comes the difference. If your fa-
ther had not died when he did—Don’t be frightened! How
you start!’
She did, indeed, start. And she caught his wrist with
both her hands.
‘Pray,’ said Mr. Lorry, in a soothing tone, bringing his
left hand from the back of the chair to lay it on the supplica-
tory fingers that clasped him in so violent a tremble: ‘pray
control your agitation— a matter of business. As I was say-
ing—’
Her look so discomposed him that he stopped, wan-
dered, 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 guess 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 history 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. I am going to. You can bear it?’
‘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 busi-
ness-business that must be done. Now if this doctor’s wife,
though a lady of great courage and spirit, had suffered so in-
tensely from this cause before her little child was born—’
‘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 was born, that she came to the determination
of sparing the poor child the inheritance of any part of the
agony she had known the pains of, by rearing her in the be-
lief that her father was dead— No, don’t kneel! In Heaven’s
name why should you kneel to me!’
‘For the truth. O dear, good, compassionate sir, for the

truth!’
‘A-a matter of business. You confuse me, and how can I
transact business if I am confused? Let us be clear-headed.
If you could kindly mention now, for instance, what nine
times ninepence are, or how many shillings in twenty guin-
eas, 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 reassur-
ance to Mr. Jarvis Lorry.
‘That’s right, that’s right. Courage! Business! You have
business before you; useful business. Miss Manette, your
mother took this course with you. And when she died—I
believe broken-hearted— having never slackened her un-
availing 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 years.’
As he said the words he looked 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 that your parents had no great possession,
and that what they had was secured to your mother and to
you. There has been no new discovery, of money, or of any
other property; but—’
He felt his wrist held closer, and he stopped. The expres-

sion 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 alive. Greatly
changed, it is too probable; 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 I 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! It will be his Ghost—not
him!’
Mr. Lorry quietly chafed 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, I have been happy, yet his Ghost has never haunt-
ed me!’
‘Only one thing more,’ said Mr. Lorry, laying stress upon
it as a wholesome means of enforcing her attention: ‘he has
been found under another name; his own, long forgotten
or long concealed. It would be worse than useless now to
inquire which; worse than useless to seek to know wheth-
er 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 dangerous. 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 I, safe as
an Englishman, and even Tellson’s, important as they are to
French credit, avoid all naming of the matter. I carry about
me, not a scrap of writing openly referring to it. This is a
secret service altogether. My credentials, entries, and mem-
oranda, are all comprehended in the one line, ‘Recalled to
Life;’ which may mean anything. But what is the matter! She
doesn’t notice a word! Miss Manette!’
Perfectly still and silent, and not even fallen back in her
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 de-
tach 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 bon-
net like a Grenadier wooden measure, and good measure
too, or a great Stilton cheese, came running into the room
in advance of the inn servants, and soon settled the ques-
tion 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.
(“I really think this must be a man!’ was Mr. Lorry’s
breathless reflection, simultaneously with his coming

against the wall.)
‘Why, look at you all!’ 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? Why don’t you go and fetch things? I’ll let you know,
if you don’t bring smelling-salts, cold water, and vinegar,
quick, I will.’
There was an immediate dispersal for these restoratives,
and she softly laid the patient on a sofa, and tended her with
great skill and gentleness: calling her ‘my precious!’ and ‘my
bird!’ and spreading her golden hair aside over her shoul-
ders with great pride and care.
‘And you in brown!’ she said, indignantly turning to Mr.
Lorry; couldn’t you tell her what you had to tell her, with-
out frightening her to death? Look at her, with her pretty
pale face and her cold hands. Do you call THAT being a
Banker?’
Mr. Lorry was so exceedingly disconcerted by a ques-
tion so hard to answer, that he could only look on, at a
distance, with much feebler sympathy and humility, while
the strong woman, having banished the inn servants under
the mysterious 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.
‘I hope she will do well now,’ said Mr. Lorry.
‘No thanks to you in brown, if she does. My darling pret-
ty!’
‘I hope,’ said Mr. Lorry, after another pause of feeble

sympathy and humility, ‘that you accompany Miss Manette
to France?’
‘A likely thing, too!’ replied the strong woman. ‘If it was
ever intended that I should go across salt water, do you sup-
pose Providence would have cast my lot in an island?’
This being another question hard to answer, Mr. Jarvis
Lorry withdrew to consider it.

V
The Wine-shop
A large 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-shell.
All the people within reach had suspended their busi-
ness, or their idleness, 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 by its own jostling
group or crowd, according to its size. 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 mudembankments, 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 frag-
ments 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—voic-
es of men, women, and children—resounded in the street
while this wine game lasted. There was little roughness in
the sport, and much playfulness. There was a special com-
panionship in it, an observable inclination on the part of
every one to join some other one, which led, especially
among the luckier or lighter-hearted, to frolicsome embrac-
es, drinking of healths, shaking of hands, 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 gridiron-pattern by fingers, these demonstra-
tions 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 women who had left on a 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 arms,
matted locks, and cadaverous faces, who had emerged into
the winter light from cellars, moved away, to descend again;
and a gloom gathered on the scene that appeared more nat-

ural to it than sunshine.
The wine was red wine, and had stained the ground of
the narrow street in the suburb of Saint Antoine, in Par-
is, where it was spilled. It had stained many hands, too,
and many faces, and many naked feet, and many wood-
en shoes. The hands of the man who sawed the wood, left
red marks on the billets; and the forehead of the woman
who nursed her baby, was stained with the stain of the old
rag she wound about her head again. Those who had been
greedy with the staves of the cask, had acquired a tigerish
smear about the mouth; and one tall 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 dipped 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 darkness of it was heavy-cold, dirt, sickness, ignorance,
and want, were the lords in waiting on the saintly pres-
ence-nobles of great power all of them; but, most especially
the last. Samples of a people that had undergone a terrible
grinding and regrinding in the mill, 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 chil-

dren had ancient faces and grave voices; and upon them,
and upon the grown faces, and ploughed into every furrow
of age and coming up afresh, was the sigh, 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 frag-
ment 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 offal, among its
refuse, of anything to eat. Hunger was the inscription on
the baker’s shelves, written in every small loaf of his scanty
stock of bad bread; at the sausage-shop, in every dead-dog
preparation that was offered for sale. Hunger rattled its dry
bones among the roasting chestnuts in the turned cylinder;
Hunger was shred into atomics 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 nar-
row winding street, full of offence and stench, with other
narrow winding streets diverging, all peopled by rags and
nightcaps, and all smelling of rags and nightcaps, and all
visible things with a brooding look upon them that looked
ill. 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 want-
ing 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 signs (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
baker, the coarsest of meagre loaves. The people rudely pic-
tured as drinking in the wine-shops, croaked over their
scanty measures of thin wine and beer, and were glower-
ingly confidential 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 gunmaker’s stock was mur-
derous. The crippling 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 im-
proving 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 oth-
ers 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 he, with a final shrug of the shoul-
ders. ‘The people from the market did it. Let them bring
another.’
There, his eyes happening to catch the tall joker writing
up his joke, he called to him across the way:
‘Say, then, my Gaspard, what do you do there?’
The fellow pointed to his joke with immense signifi-
cance, 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? Are you a subject for the mad hospital?’ said
the wine-shop keeper, crossing the road, and obliterating
the jest with a handful of mud, picked up for the purpose,
and smeared over it. ‘Why do you write in the public streets?
Is there—tell me thou—is there no other place to write such
words in?’
In his expostulation he dropped his cleaner hand (per-
haps accidentally, perhaps not) upon the joker’s heart. The
joker rapped it with his own, took a nimble spring 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, he looked, under those circumstances.
‘Put it on, put it on,’ said the other. ‘Call wine, wine; and
finish there.’ With that advice, he wiped his soiled hand

upon the joker’s dress, such as it was—quite deliberately, as
having dirtied the hand on his account; and then recrossed
the road and entered the wine-shop.
This wine-shop keeper was a bull-necked, martial-
looking man of thirty, and he should have been of a hot
temperament, for, although it was a bitter day, he wore no
coat, but carried one slung over his shoulder. His shirt-
sleeves were rolled up, too, and his brown arms were bare to
the elbows. Neither did he 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 res-
olution 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 as he came in. Madame Defarge was a stout wom-
an of about his own age, with a watchful eye that seldom
seemed to look at anything, a large hand heavily ringed, a
steady face, strong features, and great composure of man-
ner. 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 conceal-
ment of her large earrings. Her knitting was before her, 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 Defarge 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 tooth-
pick by the breadth of a line, suggested to her husband that
he would do well to look round the shop among the cus-
tomers, for any new customer who had dropped in while he
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 playing cards, two playing dominoes, three
standing by the counter lengthening out a short supply of
wine. As he 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; ‘I don’t know you.’
But, he feigned not to notice the two strangers, and fell
into discourse with the triumvirate of customers who were
drinking at the counter.
‘How goes it, Jacques?’ said one of these three to Mon-
sieur Defarge. ‘Is all the spilt wine swallowed?’
‘Every drop, Jacques,’ answered Monsieur Defarge.
When this interchange of Christian name was effected,
Madame Defarge, picking her teeth with her toothpick,
coughed another grain of cough, and raised her eyebrows
by the breadth of another line.
‘It is not often,’ said the second of the three, addressing

Monsieur Defarge, ‘that many of these miserable beasts
know the taste of wine, or of anything but black bread and
death. Is it not so, Jacques?’
‘It is so, Jacques,’ Monsieur Defarge returned.
At this second interchange of the Christian name, Ma-
dame Defarge, still using 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 he put down his
empty drinking vessel and smacked his lips.
‘Ah! So much the worse! 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 com-
pleted at the moment when Madame Defarge put her
toothpick by, kept her eyebrows up, and slightly rustled in
her seat.
‘Hold then! True!’ muttered her husband. ‘Gentlemen—
my wife!’
The three customers pulled off their hats to Madame
Defarge, with 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 calmness and re-
pose of spirit, and became absorbed in it.
‘Gentlemen,’ said her husband, who had kept his bright
eye observantly upon her, ‘good day. The chamber, fur-

nished 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 courtyard close
to the left here,’ pointing with his hand, ‘near to the window
of my establishment. But, now that I remember, one of you
has already been there, and can show the way. Gentlemen,
adieu!’
They paid for their wine, and left the place. The 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, sir,’ said Monsieur Defarge, and quietly
stepped with him to the door.
Their conference was very short, but very decided. Al-
most at the first word, Monsieur Defarge started and became
deeply attentive. It had not lasted a minute, when he 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 he had directed his own company just before. It
opened from a stinking little black courtyard, and was the
general public entrance to a great pile of houses, inhabited
by a great number of people. In the gloomy tilepaved 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 his 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 slow-
ly.’ Thus, Monsieur Defarge, in a stern voice, to Mr. Lorry,
as they began ascending the stairs.
‘Is he alone?’ the latter whispered.
‘Alone! God help him, who should be with him!’ said the
other, in the same low voice.
‘Is he always alone, then?’
‘Yes.’
‘Of his own desire?’
‘Of his own necessity. As he was, when I first saw him
after they found me and demanded to know if I would take
him, and, at my peril be discreet—as he was then, so he is
now.’
‘He is greatly changed?’
‘Changed!’
The keeper of the wine-shop stopped to strike the wall
with his hand, and mutter a tremendous curse. No direct
answer could have been half so forcible. Mr. Lorry’s spirits
grew heavier and heavier, as he and his two companions as-
cended higher and higher.
Such a staircase, with its accessories, in the older and
more crowded parts 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 building—that is to say, the room or
rooms within every door that opened on the general stair-

case—left its own heap of refuse on its own landing, besides
flinging other refuse from its own windows. The uncontrol-
lable and hopeless mass of decomposition so engendered,
would have polluted the air, even if poverty and depriva-
tion had not loaded it with their intangible impurities; the
two bad sources combined made it almost insupportable.
Through such an atmosphere, by a steep dark shaft of dirt
and poison, the way lay. Yielding to his own disturbance of
mind, and to his young companion’s agitation, which be-
came greater every instant, Mr. Jarvis Lorry twice stopped
to rest. Each of these stoppages was made at a doleful grat-
ing, by which any languishing good airs that were left
uncorrupted, seemed to escape, and all spoilt and sickly va-
pours seemed to crawl in. Through the rusted bars, tastes,
rather than glimpses, were caught of the jumbled neigh-
bourhood; 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 staircase was gained, and they
stopped for the third time. There was yet an upper staircase,
of a steeper 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 al-
ways going on the side which Mr. 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, sur-
prised.

‘Ay. Yes,’ was the grim reply of Monsieur Defarge.
‘You think it necessary to keep the unfortunate gentle-
man so retired?’
‘I think it necessary to turn the key.’ Monsieur Defarge
whispered it closer in his ear, and frowned heavily.
‘Why?’
‘Why! Because he has lived so long, locked up, that he
would be frightened-rave-tear himself to pieces-die-come
to I know not what harm—if his door was left open.’
‘Is it possible!’ exclaimed Mr. Lorry.
‘Is it possible!’ repeated Defarge, bitterly. ‘Yes. And a
beautiful world we live in, when it IS possible, and when
many other such things are 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 a whisper,
that not a word of it had reached the young lady’s ears. But,
by this time she trembled under such strong 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! 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’s well, friend
Defarge. Come, now. Business, business!’
They went up slowly and softly. The staircase 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 Defarge. ‘Leave us, good boys; we have business
here.’
The three glided by, and went silently down.
There appearing to be no other door on that floor, and
the keeper of the wine-shop going straight to this one when
they were left alone, Mr. Lorry asked him in a whisper, with
a little anger:
‘Do you make a show of Monsieur Manette?’
‘I show him, in the way you have seen, to a chosen few.’
‘Is that well?’
‘I think it is well.’
‘Who are the few? How do you choose them?’
‘I choose them as real men, of my name—Jacques is my
name—to whom the sight is likely to do good. Enough; you
are English; that is another thing. Stay there, if you please,
a little moment.’
With an admonitory gesture to keep them back, he
stooped, and looked in through the crevice in the wall.
Soon raising his head 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 turned 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 an-
swered 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 sinking.
‘A-a-a-business, business!’ he urged, with a moisture that
was not of business shining on his cheek. ‘Come in, come
in!’
‘I am afraid of it,’ she answered, shuddering.
‘Of it? What?’
‘I mean of him. Of my father.’
Rendered in a manner desperate, by her state and by the
beckoning 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. He sat her down just within the door, and
held her, clinging to him.
Defarge drew out the key, closed the door, locked it on
the inside, took out the key again, and held it in his hand.
All this he did, methodically, and with as loud and harsh
an accompaniment of noise as 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, and
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 lit-
tle 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
obscurity. Yet, work of that kind was being done in the gar-
ret; for, with his back towards the door, and his face towards
the window where the keeper of the wine-shop stood look-
ing at him, a white-haired man sat on a low bench, stooping
forward and very busy, making shoes.

VI
The Shoemaker
‘G ood day!’ said Monsieur Defarge, looking down at

the white head that bent low over the shoemaking.
It was raised for a moment, and a very faint voice re-
sponded to the salutation, as if it were at a distance:
‘Good day!’
‘You are still hard at work, I see?’
After a long silence, the head was lifted for another mo-
ment, and the voice replied, ‘Yes—I am working.’ This time,
a pair of haggard eyes had looked at the questioner, before
the face had dropped again.
The faintness of the voice was pitiable and dreadful. It was
not the faintness of physical weakness, though confinement
and hard fare no doubt had their part in it. Its deplorable
peculiarity was, that it was the faintness of solitude and dis-
use. 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 beauti-
ful colour faded away into a poor weak stain. So sunken
and suppressed it was, that it was like a voice underground.
So expressive it was, of a hopeless and lost creature, that

a famished traveller, wearied 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 curiosity,
but with a dull mechanical perception, beforehand, that the
spot where the only visitor they were aware of had stood,
was not yet empty.
‘I 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?’
The shoemaker stopped his work; looked with a vacant
air of listening, at the floor on one side of him; then simi-
larly, at the floor on the other side of him; then, upward at
the speaker.
‘What did you say?’
‘You can bear a little more light?’
‘I 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 se-
cured at that angle for the time. A broad ray of light fell 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 cut, but not very
long, a hollow face, and exceedingly bright eyes. The hol-
lowness and thinness of his face would have caused them
to look large, under his yet dark eyebrows and his confused
white hair, though they had been really otherwise; but, they

were naturally large, and looked unnaturally so. His yellow
rags of shirt lay open at the throat, and showed his body to
be withered and worn. He, and his old canvas 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 dull 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 hab-
it 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?’ asked
Defarge, motioning to Mr. Lorry to come forward.
‘Do you mean to finish that pair of shoes to-day?’
‘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.
Mr. Lorry came silently forward, leaving the daughter
by the door. When he had stood, 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 leadcolour), 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.

‘You have a visitor, you see,’ said Monsieur Defarge.
‘Here is a visitor.’
The shoemaker looked up as before, but without remov-
ing a hand from his work.
‘Come!’ said Defarge. ‘Here is monsieur, who knows a
well-made shoe when he sees one. Show him that shoe you
are working at. Take it, monsieur.’
Mr. Lorry took it in his hand.
‘Tell monsieur what kind of shoe it is, and the maker’s
name.’
There was a longer pause than usual, before the shoe-
maker replied:
‘I forget what it was you asked me. What did you say?’
‘I said, couldn’t you describe the kind of shoe, for mon-
sieur’s information?’
‘It is a lady’s shoe. It is a young lady’s 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 maker’s name?’ said Defarge.
Now that he had no work to hold, he laid the knuck-
les 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 his bearded chin, and so on in regular
changes, without a moment’s intermission. The task of re-
calling him from the vagrancy into which he always sank
when he had spoken, was like recalling some very weak per-
son 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?’
‘Assuredly I did.’
‘One Hundred and Five, North Tower.’
‘Is that all?’
‘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 trade?’ said Mr. Lorry, look-
ing steadfastly at him.
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.
‘I am not a shoemaker by trade? No, I was not a shoe-
maker by trade. I-I learnt it here. I taught myself. I asked
leave to—’
He lapsed away, even for minutes, ringing those mea-
sured changes on his hands the whole time. His eyes came
slowly back, at last, to the face from which they had wan-
dered; when they rested on it, he started, and resumed, in
the manner of a sleeper that moment awake, reverting to a
subject of last night.
‘I asked leave to teach myself, and I got it with much dif-
ficulty after a long while, and I have made shoes ever since.’
As he held out his hand for the shoe that had been tak-
en from him, Mr. Lorry said, still looking steadfastly in his
face:
‘Monsieur Manette, do you remember nothing of me?’

The shoe dropped to the ground, and he sat looking
fixedly at the questioner.
‘Monsieur Manette”; Mr. Lorry laid his hand upon De-
farge’s arm; ‘do you remember nothing of this man? 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 Mr. Lorry and at Defarge, some long obliterated marks
of an actively intent intelligence in the middle of the fore-
head, gradually forced themselves through the black mist
that had fallen on him. They were overclouded again, they
were fainter, they were gone; but they had 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 which at first had been only raised in fright-
ened 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 back to life and hope—
so exactly was the expression repeated (though in stronger
characters) 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 him in its place. He looked at
the two, less and less attentively, and his eyes in gloomy ab-
straction sought the ground and looked about him in the
old way. Finally, with a deep long sigh, he took the shoe up,
and resumed his work.

‘Have you recognised him, monsieur?’ asked Defarge in
a whisper.
‘Yes; for a moment. At first I thought it quite hopeless,
but I have unquestionably seen, for a single moment, the
face that I once knew so well. Hush! Let us draw further
back. Hush!’
She had moved from the wall of the garret, very near to
the bench on which he sat. There was something awful in
his unconsciousness of the figure that could have put out its
hand and touched him as he stooped over his labour.
Not a word was spoken, not a sound was made. She stood,
like a spirit, beside him, and he bent over his work.
It happened, at length, that he 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 her with a fearful look, and after a while his
lips began to form some words, though no sound proceeded
from them. By degrees, in the pauses of his quick and la-
boured breathing, he was heard to say:
‘What is this?’
With the tears streaming down her face, she put her two
hands 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 daughter?’

She sighed ‘No.’
‘Who are you?’
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 she did so,
and visibly passed over his frame; he laid the knife down’
softly, as he sat staring at her.
Her golden hair, which she wore in long curls, had been
hurriedly pushed aside, and fell down over her neck. Ad-
vancing 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 an-
other deep sigh, fell to work at his shoemaking.
But not for long. Releasing his arm, she laid her hand
upon his shoulder. After looking doubtfully at it, two or
three times, as if to be sure that it was really there, he laid
down his work, put his hand to his neck, and took off a
blackened string with a scrap of folded rag attached to it. He
opened this, carefully, on his knee, and it contained a very
little quantity of hair: not more than one or two long golden
hairs, which he had, in some old day, wound off upon his
finger.
He took her hair into his hand again, and looked closely
at it. ‘It is the same. How can it be! When was it! How was
it!’
As the concentrated expression returned to his forehead,
he seemed to become conscious that it was in hers too. He
turned her full to the light, and looked at her.
‘She had laid her head upon my shoulder, that night when
I was summoned out—she had a fear of my going, though

I had none—and when I was brought to the North Tower
they found these upon my sleeve. ‘You will leave me them?
They can never help me to escape in the body, though they
may in the spirit.’ Those were the words I said. I remember
them very well.’
He formed this speech with his lips many times before he
could utter it. But when he did find spoken words for it, they
came to him coherently, though slowly.
‘How was this?—WAS IT YOU?’
Once more, the two spectators started, as he turned
upon her with a frightful suddenness. But she sat perfectly
still in his grasp, and only said, in a low voice, ‘I entreat you,
good gentlemen, do not come near us, do not speak, do not
move!’
‘Hark!’ he exclaimed. ‘Whose voice was that?’
His hands released her as he uttered this cry, and went
up to his white hair, which they tore in a frenzy. It died out,
as everything but his shoemaking did die out of him, and he
refolded his little packet and tried to secure it in his breast;
but he still looked at her, and gloomily shook his head.
‘No, no, no; you are too young, too blooming. It can’t
be. See what the prisoner is. These are not the hands she
knew, this is not the face she knew, this is not a voice she
ever heard. No, no. 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
his breast.

‘O, sir, at another time you shall know my name, and
who my mother was, and who my father, and how I never
knew their hard, hard history. But I cannot tell you at this
time, and I cannot tell you here. All that I may tell you, here
and now, is, that I pray to you to touch me and to bless me.
Kiss me, kiss me! O my dear, my dear!’
His cold white head mingled with her radiant hair, which
warmed and lighted it as though it were the light of Free-
dom 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,
weep for it! If you touch, in touching my hair, anything that
recalls a beloved head that lay on your breast when you were
young and free, weep for it, weep for it! If, when I hint to
you of a Home that is before us, where I 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!’
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, I 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! 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! Good gentlemen, thank God! I feel his sacred tears
upon my face, and his sobs strike against my heart. O, see!
Thank God for us, thank God!’
He had sunk in her arms, and his face dropped on her
breast: a sight so touching, yet so terrible in the tremendous
wrong and suffering 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 storms—emblem to human-
ity, 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 dropped
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 away—
’
‘But, consider. Is he fit for the journey?’ asked Mr. Lor-
ry.
‘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. ‘More than that; Monsieur Manette is, for all reasons,
best out of France. Say, shall I hire a carriage and post-hors-
es?’
‘That’s business,’ said Mr. Lorry, resuming on the short-
est notice his methodical manners; ‘and if business 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 he has become, and you can-
not 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, I will take care of him
until you return, and then we will remove him straight.’
Both Mr. Lorry and Defarge were rather disinclined to
this course, and in favour of one of them remaining. But,
as there were not only carriage and horses to be seen to,
but travelling papers; 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 hurrying
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 darkness deepened and deepened,
and they both lay quiet, until a light gleamed through the
chinks in the wall.
Mr. Lorry and Monsieur Defarge had made all ready for
the journey, and had brought with them, besides travelling
cloaks and wrappers, bread and meat, wine, and hot coffee.

Monsieur Defarge put this provender, and the lamp he car-
ried, on the shoemaker’s bench (there was nothing else in
the garret but a pallet bed), and he and Mr. Lorry roused the
captive, and assisted him to his feet.
No human intelligence could have read the mysteries of
his mind, in the scared blank wonder of his face. Whether
he knew what had happened, whether he recollected what
they had said to him, whether he knew that he was free,
were questions which no sagacity could have solved. They
tried speaking to him; but, he was so confused, and so very
slow to answer, that they took fright at his 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, that had 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, he ate and drank what they gave him to eat
and drink, and put on the cloak and other wrappings, that
they gave him to wear. He readily responded to his daugh-
ter’s drawing her arm through his, and took—and kept—her
hand in both his own.
They began to descend; Monsieur Defarge going first
with the lamp, Mr. Lorry closing the little procession. They
had not traversed many steps of the long main staircase
when he stopped, and stared at the roof and round at the
wails.
‘You remember the place, my father? You remember
coming up here?’

But, before she could repeat the question, he murmured
an answer as if she had repeated it.
‘Remember? No, I don’t remember. It was so very long
ago.’
That he had no recollection whatever of his 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 he looked about him, it evidently was for
the strong fortress-walls which had long encompassed him.
On their reaching the courtyard he instinctively altered his
tread, as being in expectation of a drawbridge; and when
there was no drawbridge, and he saw the carriage waiting in
the open street, he dropped his daughter’s hand and clasped
his head again.
No crowd was about the door; no people were discernible
at any of the many windows; not even a chance passerby 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.
The prisoner had got into a coach, and his daughter had
followed him, when 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 them, and went, knitting,
out of the lamplight, through the courtyard. She quickly
brought them down and handed them in;—and immedi-
ately 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 shops, gay crowds, illuminated coffee-houses, and
theatre-doors, to one of the city gates. Soldiers with lan-
terns, at the guard-house there. ‘Your papers, travellers!’
‘See here then, Monsieur the Officer,’ said Defarge, getting
down, and taking him gravely 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 be-
ing handed into the coach by an arm in uniform, the eyes
connected with the arm looked, not an every day or an ev-
ery night look, at monsieur with the white head. ‘It is well.
Forward!’ from the uniform. ‘Adieu!’ from Defarge. And
so, under a short grove of feebler and feebler over-swinging
lamps, out under the great grove of stars.
Beneath that arch of unmoved and eternal lights; some,
so remote from this little earth that the learned tell us it is
doubtful whether their rays have even yet discovered it, as a
point in space where anything is suffered or done: the shad-
ows of the night were broad and black. All through the cold
and restless interval, until dawn, they once more whispered
in the ears of Mr. Jarvis Lorry—sitting opposite the bur-
ied man who had been dug out, and wondering what subtle
powers were for ever lost to him, and what were capable of

restoration—the old inquiry:
‘I hope you care to be recalled to life?’
And the old answer:
The end of the first book.

Book the Second-the
Golden Thread

I
Five Years Later
T ellson’s Bank by Temple Bar was an old-fashioned

place, even in the year one thousand seven hundred
and eighty. It was very small, very dark, very ugly, very in-
commodious. It was an old-fashioned place, moreover, in
the moral attribute that 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 that, if it were less objectionable, it
would be less respectable. This was no passive belief, but an
active weapon which they flashed at more convenient plac-
es of business. Tellson’s (they said) wanted no elbow-room,
Tellson’s wanted no light, Tellson’s wanted no embellish-
ment. Noakes and Co.’s might, or Snooks Brothers’ might;
but Tellson’s, thank Heaven!—
Any 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 suggesting improvements
in laws and customs that had long been highly objection-

able, but were only the more respectable.
Thus it had come to pass, that Tellson’s was the trium-
phant perfection of inconvenience. After bursting open a
door of idiotic obstinacy with a weak rattle in its throat, you
fell into Tellson’s down two steps, 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 din-
giest of windows, which were always under a shower-bath
of mud from Fleet-street, and which were made the dingi-
er by their own iron bars proper, and the heavy shadow of
Temple Bar. If your business necessitated your seeing ‘the
House,’ you were put into a species of Condemned Hold at
the 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 the dismal twilight. Your money came
out of, or went into, wormy old wooden drawers, particles
of which flew up your nose and down your throat when they
were opened and shut. Your bank-notes had a musty odour,
as if they were fast decomposing into rags again. Your plate
was stowed away among the neighbouring cesspools, and
evil communications corrupted its good polish in a day or
two. Your deeds got into extemporised strong-rooms made
of kitchens and sculleries, and fretted all the fat out of their
parchments into the banking-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 had a dinner,
and where, even in the year one thousand seven hundred
and eighty, the first letters written to you by your old love,

or by your little children, were but newly released from the
horror of being ogled through the windows, by the heads
exposed on Temple Bar with an insensate brutality and fe-
rocity 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 Legislation’s? Accordingly, 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 whole 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 busi-
ness, its contemporaries, had taken so many lives, that, if
the heads laid low before it had been ranged on Temple Bar
instead of being privately disposed of, they would probably
have excluded what little light the ground floor had, in a
rather significant manner.
Cramped in all kinds of dun cupboards and hutches at
Tellson’s, the oldest of men carried on the business gravely.
When they took a young man into Tellson’s London house,
they hid him somewhere till he was old. They kept him in a

dark place, like a cheese, until he had the full Tellson flavour
and blue-mould upon him. Then only was he permitted to
be seen, spectacularly poring over large books, and casting
his breeches and gaiters into the general weight of the es-
tablishment.
Outside Tellson’s—never by any means in it, unless
called 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 he was represented by his son: a grisly urchin of
twelve, who was his express image. People understood that
Tellson’s, in a stately way, tolerated the odd-job-man. The
house had always tolerated some person in that capacity,
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 works of darkness, in the easterly
parish church of Hounsditch, he had received the added ap-
pellation of Jerry.
The scene was Mr. Cruncher’s private lodging in Hang-
ing-sword-alley, Whitefriars: the time, half-past seven of the
clock on a windy March morning, Anno Domini seventeen
hundred and eighty. (Mr. Cruncher himself always spoke of
the year of our Lord as Anna Dominoes: apparently under
the impression that the Christian era dated from the inven-
tion of a popular game, by a lady who had bestowed her
name upon it.)
Mr. Cruncher’s apartments were not in a savoury neigh-
bourhood, 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 kept. Early as it was, on the windy
March morning, the room in which he lay abed was already
scrubbed throughout; and between the cups and saucers ar-
ranged for breakfast, and the lumbering deal table, a very
clean white cloth was spread.
Mr. Cruncher reposed under a patchwork counterpane,
like a Harlequin at home. At fast, he slept heavily, but, by
degrees, began to roll and surge in bed, until he rose above
the surface, with his spiky hair looking as if it must tear
the sheets to ribbons. At which juncture, he exclaimed, in a
voice of dire exasperation:
‘Bust me, if she ain’t at it agin!’
A woman of orderly and industrious appearance rose
from her knees in a corner, with sufficient haste and trepi-
dation to show that she was the person referred to.
‘What!’ said Mr. Cruncher, looking out of bed for a boot.
‘You’re at it agin, are you?’
After hailing the mom with this second salutation, he
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 domestic economy, that, whereas he
often came home after banking hours with clean boots, he
often got up next 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 was only saying my prayers.’
‘Saying your prayers! You’re a nice woman! What do you
mean by flopping yourself down and praying agin me?’

‘I was not praying against you; I was praying for you.’
‘You weren’t. And if you were, I won’t be took the liberty
with. Here! your mother’s a nice woman, young Jerry, going
a praying agin your father’s prosperity. You’ve got a dutiful
mother, you have, my son. You’ve got a religious mother,
you have, my boy: going and flopping herself down, and
praying that the bread-and-butter may be snatched out of
the mouth 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.
‘And what do you suppose, you conceited female,’ said
Mr. Cruncher, with unconscious inconsistency, ‘that the
worth of YOUR prayers may be? Name the price that you
put YOUR prayers at!’
‘They only come from the heart, Jerry. They are worth no
more than that.’
‘Worth no more than that,’ repeated Mr. Cruncher. ‘They
ain’t worth much, then. Whether or no, I won’t be prayed
agin, I tell you. I can’t afford it. I’m not a going to be made
unlucky by YOUR sneaking. If you must go flopping your-
self down, flop in favour of your husband and child, and
not in opposition to ‘em. If I had had any but a unnat’ral
wife, and this poor boy had had any but a unnat’ral moth-
er, I might have made some money last week instead of
being counter-prayed and countermined and religiously
circumwented into the worst of luck. B-u-u-ust me!’ said
Mr. Cruncher, who all this time had been putting on his
clothes, ‘if I ain’t, what with piety and one blowed thing

and another, been choused this last week into as bad luck
as ever a poor devil of a honest tradesman met with! Young
Jerry, dress yourself, my boy, and while I 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 he addressed his wife once more, ‘I won’t be gone agin,
in this manner. I am as rickety as a hackney-coach, I’m as
sleepy as laudanum, my lines is strained to that degree that
I shouldn’t know, 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
what do you say now!’
Growling, in addition, such phrases as ‘Ah! yes! You’re
religious, too. You wouldn’t put yourself in opposition to the
interests of your husband and child, would you? Not you!’
and throwing off other sarcastic sparks from the whirling
grindstone of his indignation, Mr. Cruncher betook himself
to his boot-cleaning and his general preparation for busi-
ness. In the meantime, 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 he
made his toilet, with a suppressed cry of ‘You are going to
flop, mother. —Halloa, father!’ and, after raising this ficti-
tious alarm, darting in again with an undutiful grin.
Mr. Cruncher’s temper was not at all improved when he

came to his breakfast. He resented Mrs. Cruncher’s saying
grace with particular animosity.
‘Now, Aggerawayter! What are you up to? At it again?’
His wife explained that she had merely ‘asked a bless-
ing.’
‘Don’t do it!’ said Mr. Crunches looking about, as if he
rather expected to see the loaf disappear under the efficacy
of his wife’s petitions. ‘I ain’t a going to be blest out of house
and home. I won’t have my wittles blest off my table. Keep
still!’
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 menag-
erie. Towards nine o’clock he smoothed his ruffled aspect,
and, presenting as respectable and business-like an exterior
as 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
consisted of a wooden stool, made out of a broken-backed
chair cut down, which stool, young Jerry, walking at his
father’s side, carried every morning to beneath the bank-
ing-house window that was nearest Temple Bar: where,
with the addition of the first handful of straw that could
be gleaned from any passing vehicle to keep the cold and
wet from the odd-job-man’s 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 in-looking.
Encamped at a quarter before nine, in good time to touch
his threecornered hat to the oldest of men as they passed in
to Tellson’s, Jerry took up his station on this windy March
morning, with young Jerry standing by him, when not en-
gaged in making forays through the Bar, to inflict bodily
and mental injuries of an acute description on passing boys
who 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 consid-
erable resemblance to a pair of monkeys. The resemblance
was not lessened by the accidental circumstance, that the
mature Jerry 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 indoor messengers at-
tached to Tellson’s establishment was put through the door,
and the word was given:
‘Porter wanted!’
‘Hooray, father! 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 cogi-
tated.
‘Al-ways rusty! His fingers is al-ways rusty!’ muttered
young Jerry. ‘Where does my father get all that iron rust
from? He don’t get no iron rust here!’

II
A Sight
‘Y ou know the Old Bailey, well, no doubt?’ said one of

the oldest of clerks to Jerry the messenger.
‘Ye-es, sir,’ returned Jerry, in something of a dogged
manner. ‘I DO know the Bailey.’
‘Just so. And you know Mr. Lorry.’
‘I know Mr. Lorry, sir, much better than I know the Bai-
ley. Much better,’ said Jerry, not unlike a reluctant witness
at the establishment in question, ‘than I, as a honest trades-
man, wish to know the Bailey.’
‘Very well. Find the door where the witnesses go in, and
show the door-keeper this note for Mr. Lorry. He will then
let you in.’
‘Into the court, sir?’
‘Into the court.’
Mr. Cruncher’s eyes seemed to get a little closer to one
another, and to interchange the inquiry, ‘What do you think
of this?’
‘Am I to wait in the court, sir?’ he asked, as the result of
that conference.
‘I am going to tell you. The door-keeper will pass the

note to Mr. Lorry, and do you make any gesture that will at-
tract Mr. Lorry’s attention, and show him where you stand.
Then what you have to do, is, to remain there until he wants
you.’
‘Is 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, Mr. Cruncher, after surveying him in silence until
he came to the blotting-paper stage, remarked:
‘I suppose they’ll be trying Forgeries this morning?’
‘Treason!’
‘That’s quartering,’ said Jerry. ‘Barbarous!’
‘It is the law,’ remarked the ancient clerk, turning his
surprised spectacles upon him. ‘It is the law.’
‘It’s hard in the law to spile a man, I think. Ifs hard
enough to kill him, but it’s wery hard to spile him, sir.’
‘Not at all,’ retained the ancient clerk. ‘Speak well of the
law. Take care of your chest and voice, my good friend, and
leave the law to take care of itself. I give you 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.’
‘WeB, well,’ said the old clerk; ‘we aa 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, remarking 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

passing, of his destination, and went his way.
They hanged at Tyburn, in those days, so the street out-
side Newgate had not obtained one infamous notoriety that
has since attached to it. But, the gaol was a vile place, in
which most kinds of debauchery and villainy were prac-
tised, and where dire diseases were bred, that came into
court with the prisoners, and 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 pronounced his own doom as
certainly as the prisoner’s, and even died before him. For
the rest, the Old Bailey was 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 some two miles and a half of public 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 insti-
tution, very humanising and softening to behold in action;
also, for extensive transactions in blood-money, another
fragment of ancestral wisdom, systematically leading to the
most frightful mercenary crimes that could be committed
under Heaven. Altogether, the Old Bailey, at that date, was a
choice illustration of the precept, that ‘Whatever is is right;’
an aphorism that would be as final as it is lazy, did it not in-
clude the troublesome consequence, that nothing that ever
was, was wrong.

Making his way through the tainted crowd, dispersed
up and down this hideous scene of action, with the skill
of a man accustomed to make his way quietly, the messen-
ger found out the door he sought, and handed in his letter
through a trap in it. For, people then paid to see the play
at the Old Bailey, just as they paid to see the play in Bed-
lam—only the former entertainment was much the dearer.
Therefore, all the Old Bailey doors were well guarded—ex-
cept, indeed, the social doors by which the criminals got
there, and those were always left wide open.
After some delay and demur, the door grudgingly turned
on its hinges a very little way, and allowed Mr. Jerry Crunch-
er to squeeze himself into court.
‘What’s on?’ he asked, in a whisper, of the man he found
himself next to.
‘Nothing yet.’
‘What’s coming on?’
‘The Treason case.’
‘The quartering one, eh?’
‘Ah!’ returned the man, with a relish; ‘he’ll be drawn on
a hurdle to be half hanged, and then he’ll be taken down
and sliced before his own face, and then his inside will be
taken out and burnt while he looks on, and then his head
will be chopped off, and he’ll be cut into quarters. That’s
the sentence.’
‘If he’s found Guilty, you mean to say?’ Jerry added, by
way of proviso.
‘Oh! they’ll find him guilty,’ said the other. ‘Don’t you be
afraid of that.’

Mr. Cruncher’s attention was here diverted to the door-
keeper, whom he saw making his way to Mr. Lorry, with the
note in his hand. Mr. Lorry sat at a table, among the gentle-
men in wigs: not far from a wigged gentleman, the prisoner’s
counsel, who had a great bundle of papers before him: and
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 concentrat-
ed on the ceiling of the court. After some gruff 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?’ asked the man he
had spoken with.
‘Blest if I know,’ said Jerry.
‘What have YOU got to do with it, then, if a person may
inquire?’
‘Blest if I know that either,’ said Jerry.
The entrance of the Judge, and a consequent great stir
and settling down in the court, stopped the dialogue. Pres-
ently, the dock became the central point of interest. Two
gaolers, who had been standing there, wont out, and the
prisoner was brought in, and put to the bar.
Everybody present, except 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 floor of the court, laid their hands

on the shoulders of the people before them, to help them-
selves, at anybody’s cost, to a view of him—stood a-tiptoe,
got upon ledges, stood upon next to nothing, to see every
inch of him. Conspicuous among these latter, like an ani-
mated bit of the spiked wall of Newgate, Jerry stood: aiming
at the prisoner the beery breath of a whet he had 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.
The object of all this staring and blaring, was a young
man of about five-and-twenty, well-grown and well-look-
ing, with a sunburnt cheek and a dark eye. His condition
was that of a young 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 sentence—had there been
a chance of any one of its savage details being spared—by
just so much would he have lost in his 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! Charles Darnay had yesterday
pleaded Not Guilty to an indictment denouncing him (with
infinite jingle and jangle) for that he was a false traitor to
our serene, illustrious, excellent, 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, excel-
lent, and so forth; that was to say, by coming and going,
between the dominions of our said serene, illustrious, ex-
cellent, and so forth, and those of the said French Lewis,
and wickedly, falsely, traitorously, and otherwise evil-ad-
verbiously, revealing to the said French Lewis what forces
our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, had in
preparation to 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 satisfac-
tion, and so arrived circuitously 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 Mr. Attorney-General was mak-
ing ready to speak.
The accused, who was (and who knew he was) being
mentally hanged, beheaded, and quartered, by everybody
there, neither flinched 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 com-
posedly, that they had not displaced a leaf of the herbs 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’s together. Haunted in a most ghastly
manner that abominable place would have been, if the glass
could ever have rendered back its reflections, as the ocean
is one day to give up its dead. Some passing thought of the
infamy and disgrace for which it had been reserved, may
have struck the prisoner’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
flushed, and his right hand pushed the herbs away.
It happened, that the action turned his face to that side
of the 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 imme-
diately, and so much to the changing of his aspect, that all
the eyes that were tamed upon him, turned to them.
The spectators saw in the two figures, a young lady of
little more than twenty, and a gentleman who was evi-
dently her father; a man of a very remarkable appearance
in respect of the absolute whiteness of his hair, and a cer-
tain 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 was
stirred and broken up—as it was now, in a moment, on his
speaking to his 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
starers 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 his own observa-
tions, in his own manner, and who had been sucking the
rust off his fingers in his absorption, 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 slowly pressed and passed back; at
last it got to Jerry:
‘Witnesses.’
‘For which side?’
‘Against.’
‘Against what side?’
‘The prisoner’s.’
The Judge, whose eyes had gone in the general direction,
recalled them, leaned back in his seat, and looked steadily at
the man whose life was in his hand, as Mr. Attorney-Gen-

eral rose to spin the rope, grind the axe, and hammer the
nails into the scaffold.

III
A Disappointment
M r. 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 public 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 pass-
ing and repassing between France and England, on secret
business of which 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 Provi-
dence, however, had put it into the heart of a person who
was beyond fear and beyond reproach, to ferret out the na-
ture of the prisoner’s schemes, and, struck with horror, to
disclose 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, he had been the prison-
er’s friend, but, at 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 al-
tar 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 poets (in many pas-
sages which he well knew the jury would have, word for
word, at the tips of their tongues; whereat the jury’s coun-
tenances displayed a guilty consciousness 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 lofty example of this immacu-
late and unimpeachable witness for the Crown, to refer to
whom however unworthily was an honour, had communi-
cated itself to the prisoner’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 disparage-
ment attempted of this admirable servant; but that, in a
general way, he preferred him to his (Mr. Attorney-Gener-
al’s) brothers and sisters, and honoured him more than his
(Mr. Attorney-General’s) father and mother. That, he called
with confidence on the jury to come and do likewise. That,
the evidence of these two witnesses, coupled with the docu-
ments of their discovering that would be produced, would
show the prisoner to have been furnished with lists of his
Majesty’s forces, and of their disposition and preparation,
both by sea and land, and would leave no doubt that he had

habitually conveyed such information to a hostile power.
That, these lists could not be proved to be in the prisoner’s
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 precautions. That, the proof
would go back five years, and would show the prisoner al-
ready engaged in these pernicious missions, within a few
weeks before the date of the very first action fought between
the British troops and the Americans. That, for these rea-
sons, 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 wives 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 prisoner’s head was taken off.
That head Mr. 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 assevera-
tion that he already considered the prisoner as good as dead
and gone.
When the Attorney-General ceased, a buzz arose in the
court as if a cloud of great blue-flies were swarming about
the prisoner, in anticipation of what he was soon to become.
When toned down again, the unimpeachable patriot ap-
peared 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 bur-
den, he would have modestly withdrawn himself, 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 looking at the
ceiling of the court.
Had he ever been a spy himself? No, he scorned the base
insinuation. What did he live upon? His property. Where
was his property? He didn’t precisely remember where it
was. What was it? No business of anybody’s. Had he in-
herited it? Yes, he had. From whom? Distant relation. Very
distant? 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?
Perhaps. Of what profession? Gentleman. Ever been kicked?
Might have been. Frequently? No. Ever kicked downstairs?
Decidedly not; once received a kick on the top of a stair-
case, and fell downstairs of his own accord. Kicked on that
occasion for cheating at dice? Something to that effect was
said by the intoxicated liar who committed the assault, but
it was not true. Swear it was not true? Positively. Ever live
by cheating at play? Never. 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 pris-

oner, in reality a very slight one, forced upon the prisoner
in coaches, inns, and packets? No. Sure he saw the prison-
er with these lists? Certain. Knew no more about the lists?
No. Had not procured them himself, for instance? No. Ex-
pect to get anything by this evidence? No. Not in regular
government pay and employment, to lay traps? Oh dear no.
Or to do anything? Oh dear no. Swear that? Over and over
again. No motives but motives of sheer patriotism? None
whatever.
The virtuous servant, Roger Cly, swore his way through
the case at a great rate. He had taken service with the pris-
oner, in good faith and simplicity, four years ago. He had
asked the prisoner, aboard the Calais packet, if he 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 arranging 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 draw-
er of the prisoner’s desk. He had not put them there first. He
had seen 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 nev-
er been suspected of stealing a silver tea-pot; he 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. He 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, are you a clerk in Tellson’s bank?’
‘I 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?’
‘It did.’
‘Were there any other passengers in the mail?’
‘Two.’
‘Did they alight on the road in the course of the night?’
‘They did.’
‘Mr. Lorry, look upon the prisoner. Was he one of those
two passengers?’
‘I cannot undertake to say that he was.’
‘Does he resemble either of these two passengers?’
‘Both were so wrapped up, and the night was so dark,
and we were all so reserved, that I cannot undertake to say
even that.’
‘Mr. Lorry, look again upon the prisoner. Supposing him
wrapped up as those two passengers were, is there anything
in his bulk and stature to render it unlikely that he was one
of them?’
‘No.’
‘You will not swear, Mr. Lorry, that he was not one of

them?’
‘No.’
‘So at least you say he 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. Lorry?’
‘I certainly have seen that.’
‘Mr. Lorry, look once more upon the prisoner. Have you
seen him, to your certain knowledge, before?’
‘I have.’
‘When?’
‘I was returning from France a few days afterwards, and,
at Calais, the prisoner came on board the packet-ship in
which I returned, and made the voyage with me.’
‘At what hour did he come on board?’
‘At a little after midnight.’
‘In the dead of the night. Was he the only passenger who
came on board at that untimely hour?’
‘He happened to be the only one.’
‘Never mind about ‘happening,’ Mr. Lorry. He was
the only passenger who came on board in the dead of the
night?’
‘He was.’
‘Were you travelling alone, Mr. Lorry, or with any com-
panion?’
‘With two companions. A gentleman and lady. They are
here.’
‘They are here. Had you any conversation with the pris-

oner?’
‘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 before,
and were now turned again, stood up where she had sat. Her
father rose with her, and kept her hand drawn through his
arm.
‘Miss Manette, look upon the prisoner.’
To be confronted with such 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 cu-
riosity that looked on, could, for the moment, nerve him
to remain quite still. His hurried right hand parcelled out
the herbs before him into imaginary beds of flowers in a
garden; and his efforts to control and steady his breathing
shook the lips from which the colour rushed to his heart.
The buzz of the great flies was loud again.
‘Miss Manette, have you seen the prisoner before?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Where?’
‘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?’
‘O! most unhappily, I am!’
The plaintive tone of her compassion merged into the
less musical voice of the Judge, as he said something fierce-

ly: ‘Answer the questions put to you, and make no remark
upon them.’
‘Miss Manette, had you any conversation with the pris-
oner on that passage across the Channel?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Recall it.’
In the midst of a profound stillness, she faintly began:
‘When the gentleman came on board—’
‘Do you mean the prisoner?’ inquired the Judge, knit-
ting his brows.
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘Then say the prisoner.’
‘When the prisoner came on board, he noticed that my
father,’ turning her eyes lovingly to him as he stood beside
her, ‘was much fatigued and in a very weak state of health.
My father was so reduced that I was afraid to take him out
of the air, and I had made a bed for him on the deck near
the cabin steps, and I sat on the deck at his side to take care
of him. There were no other passengers that night, but we
four. The prisoner was so good as to beg permission to ad-
vise me how I 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 was the manner of our beginning to
speak together.’
‘Let me interrupt you for a moment. Had he come on
board alone?’

‘No.’
‘How many were with him?’
‘Two French gentlemen.’
‘Had they conferred together?’
‘They had conferred together until the last moment,
when it was necessary for the French gentlemen to be land-
ed in their boat.’
‘Had any papers been handed about among them, simi-
lar to these lists?’
‘Some papers had been handed about among them, but I
don’t know what papers.’
‘Like these in shape and size?’
‘Possibly, but indeed I 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 hang-
ing there; it was 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 situation—as he was kind,
and good, and useful to my father. I hope,’ bursting into
tears, ‘I may not repay him by doing him harm to-day.’
Buzzing from the blue-flies.
‘Miss Manette, if the prisoner does not perfectly under-
stand that you give the evidence which it is your duty to
give—which you must give— and which you cannot escape
from giving—with great unwillingness, he is the only per-
son present in that condition. Please to go on.’

‘He told me that he was travelling on business of a del-
icate and difficult nature, which might get people into
trouble, and that he was therefore travelling under an as-
sumed 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 and 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 foolish one on England’s part. He added, in a jesting
way, that perhaps George Washington might gain almost as
great a name in history as George the Third. But there was
no harm in his way of saying this: it was 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 specta-
tors. 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
mirrors 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 precaution 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?’
‘Once. When he caged at my lodgings in London. Some
three years, or three years and a half ago.’
‘Can you identify him as your fellow-passenger on board
the packet, or speak to his conversation with your daugh-
ter?’
‘Sir, I can do neither.’
‘Is there any particular and special reason for your being
unable to do either?’
He answered, in a low voice, ‘There is.’
‘Has it been your misfortune to undergo a long impris-
onment, without trial, or even accusation, in your native
country, Doctor Manette?’
He answered, in a tone that went to every heart, ‘A long
imprisonment.’
‘Were you newly released on the occasion in question?’
‘They tell me so.’
‘Have you no remembrance of the occasion?’
‘None. My mind is a blank, from some time—I can-
not even say what time— when I employed myself, in my
captivity, in making shoes, to the time when I found my-
self 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 be-
come familiar. I have no remembrance of the process.’

Mr. Attorney-General sat down, and the father and
daughter sat down together.
A singular circumstance then arose in the case. The ob-
ject in hand being to show that the prisoner went down,
with some fellow-plotter untracked, in the Dover mail on
that Friday night in November 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 an
hotel in that garrison-and-dockyard town, waiting for an-
other person. The prisoner’s counsel was cross-examining
this witness with no result, except that he had never seen
the prisoner on any other occasion, when the wigged gen-
tleman who had all this time been looking 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 pause, the counsel looked with great at-
tention and curiosity at the prisoner.
‘You say again you are quite sure that it was the pris-
oner?’
The witness was quite sure.
‘Did you ever see anybody very like the prisoner?’
Not so like (the witness said) as that he could be mis-
taken.
‘Look well upon that gentleman, my learned friend
there,’ pointing to him who had tossed the paper over, ‘and
then look well upon the prisoner. How say you? Are they

very like each other?’
Allowing for my learned friend’s appearance being care-
less and slovenly if not debauched, they were sufficiently like
each other to surprise, not only the witness, but everybody
present, when they were thus brought into comparison.
My Lord being prayed to bid my learned friend lay aside
his wig, and giving no very gracious consent, the likeness
became much more remarkable. My Lord inquired of Mr.
Stryver (the prisoner’s counsel), whether they were next to
try Mr. Carton (name of my learned friend) for treason?
But, Mr. Stryver replied to my Lord, no; but he would ask
the witness to tell him whether what happened once, might
happen twice; whether he would have been so confident if
he had seen this illustration of his rashness sooner, wheth-
er he would be so confident, having seen it; and more. The
upshot of which, was, to smash this witness like a crockery
vessel, and shiver his part of the case to useless lumber.
Mr. Cruncher had by this time taken quite a lunch of
rust off his fingers in his following of the evidence. He had
now to attend while Mr. Stryver fitted the prisoner’s case on
the jury, like a compact suit of clothes; showing them how
the patriot, Barsad, was a hired spy and traitor, an unblush-
ing trafficker in blood, and one of the greatest scoundrels
upon earth since accursed Judas—which he certainly did
look rather like. How the virtuous servant, Cly, was his
friend and partner, and was worthy to be; how the watchful
eyes of those forgers and false swearers had rested on the
prisoner as a victim, because some family affairs in France,
he being of French extraction, did require his making those

passages across the Channel—though what those affairs
were, a consideration for others who were near and dear to
him, forbade him, even for his life, to disclose. How the evi-
dence that had been warped and wrested from the young
lady, whose anguish in giving it they had witnessed, came to
nothing, involving the mere little innocent gallantries and
politenesses likely to pass between any young gentleman
and young lady so thrown together;—with the exception of
that reference to George Washington, which was altogether
too extravagant and impossible to be regarded 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 Mr. Attorney-General had made the most of
it; how, nevertheless, it rested upon nothing, save that vile
and infamous character of evidence too often 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 Bench and suffer those allusions.
Mr. Stryver then called his few witnesses, and Mr.
Cruncher had next to attend while Mr. Attorney-General
turned the whole suit of clothes Mr. Stryver had fitted on
the jury, inside out; showing how Barsad and Cly were even
a hundred times better than he had thought them, and the
prisoner a hundred times worse. Lastly, came my Lord him-
self, turning 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.
Mr. Carton, who had so long sat looking at the ceiling of
the court, changed neither his place nor his attitude, even in
this excitement. While his teamed friend, Mr. Stryver, mass-
ing his papers before him, whispered with those who sat
near, and from time to time glanced anxiously at the jury;
while all the spectators moved more or less, and grouped
themselves anew; while even my Lord himself arose from
his seat, and slowly paced up and down his platform, not
unattended by a suspicion in the minds of the audience that
his state was 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 fight on his head after its removal, his
hands in his pockets, and his eyes on the ceiling as they
had been all day. Something especially reckless in his de-
meanour, not only 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 have thought the two were so alike. Mr.
Cruncher made the observation to his next neighbour, and
added, ‘I’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?’
Yet, this Mr. Carton took in more of the details of the
scene than he appeared to take in; for now, when Miss Ma-
nette’s head dropped upon her father’s breast, he was the
first to see it, and to say audibly: ‘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 re-
moved, and much sympathy with her father. It had evidently
been a great distress to him, to have the days of his impris-
onment 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 had turned
back and paused a moment, spoke, through their foreman.
They were not agreed, and wished to retire. My Lord (per-
haps with George Washington on his mind) showed some
surprise that they were not agreed, but signified his pleasure
that they should retire under watch and ward, and retired
himself. The trial had lasted all day, and the lamps in the
court were now being lighted. It began to be rumoured that
the jury would be out a long while. The spectators dropped
off to get refreshment, and the prisoner withdrew to the
back of 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 slackened interest, could easily get near him.
‘Jerry, if you wish to take something to eat, you can. But,
keep in the way. You will be sure to hear when the jury come
in. Don’t be a moment behind them, for I want you to take
the verdict back to the bank. You are the quickest messen-
ger I know, and will get to Temple Bar long before I can.’
Jerry had just enough forehead to knuckle, and he
knuckled it in acknowedgment 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?’
‘She is greatly distressed; but her father is comforting
her, and she feels the better for being out of court.’
‘I’ll tell the prisoner so. It won’t do for a respectable bank
gentleman like you, to be seen speaking to him publicly, you
know.’
Mr. Lorry reddened as if he were conscious of having de-
bated the point in his mind, and Mr. Carton made his way
to the outside of the bar. The way out of court lay in that di-
rection, and Jerry followed him, all eyes, ears, and spikes.
‘Mr. Darnay!’
The prisoner came forward directly.
‘You will naturally be anxious to hear of the witness,
Miss Manette. 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?’
‘Yes, I could. I will, if you ask it.’
Mr. Carton’s manner was so careless as to be almost in-
solent. He stood, half turned from the prisoner, lounging
with his elbow against the bar.
‘I do ask it. Accept my cordial thanks.’
‘What,’ said Carton, still only half turned towards him,
‘do you expect, Mr. Darnay?’
‘The worst.’
‘It’s the wisest thing to expect, and the likeliest. But I
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-
rascal crowded passages below, even though assisted off
with mutton pies and ale. The hoarse messenger, uncom-
fortably seated on a form after taking that refection, 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!’ Mr. Lorry was already calling at the door
when he got there.
‘Here, sir! It’s a fight to get back again. Here I am, sir!’
Mr. Lorry handed him a paper through the throng.
‘Quick! Have you got it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Hastily written on the paper was the word ‘AQUIT-
TED.’
‘If you had sent the message, ‘Recalled to Life,’ again,’
muttered Jerry, as he turned, ‘I should have known what
you meant, this time.’
He had no opportunity of saying, or so much as think-
ing, anything else, until he was clear of the Old Bailey; for,
the crowd came pouring out with a vehemence that nearly
took him off his legs, and a loud buzz swept into the street
as if the baffled blue-flies were dispersing in search of other
carrion.

IV
Congratulatory
F rom the dimly-lighted passages of the court, the last

sediment of the human stew that had been boiling there
all day, was straining off, when Doctor Manette, Lucie Ma-
nette, his daughter, Mr. Lorry, the solicitor for the defence,
and its counsel, Mr. Stryver, stood gathered round Mr.
Charles Darnay—just released—congratulating him on his
escape from death.
It would have been difficult by a far brighter light, to
recognise in Doctor Manette, intellectual of face and up-
right of bearing, the shoemaker of the garret in Paris. Yet,
no one could have looked at him twice, without looking
again: even though the opportunity of observation had not
extended to the mournful cadence of his low grave voice,
and to the abstraction that overclouded him fitfully, with-
out 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 her hand, had a strong beneficial influ-
ence with him almost always. Not absolutely always, for she
could recall some occasions on which her power had failed;
but they were few and slight, and she believed them over.
Mr. Darnay had kissed her hand fervently and gratefully,
and had turned to Mr. Stryver, whom he warmly thanked.
Mr. Stryver, a man of little more than thirty, but looking
twenty years older than he was, stout, loud, red, bluff, and
free from any drawback of delicacy, had a pushing way of
shouldering himself (morally and physically) into compa-
nies and conversations, that argued well for his shouldering
his way up in life.
He still had his wig and gown on, and he said, squar-
ing himself at his late client to that degree that he squeezed
the innocent Mr. Lorry clean out of the group: ‘I am glad
to have brought you off with honour, Mr. 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, taking his hand.
‘I have done my best for you, Mr. Darnay; and my best is
as good as another man’s, I believe.’
It clearly being incumbent on some one to say, ‘Much

better,’ Mr. Lorry said it; perhaps not quite disinterested-
ly, but with the interested object of squeezing himself back
again.
‘You think so?’ said Mr. Stryver. ‘Well! 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 shouldered back into the group, just as
he had previously shouldered him out of it—‘as such I 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.’
‘I speak for myself,’ answered Mr. Lorry, ‘and for Mr.
Darnay, and for Miss Lucie, and—Miss Lucie, do you not
think I may speak for us all?’ He asked her the question
pointedly, and with a glance at her father.
His face had become frozen, as it were, in a very curi-
ous look at Darnay: an intent look, deepening into a frown
of dislike and distrust, not even unmixed with fear. With
this strange expression on him his thoughts 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?’
With a long breath, he answered ‘Yes.’
The friends of the acquitted prisoner had dispersed, un-
der 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 be-
ing closed with a jar and a rattle, and the dismal place was
deserted until to-morrow morning’s interest of gallows, pil-
lory, whipping-post, and branding-iron, should repeople it.
Walking 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
his 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 against 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.
‘So, Mr. Lorry! Men of business may speak to Mr. Dar-
nay 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, Mr. Darnay.’
Mr. Lorry reddened, and said, warmly, ‘You have men-
tioned that before, sir. We men of business, who serve a
House, are not our own masters. We have to think of the
House more than ourselves.’

‘I know, I know,’ rejoined Mr. Carton, carelessly. ‘Don’t
be nettled, Mr. Lorry. You are as good as another, I have no
doubt: better, I dare say.’
‘And indeed, sir,’ pursued Mr. Lorry, 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! Bless you, I have no business,’ said Mr. Car-
ton.
‘It is a pity you have not, sir.’
‘I think so, too.’
‘If you had,’ pursued Mr. Lorry, ‘perhaps you would at-
tend to it.’
‘Lord love you, no!—I shouldn’t,’ said Mr. Carton.
‘Well, sir!’ cried Mr. Lorry, thoroughly heated by his
indifference, ‘business is a very good thing, and a very re-
spectable thing. And, sir, if business imposes its restraints
and its silences and impediments, Mr. Darnay as a young
gentleman of generosity knows how to make allowance for
that circumstance. Mr. Darnay, good night, God bless you,
sir! I hope you have been this day preserved for a prosper-
ous and happy life.—Chair there!’
Perhaps a little angry with himself, as well as with the
barrister, Mr. 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 Dar-
nay:
‘This is a strange chance that throws you and me togeth-
er. This must be a strange night to you, standing alone here

with your counterpart on these street stones?’
‘I hardly seem yet,’ returned Charles Darnay, ‘to belong
to this world again.’
‘I don’t wonder at it; it’s not so long since you were pretty
far advanced on your way to another. You speak faintly.’
‘I begin to think I AM 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 well at.’
Drawing his arm through his own, he took him down
Ludgate-hill to Fleet-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 oppo-
site 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, yet, that you belong to this terrestrial
scheme again, Mr. Darnay?’
‘I am frightfully confused regarding time and place; but
I am so far mended as to feel that.’
‘It must be an immense satisfaction!’
He said it bitterly, and filled up his glass again: which was
a large one.
‘As to me, the greatest desire I 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 particu-
lar. Indeed, I begin to think we are not much alike in any
particular, you and I.’

Confused by the emotion of the day, and feeling his be-
ing 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, ‘why
don’t you call a health, Mr. Darnay; why don’t you give your
toast?’
‘What health? What toast?’
‘Why, it’s on the tip of your tongue. It ought to be, it must
be, I’ll swear it’s there.’
‘Miss Manette, then!’
‘Miss Manette, then!’
Looking his companion full in the face while he drank
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 lady to hand to a coach in the dark,
Mr. Darnay!’ he said, ruing his new goblet.
A slight frown and a laconic ‘Yes,’ were the answer.
‘That’s a fair young lady to be pitied by and wept for by!
How does it feel? Is it worth being tried for one’s life, to be
the object of such sympathy and compassion, Mr. Darnay?’
Again Darnay answered not a word.
‘She was mightily pleased to have your message, when I
gave it her. Not that she showed she was pleased, but I sup-
pose she was.’
The allusion served as a timely reminder to Darnay that
this disagreeable companion had, of his own free will, as-
sisted him in the strait of the day. He turned the dialogue to

that point, and thanked him for it.
‘I neither want any thanks, nor merit any,’ was the care-
less rejoinder. ‘It was nothing to do, in the first place; and I
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?’
‘Really, Mr. Carton,’ returned the other, oddly discon-
certed, ‘I have not asked myself the question.’
‘But ask yourself the question now.’
‘You have acted as if you do; but I don’t think you do.’
‘I don’t think I 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, I 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 same
wine, drawer, and come and wake me at ten.’
The bill being paid, Charles Darnay rose and wished him
good night. Without returning the wish, Carton rose too,
with something of a threat of defiance in his manner, and
said, ‘A last word, Mr. Darnay: you think I am drunk?’
‘I think you have been drinking, Mr. Carton.’
‘Think? You know I have been drinking.’
‘Since I must say so, I know it.’
‘Then you shall likewise know why. I am a disappointed

drudge, sir. I care for no man on earth, and no man on earth
cares for me.’
‘Much to be regretted. You might have used your talents
better.’
‘May be so, Mr. Darnay; may be not. Don’t let your sober
face 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 can-
dle, went to a glass that hung against the wall, and surveyed
himself minutely in it.
‘Do you particularly like the man?’ he muttered, at his
own image; ‘why should you particularly like a man who re-
sembles you? There is nothing in you to like; you know that.
Ah, confound you! What a change you have made in your-
self! A good reason for taking to a man, that he shows you
what you have fallen away from, and what you might have
been! 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.’
He resorted to his pint of wine for consolation, drank it
all in a few minutes, and fell asleep on his arms, with his
hair straggling over the table, and a long winding-sheet in
the candle dripping down upon him.

V
The Jackal
T hose 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 ridic-
ulous exaggeration. The learned profession of the law was
certainly not behind any other learned profession in its
Bacchanalian propensities; neither was 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 long-
ing arms; 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 com-
panions.
It had once been noted at the Bar, that while Mr. Stryver
was a glib man, and an unscrupulous, and a ready, and a
bold, he had not that faculty of extracting the essence from
a heap of statements, which is among the most striking and
necessary of the advocate’s accomplishments. But, a re-
markable 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 he
sat carousing with Sydney Carton, he always had his points
at his fingers’ ends in the morning.
Sydney Carton, idlest and most unpromising of men,
was Stryver’s great ally. What the two drank together, be-
tween 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 he
had charged to wake him—‘ten o’clock, sir.’
‘WHAT’S the matter?’

‘Ten o’clock, sir.’
‘What do you mean? Ten o’clock at night?’
‘Yes, sir. Your honour told me to call you.’
‘Oh! I 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 conferenc-
es, had gone home, and the Stryver principal opened the
door. He had his slippers on, and a loose bed-gown, and
his throat was bare for his greater ease. He had that rather
wild, strained, seared marking about the eyes, which may
be observed in all free livers of his class, from the portrait of
Jeffries downward, and which can be traced, under various
disguises of Art, through the portraits of every Drinking
Age.
‘You are a little late, Memory,’ said Stryver.
‘About the usual time; it may be a quarter of an hour lat-
er.’
They went into a dingy room lined with books and lit-
tered with papers, where there was a blazing fire. A kettle
steamed upon the hob, and in the midst of the wreck of pa-
pers a table shone, with plenty of wine upon it, and brandy,
and rum, and sugar, and lemons.
‘You have had your bottle, I perceive, Sydney.’
‘Two to-night, I think. I 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. How did you come by it? When did
it strike you?’
‘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 his precocious
paunch.
‘You and your luck, Sydney! Get to work, get to work.’
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!’
‘Not much boiling down to be done to-night, Memory,’
said Mr. Stryver, gaily, as he looked among his papers.
‘How much?’
‘Only two sets of them.’
‘Give me the worst first.’
‘There they are, Sydney. Fire away!’
The lion then composed himself on his back on a sofa on
one side of the drinking-table, while the jackal sat at his 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 waist-
band, looking at the fire, or occasionally flirting with some

lighter document; the jackal, with knitted brows and intent
face, so deep in his task, that his eyes did not even follow
the hand he stretched out for his glass—which often 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
headgear as no words can describe; which were made the
more ludicrous by his anxious 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 mediate. The jackal then
invigorated himself with a bum for his throttle, and a fresh
application to his head, and applied himself to the collec-
tion 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 again, shook himself, yawned, shivered, and
complied.
‘You were very sound, Sydney, in the matter of those
crown witnesses to-day. Every question told.’
‘I always am sound; am I not?’

‘I don’t gainsay it. What has roughened your temper? Put
some punch to it and smooth it again.’
With a deprecatory grunt, the jackal 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 next; now in spirits and now in de-
spondency!’
‘Ah!’ returned the other, sighing: ‘yes! The same Syd-
ney, with the same luck. Even then, I did exercises for other
boys, and seldom did my own.
‘And why not?’
‘God knows. It was my way, I suppose.’
He sat, with his hands in his pockets and his legs stretched
out before him, looking at the fire.
‘Carton,’ said his friend, squaring himself at him with
a bullying air, as if the fire-grate had been the furnace in
which sustained endeavour was forged, and the one delicate
thing to be done for the old Sydney Carton of old Shrews-
bury School was to shoulder him into it, ‘your way is, and
always was, a lame way. You summon no energy and pur-
pose. Look at me.’
‘Oh, botheration!’ returned Sydney, with a lighter and
more goodhumoured laugh, ‘don’t YOU be moral!’
‘How have I done what I have done?’ said Stryver; ‘how
do I do what I do?’
‘Partly 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.’
‘I had to get into the front rank; I was not born there,
was I?’
‘I was not present at the ceremony; but my opinion is you
were,’ 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 I have fallen into mine. Even when we were fel-
low-students in the Student-Quarter of Paris, picking up
French, and French law, and other French crumbs that we
didn’t get much good of, you were always somewhere, and I
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 pass-
ing, to that restless degree that I 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 breaking. Turn me in
some other direction before I go.’
‘Well then! Pledge me to the pretty witness,’ said Stryver,
holding up his glass. ‘Are you turned in a pleasant direc-
tion?’
Apparently not, for he 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 Manette.’
‘SHE pretty?’

‘Is she not?’
‘No.’
‘Why, man alive, she was the admiration of the whole
Court!’
‘Rot the admiration of the whole Court! Who made
the Old Bailey a judge of beauty? She was a golden-haired
doll!’
‘Do you know, Sydney,’ said Mr. Stryver, looking at him
with sharp eyes, and slowly drawing a hand across his florid
face: ‘do you know, 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?’
‘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-glass. I pledge you, but I deny the
beauty. And now I’ll have no more drink; I’ll 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 he 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 desert.
And wreaths of dust were spinning round and round before
the morning blast, as if the desert-sand had risen far away,
and the first spray of it in its advance had begun to over-
whelm 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
which the fruits of life hung ripening, waters of Hope that
sparkled in his sight. A moment, and it was gone. Climb-
ing 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, inca-
pable 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.

VI
Hundreds of People
T he quiet lodgings of Doctor Manette were in a quiet

street-corner not far from Soho-square. On the after-
noon of a certain fine Sunday when the waves of four months
had roiled over the trial for treason, and carried it, as to the
public interest and memory, far out to sea, Mr. Jarvis Lorry
walked along the sunny streets from Clerkenwell where he
lived, on his way to dine with the Doctor. After several re-
lapses into business-absorption, Mr. Lorry had become the
Doctor’s friend, and the quiet street-corner was the sunny
part of his life.
On this certain fine Sunday, Mr. Lorry walked towards
Soho, early in the afternoon, for three reasons of habit.
Firstly, because, on fine Sundays, he often walked out, be-
fore dinner, with the Doctor and Lucie; secondly, because,
on unfavourable Sundays, he was accustomed to be with
them as the family friend, talking, reading, looking out of
window, and generally getting through the day; thirdly, be-
cause he happened to have his 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 where the Doctor
lived, was not to be found in London. There was no way
through it, and the front windows of the Doctor’s lodg-
ings commanded a pleasant little vista of street 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 circu-
lated in Soho with vigorous freedom, instead of languishing
into the parish like 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 the streets grew hot,
the corner was in shadow, though not in shadow so remote
but that you could see beyond it into a glare of brightness.
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 tranquil bark in such an an-
chorage, and there was. The Doctor occupied two floors of
a large stiff house, where several callings purported to be
pursued by day, but whereof little was audible any day, and
which was shunned by all of them at night. In a building
at the back, attainable by a courtyard 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 pre-
cious, 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. Occa-
sionally, a stray workman putting his coat on, traversed the
hall, or a stranger peered about there, or a distant clink was
heard across the courtyard, or a thump from the golden gi-
ant. These, however, 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
own way from Sunday morning unto Saturday night.
Doctor Manette received such patients here as his old
reputation, and its revival in the floating whispers of his sto-
ry, brought him. His 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?’
Expected home.
‘Miss Pross at home?’
Possibly at home, but of a certainty impossible for hand-
maid to anticipate intentions of Miss Pross, as to admission
or denial of the fact.
‘As I 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 char-
acteristics. 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 ev-
erything in the rooms, from the largest object to the least;
the arrangement of colours, the elegant variety and contrast
obtained by thrift in trifles, by delicate hands, clear eyes,
and good sense; were at 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?
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 all, Mr. Lorry, smilingly
observant of that fanciful resemblance which he detected
all around him, walked from one to another. The 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 rus-
tle 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 had stood on the fifth floor of
the dismal house by the wine-shop, in the suburb of Saint
Antoine in Paris.

‘I wonder,’ said Mr. Lorry, pausing in his looking about,
‘that he keeps that reminder of his sufferings about him!’
‘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 first made at the
Royal George Hotel at Dover, and had since improved.
‘I should have thought—’ Mr. Lorry began.
‘Pooh! You’d have thought!’ said Miss Pross; and Mr.
Lorry left off.
‘How do you do?’ inquired that lady then—sharply, and
yet as if to express that she bore him no malice.
‘I am pretty well, I thank you,’ answered Mr. Lorry, with
meekness; ‘how are you?’
‘Nothing to boast of,’ said Miss Pross.
‘Indeed?’
‘Ah! indeed!’ said Miss Pross. ‘I 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?’ said Mr. Lorry, as an amendment.
‘Really, is bad enough,’ returned Miss Pross, ‘but better.
Yes, I am very much put out.’
‘May I ask the cause?’
‘I don’t want dozens of people who are not at all wor-
thy of Ladybird, to come here looking after her,’ said Miss
Pross.

‘DO dozens come for that purpose?’
‘Hundreds,’ said Miss Pross.
It was characteristic of this lady (as of some other people
before her time and since) that whenever her original prop-
osition was questioned, she exaggerated it.
‘Dear me!’ 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 nev-
er 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 fairy cloak that would fit anything.
‘All sorts of people who are not in the least degree worthy
of the pet, are always turning up,’ said Miss Pross. ‘When
you began it—’
‘I began it, Miss Pross?’
‘Didn’t you? Who brought her father to life?’
‘Oh! If THAT was beginning it—’ said Mr. Lorry.
‘It wasn’t ending it, I suppose? I say, when you began it, it
was hard enough; not that I have any fault to find with Doc-
tor Manette, except that he is not worthy of such a daughter,
which is no imputation on him, for it was not to be expect-
ed that anybody should be, under any circumstances. But it
really is doubly and trebly hard to have crowds and multi-
tudes 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 service 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 accomplishments that
they were never fortunate enough to gain, to bright hopes
that never shone upon their own sombre lives. He knew
enough of the world to know that there is nothing in it bet-
ter than the faithful service of the heart; so rendered and
so free from any mercenary taint, he had 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 An-
gels than many ladies immeasurably better got up both by
Nature and Art, who had balances at Tellson’s.
‘There never was, nor will be, but one man worthy of La-
dybird,’ 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 per-
sonal history had established the fact that her brother
Solomon was a heartless scoundrel who had stripped her 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 Sol-
omon (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 shoemaking time, yet?’
‘Never.’
‘And yet keeps that bench and those tools beside him?’
‘Ah!’ returned Miss Pross, shaking her head. ‘But I don’t
say he don’t refer to it within himself.’
‘Do you believe that he thinks of it much?’
‘I do,’ said Miss Pross.
‘Do you imagine—’ Mr. Lorry had begun, when Miss
Pross took him up short with:
‘Never imagine anything. Have no imagination at all.’
‘I stand corrected; do you suppose—you go so far as to
suppose, sometimes?’
‘Now and then,’ said Miss Pross.
‘Do you suppose,’ Mr. Lorry went on, with a laughing
twinkle in his bright eye, as it looked kindly at her, ‘that
Doctor Manette has any theory of his own, preserved
through all those years, relative to the cause of his being so
oppressed; perhaps, even to the name of his oppressor?’
‘I don’t suppose anything about it but what Ladybird tells
me.’
‘And that is—?’
‘That she thinks he has.’
‘Now don’t be angry at my 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.
Rather wishing his modest adjective away, Mr. Lorry re-
plied, ‘No, no, no. Surely not. To return to business:—Is it
not remarkable that Doctor Manette, unquestionably inno-
cent of any crime as we are all 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; I will say with the fair daughter to
whom he is so devotedly attached, and who is so devotedly
attached to him? Believe me, Miss Pross, I don’t approach
the topic with you, out of curiosity, but out of zealous in-
terest.’
‘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, ‘he is afraid of the whole subject.’
‘Afraid?’
‘It’s plain enough, I should think, why he may be. It’s
a dreadful remembrance. Besides that, 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 pleas-
ant, I should think.’
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 Doc-
tor Manette to have that suppression always shut up within
him. Indeed, it is this doubt and the uneasiness it some-
times causes me that has led me to our present confidence.’
‘Can’t be helped,’ said Miss Pross, shaking her head.

‘Touch that string, and he instantly changes for the worse.
Better leave it alone. In 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, walk-
ing up and down, in his old prison. She hurries to him, and
they go on together, walking up and down, walking up and
down, until he is composed. But he never says a 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, till her love
and company have brought him to himself.’
Notwithstanding Miss Pross’s denial of her own imag-
ination, there was a perception of the pain of being
monotonously haunted by one sad idea, in her repetition
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 with 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 thank-
ing her, and protesting against her taking so much trouble
for her—which 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, looking on
at them, and telling Miss Pross how she spoilt Lucie, in ac-
cents and with eyes that had as much spoiling in them as
Miss Pross had, and would have had more if it were pos-
sible. 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 Hun-
dreds of people came to see the sights, and Mr. Lorry looked
in vain for the fulfilment of Miss Pross’s prediction.
Dinner-time, and still no Hundreds of people. In the ar-
rangements of the little household, Miss Pross took charge
of the lower regions, and always acquitted herself marvel-

lously. Her dinners, of a very modest quality, were so well
cooked and so well served, and so neat in their contriv-
ances, half English and half French, that nothing could
be better. Miss Pross’s friendship being of the thoroughly
practical kind, she had ravaged Soho and the adjacent prov-
inces, in search of impoverished 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
Sorceress, or Cinderella’s 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 Sundays, Miss Pross dined at the Doctor’s table, but
on other days persisted in taking her meals at unknown pe-
riods, 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 exceedingly; so the dinner was
very pleasant, too.
It was an oppressive day, and, after dinner, Lucie pro-
posed that the wine should be carried out under the
plane-tree, and they should sit there in the air. As every-
thing 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 Mr. 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 replen-

ished. Mysterious backs and ends of houses peeped at them
as they talked, and the plane-tree whispered to them in its
own way above their heads.
Still, the Hundreds of people did not present themselves.
Mr. Darnay presented himself while they were sitting under
the plane-tree, but he was only One.
Doctor Manette received him kindly, and so did Lucie.
But, Miss Pross suddenly became afflicted 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 spe-
cially young. The resemblance 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
unusual vivacity. ‘Pray, Doctor Manette,’ said Mr. Darnay,
as they sat under the plane-tree—and he said it in the natu-
ral pursuit of the topic in hand, which happened to be the
old buildings of London—‘have you seen much of the Tow-
er?’
‘Lucie and I have been there; but only casually. We have
seen enough of it, to know that it teems with interest; little
more.’
‘I have been there, as you remember,’ said Darnay, with
a smile, though reddening a little angrily, ‘in another char-
acter, 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 by
inscriptions which had been carved by prisoners—dates,
names, complaints, and prayers. Upon a corner stone in an
angle of the wall, one prisoner, who seemed to have gone
to execution, had cut as his last work, three letters. They
were done with some very poor instrument, and hurriedly,
with an unsteady hand. At first, they were read 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 prison-
er with those initials, and many fruitless guesses were made
what the name could have been. At length, it was suggest-
ed that the letters were not initials, but the complete word,
DiG. The floor was examined very carefully under the in-
scription, and, in the earth beneath a stone, or tile, or some
fragment of paving, were found the ashes of a paper, min-
gled 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. Rain 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 ref-
erence 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 same singular look that had
been upon it when it turned towards him in the passages of
the Court House.
He recovered himself so quickly, however, that Mr. Lorry
had doubts of his business eye. The arm of the golden gi-
ant in the hall 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. Car-
ton 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 overpowered by heat.
When the tea-table was done with, they all moved to one of
the windows, and looked out into the heavy twilight. Lu-
cie sat by her father; Darnay sat beside her; Carton leaned
against a window. The curtains were long and white, and
some of the thunder-gusts that whirled into the corner,
caught them up to the ceiling, and waved them like spec-
tral wings.
‘The rain-drops are still falling, large, heavy, and few,’
said Doctor Manette. ‘It comes slowly.’
‘It comes surely,’ said Carton.
They spoke low, as people watching and waiting most-

ly 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!’ said Darnay,
when they had listened for a while.
‘Is it not impressive, Mr. Darnay?’ asked Lucie. ‘Some-
times, I have sat here of an evening, until I have fancied—but
even the shade of a foolish fancy makes me shudder to-
night, when all is so black and solemn—’
‘Let us shudder too. We may know what it is.’
‘It will seem nothing to you. Such whims are only im-
pressive as we originate them, I think; they are not to be
communicated. I have sometimes sat alone here of an eve-
ning, listening, until I have made the echoes out to be the
echoes of all the footsteps that are coming by-and-bye into
our lives.’
‘There is a great crowd coming one day into our lives, if
that be so,’ Sydney Carton struck in, in his moody way.
The footsteps were incessant, and the hurry of them
became more and more rapid. The corner echoed and re-
echoed with the tread of feet; some, as it seemed, under the
windows; some, as it seemed, in the room; some coming,
some 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, Miss
Manette, or are we to divide them among us?’

‘I don’t know, Mr. Darnay; I told you it was a foolish fan-
cy, but you asked for it. When I have yielded myself to it, I
have been alone, and then I have imagined them the foot-
steps of the people who are to come into my life, and my
father’s.’
‘I 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 I see them—by the Light-
ning.’ He added the last words, after there had been a vivid
flash which had shown him lounging in the window.
‘And I hear them!’ he added again, after a peal of thun-
der. ‘Here they come, fast, fierce, and furious!’
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 striking one in the
cleared air, when Mr. Lorry, escorted by Jerry, high-boot-
ed and bearing a lantern, set forth on his return-passage to
Clerkenwell. There were solitary patches of road on the way
between Soho and Clerkenwell, and Mr. Lorry, mindful of
foot-pads, always retained Jerry for this service: though it
was usually performed a good two hours earlier.
‘What a night it has been! Almost a night, Jerry,’ said Mr.
Lorry, ‘to bring the dead out of their graves.’
‘I never see the night myself, master—nor yet I don’t ex-
pect to— 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
rush and roar, bearing down upon them, too.

VII
Monseigneur in Town
M onseigneur, one of the great lords in power at the

Court, held his fortnightly reception in his grand
hotel in Paris. Monseigneur was in his inner room, his sanc-
tuary of sanctuaries, the Holiest of Holiests to the crowd of
worshippers in the suite of rooms without. Monseigneur
was about to take his chocolate. Monseigneur could swal-
low a great many things with ease, and was by some few
sullen minds supposed to be rather rapidly swallowing
France; but, his morning’s chocolate could not so much as
get into the throat of Monseigneur, without the aid of four
strong men besides the Cook.
Yes. It took four men, all four ablaze with gorgeous dec-
oration, and the Chief of them unable to exist with fewer
than two gold watches in his pocket, emulative of the no-
ble and chaste fashion set by Monseigneur, to conduct the
happy chocolate to Monseigneur’s lips. One lacquey carried
the chocolate-pot into the sacred presence; a second, milled
and frothed the chocolate with the little instrument he 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 attendants 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 two.
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 fascinating company. So polite and so impress-
ible was Monseigneur, that the Comedy and the Grand
Opera had far more influence with him in the tiresome ar-
ticles of state affairs and state secrets, than the needs of all
France. A happy circumstance for France, as the like always
is for all countries similarly favoured!—always was for Eng-
land (by way of example), in the regretted days of the merry
Stuart who sold 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—tend to his own
power and pocket. Of his pleasures, general and particular,
Monseigneur had the other truly noble idea, that the world
was made for them. The text of his order (altered from the
original by only a pronoun, which is not much) ran: ‘The
earth and the fulness thereof are mine, saith Monseigneur.’
Yet, Monseigneur had slowly found that vulgar embar-
rassments crept into his affairs, both private and public;
and he had, as to both classes of affairs, allied himself per-
force with a Farmer-General. As to finances public, because
Monseigneur could not make anything at all of them, and

must consequently let them out to somebody who could; as
to finances private, because Farmer-Generals were rich, and
Monseigneur, after generations of great luxury and expense,
was growing poor. Hence Monseigneur had taken his sister
from a convent, while there was yet time to ward off the im-
pending veil, the cheapest garment she could wear, and had
bestowed her as a prize upon a very rich Farmer-General,
poor in family. Which Farmer-General, carrying an appro-
priate cane with a golden apple on the top of it, was now
among the company in the outer rooms, much prostrated
before by mankind—always excepting superior mankind
of the blood of Monseigneur, who, his own wife included,
looked down upon him with the loftiest contempt.
A sumptuous man was the Farmer-General. Thirty hors-
es stood in his stables, twenty-four male domestics sat in
his halls, six body-women waited on his wife. As one who
pretended to do nothing but plunder and forage where he
could, the Farmer-General—howsoever his matrimonial
relations conduced to social morality—was at least the
greatest reality among the personages who attended at the
hotel of Monseigneur that day.
For, the rooms, though a beautiful scene to look at, and
adorned with every device of decoration that the taste and
skill of the time could achieve, were, in truth, not a sound
business; considered with any reference to the scarecrows
in the rags and nightcaps elsewhere (and not so far off, ei-
ther, but that the watching towers of Notre Dame, almost
equidistant from the two extremes, could see them both),
they would have been an exceedingly uncomfortable busi-

ness—if that could have been anybody’s business, at the
house of Monseigneur. Military officers destitute of mili-
tary knowledge; naval officers with no idea of a ship; civil
officers without a notion of affairs; brazen ecclesiastics, of
the worst world worldly, with sensual eyes, loose tongues,
and looser lives; all totally unfit for their several callings, all
lying horribly in pretending to belong to them, but all near-
ly or remotely of the order of Monseigneur, and therefore
foisted on all public employments from which anything was
to be got; these were to be told off by the score and the score.
People not immediately connected with Monseigneur or
the State, yet equally unconnected with anything that was
real, or with lives passed in travelling by any straight road
to any true earthly end, were no less abundant. Doctors
who made great fortunes out of dainty remedies for imagi-
nary disorders that never existed, smiled upon their courtly
patients in the ante-chambers of Monseigneur. Projectors
who had discovered every kind of remedy for the little evils
with which the State was touched, except the remedy of set-
ting to work in earnest to root out a single sin, poured their
distracting babble into any ears they could lay hold of, at
the reception of Monseigneur. Unbelieving Philosophers
who were remodelling the world with words, and making
card-towers of Babel to scale the skies with, talked with
Unbelieving Chemists who had an eye on the transmuta-
tion of metals, at this wonderful gathering accumulated by
Monseigneur. Exquisite gentlemen of the finest breeding,
which was at that remarkable time—and has been since—to
be known by its fruits of indifference to every natural sub-

ject of human interest, were in the most exemplary state of
exhaustion, at the hotel of Monseigneur. Such homes had
these various notabilities left behind them in the fine world
of Paris, that the spies among the assembled devotees of
Monseigneur—forming a goodly half of the polite compa-
ny—would have found it hard to discover among the angels
of that sphere one solitary wife, who, in her manners and
appearance, owned to being a Mother. Indeed, except for
the mere act of bringing a troublesome creature into this
world— which does not go far towards the realisation of
the name of mother— there was no such thing known to
the fashion. Peasant women kept the unfashionable babies
close, and brought them up, and charming grandmammas
of sixty dressed and supped as at twenty.
The leprosy of unreality disfigured every human crea-
ture in attendance upon Monseigneur. In the outermost
room were half a dozen exceptional people who had had,
for a few years, some vague misgiving in them that things
in general were going rather wrong. As a promising way of
setting them right, half of the half-dozen had become mem-
bers of a fantastic sect of Convulsionists, and were even
then considering within themselves whether they should
foam, rage, roar, and turn cataleptic on the spot—thereby
setting up a highly intelligible finger-post to the Future, for
Monseigneur’s guidance. Besides these Dervishes, were oth-
er three who had rushed into another sect, which mended
matters with a jargon about ‘the Centre of Truth:’ holding
that Man had got out of the Centre of Truth—which did
not need much demonstration—but had not got out of 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, by fasting and seeing of spirits. Among these,
accordingly, much discoursing with spirits went on—and it
did a world of good which never became manifest.
But, the comfort was, that all the company at the grand
hotel of Monseigneur were perfectly dressed. If the Day
of Judgment had only been ascertained to be a dress day,
everybody there would have been eternally correct. Such
frizzling and powdering and sticking up of hair, such deli-
cate complexions artificially preserved and mended, such
gallant swords to look at, and such delicate honour to the
sense of smell, would surely keep anything going, for ever
and ever. The exquisite gentlemen of the finest breeding
wore little pendent trinkets that chinked as they languidly
moved; these golden fetters rang like precious little bells;
and what with that ringing, and with the rustle of silk and
brocade and fine linen, there was a flutter in the air that
fanned Saint Antoine and his devouring hunger far away.
Dress was the one unfailing talisman and charm used for
keeping all things in their places. Everybody was dressed
for a Fancy Ball that was never to leave off. From the Pal-
ace of the Tuileries, through Monseigneur and the whole
Court, through the Chambers, the Tribunals of Justice,
and all society (except the scarecrows), the Fancy Ball de-
scended to the Common Executioner: who, in pursuance
of the charm, was required to officiate ‘frizzled, powdered,
in a gold-laced coat, pumps, and white silk stockings.’ At
the gallows and the wheel—the axe was a rarity—Monsieur

Paris, as it was the episcopal mode among his brother Pro-
fessors of the provinces, Monsieur Orleans, and the rest, to
call him, presided in this dainty dress. And who among the
company at Monseigneur’s reception in that seventeen hun-
dred and eightieth year of our Lord, could possibly doubt,
that a system rooted in a frizzled hangman, powdered,
gold-laced, pumped, and white-silk stockinged, would see
the very stars out!
Monseigneur having eased his four men of their burdens
and taken his chocolate, caused the doors of the Holiest of
Holiests to be thrown open, and issued forth. Then, what
submission, what cringing and fawning, what servility,
what abject humiliation! As to bowing down in body and
spirit, nothing in that way was left for Heaven—which may
have been one among other reasons why the worshippers of
Monseigneur never troubled it.
Bestowing a word of promise here and a smile there, a
whisper on one happy slave and a wave of the hand on an-
other, Monseigneur affably passed through his rooms to the
remote region of the Circumference of Truth. There, Mon-
seigneur turned, and came back again, and so in due course
of time got himself shut up in his sanctuary by the chocolate
sprites, and was seen no more.
The show being over, the flutter in the air became quite a
little storm, and the precious little bells went ringing down-
stairs. There was soon but one person left of all the crowd,
and he, with his hat under his arm and his snuff-box in his
hand, slowly passed among the mirrors on his way out.
‘I devote you,’ said this person, stopping at the last door

on his way, and turning in the direction of the sanctuary,
‘to the Devil!’
With that, he shook the snuff from his fingers as if he had
shaken the dust from his feet, and quietly walked down-
stairs.
He was a man of about sixty, handsomely dressed,
haughty in manner, and with a face like a fine mask. A face
of a transparent paleness; every feature in it clearly defined;
one set expression on it. The nose, beautifully formed oth-
erwise, was very slightly pinched at the top of each nostril.
In those two compressions, or dints, the only little change
that the face ever showed, resided. They persisted in chang-
ing colour sometimes, and they would be occasionally
dilated and contracted by something like a faint pulsation;
then, they gave a look of treachery, and cruelty, to the whole
countenance. Examined with attention, its capacity of help-
ing 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 of the face made, it was a hand-
some face, and a remarkable one.
Its owner went downstairs into the courtyard, got into his
carriage, and drove away. Not many people had talked with
him at the reception; he had stood in a little space apart, and
Monseigneur might have been warmer in his manner. It ap-
peared, under the circumstances, rather agreeable to him
to see the common people dispersed before his horses, and
often barely escaping from being run down. His man drove
as if he were charging an enemy, and the furious reckless-
ness of the man brought no check into the face, or to the

lips, of the master. The complaint had sometimes made it-
self audible, even in that deaf city and dumb age, that, in
the narrow streets without footways, the fierce patrician
custom of hard driving endangered and maimed the mere
vulgar in a barbarous manner. But, few cared enough 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 abandon-
ment of consideration not easy to be understood in these
days, the carriage dashed through streets and swept round
corners, with women screaming before it, and men clutch-
ing 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 cry 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 behind, and why not?
But the frightened valet had got down in a hurry, and there
were twenty hands at the horses’ bridles.
‘What has gone wrong?’ said Monsieur, calmly looking
out.
A tall man in a nightcap had caught up a bundle from
among the feet of the horses, and had laid it on the base-
ment of the fountain, and was down in the mud and wet,
howling over it like a wild animal.
‘Pardon, Monsieur the Marquis!’ said a ragged and sub-
missive man, ‘it is a child.’

‘Why does he make that abominable noise? Is it his
child?’
‘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 Marquis clapped his
hand for an instant on his sword-hilt.
‘Killed!’ shrieked the man, in wild desperation, extend-
ing both arms at their length above his head, and staring at
him. ‘Dead!’
The people closed 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. Neither did the people say
anything; after the first cry, they had been silent, and they
remained so. The voice of the submissive man who had spo-
ken, 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 can-
not take care of yourselves and your children. One or the
other of you is for ever in the, way. How do I know what in-
jury 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 un-
earthly cry, ‘Dead!’

He was arrested by the quick arrival of another man,
for whom the rest made way. On seeing him, the misera-
ble creature fell upon his shoulder, sobbing and crying, and
pointing to the fountain, where some women were stoop-
ing over the motionless bundle, and moving gently about it.
They were as silent, however, as the men.
‘I 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, you there,’ said the, Marquis,
smiling. ‘How do they call you?’
‘They call me Defarge.’
‘Of what trade?’
‘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
accidentally broke some common thing, and had paid for it,
and could afford to pay for it; when his ease was suddenly
disturbed by a coin flying into his carriage, and ringing on
its floor.
‘Hold!’ said Monsieur the Marquis. ‘Hold the horses!
Who threw that?’
He looked to the spot where Defarge the vendor of wine
had stood, a moment before; but the wretched father was

grovelling on his face on the pavement in that spot, and the
figure that stood beside him was the figure of a dark stout
woman, knitting.
‘You dogs!’ said the Marquis, but smoothly, and with
an unchanged front, except as to the spots on his nose: ‘I
would ride over any of you very willingly, and exterminate
you from the earth. If I knew which rascal threw at the car-
riage, and if that brigand were sufficiently near it, he should
be crushed under the wheels.’
So cowed was their condition, and so long and 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
was raised. Among the men, not one. But the woman who
stood knitting looked up steadily, and looked the Marquis
in the face. It was not for his dignity to notice it; his con-
temptuous 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 whirling by
in quick succession; the Minister, the State-Projector, the
Farmer-General, the Doctor, the Lawyer, the Ecclesiastic,
the Grand Opera, the Comedy, the whole Fancy Ball in
a bright continuous flow, came whirling by. The rats had
crept out of their holes to look on, and they remained look-
ing on for hours; soldiers and police often passing between
them and the spectacle, and making a barrier behind which
they slunk, and through which they peeped. The father had
long ago taken up his bundle and bidden himself away with
it, when the women who had tended the bundle while it lay

on the base of the fountain, sat there watching the running
of the water and the rolling of the Fancy Ball—when the one
woman who had stood conspicuous, knitting, still knitted
on with the steadfastness of Fate. The water of the fountain
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 waited for no man, the rats were sleeping close together
in their dark holes again, the Fancy Ball was lighted up at
supper, all things ran their course.

VIII
Monseigneur in the Country
A beautiful landscape, with the corn bright in it, but not

abundant. Patches of poor rye where corn should have
been, patches of poor peas and beans, patches of most coarse
vegetable substitutes for wheat. On inanimate nature, as on
the men and women who cultivated it, a prevalent tendency
towards an appearance of vegetating unwillingly—a deject-
ed disposition to give up, and wither away.
Monsieur the Marquis in his travelling carriage (which
might have been lighter), conducted by four post-horses and
two postilions, fagged up a steep hill. A blush on the coun-
tenance of Monsieur the Marquis was no impeachment of
his high breeding; it was not from within; it was occasioned
by an external circumstance beyond his control—the set-
ting sun.
The sunset struck so brilliantly into the travelling car-
riage when it gained the hill-top, that its occupant was
steeped in crimson. ‘It will die out,’ said Monsieur the Mar-
quis, glancing at his hands, ‘directly.’
In effect, the sun was so low that it dipped at the mo-
ment. When the heavy drag had been adjusted to the wheel,

and the carriage slid down hill, with a cinderous smell, in
a cloud of dust, the red glow departed quickly; 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 churchtower, a windmill, a forest for the chase,
and a crag with a fortress on it used as a prison. Round
upon all these darkening objects as the night drew on, the
Marquis looked, with the air of one who was coming near
home.
The village had its one poor street, with its poor brew-
ery, poor tannery, poor tavern, poor stable-yard for relays of
post-horses, poor fountain, all usual poor appointments. It
had its poor people too. All its people were poor, and many
of them were sitting at their doors, shredding spare onions
and the like for supper, while many were at the fountain,
washing leaves, and grasses, and any such small yieldings of
the earth that could be eaten. Expressive sips of what made
them poor, were not wanting; the tax for the state, the tax
for the church, the tax for the lord, tax local and tax general,
were to be paid here and to be paid there, according to sol-
emn inscription 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 pros-
pect—Life on the lowest terms that could sustain it, down
in the little village under the mill; or captivity and Death in
the dominant prison on the crag.

Heralded by a courier in advance, and by the cracking
of his postilions’ whips, which twined snake-like about
their heads in the evening air, as if he came attended by the
Furies, Monsieur the Marquis drew up in his travelling car-
riage at the posting-house gate. It was hard by the fountain,
and the peasants suspended their operations to look at him.
He looked at them, and saw in them, without knowing it,
the slow sure filing down of misery-worn face and figure,
that was to make the meagreness of Frenchmen an English
superstition which should survive the truth through the
best part of a hundred years.
Monsieur the Marquis cast his eyes over the submissive
faces that drooped before him, as the like of himself had
drooped before Monseigneur of the Court—only the differ-
ence was, that these faces drooped merely to suffer and not
to propitiate—when a grizzled mender of the roads joined
the group.
‘Bring me hither that fellow!’ said the Marquis to the
courier.
The fellow was brought, cap in hand, and the other fel-
lows closed round to look and listen, in the manner of the
people at the Paris fountain.
‘I passed you on the road?’
‘Monseigneur, it is true. I had the honour of being passed
on the road.’
‘Coming up the hill, and at the top of the hill, both?’
‘Monseigneur, it is true.’
‘What did you look at, so fixedly?’
‘Monseigneur, I looked at the man.’

He stooped a little, and with his tattered blue cap point-
ed under the carriage. All his fellows stooped to look under
the carriage.
‘What man, pig? And why look there?’
‘Pardon, Monseigneur; he swung by the chain of the
shoe—the drag.’
‘Who?’ demanded the traveller.
‘Monseigneur, the man.’
‘May the Devil carry away these idiots! How do you call
the man? You know all the men of this part of the country.
Who was he?’
‘Your clemency, Monseigneur! He was not of this part of
the country. Of all the days of my life, I never saw him.’
‘Swinging by the chain? To be suffocated?’
‘With your gracious permission, that was the wonder of
it, Monseigneur. His head hanging over—like this!’
He turned himself sideways to the carriage, and leaned
back, with his face thrown up to the sky, and his head hang-
ing down; then recovered himself, fumbled with his cap,
and made a bow.
‘What was he like?’
‘Monseigneur, he was whiter than the miller. All covered
with dust, white as a spectre, tall as a spectre!’
The picture produced an immense sensation in the lit-
tle crowd; but all eyes, without comparing notes with other
eyes, looked at Monsieur the Marquis. Perhaps, to observe
whether he had any spectre on his conscience.
‘Truly, you did well,’ said the Marquis, felicitously sen-
sible that such vermin were not to ruffle him, ‘to see a thief

accompanying my carriage, and not open that great mouth
of yours. Bah! Put him aside, Monsieur Gabelle!’
Monsieur Gabelle was the Postmaster, and some other
taxing functionary united; he had come out with great ob-
sequiousness to assist at this examination, and had held the
examined by the drapery of his arm in an official manner.
‘Bah! Go aside!’ said Monsieur Gabelle.
‘Lay hands on this stranger if he seeks to lodge in your
village to-night, and be sure that his business is honest, Ga-
belle.’
‘Monseigneur, I am flattered to devote myself to your or-
ders.’
‘Did he run away, fellow?—where is that Accursed?’
The accursed was already under the carriage with some
half-dozen particular friends, pointing out the chain with
his blue cap. Some half-dozen other particular friends
promptly hauled him out, and presented him breathless to
Monsieur the Marquis.
‘Did the man run away, Dolt, when we stopped for the
drag?’
‘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
among the wheels, like sheep; the wheels turned so sudden-
ly 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,
swinging and lumbering upward among the many sweet
scents of a summer 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 dun 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 inexperi-
enced 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 un-
changeable face, Monseigneur looked out.
‘How, then! What is it? Always petitions!’
‘Monseigneur. For the love of the great God! My hus-
band, 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! He is quiet. Can I restore him to you?’

‘Alas, no, Monseigneur! But he lies yonder, under a little
heap of poor grass.’
‘Well?’
‘Monseigneur, there are so many little heaps of poor
grass?’
‘Again, well?’
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! Monseigneur, hear my petition!
My husband died of want; so many die of want; so many
more will die of want.’
‘Again, well? Can I 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 hus-
band’s name, may be placed over him to show where he lies.
Otherwise, the place will be quickly forgotten, it will never
be found when I am dead of the same malady, I shall be laid
under some other heap of poor grass. Monseigneur, they are
so many, they increase so fast, there is so much want. Mon-
seigneur! 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 him and his cha-

teau.
The sweet scents of the summer night rose all around
him, and rose, as the rain falls, impartially, on the dusty,
ragged, and toil-worn group at the fountain not far away;
to whom the mender of roads, with the aid of the blue cap
without which he was nothing, still enlarged upon his man
like a spectre, as long as they could bear it. By degrees, as
they could bear no more, they dropped off one by one, and
lights twinkled in little casements; which lights, as the case-
ments darkened, and more stars came out, seemed to have
shot up into the sky instead of having been extinguished.
The shadow of a large high-roofed house, and of many
over-hanging trees, was upon Monsieur the Marquis by
that time; and the shadow was exchanged for the light of a
flambeau, as his carriage stopped, and the great door of his
chateau was opened to him.
‘Monsieur Charles, whom I expect; is he arrived from
England?’
‘Monseigneur, not yet.’

IX
The Gorgon’s Head
I t was a heavy mass of building, that chateau of Monsieur

the Marquis, with a large stone courtyard before it, and
two stone sweeps of staircase meeting in a stone terrace be-
fore 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 all di-
rections. As if the Gorgon’s head had surveyed it, when it
was finished, two centuries ago.
Up the broad flight of shallow steps, Monsieur the
Marquis, flambeau preceded, went from his carriage, suffi-
ciently disturbing the darkness to elicit loud remonstrance
from an owl in the roof of the great pile of stable building
away among the trees. All else was so quiet, that the flam-
beau carried up the steps, and the other flambeau held at
the great door, burnt as if they were in a close room of state,
instead of being in the open night-air. Other sound than
the owl’s voice there was none, save the failing of a foun-
tain into its stone basin; for, it was one of those dark nights
that hold their breath by the hour together, and then heave
a long low sigh, and hold their breath again.

The great door clanged behind him, and Monsieur the
Marquis crossed a hall grim with certain old boar-spears,
swords, and knives of the chase; grimmer with certain
heavy riding-rods and riding-whips, of which many a peas-
ant, gone to his benefactor Death, had felt the weight when
his lord was angry.
Avoiding the larger rooms, which were dark and made
fast for the night, Monsieur the Marquis, with his flam-
beau-bearer going on before, went up the staircase to a
door in a corridor. This thrown open, admitted him to his
own private apartment of three rooms: his bed-chamber
and two others. High vaulted rooms with cool uncarpeted
floors, great dogs upon the hearths for the burning of wood
in winter time, and all luxuries befitting the state of a mar-
quis in a luxurious age and country. The fashion of the last
Louis but one, of the line that was never to break —the four-
teenth Louis—was conspicuous in their rich furniture; but,
it was diversified by many objects that were illustrations of
old pages in the history of France.
A supper-table was laid for two, in the third of the rooms;
a round room, in one of the chateau’s four extinguisher-
topped towers. A small lofty room, with its window wide
open, and the wooden jalousie-blinds closed, so that the
dark night only showed in slight horizontal lines of black,
alternating with their broad lines of stone colour.
‘My nephew,’ said the Marquis, glancing at the supper
preparation; ‘they said he was not arrived.’
Nor was he; but, he had been expected with Monsei-
gneur.

‘Ah! It is not probable he will arrive to-night; neverthe-
less, leave the table as it is. I shall be ready in a quarter of
an hour.’
In a quarter of an hour Monseigneur was ready, and sat
down alone to his sumptuous and choice supper. His chair
was opposite to the window, and he had taken his soup, and
was raising his glass of Bordeaux to his lips, when he put it
down.
‘What is that?’ he calmly asked, looking with attention at
the horizontal lines of black and stone colour.
‘Monseigneur? That?’
‘Outside the blinds. Open the blinds.’
It was done.
‘Well?’
‘Monseigneur, it is nothing. The trees and the night are
all that are here.’
The servant who spoke, had thrown the blinds wide, had
looked out into the vacant darkness, and stood with that
blank behind him, looking round for instructions.
‘Good,’ said the imperturbable master. ‘Close them
again.’
That was done too, and the Marquis went on with his
supper. He was half way through it, when he again stopped
with his glass in his hand, hearing the sound of wheels. It
came on briskly, and came up to the front of the chateau.
‘Ask who is arrived.’
It was the nephew of Monseigneur. He had been some
few leagues behind Monseigneur, early in the afternoon. He
had diminished the distance rapidly, but not so rapidly as

to come up with Monseigneur on the road. He had heard of
Monseigneur, at the posting-houses, as being before him.
He was to be told (said Monseigneur) that supper await-
ed him then and there, and that he was prayed to come to
it. In a little while he came. He had been known in England
as Charles Darnay.
Monseigneur received him in a courtly manner, but they
did not shake hands.
‘You left Paris yesterday, sir?’ he said to Monseigneur, as
he took his seat at table.
‘Yesterday. And you?’
‘I come direct.’
‘From London?’
‘Yes.’
‘You have been a long time coming,’ said the Marquis,
with a smile.
‘On the contrary; I come direct.’
‘Pardon me! I mean, not a long time on the journey; a
long time intending the journey.’
‘I have been detained by’—the nephew stopped a mo-
ment in his answer—‘various business.’
‘Without doubt,’ said the polished uncle.
So long as a servant was present, no other words passed
between them. When coffee had been served and they were
alone together, the nephew, looking at the uncle and meet-
ing the eyes of the face that was like a fine mask, opened a
conversation.
‘I have come back, sir, as you anticipate, pursuing the
object that took me away. It carried me into great and unex-

pected peril; but it is a sacred object, and if it had carried me
to death I hope it would have sustained me.’
‘Not to death,’ said the uncle; ‘it is not necessary to say,
to death.’
‘I doubt, sir,’ returned the nephew, ‘whether, if it had car-
ried 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 surround-
ed me.’
‘No, no, no,’ said the uncle, pleasantly.
‘But, however that may be,’ resumed the nephew, glanc-
ing at him with deep distrust, ‘I know that your diplomacy
would stop me by any means, and would know no scruple
as to means.’
‘My friend, I told you so,’ said the uncle, with a fine pul-
sation in the two marks. ‘Do me the favour to recall that I
told you so, long ago.’
‘I recall it.’
‘Thank you,’ said the Marquise—very sweetly indeed.
His tone lingered in the air, almost like the tone of a mu-
sical 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 in-
definitely.’
‘It is possible,’ said the uncle, with great calmness. ‘For
the honour of the family, I could even resolve to incom-
mode you to that extent. Pray excuse me!’
‘I perceive that, happily for me, the Reception of the day
before yesterday was, as usual, a cold one,’ observed the
nephew.
‘I would 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 advan-
tages 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 slight favours that
might so incommode you, are only to be obtained now by
interest and importunity. They are sought by so many, and
they 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 surrounding vulgar. From this room, many such
dogs have been taken out to be hanged; in the next room

(my bedroom), one fellow, to our knowledge, was poniarded
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!’
The Marquis took a gentle little pinch of snuff, and shook
his head; 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 I believe our name to be more detested than any name
in France.’
‘Let us hope so,’ said the uncle. ‘Detestation of the high is
the involuntary homage 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 at 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 sus-
tained its grandeur. Hah!’ And he took another gentle little
pinch of snuff, and lightly crossed his legs.
But, when his 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 con-
centration 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 Mar-
quis, ‘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 Marquis supposed. If a
picture of the chateau as it was to be a very few years hence,
and of fifty like it as they too were 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 ghastly, fire-
charred, plunder-wrecked rains. 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 the hon-
our and repose of the family, if you will not. But you must be
fatigued. Shall we terminate our conference for the night?’
‘A moment more.’
‘An hour, if you please.’
‘Sir,’ said the nephew, ‘we have done wrong, and are reap-
ing the fruits of wrong.’
‘WE have done wrong?’ repeated the Marquis, with an
inquiring smile, and delicately pointing, first to his nephew,
then to himself.
‘Our family; our honourable family, whose honour is of
so much account to both of us, in such different ways. Even
in my father’s time, we did a world of wrong, injuring every
human creature who came between us and our pleasure,

whatever it was. Why need I speak of my father’s time, when
it is equally yours? Can I separate my father’s twin-brother,
joint inheritor, and next successor, from himself?’
‘Death has done that!’ said the Marquis.
‘And has left me,’ answered the nephew, ‘bound to a sys-
tem that is frightful to me, responsible for it, but powerless
in it; seeking to execute the last request of my dear mother’s
lips, and obey the last look of my dear mother’s eyes, which
implored me to have mercy and to redress; and tortured by
seeking assistance and power in vain.’
‘Seeking them from me, my nephew,’ said the Marquis,
touching him on the breast with his forefinger—they were
now standing by the hearth—‘you will for ever seek them in
vain, be assured.’
Every fine straight line in the clear whiteness of his face,
was cruelly, craftily, and closely compressed, while he stood
looking quietly at his nephew, with his snuff-box in his
hand. Once again he touched him on the breast, as though
his finger were the fine point of a small sword, with which,
in delicate finesse, he ran him through the body, and said,
‘My friend, I will die, perpetuating the system under
which I have lived.’
When he had said it, he took a culminating pinch of
snuff, and put his box in his pocket.
‘Better to be 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 see.’
‘This property and France are lost to me,’ said the neph-
ew, sadly; ‘I renounce them.’

‘Are they both yours to renounce? France may be, but
is the property? It is scarcely worth mentioning; but, is it
yet?’
‘I had no intention, in the words I used, to claim it yet. If
it passed to me from you, to-morrow—’
‘Which I have the vanity to hope is not probable.’
‘—or twenty years hence—’
‘You do me too much honour,’ said the Marquis; ‘still, I
prefer that supposition.’
‘—I would abandon it, and live otherwise and elsewhere.
It is little to relinquish. What is it but a wilderness of mis-
ery and ruin!’
‘Hah!’ said the Marquis, glancing round the luxurious
room.
‘To the eye it is fair enough, here; but seen in its integrity,
under the sky, and by the daylight, it is a crumbling tower of
waste, mismanagement, extortion, debt, mortgage, oppres-
sion, hunger, nakedness, and suffering.’
‘Hah!’ said the Marquis again, in a well-satisfied man-
ner.
‘If it ever becomes mine, it shall be put into some hands
better qualified to free it slowly (if such a thing is possible)
from 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 less; but it is not for me. There is a curse on it, and on
all this land.’
‘And you?’ said the uncle. ‘Forgive my curiosity; do you,
under your new philosophy, graciously intend to live?’

‘I must do, to live, what others of my countrymen, even
with nobility at their backs, may have to do some day-
work.’
‘In England, for example?’
‘Yes. The family honour, sir, is safe from me in this coun-
try. The family name can suffer from me in no other, for I
bear it in no other.’
The ringing of the bell had caused the adjoining bed-
chamber to be lighted. It now shone brightly, through the
door of communication. The Marquis looked that way, and
listened for the retreating step of his valet.
‘England is very attractive to you, seeing how indiffer-
ently you have prospered there,’ he observed then, turning
his calm face to his nephew with a smile.
‘I have already said, that for my prospering there, I am
sensible I may be indebted to you, sir. For the rest, it is my
Refuge.’
‘They say, those boastful English, that it is the Refuge
of many. You know a compatriot who has found a Refuge
there? A Doctor?’
‘Yes.’
‘With a daughter?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes,’ said the Marquis. ‘You are fatigued. Good night!’
As he bent his head in his most courtly manner, there
was a secrecy in his smiling face, and he conveyed an air
of mystery to those words, which struck the eyes and ears
of his nephew forcibly. At the same time, the thin straight
lines of the setting of the eyes, and the thin straight lips,

and the markings in the nose, curved with a sarcasm that
looked handsomely diabolic.
‘Yes,’ repeated the Marquis. ‘A Doctor with a daughter.
Yes. So commences the new philosophy! You are fatigued.
Good night!’
It would have been of as much avail to interrogate any
stone face outside the chateau as to interrogate that face of
his. The nephew looked at him, in vain, in passing on to the
door.
‘Good night!’ said the uncle. ‘I look to the pleasure of see-
ing you again in the morning. Good repose! Light Monsieur
my nephew to his chamber there!—And burn Monsieur my
nephew in his bed, if you will,’ he added to himself, before
he rang his little bell again, and summoned his valet to his
own bedroom.
The valet come and gone, Monsieur the Marquis walked
to and fro in his loose chamber-robe, to prepare himself
gently for sleep, that hot still night. Rustling about the
room, his softly-slippered feet making no noise on the floor,
he moved like a refined tiger:—looked like some enchanted
marquis of the impenitently wicked sort, in story, whose pe-
riodical change into tiger form was either just going off, or
just coming on.
He moved from end to end of his voluptuous bedroom,
looking again at the scraps of the day’s journey that came
unbidden into his mind; the slow toil up the hill at sunset,
the setting sun, the descent, the mill, the prison on the crag,
the little village in the hollow, the peasants at the fountain,
and the mender of roads with his blue cap pointing out the

chain under the carriage. That fountain suggested the Par-
is fountain, the little bundle lying on the step, the women
bending over it, and the tall man with his arms up, crying,
‘Dead!’
‘I am cool now,’ said Monsieur the Marquis, ‘and may
go to bed.’
So, leaving only one light burning on the large hearth,
he let his 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-po-
ets. 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 chateau,
lion and human, stared blindly at the night. Dead darkness
lay on all the landscape, dead 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 un-
distinguishable 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. Dream-
ing, perhaps, of banquets, as the starved usually do, and of
ease and rest, 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 chateau dropped unseen and un-
heard—both melting away, like the minutes that were falling
from the spring of Time— through 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 chateau 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 chateau fountain seemed to turn
to blood, and the stone faces crimsoned. The carol of the
birds was loud and high, and, on the weather-beaten sill of
the great window of the bedchamber of Monsieur the Mar-
quis, 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 un-
barred, and people came forth shivering—chilled, as yet, by
the new sweet air. Then began the rarely lightened toil of the
day among the village population. 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 found 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 chateau 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 their stables
looked round over their shoulders at the light and fresh-
ness 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 trivial incidents belonged to the routine of life,
and the return of morning. Surely, not so the ringing of the
great bell of the chateau, nor the running up and down the
stairs; nor the hurried figures on the terrace; nor the boot-
ing and tramping here and there and everywhere, nor the
quick saddling of horses and riding away?
What winds conveyed this hurry to the grizzled mender
of roads, already at work on the hill-top beyond the vil-
lage, 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? Had the birds, carrying some grains of it
to a distance, dropped one over him as they sow chance
seeds? Whether or no, the mender of roads ran, on the sul-
try morning, as if for his life, down the hill, knee-high in
dust, and never stopped till he got to the fountain.
All the people of the village were at the fountain, stand-
ing about in their depressed manner, and whispering low,
but showing no other emotions than grim curiosity and
surprise. The led cows, hastily brought in and tethered to
anything that would hold them, were looking stupidly on,
or lying down chewing the cud of nothing particularly re-
paying their trouble, which they had picked up in their
interrupted saunter. Some of the people of the chateau, and

some of those of the posting-house, and all the taxing au-
thorities, were armed more or less, and were crowded on
the other side of the little street 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 par-
ticular 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 ballad of Leonora?
It portended that there was one stone face too many, up
at the chateau.
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 petri-
fied. Driven home into the heart of the stone figure attached
to it, was a knife. Round its hilt was a frill of paper, on which
was scrawled:
‘Drive him fast to his tomb. This, from Jacques.’

X
Two Promises
M ore months, to the number of twelve, had come and

gone, and Mr. Charles Darnay was established in
England as a higher teacher 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 knowledge and fancy.
He could write of them, besides, in sound English, and ren-
der them into sound English. Such masters were not at that
time easily found; Princes that had been, and Kings 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
elegant translator who brought something to his work be-
sides mere dictionary knowledge, young Mr. Darnay soon
became known and encouraged. He was well acquainted,
more-over, with the circumstances of his country, and
those were of ever-growing interest. So, with great perse-

verance and untiring industry, he prospered.
In London, he had expected neither to walk on pave-
ments 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 prosperity consisted.
A certain portion of his time was passed at Cambridge,
where he read with undergraduates as a sort of tolerated
smuggler who drove a contraband trade in European lan-
guages, 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 has invariably gone one way—Charles Dar-
nay’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 ten-
derly 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 chateau far away beyond the heaving water and
the long, tong, dusty roads—the solid stone chateau 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 knew 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 win-
dow. The energy which had at once supported him under
his old sufferings and aggravated their sharpness, had been
gradually restored to him. He was now a very energetic man
indeed, with great firmness of purpose, strength of resolu-
tion, 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 much, slept little, sustained a great deal of
fatigue with ease, and was 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.’
‘I 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—’
‘Is well,’ said the Doctor, as he stopped short, ‘and your
return will delight us all. She has gone out on some house-
hold matters, but will soon be home.’
‘Doctor Manette, I knew she was from home. I took the
opportunity of her being from home, to beg to speak to

you.’
There was a blank silence.
‘Yes?’ 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.
‘I have had the happiness, Doctor Manette, of being so
intimate here,’ so he at length began, ‘for some year and a
half, that I hope the topic on which I am about to touch may
not—’
He was stayed by the Doctor’s putting out his hand to
stop him. When he had kept it so a little while, he said,
drawing it back:
‘Is Lucie the topic?’
‘She is.’
‘It is hard 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 fervent admiration, true homage, and deep
love, Doctor Manette!’ he said deferentially.
There was another blank silence before her father re-
joined:
‘I believe it. I do you justice; I believe it.’
His constraint was so manifest, and it was so manifest,
too, that it originated in an unwillingness to approach the
subject, that Charles Darnay hesitated.
‘Shall I go on, sir?’
Another blank.
‘Yes, go on.’

‘You anticipate what I would say, though you cannot
know how earnestly I say it, how earnestly I feel it, with-
out knowing my secret heart, and the hopes and fears and
anxieties with which it has long been laden. Dear Doctor
Manette, I love your daughter fondly, dearly, disinterested-
ly, devotedly. If ever there were love in the world, I love her.
You have loved yourself; let your old love speak for me!’
The Doctor sat with his face turned away, and his eyes
bent on the ground. At the last words, he stretched out his
hand again, hurriedly, and cried:
‘Not that, sir! Let that be! I adjure you, do not recall
that!’
His cry was so like a cry of actual pain, that it rang in
Charles Darnay’s ears long after he had ceased. He mo-
tioned with the hand he had extended, and it seemed to be
an appeal to Darnay to pause. The latter so received it, and
remained silent.
‘I ask your pardon,’ said the Doctor, in a subdued tone,
after some moments. ‘I do not doubt your loving Lucie; you
may be satisfied of it.’
He turned towards him in his chair, but did not look at
him, or raise his eyes. His chin dropped upon his hand, and
his white hair overshadowed his face:
‘Have you spoken to Lucie?’
‘No.’
‘Nor written?’
‘Never.’
‘It would be ungenerous to affect not to know that your
self-denial is to be referred to your consideration for her fa-

ther. Her father thanks you.
He offered his hand; but his eyes did not go with it.
‘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 cir-
cumstances in which it has been nurtured, that it can have
few parallels, even in the tenderness between a father and
child. I 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. I 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 be-
yond this life, you could hardly be invested, in her sight,
with a more sacred character than that in which you are
always with her. I know that when she 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 sees and loves her
mother at her own age, sees and loves you at my age, loves
her mother broken-hearted, loves you through your dread-
ful 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 breath-
ing was a little quickened; but he repressed all other signs
of agitation.

‘Dear Doctor Manette, always knowing this, always see-
ing her and you with this hallowed light about you, I have
forborne, and 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!’
‘I believe it,’ answered her father, mournfully. ‘I have
thought so before now. I 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 hope-
less, I should know it to be a baseness. If I 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
there—if 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, op-
pressions, and miseries; like you, striving to live away from
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 di-
vide 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 beginning of the conference. A struggle was
evidently in his face; a struggle with that occasional look
which had a tendency in it to dark doubt and dread.
‘You speak so feelingly and so manfully, Charles Dar-
nay, that I 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?’
‘Not even so. I might not have the hopefulness to do it for
weeks; I might (mistaken or not mistaken) have that hope-
fulness to-morrow.’
‘Do you seek any guidance from me?’
‘I ask none, sir. But I have thought it possible that you
might have it in your power, if you should deem it right, to
give me some.’
‘Do you seek any promise from me?’
‘I do seek that.’
‘What is it?’
‘I well understand that, without you, I could have no
hope. I well understand that, even if Miss Manette held me
at this moment in her innocent heart-do not think I 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 see what, on the other hand, is in-
volved in it?’
‘I understand equally well, that a word from her father
in any suitor’s favour, would outweigh herself and all the
world. For which reason, Doctor Manette,’ said Darnay,
modestly but firmly, ‘I would not ask that word, to save my
life.’
‘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 guess 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?’
‘It is what I 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, like-
ly. You want a promise from me. Tell me what it is.’
‘It is, that if Miss Manette should bring to you at any
time, on her own part, such a confidence as I have ven-
tured to lay before you, you will bear testimony to what I
have said, and to your belief in it. I hope you may be able to
think so well of me, as to urge no influence against me. I say
nothing more of my stake in this; this is what I ask. The con-

dition on which I ask it, and which you have an undoubted
right to require, I will observe immediately.’
‘I give the promise,’ said the Doctor, ‘without any con-
dition. I believe your object to be, purely and truthfully, as
you have stated it. I believe your intention is to perpetuate,
and not to weaken, the ties between me and my other and
far dearer self. If she should ever tell me that you are essen-
tial 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
hands were joined as the Doctor spoke:
‘—any fancies, any reasons, any apprehensions, anything
whatsoever, new or old, against the man she really loved—
the direct responsibility thereof not lying on his head—they
should all be obliterated for her sake. She is everything to
me; more to me than suffering, more to me than wrong,
more to me—Well! This is idle talk.’
So strange was the way in which he 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 Manette, break-
ing into a smile. ‘What was it you said to me?’
He was at a loss how to answer, until he remembered
having spoken of a condition. Relieved as his mind reverted
to that, he answered:
‘Your confidence in me ought to be returned with full
confidence on my part. My present name, though but
slightly changed from my mother’s, is not, as you will re-

member, my own. I wish to tell you what that is, and why I
am in England.’
‘Stop!’ said the Doctor of Beauvais.
‘I wish it, that I may the better deserve your confidence,
and have no secret from you.’
‘Stop!’
For an instant, the Doctor even had his two hands at his
ears; for another instant, even had his two hands laid on
Darnay’s lips.
‘Tell me when I ask you, not now. If your suit should
prosper, if Lucie should love you, you shall tell me on your
marriage morning. Do you promise?’
‘Willingly.
‘Give me your hand. She will be home directly, and it
is better she should not see us together to-night. Go! God
bless you!’
It was dark when Charles Darnay left him, and it was an
hour later and darker when Lucie came home; she hurried
into the room alone— for Miss Pross had gone straight up-
stairs—and was surprised to find his reading-chair empty.
‘My father!’ she called to him. ‘Father dear!’
Nothing was said in answer, but she heard a low ham-
mering sound in his bedroom. Passing lightly across the
intermediate room, she looked in at his door and came run-
ning back frightened, crying to herself, with her blood all
chilled, ‘What shall I do! What shall I do!’
Her uncertainty lasted but a moment; she hurried back,
and tapped at his door, and softly called to him. The noise
ceased at the sound of her voice, and he presently came out

to her, and they walked up and down together for a long
time.
She came down from her bed, to look at him in his sleep
that night. He slept heavily, and his tray of shoemaking
tools, and his old unfinished work, were all as usual.

XI
A Companion Picture
‘S ydney,’ said Mr. Stryver, on that self-same night, or

morning, to his jackal; ‘mix another bowl of punch; I
have something to say to you.’
Sydney had been working double tides that night, and
the night before, and the night before that, and a good many
nights in succession, making a grand clearance among Mr.
Stryver’s papers before the setting in of the long vacation.
The clearance was effected at last; the Stryver arrears were
handsomely fetched up; everything was got rid of until No-
vember should come with its fogs atmospheric, and fogs
legal, and bring grist to the mill again.
Sydney was none the livelier and none the soberer for so
much application. It had taken a deal of extra wet-towel-
ling to pull him through the night; a correspondingly extra
quantity of wine had preceded the towelling; and he was in
a very damaged condition, as he now pulled his turban off
and threw it into the basin in which he had steeped it at in-
tervals for the last six hours.
‘Are you mixing that other bowl of punch?’ said Stryver
the portly, with his hands in his waistband, glancing round

from the sofa where he lay on his back.
‘I 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. I
intend to marry.’
‘DO you?’
‘Yes. And not for money. What do you say now?’
‘I don’t feel disposed to say much. Who is she?’
‘Guess.’
‘Do I know her?’
‘Guess.’
‘I am not going to guess, at five o’clock in the morning,
with my brains frying and sputtering in my head. if you
want me to guess, you must ask me to dinner.’
‘Well then, I’ll tell you, said Stryver, coming slowly into
a sitting posture. ‘Sydney, I rather despair of making myself
intelligible to you, because you are such an insensible dog.
‘And you,’ returned Sydney, busy concocting the punch,
‘are such a sensitive and poetical spirit—’
‘Come!’ rejoined Stryver, laughing boastfully, ‘though I
don’t prefer any claim to being the soul of Romance (for I
hope I 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. I mean I am a man of more—more—
’
‘Say gallantry, while you are about it,’ suggested Carton.
‘Well! I’ll say gallantry. My meaning is that I am a man,’

said Stryver, inflating himself at his friend as he made the
punch, ‘who cares more to be agreeable, who takes more
pains to be agreeable, who knows better how to be agree-
able, in a woman’s society, than you do.’
‘Go on,’ said Sydney Carton.
‘No; but before I go on,’ said Stryver, shaking his head in
his bullying way, I’ll have this out with you. You’ve been at
Doctor Manette’s house as much as I have, or more than I
have. Why, I have been ashamed of your moroseness there!
Your manners have been of that silent and sullen and hang-
dog kind, that, upon my life and soul, I have been ashamed
of you, Sydney!’
‘It should be very beneficial to a man in your practice at
the bar, to be ashamed of anything,’ returned Sydney; ‘you
ought to be much obliged to me.’
‘You shall not get off in that way,’ rejoined Stryver, shoul-
dering the rejoinder at him; ‘no, Sydney, it’s my duty to tell
you—and I tell you to your face to do you good—that you
are a devilish ill-conditioned fellow in that sort of society.
You are a disagreeable fellow.’
Sydney drank a bumper of the punch he had made, and
laughed.
‘Look at me!’ said Stryver, squaring himself; ‘I have less
need to make myself agreeable than you have, being more
independent in circumstances. Why do I do it?’
‘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.’
‘You don’t get on with your account of your matrimonial

intentions,’ answered Carton, with a careless air; ‘I wish you
would keep to that. As to me—will you never understand
that I am incorrigible?’
He asked the question with some appearance of scorn.
‘You have no business to be incorrigible,’ was his friend’s
answer, delivered in no very soothing tone.
‘I have no business to be, at all, that I know of,’ said Syd-
ney Carton. ‘Who is the lady?’
‘Now, don’t let my announcement of the name make you
uncomfortable, Sydney,’ said Mr. Stryver, preparing him
with ostentatious friendliness for the disclosure he was
about to make, ‘because I know you 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?’
‘Certainly; and in these chambers.’
Sydney Carton looked at his punch and looked at his
complacent friend; drank his punch and looked at his com-
placent friend.
‘You made mention of the young lady as a golden-haired
doll. The young lady is Miss Manette. If you had been a fel-
low of any sensitiveness 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
I think of the expression, than I should be annoyed by a
man’s opinion of a picture of mine, who had no eye for pic-
tures: 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 afford to please myself. She will have in me a man al-
ready pretty well off, and a rapidly rising man, and a man of
some distinction: it is a piece of good fortune for her, but she
is worthy of good fortune. Are you astonished?’
Carton, still drinking the punch, rejoined, ‘Why should
I be astonished?’
‘You approve?’
Carton, still drinking the punch, rejoined, ‘Why should
I not approve?’
‘Well!’ said his friend Stryver, ‘you take it more easily
than I fancied you would, and are less mercenary on my be-
half than I 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. Yes, Sydney, I have had enough
of this style of life, with no other as a change from it; I feel
that it is a pleasant thing for a man to have a home when he
feels inclined to go to it (when he doesn’t, 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 real-
ly are in a bad way. You don’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 twice as big as he was, and four times as offen-
sive.
‘Now, let me recommend you,’ pursued Stryver, ‘to look
it in the face. I have looked it in the face, in my different
way; look it in the face, you, in your different way. Mar-
ry. Provide somebody to take care of you. Never mind your
having no enjoyment of women’s society, nor understand-
ing of it, nor tact for it. Find out somebody. Find out some
respectable woman with a little property—somebody in
the landlady way, or lodging-letting way—and marry her,
against a rainy day. That’s the kind of thing for YOU. Now
think of it, Sydney.’
‘I’ll think of it,’ said Sydney.

XII
The Fellow of Delicacy
M r. Stryver having made up his mind to that mag-

nanimous bestowal of good fortune on the Doctor’s
daughter, resolved to make her happiness known to her
before he left town for the Long Vacation. After some men-
tal 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 at 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 Hilary.
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 substantial worldly 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 getting 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 proposal to take Miss Manette to Vauxhall

Gardens; that failing, to Ranelagh; that unaccountably fail-
ing too, it behoved him 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 Vaca-
tion’s infancy was still upon it. Anybody who had seen him
projecting himself into Soho while he was yet on Saint Dun-
stan’s side of 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 he was.
His way taking him past Tellson’s, and he both banking
at Tellson’s and knowing Mr. Lorry as the intimate friend
of the Manettes, it entered Mr. Stryver’s mind to enter the
bank, and reveal to Mr. Lorry the brightness of the Soho
horizon. So, he pushed open the door with the weak rattle
in its throat, stumbled down the two steps, got past the two
ancient cashiers, and shouldered himself into the musty
back closet where Mr. Lorry sat at great books ruled for fig-
ures, with perpendicular iron bars to his window as if that
were ruled for figures too, and everything under the clouds
were a sum.
‘Halloa!’ said Mr. Stryver. ‘How do you do? I hope you
are well!’
It was Stryver’s grand peculiarity that he always seemed
too big for any place, or space. He was so much too big for
Tellson’s, that old clerks in distant corners looked up with
looks of remonstrance, as though he squeezed them against
the wall. The House itself, magnificently reading the paper
quite in the far-off perspective, lowered displeased, as if the

Stryver head had been butted into its responsible waist-
coat.
The discreet Mr. Lorry said, in a sample tone of the voice
he would recommend under the circumstances, ‘How do
you do, Mr. Stryver? How do you do, sir?’ and shook hands.
There was a peculiarity in his manner of shaking hands, al-
ways to be seen in any clerk at Tellson’s who shook hands
with a customer when the House pervaded the air. He
shook in a self-abnegating way, as one who shook for Tell-
son and Co.
‘Can I do anything for you, Mr. Stryver?’ asked Mr. Lor-
ry, in his business character.
‘Why, no, thank you; this is a private visit to yourself,
Mr. Lorry; I have come for a private word.’
‘Oh indeed!’ said Mr. Lorry, bending down his ear, while
his eye strayed to the House afar off.
‘I am going,’ said Mr. Stryver, leaning his arms confi-
dentially on the desk: whereupon, although it was a large
double one, there appeared to be not half desk enough for
him: ‘I am going to make an offer of myself in marriage to
your agreeable little friend, Miss Manette, Mr. Lorry.’
‘Oh dear me!’ cried Mr. Lorry, rubbing his chin, and
looking at his visitor dubiously.
‘Oh dear me, sir?’ repeated Stryver, drawing back. ‘Oh
dear you, sir? What may your meaning be, Mr. Lorry?’
‘My meaning,’ 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. But—really, you know, Mr. Stryver—’

Mr. Lorry paused, and shook his head at him in the odd-
est manner, as if he were compelled against his will to add,
internally, ‘you know there really is so much too much of
you!’
‘Well!’ said Stryver, slapping the desk with his conten-
tious hand, opening his eyes wider, and taking a long breath,
‘if I understand you, Mr. Lorry, I’ll 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!’ said Stryver, staring at him, ‘am I not
eligible?’
‘Oh dear yes! Yes. Oh yes, you’re eligible!’ said Mr. Lorry.
‘If you say eligible, you are eligible.’
‘Am I not prosperous?’ asked Stryver.
‘Oh! if you come to prosperous, you are prosperous,’ said
Mr. Lorry.
‘And advancing?’
‘If you come to advancing you know,’ said Mr. Lorry, de-
lighted to be able to make another admission, ‘nobody can
doubt that.’
‘Then what on earth is your meaning, Mr. Lorry?’ de-
manded Stryver, perceptibly crestfallen.
‘Well! I—Were you going there now?’ asked Mr. Lorry.
‘Straight!’ said Stryver, with a plump of his fist on the
desk.
‘Then I think I wouldn’t, if I was you.’
‘Why?’ said Stryver. ‘Now, I’ll put you in a corner,’ fo-
rensically 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?’
‘Because,’ said Mr. Lorry, ‘I wouldn’t go on such an ob-
ject without having some cause to believe that I should
succeed.’
‘D—n ME!’ cried Stryver, ‘but this beats everything.’
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 ex-
perience— IN a Bank,’ said Stryver; ‘and having summed
up three leading reasons for complete success, he says
there’s no reason at all! Says it with his head on!’ Mr. Stryver
remarked upon the peculiarity as if it would have been infi-
nitely less remarkable if he had said it with his head off.
‘When I speak of success, I speak of success with the
young lady; and when I speak of causes and reasons to make
success probable, I speak of causes and reasons that will tell
as 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?’
‘Not exactly so. I mean to tell you, Mr. Stryver,’ said Mr.
Lorry, reddening, ‘that I will hear no disrespectful word
of that young lady from any lips; and that if I knew any
man—which I hope I do not— whose taste was so coarse,
and whose temper was so overbearing, that he could not re-
strain himself from speaking disrespectfully of that young
lady at this desk, not even Tellson’s should prevent my giv-

ing him a piece of my mind.’
The necessity of being angry in a suppressed tone had
put Mr. Stryver’s blood-vessels into a dangerous state when
it was his turn to be angry; Mr. Lorry’s veins, methodical as
their courses could usually be, were in no better state now
it was his turn.
‘That is what I mean to tell you, sir,’ said Mr. Lorry. ‘Pray
let there be no mistake about it.’
Mr. Stryver sucked the end of a ruler for a little while,
and 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 is something new to me, Mr. Lorry. You deliberate-
ly advise me not to go up to Soho and offer myself—MYself,
Stryver of the King’s Bench bar?’
‘Do you ask me for my advice, Mr. Stryver?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Very good. Then I give it, and you have repeated it cor-
rectly.’
‘And all I can say of it is,’ laughed Stryver with a vexed
laugh, ‘that this—ha, ha!—beats everything past, present,
and to come.’
‘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 has 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 spo-
ken. The confidence is not of my seeking, recollect. Now,

you think I may not be right?’
‘Not I!’ said Stryver, whistling. ‘I can’t undertake to find
third parties in common sense; I can only find it for myself.
I suppose sense in certain quarters; you suppose minc-
ing bread-and-butter nonsense. It’s new to me, but you are
right, I dare say.’
‘What I suppose, Mr. Stryver, I claim to characterise for
myself—And understand me, sir,’ said Mr. Lorry, quickly
flushing again, ‘I will not—not even at Tellson’s—have it
characterised for me by any gentleman breathing.’
‘There! I beg your pardon!’ said Stryver.
‘Granted. Thank you. Well, Mr. Stryver, I 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 Ma-
nette 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, representing you in no way, I will undertake to correct
my advice by the exercise of a little new observation and
judgment expressly brought to bear upon it. If you should
then be dissatisfied with it, you can but test its soundness
for yourself; if, on the other hand, you should be satisfied
with it, and it should be what it now is, it may spare all sides
what is best spared. What do you say?’
‘How long would you keep me in town?’
‘Oh! It is only a question of a few hours. I could go to Soho
in the evening, and come to your chambers afterwards.’
‘Then I say yes,’ said Stryver: ‘I won’t go up there now, I

am not so hot upon it as that comes to; I say yes, and I shall
expect you to look in to-night. Good morning.’
Then Mr. Stryver turned and burst out of the Bank, caus-
ing such a concussion of air on his passage through, that
to stand up against it bowing behind the two counters, re-
quired the utmost remaining strength of the two ancient
clerks. Those venerable and feeble persons were always seen
by the public in the act of bowing, and were popularly be-
lieved, when they had bowed a customer out, still to keep on
bowing in the empty office until they bowed another cus-
tomer in.
The barrister was keen enough to divine that the banker
would not have gone so far in his expression of opinion on
any less solid ground than moral certainty. Unprepared as
he was for the large pill he had to swallow, he got it down.
‘And now,’ said 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
he found great relief. ‘You shall not put me in the wrong,
young lady,’ said Mr. Stryver; ‘I’ll 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 pa-
pers littered out for the purpose, seemed to have nothing
less on his mind than the subject of the morning. He even
showed surprise when he saw Mr. Lorry, and was altogether
in an absent and preoccupied state.
‘Well!’ 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?’ repeated Mr. Stryver, coldly. ‘Oh, to be sure!
What am I thinking of!’
‘And I have no doubt,’ said Mr. Lorry, ‘that I was right
in the conversation we had. My opinion is confirmed, and I
reiterate my advice.’
‘I assure you,’ returned Mr. Stryver, in the friendliest
way, ‘that I am sorry for it on your account, and sorry for it
on the poor father’s account. I know this must always be a
sore subject with the family; let us say no more about it.’
‘I don’t understand you,’ said Mr. 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 doesn’t; I assure you it doesn’t. Having supposed
that there was sense where there is no sense, and a laud-
able ambition where there is not a laudable ambition, I am
well out of my mistake, and no harm is done. Young women
have committed similar follies often before, and have re-
pented them in poverty and obscurity often before. In an
unselfish aspect, I am sorry that the thing is dropped, be-
cause it would have been a bad thing for me in a worldly
point of view; in a selfish aspect, I am glad that the thing
has dropped, because it would have been a bad thing for
me in a worldly point of view— it is hardly necessary to say
I 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 I
ever should have committed myself to that extent. Mr. Lor-

ry, you cannot control the mincing vanities and giddinesses
of empty-headed girls; you must not expect to do it, or you
will always be disappointed. Now, pray say no more about
it. I tell you, I regret it on account of others, but I am satis-
fied on my own account. And I 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 stu-
pidly at Mr. Stryver shouldering him towards the door, with
an appearance of showering generosity, forbearance, and
goodwill, on his erring head. ‘Make the best of it, my dear
sir,’ said Stryver; ‘say no more about it; thank you again for
allowing me to sound you; good night!’
Mr. Lorry was out in the night, before he knew where he
was. Mr. Stryver was lying back on his sofa, winking at his
ceiling.

XIII
The Fellow of No Delicacy
I f Sydney Carton ever shone anywhere, he certainly nev-

er shone in the house of Doctor Manette. He had been
there often, during a whole year, and had always been the
same moody and morose lounger there. When he cared to
talk, he talked well; but, the cloud of caring for nothing,
which overshadowed him with such a fatal darkness, was
very rarely pierced by the light within him.
And yet he did care something for the streets that en-
vironed that house, and for the senseless stones that made
their pavements. Many a night he vaguely and unhappily
wandered there, when wine had brought no transitory glad-
ness to him; many a dreary daybreak revealed his solitary
figure lingering there, and still lingering there when the first
beams of the sun brought into strong relief, removed beau-
ties 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 scantily than ever; and often when he had thrown
himself upon it no longer than a few minutes, he had got up

again, and haunted that neighbourhood.
On a day in August, when Mr. Stryver (after notifying to
his jackal that ‘he had thought better of that marrying mat-
ter’) had carried his delicacy into Devonshire, and when the
sight and scent of flowers in the City streets had some waifs
of goodness in them for the worst, of health for the sickli-
est, and of youth for the oldest, Sydney’s feet still trod those
stones. From being irresolute and purposeless, his feet be-
came 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 her work,
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 in-
terchange of the first few common-places, 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, such profligates?’
‘Is it not—forgive me; I have begun the question on my
lips—a pity to live no better life?’
‘God knows it is a shame!’
‘Then why not change it?’
Looking gently at him again, she was surprised and sad-
dened to see that there were tears in his eyes. There were
tears in his voice too, as he answered:
‘It is too late for that. I shall never be better than I am. I
shall sink lower, and be worse.’
He leaned an elbow on her table, and covered his eyes

with his hand. The table trembled in the silence that fol-
lowed.
She had never seen him softened, and was much dis-
tressed. He knew her to be so, without looking at her, and
said:
‘Pray forgive me, Miss Manette. I break down before the
knowledge of what I want to say to you. Will you hear me?’
‘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 unshaded his face after a little while, and spoke
steadily.
‘Don’t be afraid to hear me. Don’t shrink from anything
I say. I am like one who died young. All my life might have
been.’
‘No, Mr. Carton. I 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 I know better—
although in the mystery of my own wretched heart I know
better—I shall 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 that could have been holden.
‘If it had been possible, Miss Manette, that you could
have returned the love of the man you see before yourself—
flung away, wasted, drunken, poor creature of misuse as
you know him to be—he 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, disgrace 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 thankful that it cannot be.’
‘Without it, can I not save you, Mr. Carton? Can I not
recall you— forgive me again!—to a better course? Can I in
no way repay your confidence? I know this is a confidence,’
she modestly said, after a little hesitation, and in earnest
tears, ‘I know you would say this to no one else. Can I turn
it to no good account for yourself, Mr. Carton?’
He shook his head.
‘To none. No, Miss Manette, to none. If you will hear
me through a very little more, all you can ever do for me is
done. I wish you to know that you have been the last dream
of my soul. In my degradation I have not been so degraded
but that the sight of you with your father, and of this home
made such a home by you, has stirred old shadows that I
thought had died out of me. Since I knew you, I have been
troubled by a remorse that I thought would never reproach
me again, and have heard whispers from old voices impel-
ling me upward, that I thought were silent for ever. I have
had unformed ideas of striving afresh, beginning anew,
shaking off sloth and sensuality, and fighting out the aban-
doned fight. A dream, all a dream, that ends in nothing, and
leaves the sleeper where he lay down, but I wish you to know
that you inspired it.’
‘Will nothing of it remain? O Mr. Carton, think again!
Try again!’
‘No, Miss Manette; all through it, I have known myself

to be quite undeserving. And yet I have had the weakness,
and have still the weakness, to wish you to know with what
a sudden mastery you kindled me, heap of ashes that I am,
into fire—a fire, however, inseparable in its nature from
myself, quickening nothing, lighting nothing, doing no ser-
vice, idly burning away.’
‘Since it is my misfortune, Mr. Carton, to have made you
more unhappy than you were before you knew me—’
‘Don’t say that, Miss Manette, for you would have re-
claimed me, if anything could. You will not be the cause of
my becoming worse.’
‘Since the state of your mind that you describe, is, at all
events, attributable to some influence of mine—this is what
I mean, if I can make it plain—can I use no influence to
serve you? Have I no power for good, with you, at all?’
‘The utmost good that I am capable of now, Miss Ma-
nette, I have come here to realise. Let me carry through the
rest of my misdirected life, the remembrance that I 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.’
‘Which I entreated you to believe, again and again, most
fervently, with all my heart, was capable of better things,
Mr. 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 I recall this day,
that the 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?’
‘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 re-
suming this conversation by so much as a passing word. I
will never refer to it again. If I were dead, that could not be
surer than it is henceforth. In the hour of my death, I 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 he had ever shown himself to be,
and it was so sad to think how much he had thrown away,
and how much he every day kept down and perverted, that
Lucie Manette wept mournfully for him as he stood look-
ing back at her.
‘Be comforted!’ he said, ‘I am not worth such feeling,
Miss Manette. An hour or two hence, and the low compan-
ions and low habits that I scorn but yield to, will render me
less worth such tears as those, than any wretch who creeps
along the streets. Be comforted! But, within myself, I shall
always be, towards you, what I am now, though outwardly
I shall be what you have heretofore seen me. The last sup-

plication but one I make to you, is, that you will believe this
of me.’
‘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 dear to you, I 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. O Miss Manette, when the little pic-
ture of a happy father’s face looks up in yours, when you
see your own bright beauty 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!’ said a last ‘God bless you!’ and left
her.

XIV
The Honest Tradesman
T o the eyes of Mr. Jeremiah Cruncher, sitting on his stool

in Fleet-street with his grisly urchin beside him, a vast
number and variety of objects in movement were every day
presented. Who could sit upon anything in Fleet-street dur-
ing 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 who has for sev-
eral centuries been on duty watching one stream—saving
that Jerry had no expectation of their ever running dry. Nor
would it have been an expectation of a hopeful kind, since
a small part of his income was derived 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 benev-
olent 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 he was thus engaged in a season when
crowds were few, and belated women few, and when his af-
fairs 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 con-
course pouring down Fleet-street westward, attracted his
attention. Looking that way, Mr. Cruncher made out that
some kind of funeral was coming along, and that there was
popular objection to this funeral, which engendered up-
roar.
‘Young Jerry,’ said Mr. Cruncher, turning to his off-
spring, ‘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 ill, that he watched his opportunity, and smote the young
gentleman on the ear.
‘What d’ye mean? What are you hooroaring at? What
do you want to conwey to your own father, you young Rip?
This boy is a getting too many for ME!’ said Mr. Cruncher,
surveying him. ‘Him and his hooroars! Don’t let me hear no

more of you, or you shall feel some more of me. D’ye hear?’
‘I warn’t doing no harm,’ Young Jerry protested, rubbing
his cheek.
‘Drop it then,’ said Mr. Cruncher; ‘I won’t have none of
YOUR no harms. Get a top of that there seat, and look at
the crowd.’
His son obeyed, and the crowd approached; they
were bawling and hissing round a dingy hearse and din-
gy mourning coach, in which mourning coach there was
only one mourner, dressed in the dingy trappings that were
considered essential to the dignity of the position. The po-
sition appeared by no means to please him, however, with
an increasing rabble surrounding the coach, deriding him,
making grimaces at him, and incessantly groaning and
calling out: ‘Yah! Spies! Tst! Yaha! Spies!’ with many com-
pliments too numerous and forcible to repeat.
Funerals had at all times a remarkable attraction for Mr.
Cruncher; he always pricked up his senses, and became
excited, when a funeral passed Tellson’s. Naturally, there-
fore, a funeral with this uncommon attendance excited him
greatly, and he asked of the first man who ran against him:
‘What is it, brother? What’s it about?’
‘I don’t know,’ said the man. ‘Spies! Yaha! Tst! Spies!’
He asked another man. ‘Who is it?’
‘I don’t know,’ returned the man, clapping his hands
to his mouth nevertheless, and vociferating in a surpris-
ing heat and with the greatest ardour, ‘Spies! Yaha! Tst, tst!
Spi—ies!’
At length, a person better informed on the merits of the

case, tumbled against him, and from this person he learned
that the funeral was the funeral of one Roger Cly.
‘Was He a spy?’ asked Mr. Cruncher.
‘Old Bailey spy,’ returned his informant. ‘Yaha! Tst! Yah!
Old Bailey Spi—i—ies!’
‘Why, to be sure!’ exclaimed Jerry, recalling the Trial at
which he had assisted. ‘I’ve seen him. Dead, is he?’
‘Dead as mutton,’ returned the other, ‘and can’t be too
dead. Have ‘em out, there! Spies! Pull ‘em out, there! Spies!’
The idea was so acceptable in the prevalent absence of
any idea, that the crowd caught it up with eagerness, and
loudly repeating the suggestion to have ‘em out, and to pull
‘em out, mobbed the two vehicles so closely that they came
to a stop. On the crowd’s opening the coach doors, the one
mourner scuffled out of himself and was in their hands for
a moment; but he was so alert, and made such good use of
his time, that in another moment he was scouring away up
a bye-street, after shedding his cloak, hat, long hatband,
white pocket-handkerchief, and other symbolical tears.
These, the people tore to pieces and scattered far and
wide with great enjoyment, while the tradesmen hurriedly
shut up their shops; for a crowd in those times stopped at
nothing, and was a monster much dreaded. They had al-
ready 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. Prac-
tical suggestions being much needed, this suggestion, too,
was received with acclamation, and the coach was immedi-
ately 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 volun-
teers was Jerry Cruncher himself, who modestly concealed
his spiky head from the observation of Tellson’s, in the fur-
ther corner of the mourning coach.
The officiating undertakers made some protest against
these changes in the ceremonies; but, the river being alarm-
ingly near, and several voices remarking on the efficacy
of cold immersion in bringing refractory members of the
profession to reason, the protest was faint and brief. The re-
modelled 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 cabinet minister, driv-
ing the mourning coach. A bear-leader, a popular street
character of the time, was impressed as an additional orna-
ment, before the cavalcade had gone far down the Strand;
and his bear, who was black and very mangy, gave quite an
Undertaking air to that part of the procession in which he
walked.
Thus, with beer-drinking, pipe-smoking, song-roaring,
and infinite caricaturing of woe, the disorderly procession
went its way, recruiting at every step, and all the shops shut-
ting up before it. Its destination was the old church of Saint
Pancras, far off in the fields. It got there in course of time;
insisted on pouring into the burial-ground; finally, accom-
plished the interment of the deceased Roger Cly in its own
way, and highly to its own satisfaction.
The dead man disposed of, and the crowd being under

the necessity of providing some other entertainment for
itself, another brighter genius (or perhaps the same) con-
ceived 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 window-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 away, and perhaps the Guards came, and
perhaps they never came, and this was the usual progress
of a mob.
Mr. 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 procured a pipe from a neighbouring public-house,
and smoked it, looking in at the railings and maturely con-
sidering the spot.
‘Jerry,’ said Mr. Cruncher, apostrophising 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 lon-
ger, he turned himself about, that he might appear, before
the hour of closing, on his station at Tellson’s. Whether his

meditations on mortality had touched his liver, or wheth-
er 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 he made a short
call upon his medical adviser—a distinguished surgeon—
on his way back.
Young Jerry relieved his father with dutiful interest, and
reported No job in his absence. The bank closed, the ancient
clerks came out, the usual watch was set, and Mr. Cruncher
and his son went home to tea.
‘Now, I tell you where it is!’ said Mr. Cruncher to his
wife, on entering. ‘If, as a honest tradesman, my wenturs
goes wrong to-night, I shall make sure that you’ve been
praying again me, and I shall work you for it just the same
as if I seen you do it.’
The dejected Mrs. Cruncher shook her head.
‘Why, you’re at it afore my face!’ said Mr. 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
another. Drop it altogether.’
‘Yes, Jerry.’
‘Yes, Jerry,’ repeated Mr. Cruncher sitting down to tea.
‘Ah! It IS yes, Jerry. That’s about it. You may say yes, Jerry.’
Mr. Cruncher had no particular meaning in these sulky
corroborations, but made use of them, as people not unfre-
quently do, to express general ironical dissatisfaction.
‘You and your yes, Jerry,’ said Mr. 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?’ asked his decent wife, when
he took another bite.
‘Yes, I am.’
‘May I go with you, father?’ asked his son, briskly.
‘No, you mayn’t. I’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?’
‘Never you mind.’
‘Shall you bring any fish home, father?’
‘If I don’t, you’ll have short commons, to-morrow,’ re-
turned that gentleman, shaking his head; ‘that’s questions
enough for you; I ain’t a going out, till you’ve been long
abed.’
He devoted himself during the remainder of the evening
to keeping a most vigilant watch on Mrs. Cruncher, and
sullenly holding her in conversation that she might be pre-
vented 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 dwell-
ing on any causes of complaint he could bring against her,
rather than he would leave her for a moment to her own
reflections. 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 unbe-
liever in ghosts should be frightened by a ghost story.
‘And mind you!’ said Mr. Cruncher. ‘No games to-mor-

row! If I, as a honest tradesman, succeed in providing a jinte
of meat or two, none of your not touching of it, and stick-
ing to bread. If I, 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 a ugly customer to
you, if you don’t. I’m your Rome, you know.’
Then he began grumbling again:
‘With your flying into the face of your own wittles and
drink! 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 he? He’s 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 his other parent.
Thus the evening wore away with the Cruncher fam-
ily, until Young Jerry was ordered to bed, and his mother,
laid under similar injunctions, obeyed them. Mr. Crunch-
er 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, he rose
up from his chair, took a key out of his pocket, opened a
locked cupboard, and brought forth a sack, a crowbar of
convenient size, a rope and chain, and other fishing tackle
of that nature. Disposing these articles about him in 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 he 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 house fronts, 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 lonely road. Another fisher-
man was picked up here—and 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 next object that Young Jerry saw, was the form of his
honoured parent, pretty well defined against 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—listening perhaps. Then, they moved
away on their hands and knees.
It was now Young Jerry’s turn to approach the gate: which
he did, holding his breath. Crouching down again in a cor-
ner there, and looking in, he made out the three fishermen
creeping through some rank grass! and all the gravestones
in the churchyard—it was a large churchyard that they were
in—looking 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 fish.
They fished with a spade, at first. Presently the honoured
parent appeared to be adjusting some instrument like a
great corkscrew. Whatever tools they worked with, they
worked hard, until the awful striking of the church clock so
terrified Young Jerry, that he made off, with his hair as stiff
as his father’s.
But, his long-cherished desire to know more about these
matters, not only stopped him in his running away, but
lured him back again. They were still fishing perseveringly,
when he peeped 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 Jer-
ry very well knew what it would be; but, when he saw it, and
saw his honoured parent about to wrench it open, he was so
frightened, being new to the sight, that he made off again,
and never stopped until he had run a mile or more.
He would not have stopped then, for anything less nec-
essary 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 he had seen was running af-
ter him; and, pictured as hopping on behind him, bolt
upright, upon its narrow end, always on the point of over-
taking him and hopping on at his side—perhaps taking his
arm— it was a pursuer to shun. It was an inconsistent and
ubiquitous fiend too, for, while it was making the whole
night behind him dreadful, he darted out into the roadway
to avoid dark alleys, fearful of its coming hopping out of
them like a dropsical boy’s-Kite without tail and wings. It
hid in doorways too, rubbing its horrible shoulders against
doors, and drawing them up to its ears, as if it were laugh-
ing. It got into shadows on the road, and lay cunningly on
its back to trip him up. All this time it was incessantly hop-
ping on behind and gaining on him, so that when the boy
got to his own door he had reason for being half dead. And
even then it would not leave him, but followed him upstairs
with a bump on every stair, scrambled into bed with him,
and bumped down, dead and heavy, on his breast when he
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 family room. 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 against the head-
board of the bed.
‘I told you I would,’ said Mr. Cruncher, ‘and I did.’
‘Jerry, Jerry, Jerry!’ his wife implored.
‘You oppose yourself to the profit of the business,’ said
Jerry, ‘and me and my partners suffer. You was to honour
and obey; why the devil don’t you?’
‘I try to be a good wife, Jerry,’ the poor woman protested,
with tears.
‘Is it being a good wife to oppose your husband’s busi-
ness? Is it honouring your husband to dishonour his
business? Is it obeying your husband to disobey him on the
wital subject of his business?’
‘You hadn’t taken to the dreadful business then, Jerry.’
‘It’s enough for you,’ retorted Mr. Cruncher, ‘to be the
wife of a honest tradesman, and not to occupy your female
mind with calculations when he took to his trade or when
he didn’t. A honouring and obeying wife would let his trade
alone altogether. Call yourself a religious woman? If you’re
a religious woman, give me a irreligious one! You have no
more nat’ral sense of duty 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 any-
thing else. Mr. Cruncher was out of spirits, and out of
temper, and kept an iron pot-lid by him as a projectile for
the correction of Mrs. Cruncher, in case he 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’s side along sunny and crowded Fleet-street, was a
very different Young Jerry from him of the previous night,
running home through darkness and solitude from his
grim pursuer. His cunning was fresh with the day, and his
qualms were gone with the night—in which particulars it is
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 be-
tween them: ‘what’s a Resurrection-Man?’
Mr. Cruncher came to a stop on the pavement before he
answered, ‘How should I know?’
‘I thought you knowed everything, father,’ said the art-
less boy.
‘Hem! Well,’ returned Mr. Cruncher, going on again, and
lifting off his hat to give his spikes free play, ‘he’s a trades-
man.’
‘What’s his goods, father?’ asked the brisk Young Jerry.

‘His goods,’ said Mr. Cruncher, after turning it over in
his mind, ‘is a branch of Scientific goods.’
‘Persons’ bodies, ain’t it, father?’ asked the lively boy.
‘I believe it is something of that sort,’ said Mr. Crunch-
er.
‘Oh, father, I should so like to be a Resurrection-Man
when I’m quite growed up!’
Mr. Cruncher was soothed, but shook his head in a du-
bious 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 plant the stool 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!’

XV
Knitting
T here had been earlier drinking than usual in the wine-

shop of Monsieur Defarge. As early as six o’clock in the
morning, sallow 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
flame 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 drink-
ing; 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, swallowing talk in lieu of drink, with greedy looks.
Notwithstanding an unusual flow of company, the mas-
ter of the 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 De-
farge in her seat, presiding over the distribution of wine,
with a bowl of battered small coins before her, as much de-
faced 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 perhaps observed by the spies who looked in at the
wine-shop, as they looked in at every place, high and low,
from the kings palace to the criminal’s gaol. Games at cards
languished, players at dominoes musingly built towers with
them, drinkers drew figures on the tables with spilt drops
of wine, Madame Defarge herself 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
midday. 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 wine-
shop. Their arrival 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 wine-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 De-
farge: ‘I have travelled certain leagues with this good mender
of roads, called Jacques. I met him—by accident—a day and
half’s journey out of Paris. He is a good child, this mender
of roads, called Jacques. Give him to drink, my wife!’
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 Ma-
dame Defarge’s counter. A third man got up and went out.
Defarge refreshed himself with a draught of wine—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 Ma-
dame Defarge, who had taken up her knitting, and was at
work.

‘Have you finished your repast, friend?’ he asked, in due
season.
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Come, then! You shall see the apartment that I 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 courtyard 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 small link, that they had once looked in at him through
the chinks in the wall.
Defarge closed the door carefully, and spoke in a sub-
dued voice:
‘Jacques One, Jacques Two, Jacques Three! This is the
witness encountered by appointment, by me, Jacques Four.
He will tell you all. Speak, Jacques Five!’
The mender of roads, blue cap in hand, wiped his swar-
thy forehead with it, and said, ‘Where shall I commence,
monsieur?’
‘Commence,’ was Monsieur Defarge’s not unreasonable
reply, ‘at the commencement.’
‘I 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

carriage of the Marquis slowly ascending the hill, he hang-
ing by the chain—like this.’
Again the mender of roads went through the whole per-
formance; in which he ought to have been perfect by that
time, seeing that it had been the infallible resource and in-
dispensable entertainment of his village during a whole
year.
Jacques One struck in, and asked if he had ever seen the
man before?
‘Never,’ answered the mender of roads, recovering his
perpendicular.
Jacques Three demanded how he afterwards recognised
him then?
‘By his tall figure,’ said the mender of roads, softly, and
with his finger at his nose. ‘When Monsieur the Marquis de-
mands that evening, ‘Say, what is he like?’ I make response,
‘Tall as a spectre.’’
‘You should have said, short as a dwarf,’ returned Jacques
Two.
‘But what did I know? The deed was not then accom-
plished, neither did he confide in me. Observe! 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 me! Bring that rascal!’ 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 tall man is lost, and he is sought—how many months?

Nine, ten, eleven?’
‘No matter, the number,’ said Defarge. ‘He is well hidden,
but at last he is unluckily found. Go on!’
‘I am again at work upon the hill-side, and the sun is
again about to go to bed. I am collecting my tools to de-
scend to my cottage down in the village below, where it is
already dark, when I raise my eyes, and see coming over the
hill six soldiers. In the midst of them is a tall man with his
arms bound—tied to his 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 first, 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 sun going to bed, where
they have a red edge, messieurs. Also, I see that their long
shadows 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!
But when they advance quite near to me, I recognise the tall
man, and he recognises me. Ah, but he would be well con-
tent to precipitate himself over the hill-side once again, as
on the evening when he and I first encountered, close to the
same spot!’
He described it as if he were there, and it was evident that

he saw it vividly; perhaps he had not seen much in his life.
‘I do not show the soldiers that I recognise the tall man;
he does not show the soldiers that he 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 tomb!’ and they bring him faster. I follow. His arms are
swelled because of being bound so tight, his wooden shoes
are large and clumsy, and he is lame. Because he is lame,
and consequently slow, they drive him with their guns—
like this!’
He imitated the action of a man’s being impelled forward
by the butt-ends of muskets.
‘As they descend the hill like madmen running a race, he
falls. They laugh and pick him up again. His face is bleeding
and covered with dust, but he cannot touch it; thereupon
they laugh again. They bring him into the village; all the vil-
lage runs to look; they take him past the mill, and up to the
prison; all the village sees the prison gate open in the dark-
ness of the night, and swallow him—like this!’
He opened his mouth as wide as he could, and shut it
with a sounding snap of his teeth. Observant of his unwill-
ingness to mar the effect by opening it again, Defarge said,
‘Go on, Jacques.’
‘All the village,’ pursued the mender of roads, on tiptoe
and in a low voice, ‘withdraws; all the village whispers 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 my tools upon my shoulder, eating my

morsel of black bread as I go, I make 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,
looking through. He has no hand free, to wave to me; I dare
not call to him; he regards me like a dead man.’
Defarge and the three glanced darkly at one another. The
looks of all of them were dark, repressed, and revengeful, as
they listened to the countryman’s story; 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 his agitated
hand always gliding over the network of fine nerves about
his mouth and nose; Defarge standing between them and
the narrator, whom he had stationed in the light of the win-
dow, 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 some days. The vil-
lage looks at him by stealth, for it is afraid. But it always
looks up, from a 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 to-
wards the prison. Formerly, they were turned towards the
posting-house; now, they are turned towards the prison.
They whisper at the fountain, that although condemned to
death he will not be executed; they say that petitions have
been presented in Paris, showing that he 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? It
is possible. Perhaps yes, perhaps no.’
‘Listen then, Jacques,’ Number One of that name sternly
interposed. ‘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
Defarge 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 Num-
ber Three: his fingers ever wandering over and over those
fine nerves, with a strikingly greedy air, as if he hungered
for something—that was neither food nor drink; ‘the guard,
horse and foot, surrounded the petitioner, and struck him
blows. You hear?’
‘I hear, messieurs.’
‘Go on then,’ said Defarge.
‘Again; on the other hand, they whisper at the fountain,’
resumed the countryman, ‘that he is brought down into our
country to be executed on the spot, and that he will very
certainly be executed. They even whisper that because he
has slain Monseigneur, and because Monseigneur was the
father of his tenants—serfs—what you will—he will be ex-
ecuted as a parricide. One old man says at the fountain, that
his right hand, armed with the knife, will be burnt off be-
fore 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; finally, that he
will be torn limb from limb by four strong horses. That old

man says, all this was actually done to a prisoner who made
an attempt on the life of the late King, Louis Fifteen. But
how do I know if he lies? I am not a scholar.’
‘Listen once again then, Jacques!’ said the man with the
restless 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 la-
dies of quality and fashion, who were full of eager attention
to the last—to the last, Jacques, prolonged until nightfall,
when he had lost two legs and an arm, and still breathed!
And it was done—why, how old are you?’
‘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. Work-
men dig, workmen hammer, soldiers laugh and sing; in the
morning, by the fountain, there is raised a gallows forty feet
high, poisoning the water.’
The mender of roads looked THROUGH rather than AT
the low ceiling, and pointed as if he saw the gallows some-
where in the sky.
‘All work is stopped, all assemble there, nobody leads the

cows out, the cows are there with the rest. At midday, the
roll of drums. Soldiers have marched into the prison in the
night, and he is in the midst of many soldiers. He is bound
as before, and in his mouth there is a gag—tied so, with a
tight string, making him look almost as if he 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 gal-
lows is fixed the knife, blade upwards, with its point in the
air. He is hanged there forty feet high—and is left hanging,
poisoning the water.’
They looked at one another, as he 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? When I 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 the 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!’
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?’
‘Very willingly,’ said the mender of roads. Whom De-
farge escorted to the top 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?’
‘To be registered, as doomed to destruction,’ returned
Defarge.
‘Magnificent!’ croaked the man with the craving.
‘The chateau, and all the race?’ inquired the first.
‘The chateau and all the race,’ returned Defarge. ‘Exter-
mination.’
The hungry man repeated, in a rapturous croak, ‘Mag-
nificent!’ 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? Without doubt it is safe, for no one beyond our-
selves can decipher it; but shall we always be able to decipher
it—or, I ought to say, will she?’
‘Jacques,’ returned Defarge, drawing himself up, ‘if ma-
dame 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 her own stitches and her own symbols, it will
always be as plain to her as the sun. Confide in Madame De-
farge. It would be easier for the weakest poltroon that lives,
to erase himself 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? I hope so. He is very simple; is he not a little
dangerous?’
‘He knows nothing,’ said Defarge; ‘at least nothing more
than would easily elevate himself to a gallows of the same
height. I charge myself with him; let him remain with me; I
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?’ exclaimed the hungry man, staring. ‘Is it a good
sign, that he wishes to see Royalty and Nobility?’
‘Jacques,’ said Defarge; ‘judiciously show a cat milk, if
you wish her to thirst for it. Judiciously show a dog his natu-
ral 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-bed and take some rest. He
needed no persuasion, and was soon asleep.
Worse quarters than Defarge’s wine-shop, could easily
have been found in Paris for a provincial slave of that de-
gree. Saving for a mysterious dread of madame by which
he was constantly haunted, his life was very new and agree-
able. But, madame sat all day at her counter, so expressly
unconscious of him, and so particularly determined not
to perceive that his being there had any connection with
anything below the surface, that he shook in his wooden

shoes whenever his eye lighted on her. For, he contended
with himself that it was impossible to foresee what that lady
might pretend next; and he felt assured that if she should
take it into her brightly ornamented head to pretend that
she had seen him do a murder and afterwards flay the vic-
tim, she would infallibly go through with it until the play
was played out.
Therefore, when Sunday came, the mender of roads was
not enchanted (though he said he was) to find that madame
was to accompany monsieur and himself to Versailles. It
was additionally disconcerting to have madame knitting
all the way there, in a public conveyance; it was addition-
ally disconcerting yet, to have madame in the crowd in the
afternoon, still with her knitting in her hands as the crowd
waited to see the carriage of the King and Queen.
‘You work hard, madame,’ said a man near her.
‘Yes,’ answered Madame Defarge; ‘I have a good deal to
do.’
‘What do you make, madame?’
‘Many things.’
‘For instance—’
‘For instance,’ returned Madame Defarge, composedly,
‘shrouds.’
The man moved a little further away, as soon as he could,
and the mender of roads fanned himself with his blue cap:
feeling it mightily close and oppressive. If he needed a King
and Queen to restore him, he was fortunate in having his
remedy at hand; for, soon the large-faced 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 disdainful faces of both sexes, the mender of
roads bathed himself, so much to his temporary intoxica-
tion, that he cried Long live the King, Long live the Queen,
Long live everybody and everything! as if he had never
heard of ubiquitous Jacques in his time. Then, there were
gardens, courtyards, 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 sen-
timent. During the whole of this scene, which lasted some
three hours, he 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 objects of
his brief devotion and tearing them to pieces.
‘Bravo!’ said 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 dem-
onstrations; but no.
‘You are the fellow we want,’ said Defarge, in his 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 of their own horses or

dogs, they only know what your breath tells them. Let it de-
ceive them, then, a little longer; it cannot deceive them too
much.’
Madame Defarge looked superciliously at the client, and
nodded in confirmation.
‘As to you,’ said she, ‘you would shout and shed tears for
anything, if it made a show and a noise. Say! 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 shown a flock of birds, unable to
fly, and were set upon them to strip them of their feathers
for your own advantage, you would set upon the birds of the
finest feathers; would you not?’
‘It is true, madame.’
‘You have seen both dolls and birds to-day,’ said Madame
Defarge, with a wave of her hand towards the place where
they had last been apparent; ‘now, go home!’

XVI
Still Knitting
M adame Defarge 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
chateau 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 courtyard 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 changed, from fac-
es 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. In the stone
face over the great window of the bed-chamber where 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, be-
fore they all started away among the moss and leaves, like
the more fortunate hares who could find a living there.
Chateau and hut, stone face and dangling figure, the
red stain on the stone floor, and the pure water in the vil-
lage well—thousands of acres of land—a whole province of
France—all France itself—lay under the night sky, concen-
trated 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 in-
telligences 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 un-
der the starlight, in their public vehicle, to that gate of Paris
whereunto their journey naturally tended. There was the
usual stoppage at the barrier guardhouse, 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 he 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 black mud and offal of his streets, Madame Defarge
spoke to her husband:
‘Say then, my friend; what did Jacques of the police tell
thee?’
‘Very little to-night, but all he knows. There is anoth-
er spy commissioned for our quarter. There may be many
more, for all that he can say, but he knows of one.’
‘Eh well!’ said Madame Defarge, raising her eyebrows
with a cool business air. ‘It is necessary to register him. How
do they call that man?’
‘He is English.’
‘So much the better. His name?’
‘Barsad,’ said Defarge, making it French by pronuncia-
tion. But, he had been so careful to get it accurately, that he
then spelt it with perfect correctness.
‘Barsad,’ repeated madame. ‘Good. Christian name?’
‘John.’
‘John Barsad,’ repeated madame, after murmuring it
once to herself. ‘Good. His appearance; is it known?’
‘Age, about forty years; height, about five feet nine; black
hair; complexion dark; generally, rather handsome visage;
eyes dark, face thin, long, and sallow; nose aquiline, but
not straight, having a peculiar inclination towards the left
cheek; expression, therefore, sinister.’
‘Eh my faith. It is a portrait!’ said madame, laughing. ‘He
shall 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 she turned out the
contents of the bowl of money for the second time, and be-
gan knotting them up in her handkerchief, in a chain of
separate knots, for safe keeping through the night. All this
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 domes-
tic affairs, he walked up and down through life.
The night was hot, and the shop, close shut and surround-
ed by so foul a neighbourhood, was ill-smelling. Monsieur
Defarge’s olfactory sense was by no means delicate, but the
stock of wine smelt much stronger than it ever tasted, and
so did the stock of rum and brandy and aniseed. He whiffed
the compound of scents away, as he 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 acknowledged.
‘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!’
‘But my dear!’ began Defarge.
‘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 his breast, ‘it IS a long time.’
‘It is a long time,’ repeated his wife; ‘and when is it not a
long time? Vengeance and retribution require a long time;
it is the rule.’
‘It does not take a long time to strike a man with Light-
ning,’ said Defarge.
‘How long,’ demanded madame, composedly, ‘does it
take to make and store the lightning? Tell me.’
Defarge raised his head thoughtfully, as if there were
something in that too.
‘It does not take a long time,’ said madame, ‘for an earth-
quake to swallow 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 meantime, it is always prepar-
ing, 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 know, 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! I 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
is possible—you know well, my wife, it is possible—that it
may not come, during our lives.’
‘Eh well! How then?’ demanded madame, tying another
knot, as if there were another enemy strangled.
‘Well!’ said Defarge, with a half complaining and half
apologetic shrug. ‘We shall not see the triumph.’
‘We shall have helped it,’ returned madame, with her ex-
tended hand in strong action. ‘Nothing that we do, is done
in vain. I believe, with all my soul, that we shall see the tri-
umph. But even if not, even if I knew certainly not, show me
the neck of an aristocrat and tyrant, and still I would—’
Then madame, with her teeth set, tied a very terrible
knot indeed.
‘Hold!’ cried Defarge, reddening a little as if he felt
charged with cowardice; ‘I too, my dear, will stop at noth-
ing.’
‘Yes! But it is your weakness that you sometimes need to
see your victim and your opportunity, to sustain you. Sus-
tain yourself without that. When 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 its brains out, and then gathering the heavy
handkerchief under her arm in a serene manner, and ob-
serving 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 customers, drinking or not drinking, standing
or seated, sprinkled about. The day was very hot, and heaps
of flies, who were extending their inquisitive and adventur-
ous 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 something as far removed), until they met the
same fate. Curious to consider how heedless flies are!—per-
haps they thought as much at Court that sunny summer
day.
A figure entering at the door threw a shadow on Ma-
dame 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 herself, as she resumed
her knitting: ‘Hah! 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, aq-
uiline nose but not straight, having a peculiar inclination

towards the left cheek which imparts a sinister expression!
Good day, one and all!’
‘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 complemented,
and Madame Defarge knew enough of its antecedents to
know better. She said, however, that the cognac was flat-
tered, and took up her knitting. The visitor watched her
fingers for a few moments, and took the opportunity of ob-
serving the place in general.
‘You knit with great skill, madame.’
‘I 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?’
‘Pastime,’ said madame, still looking at him with a smile
while her fingers moved nimbly.
‘Not for use?’
‘That depends. I may find a use for it one day. If I do—
Well,’ said madame, drawing a breath and nodding her head
with a stern kind of coquetry, ‘I’ll use it!’
It was remarkable; but, the taste of Saint Antoine seemed
to be decidedly opposed to a rose on the head-dress of Ma-
dame Defarge. Two men had entered separately, and had
been about to order drink, when, catching sight of that nov-
elty, they faltered, made a pretence of looking about as if

for some friend who was 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 in 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 shall knit ‘BARSAD’ before you go.’
‘You have a husband, madame?’
‘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 bod-
ed him no good.
‘Pardon me; certainly it was I who said so, but you natu-
rally think so. Of course.’
‘I think?’ returned madame, in a high voice. ‘I and my
husband have enough to do to keep this wine-shop open,
without thinking. All we think, here, is how to live. That
is the subject WE think of, and it gives us, from morning
to night, enough to think about, without embarrassing our
heads concerning others. I think for others? No, no.’
The spy, who was there to pick up any crumbs he could

find or make, did not allow his baffled state to express it-
self in his sinister 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 peo-
ple use knives for such purposes, they have to pay for it. He
knew beforehand what the price of his luxury was; he has
paid the price.’
‘I believe,’ said the spy, dropping his soft voice to a tone
that invited confidence, and expressing an injured revolu-
tionary susceptibility in every muscle of his wicked face: ‘I
believe there is much compassion and anger in this neigh-
bourhood, touching the poor fellow? Between ourselves.’
‘Is there?’ asked madame, vacantly.
‘Is there not?’
‘—Here is 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!’

‘Good day!’ answered Defarge, drily.
‘I was saying to madame, with whom I 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 has told me so,’ said Defarge, shaking his head.
‘I 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 op-
posed, and whom either of them would have shot with the
greatest satisfaction.
The spy, well used to his business, did not change his un-
conscious attitude, but drained his little glass of cognac,
took a sip of fresh water, and asked for another glass of co-
gnac. 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?’ observed Defarge.
‘Not at all, but I hope to know it better. I am so profound-
ly interested in its miserable inhabitants.’
‘Hah!’ muttered Defarge.
‘The pleasure of conversing with you, Monsieur Defarge,
recalls to me,’ pursued the spy, ‘that I have the honour of
cherishing some interesting associations with your name.’
‘Indeed!’ 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 circumstanc-

es?’
‘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, accompa-
nied 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. ‘I have
known Doctor Manette and his daughter, in England.’
‘Yes?’ said Defarge.
‘You don’t hear much about them now?’ said the spy.
‘No,’ said Defarge.
‘In effect,’ madame struck in, looking 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, since then, they have gradually taken
their road in life—we, ours—and we have held no corre-
spondence.’
‘Perfectly so, madame,’ replied the spy. ‘She is going to
be married.’
‘Going?’ echoed madame. ‘She was pretty enough to
have been married long ago. You English are cold, it seems
to me.’
‘Oh! You know I am English.’
‘I perceive your tongue is,’ returned madame; ‘and what

the tongue is, I suppose the man is.’
He did not take the identification as a compliment; but
he made the best of it, and turned it off with a laugh. After
sipping his cognac to the end, he added:
‘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 is going to marry the
nephew of Monsieur the Marquis, for whom Gaspard was
exalted to that height of so many feet; in other words, the
present Marquis. But he lives unknown in England, he is no
Marquis there; he is Mr. Charles Darnay. D’Aulnais is the
name of his mother’s family.’
Madame Defarge knitted steadily, but the intelligence
had a palpable effect upon her husband. Do what he would,
behind the little counter, as to the striking of a light and
the lighting of his pipe, he was troubled, and his hand was
not trustworthy. The spy would have been no spy if he 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 he had drunk, and
took his leave: taking occasion to say, in a genteel manner,
before he departed, that he looked forward to the pleasure
of seeing Monsieur and Madame Defarge again. For some
minutes after he had emerged into the outer presence of
Saint Antoine, the husband and wife remained exactly as he
had left them, lest he should come back.
‘Can it be true,’ said Defarge, in a low voice, looking down

at his wife as he stood smoking with his hand on the back of
her chair: ‘what he has said of Ma’amselle Manette?’
‘As he has said it,’ returned madame, lifting her eyebrows
a little, ‘it is probably false. But it may be true.’
‘If it is—’ Defarge began, and stopped.
‘If it is?’ 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 he 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 her to admit it, ‘that, after all our sympathy for Mon-
sieur her father, and herself, her husband’s name should be
proscribed under your hand at this moment, by the side of
that infernal dog’s who has just left us?’
‘Stranger 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 roiled up her knitting when she had said those
words, and presently took the rose out of the handkerchief
that was wound about her head. Either Saint Antoine had
an instinctive sense that the objectionable decoration was
gone, or Saint Antoine was on the watch for its disappear-
ance; howbeit, the Saint took courage to lounge in, very
shortly afterwards, and the wine-shop recovered its habit-

ual aspect.
In the evening, at which season of all others Saint An-
toine 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 was accustomed to pass from place to place and
from group to group: a Missionary—there were many like
her—such as the world will do well never to breed again.
All the women knitted. They knitted worthless things; but,
the mechanical work was a mechanical substitute for eat-
ing 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 he, ‘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 military drums
in the Palace Courtyard, as the women sat knitting, knit-
ting. Darkness encompassed them. Another darkness was
closing in as surely, when the church bells, then ringing
pleasantly in many an airy steeple over France, should be
melted into thundering cannon; when the military 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,
knitting, that they their very selves were closing in around a
structure yet unbuilt, where they were to sit knitting, knit-
ting, counting dropping heads.

XVII
One Night
N ever 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 her father, and they sat alone under the
plane-tree.
‘You are happy, my dear father?’
‘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 I 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. But, if my life were not
to be still consecrated to you, or if my marriage were so ar-
ranged as that it would part us, even by the length of a few of
these streets, I should be more unhappy and self-reproach-
ful now than I can tell you. Even as it is—’
Even as it was, she could not command her voice.
In the sad moonlight, she clasped him by the neck, and
laid her face upon his breast. In the moonlight which is al-
ways 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? I know it
well, but do you know it? In your own heart, do you feel
quite certain?’
Her father answered, with a cheerful firmness of con-
viction he could scarcely have assumed, ‘Quite sure, my
darling! More than that,’ he added, as he 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 I could hope THAT, 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, de-
voted and young, cannot fully 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 unself-
ishness cannot entirely comprehend how much my mind
has gone on this; but, only ask yourself, how could my hap-
piness be perfect, while yours was incomplete?’
‘If I had never seen Charles, my father, I should have
been quite happy with you.’
He smiled at her unconscious admission that she would
have been unhappy without Charles, having seen him; and
replied:
‘My 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 of my 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 hear-
ing him refer to the period of his 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 Beauvais, raising his hand
towards the 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 shin-
ing upon what I had lost, that I have beaten my head against
my prison-walls. I have looked at her, in a state so dun 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 intersect
them.’ He added in his inward and pondering manner, 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 felic-
ity with the dire endurance that was over.
‘I have looked at her, speculating thousands of times
upon the unborn child from whom I had been rent. Wheth-
er 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 un-
bearable.) Whether 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 wom-
an.’
She drew closer to him, and kissed his cheek and his
hand.
‘I have pictured my daughter, to myself, as perfectly
forgetful of me —rather, altogether ignorant of me, and un-
conscious of me. I have cast up the years of her age, year
after year. I have seen her married to a man who knew
nothing of my fate. I have altogether perished from the re-
membrance of the living, and in the next generation my
place was a blank.’
‘My father! Even to hear that you had such thoughts of a
daughter who never existed, strikes to my heart as if I 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?’
‘She knew nothing of you. She cared nothing for you.’
‘So! But on other moonlight nights, when the sadness
and the silence have touched me in a different way—have af-
fected 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 in my cell, and leading
me out into the freedom beyond the fortress. I have seen
her image in the moonlight often, as I now see you; except
that I never held her in my arms; it stood between the little
grated window and the door. But, you understand that that
was not the child I am speaking of?’
‘The figure was not; the—the—image; the fancy?’
‘No. That was another thing. It stood before my dis-
turbed sense of sight, but it never moved. The phantom that
my mind pursued, was another and more real child. Of her
outward appearance I know no more than that she was like
her mother. The other had that likeness too —as you have—
but was not the same. Can you follow me, Lucie? Hardly, I
think? I doubt you must have been a solitary prisoner to un-
derstand these perplexed distinctions.’
His collected and calm manner could not prevent her
blood from running cold, as he 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 re-
membrance of her lost father. My picture was in her room,
and I was in her prayers. Her life was active, cheerful, use-
ful; but my poor history pervaded it all.’
‘I was that child, my father, I was not half so good, but in
my love that was I.’
‘And she showed me her children,’ said the Doctor of
Beauvais, ‘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 frowning walls, and looked up at 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, I fell upon
my knees, and blessed her.’
‘I am that child, I hope, my father. O my dear, my dear,
will you bless me as fervently to-morrow?’
‘Lucie, I recall these old troubles in the reason that I
have to-night for loving you better than words can tell, and
thanking God for my great happiness. My thoughts, when
they were wildest, never rose near the happiness that I have
known with you, and that we have before us.’
He embraced her, solemnly commended her to Heaven,
and humbly thanked Heaven for having bestowed her on
him. By-and-bye, they went into the house.
There was no one bidden to the marriage but Mr. Lor-
ry; 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 apoc-

ryphal 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 downstairs again, and stole into his
room; not free from unshaped fears, beforehand.
All things, however, were in their places; all was quiet;
and he lay asleep, his white hair picturesque on the untrou-
bled pillow, and his hands lying quiet on the coverlet. She
put her needless candle in the shadow at a distance, crept
up to his bed, and put her lips 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 tracks with a determination
so strong, that he held the mastery of them even in his sleep.
A more remarkable 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 laid her hand 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 with-
drew 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 softly as her lips had
moved in praying for him.

XVIII
Nine Days
T he marriage-day was shining brightly, 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 ad-
mire 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’ How little I thought what I was
doing! How lightly I valued the obligation I 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!’
‘Really? Well; but don’t cry,’ said the gentle Mr. Lorry.
‘I am not crying,’ said Miss Pross; ‘YOU are.’
‘I, my Pross?’ (By this time, Mr. Lorry dared to be pleas-

ant with her, on occasion.)
‘You were, just now; I saw you do it, and I 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 I 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 ar-
ticles 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.’
‘Well!’ 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 unhand-
somely dealt with, and that I ought to have had a voice in
the selection of my pattern. Enough! Now, my dear Lu-
cie,’ drawing his arm soothingly round her waist, ‘I hear
them moving in the next room, and Miss Pross and I, as
two formal folks of business, are anxious not to lose the fi-
nal opportunity of saying something to you that you wish
to hear. You leave your good father, my dear, in hands as

earnest and as loving as your own; he shall be taken every
conceivable care of; during the next fortnight, while you are
in Warwickshire and thereabouts, even Tellson’s shall go to
the wall (comparatively speaking) before him. And when, at
the fortnight’s end, he comes to join you and your beloved
husband, on your other fortnight’s trip in Wales, you shall
say that we have 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 bach-
elor blessing, before Somebody comes to claim his own.’
For a moment, he held the fair face from him to look at
the well-remembered expression on the forehead, and then
laid the bright golden hair against his little brown wig, with
a genuine tenderness and delicacy which, if such things be
old-fashioned, were as 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 his manner he was unaltered, except that to the shrewd
glance of Mr. Lorry it disclosed some shadowy indication
that the old air of avoidance and dread had lately passed
over him, like a cold wind.
He gave his arm to his daughter, and took her down-
stairs to the chariot which Mr. Lorry had hired in honour
of the day. The rest followed in another carriage, and soon,
in a neighbouring 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 min-
gled with the poor shoemaker’s white locks in the Paris
garret, were mingled with them again in the morning sun-
light, 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, Charles! She is
yours!’
And her agitated hand waved to them from a chaise win-
dow, 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 when they 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 re-
pression was gone. But, it was the old scared lost look that
troubled Mr. Lorry; and through his absent manner of
clasping his head and drearily wandering away into his own
room when they got up-stairs, Mr. Lorry was reminded of
Defarge the wine-shop keeper, and the starlight ride.
‘I think,’ he whispered to Miss Pross, after anxious con-

sideration, ‘I think we had best not speak to him just now,
or at all disturb 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 the country, 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. When
he came back, he ascended the old staircase alone, having
asked no question of the servant; going thus into the Doc-
tor’s rooms, he was stopped by a low sound of knocking.
‘Good God!’ he said, with a start. ‘What’s that?’
Miss Pross, with a terrified face, was at his ear. ‘O me,
O me! All is lost!’ 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 he could to calm her, and went him-
self 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 he was
very busy.
‘Doctor Manette. My dear friend, Doctor Manette!’
The Doctor looked at him for a moment—half inquir-
ingly, half as if he were angry at being spoken to—and bent
over his work again.
He had laid aside his coat and waistcoat; his shirt was
open at the throat, as it used to be when he did that work;
and even the old haggard, faded surface of face had come
back to him. He 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 an-
other that was lying by him, and asked what it was.
‘A young lady’s walking shoe,’ he muttered, without look-
ing 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? Think again. This is not
your proper occupation. Think, dear friend!’
Nothing would induce him to speak more. He looked up,
for an instant at a time, when he was requested to do so; but,
no persuasion would extract 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 he sometimes furtively looked up without being asked.
In that, there seemed a faint expression of curiosity or per-
plexity—as though he were trying to reconcile some doubts
in his mind.
Two things at once impressed themselves on Mr. Lor-
ry, as important 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
Pross, he took immediate steps towards the latter pre-
caution, by giving out that the Doctor was not well, and
required a few days of complete rest. In aid of the kind de-
ception to be practised on his daughter, Miss Pross was to
write, describing his having been called away professionally,

and referring to an imaginary letter of two or three hurried
lines in his own hand, represented to have been addressed
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 he 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 re-
solved to watch him attentively, with as little appearance
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, he became
worried. He abandoned that attempt on the first day, and
resolved merely to keep himself always before him, as a si-
lent 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 at 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?’
‘Yes; for a walk with me. Why not?’
He made no effort to say why not, and said not a word
more. But, Mr. Lorry thought he saw, as he 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 misty way asking
himself, ‘Why not?’ The sagacity of the man of business per-
ceived an advantage here, and determined to hold it.
Miss Pross and he 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 he lay down; but,
when he did finally lay himself down, he fell asleep. In the
morning, he 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 topics that had been of
late familiar to them. He returned no reply, but it was evi-
dent that he heard what was said, and that he thought about
it, however confusedly. This encouraged Mr. 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 demonstra-
tive accompaniment, not long enough, or often enough to
harass him; and it lightened Mr. Lorry’s friendly heart to

believe that he looked up oftener, and that he appeared to
be stirred by some perception of inconsistencies surround-
ing him.
When it fell dark again, Mr. Lorry asked him as before:
‘Dear Doctor, will you go out?’
As before, he repeated, ‘Out?’
‘Yes; for a walk with me. Why not?’
This time, Mr. Lorry feigned to go out when he could
extract no answer from him, and, after remaining absent
for an hour, returned. In the meanwhile, the Doctor had
removed to the seat in the window, and had sat there look-
ing down at the plane-tree; but, on Mr. Lorry’s return, be
slipped away to his bench.
The time went very slowly on, and Mr. 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 with a heart always
growing heavier and heavier, Mr. Lorry passed through this
anxious time. The secret was well kept, and Lucie was un-
conscious and happy; but he could not fail to observe that
the shoemaker, 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 evening.

XIX
An Opinion
W orn out by anxious watching, Mr. Lorry fell asleep at

his post. 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 doubt-
ed, 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 still very
pale, was calmly 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 em-
ployed 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 astonish-
ment, the answer being obvious. If the impression were not
produced by a real corresponding and sufficient cause, how
came he, Jarvis Lorry, there? How came he to have fallen
asleep, in his clothes, on the sofa in Doctor Manette’s con-
sulting-room, and to be debating these points outside the
Doctor’s bedroom door in the early morning?
Within a few minutes, Miss Pross stood whispering at
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 breakfast-hour in his 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 with-
out overstepping those delicate and gradual approaches
which Mr. Lorry felt to be the only safe advance, he at first
supposed that his daughter’s marriage had taken place yes-
terday. 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
respects, however, he was so composedly himself, that Mr.
Lorry determined to have the aid he sought. And that aid
was his own.
Therefore, when the breakfast was done and cleared
away, and he 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 affec-
tionately on the arm, ‘the case is the case of a particularly
dear friend of mine. Pray give your mind to it, and advise
me well for his sake—and 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—?’
‘Yes!’
‘Be explicit,’ said the Doctor. ‘Spare no detail.’
Mr. Lorry saw that they understood one another, and
proceeded.
‘My dear Manette, it is the case of an old and a prolonged
shock, of great acuteness and severity to the affections, the
feelings, the—the—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 he can-
not calculate the time himself, and there are no other means
of getting at it. It is the case of a shock from which the suffer-
er recovered, by a process that he cannot trace himself—as I
once heard him publicly relate in a striking 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 applica-
tion of mind, and great exertion of body, and of constantly
making fresh additions to his stock of knowledge, which
was already very large. But, unfortunately, there has been,’
he paused and took a deep breath—‘a slight relapse.’
The Doctor, in a low voice, asked, ‘Of how long dura-
tion?’
‘Nine days and nights.’
‘How did it show itself? I infer,’ glancing at his hands
again, ‘in the resumption of some old pursuit connected
with the shock?’
‘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?’
‘Once.’
‘And when the relapse fell on him, was he in most re-
spects—or in all respects—as he was then?’
‘I think in all respects.’
‘You spoke of his daughter. Does his daughter know of
the relapse?’
‘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 business, and unfit to cope with such intricate and
difficult matters. 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 I could so
rely for right guidance, as on you. Tell me, how does this
relapse come about? Is there danger of another? Could a
repetition of it be prevented? How should a repetition of it
be treated? How does it come about at all? What can I do
for my friend? No man ever can have been more desirous
in his heart to serve a friend, than I am to serve mine, if I
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.
‘I 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 subject.’

‘Was it dreaded by him?’ Mr. Lorry ventured to ask.
‘Very much.’ He said it with an involuntary shudder.
‘You have no idea how such an apprehension weighs on
the sufferer’s mind, and how difficult—how almost impos-
sible—it is, for him to force himself 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?’
‘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 Mr. Lorry, gently laying his hand on the Doc-
tor’s arm again, after a short silence on both sides, ‘to what
would you refer this attack? ‘
‘I believe,’ returned Doctor Manette, ‘that there had been
a strong and extraordinary revival of the train of thought
and remembrance that was the first cause of the malady.
Some intense associations of a most distressing nature were
vividly recalled, I think. It is probable that there had long
been a dread lurking 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?’
asked Mr. Lorry, with natural hesitation.
The Doctor looked desolately round the room, shook his
head, and answered, in a low voice, ‘Not at all.’
‘Now, as to the future,’ hinted Mr. Lorry.

‘As to the future,’ said the Doctor, recovering firmness, ‘I
should have great hope. As it pleased Heaven in its mercy to
restore him so soon, I should have great hope. He, yielding
under the pressure of a complicated something, long dread-
ed and long vaguely foreseen and contended against, and
recovering after the cloud had burst and passed, I should
hope that the worst was over.’
‘Well, well! That’s good comfort. I am thankful!’ said Mr.
Lorry.
‘I am thankful!’ repeated the Doctor, bending his head
with reverence.
‘There are two other points,’ said Mr. Lorry, ‘on which I
am anxious to be instructed. I may go on?’
‘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 unusu-
ally energetic; he applies himself with great ardour to the
acquisition of professional knowledge, to the conducting of
experiments, to many things. Now, does he do too much?’
‘I think not. It may be the character of his mind, to be
always in singular 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 dan-
ger of turning in the unhealthy direction. He may have
observed himself, and made the discovery.’
‘You are sure that he is not under too great a strain?’
‘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 coun-
terweight.’
‘Excuse me, as a persistent man of business. Assuming
for a moment, that he WAS overworked; it would show itself
in some renewal of this disorder?’
‘I do not think so. I do not think,’ said Doctor Manette
with the firmness of self-conviction, ‘that anything but
the one train of association would renew it. I think that,
henceforth, 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 personal endurance and distress.
It was not for his friend to abate that confidence. He pro-
fessed 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 all; but, remembering his 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 so happily recovered from,’ said Mr. Lor-
ry, clearing his throat, ‘we will call—Blacksmith’s work,
Blacksmith’s work. We will say, to put a case and for the
sake of illustration, that he had been used, in his bad time,

to work at a little forge. We will say that he was unexpect-
edly found at his forge again. Is it not a pity that he should
keep it by him?’
The Doctor shaded his forehead with his hand, and beat
his foot nervously on the ground.
‘He has always kept it by him,’ said Mr. Lorry, with an
anxious look at his friend. ‘Now, would it not be better that
he should let it go?’
Still, the Doctor, with shaded forehead, beat his foot ner-
vously on the ground.
‘You do not find it easy to advise me?’ said Mr. Lorry. ‘I
quite understand it to be a nice question. And yet I think—’
And there he shook his head, and stopped.
‘You see,’ said Doctor Manette, turning to him after an
uneasy pause, ‘it is very hard to explain, consistently, the in-
nermost workings of this poor man’s mind. He once yearned
so frightfully for that occupation, and it was so welcome
when it came; no doubt it relieved his pain so much, by sub-
stituting the perplexity of the fingers for the perplexity of
the brain, and by substituting, as 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 quite out of his reach. Even now, when I believe he
is more hopeful of himself than he has ever been, and even
speaks of himself with a kind of confidence, the idea that
he might need that old employment, and not find it, gives
him a sudden sense of terror, like that which one may fancy
strikes to the heart of a lost child.’
He looked like his illustration, as he raised his eyes to

Mr. Lorry’s face.
‘But may not—mind! I ask for information, as a plodding
man of business who only deals with such material objects
as guineas, shillings, and bank-notes—may not the reten-
tion of the thing involve the retention of the idea? If the
thing were gone, my dear Manette, might not the fear go
with it? In short, is it not a concession to the misgiving, to
keep the forge?’
There was another silence.
‘You see, too,’ said the Doctor, tremulously, ‘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 your
authority. I am sure it does no good. Come! Give me your
authority, like a dear good man. For his daughter’s sake, my
dear Manette!’
Very strange to see what a struggle there was within
him!
‘In her name, then, let it be done; I sanction it. But, I
would not take it away while he was present. Let it be re-
moved when he is not there; let him miss his old companion
after an absence.’
Mr. Lorry readily engaged for that, and the conference
was ended. They passed the day in the country, and the
Doctor was quite restored. On the three following days he
remained perfectly well, and on the fourteenth day he 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 he had written to Lucie in
accordance with it, and she had no suspicions.
On the night of the day on which he left the house, Mr.
Lorry went into his room with a chopper, saw, chisel, and
hammer, attended by Miss Pross carrying a light. There,
with closed doors, and in a mysterious and guilty man-
ner, Mr. Lorry hacked the shoemaker’s bench to pieces,
while Miss Pross held the candle as if she were assisting
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 com-
menced without delay in the kitchen fire; and the tools,
shoes, and leather, were buried in the garden. So wicked do
destruction and secrecy appear to honest minds, that Mr.
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.

XX
A Plea
W hen the newly-married pair came home, the first per-

son who appeared, to offer his congratulations, was
Sydney Carton. They had not been at home many hours,
when he presented himself. He was not improved in habits,
or in looks, or in manner; but there was a certain rugged air
of fidelity about him, which was new to the observation of
Charles Darnay.
He watched his opportunity of taking Darnay aside into
a window, and of speaking to him when no one overheard.
‘Mr. Darnay,’ said Carton, ‘I wish we might be friends.’
‘We are already friends, I hope.’
‘You are good enough to say so, as a fashion of speech;
but, I don’t mean any fashion of speech. Indeed, when I say
I wish we might be friends, I scarcely mean quite that, ei-
ther.’
Charles Darnay—as was natural—asked him, in all
good-humour and good-fellowship, what he did mean?
‘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 occa-

sion 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 is heavy
upon me, for I always remember them. I hope it may be tak-
en into account one day, when all days are at an end for me!
Don’t be alarmed; I am not going to preach.’
‘I am not at all alarmed. Earnestness in you, is anything
but alarming to me.’
‘Ah!’ said Carton, with a careless wave of his hand, as
if he waved that away. ‘On the drunken occasion in ques-
tion (one of a large number, as you know), I was insufferable
about liking you, and not liking you. I wish you would for-
get it.’
‘I forgot it long ago.’
‘Fashion of speech again! But, Mr. Darnay, oblivion is
not so easy to me, as you represent it to be to you. I have by
no means 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. I declare to you, on the faith of a gentleman,
that I have long dismissed it from my mind. Good Heaven,
what was there to dismiss! Have I had nothing more im-
portant to remember, in the great service you rendered me
that day?’
‘As to the great service,’ said Carton, ‘I am bound to
avow to you, when you speak of it in that way, that it was

mere professional claptrap, I don’t know that I cared what
became of you, when I rendered it.—Mind! I say when I ren-
dered it; I 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 so.’
‘I prefer to form my own opinion, without the aid of
his.’
‘Well! At any rate you know me as a dissolute dog, who
has never done any good, and never will.’
‘I don’t know that you ‘never will.’’
‘But I do, and you must take my word for it. Well! If you
could endure to have such a worthless fellow, and a fellow of
such indifferent reputation, coming and going at odd times,
I should ask that I might be permitted to come and go as a
privileged person here; that I might be regarded as an use-
less (and I would add, if it were not for the resemblance I
detected between you and me, an unornamental) piece of
furniture, tolerated for its old service, and taken no notice
of. I doubt if I should abuse the permission. It is a hundred
to one if I should avail myself of it four times in a year. It
would satisfy me, I dare say, to know that I had it.’
‘Will you try?’
‘That is another way of saying that I am placed on the
footing I have indicated. I thank you, Darnay. I may use that

freedom with your name?’
‘I think so, Carton, by this time.’
They shook hands upon it, and Sydney turned away.
Within a minute afterwards, he was, to all outward appear-
ance, as unsubstantial 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 careless-
ness and recklessness. 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.
‘Yes, dearest Charles,’ with her hands on his breast, and
the inquiring and attentive expression fixed upon him; ‘we
are rather thoughtful to-night, for we have something on
our mind to-night.’
‘What is it, my Lucie?’
‘Will you promise not to press one question on me, if I
beg you not to ask it?’
‘Will I promise? What will I not promise to my Love?’
What, indeed, with his hand putting aside the golden
hair from the cheek, and his other hand against the heart
that beat for him!

‘I think, Charles, poor Mr. Carton deserves more consid-
eration and respect than you expressed for him to-night.’
‘Indeed, my own? Why so?’
‘That is what you are not to ask me. But I think—I
know—he does.’
‘If you know it, it is enough. What would you have me
do, my Life?’
‘I would ask you, dearest, to be very generous with him
always, and very lenient on his faults when he is not by. I
would ask you to believe that he has a heart he very, very sel-
dom 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, O my dearest Love!’ 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!’
The supplication touched him home. ‘I will always re-
member it, dear Heart! I will remember it as long as I live.’
He bent over the golden head, and put the rosy lips to

his, and folded her in his arms. If one forlorn wanderer then
pacing the dark streets, could have heard her innocent dis-
closure, and could have seen the drops of pity kissed away
by her husband from the soft blue eyes so loving of that
husband, he might have cried to the night—and the words
would not have parted from his lips for the first time—
‘God bless her for her sweet compassion!’

XXI
Echoing Footsteps
A wonderful corner for echoes, it has been remarked,

that corner where the Doctor lived. Ever busily wind-
ing the golden thread which bound her husband, and her
father, and herself, and her old directress and companion,
in a life of quiet bliss, Lucie sat in the still house in the tran-
quilly resounding corner, listening to the echoing footsteps
of years.
At first, there were times, though she was a perfectly hap-
py young wife, when her work would slowly fall from her
hands, and her eyes would be dimmed. For, there was some-
thing coming in the echoes, something light, afar off, and
scarcely audible yet, that stirred her heart too much. Flut-
tering hopes and doubts—hopes, of a love as yet unknown
to her: doubts, of her remaining upon earth, to enjoy that
new delight—divided her breast. Among the echoes then,
there would arise the sound of footsteps at her own early
grave; and thoughts of the husband who would be left so
desolate, and who would mourn for her so much, swelled to
her eyes, and broke like waves.
That time passed, and her little Lucie 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 resound as they would, the young mother at
the cradle side could always hear those coming. They came,
and the shady house was sunny with a child’s laugh, and the
Divine friend of children, to whom in her trouble she had
confided hers, seemed to take her child in his arms, as He
took the child of old, and made it a sacred joy to her.
Ever busily winding the golden thread that bound them
all together, weaving the service of her happy influence
through the tissue of all their lives, and making it pre-
dominate nowhere, Lucie heard in the echoes of years none
but friendly and soothing sounds. Her husband’s step 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!
Even when there were sounds of sorrow among the rest,
they were not harsh nor cruel. Even when golden hair, like
her own, lay in a halo on a pillow round the worn face of a
little boy, and he said, with a radiant smile, ‘Dear papa and
mamma, I am very sorry to leave you both, and to leave
my pretty sister; but I am called, and I must go!’ those were
not tears all of agony that wetted his young mother’s cheek,
as the spirit departed from her embrace that had been en-
trusted to it. Suffer them and forbid them not. They see my
Father’s face. O Father, blessed words!
Thus, the rustling of an Angel’s wings 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 summer sea asleep upon a sandy shore —as
the little Lucie, comically studious at the task of the morn-
ing, 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 answered to the actual tread of Sydney
Carton. Some half-dozen times a year, at most, he claimed
his privilege of coming in uninvited, and would sit 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 ages.
No man ever really loved a woman, lost her, and knew
her with a blameless though an unchanged mind, when
she was a wife and a mother, but her children had a strange
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
arms, and he kept his place with her as she grew. The little
boy had spoken of him, almost at the last. ‘Poor Carton!
Kiss him for me!’
Mr. Stryver shouldered his way through 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 favoured 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 supposed 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 dumpling heads.
These three young gentlemen, Mr. Stryver, exuding pa-
tronage 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: delicate-
ly saying ‘Halloa! here are three lumps of bread-andcheese
towards your matrimonial picnic, Darnay!’ The polite re-
jection of the three lumps of bread-and-cheese had quite
bloated Mr. Stryver with indignation, which he afterwards
turned to account in the training of the young gentlemen,
by directing them to beware of the pride of Beggars, like
that tutor-fellow. He was also in the habit of declaiming to
Mrs. Stryver, over his full-bodied wine, on the arts Mrs.
Darnay 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 Bench
familiars, who were occasionally parties to the full-bodied
wine and the lie, excused him for the latter by saying that
he had told it so often, that he believed it himself—which
is 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 self-
possessed, and those of her dear husband’s, need not be
told. Nor, how the lightest echo of their united home, di-
rected 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 had 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?’
But, there were other echoes, from a distance, that rum-
bled menacingly in the corner all through this space 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
eighty-nine, Mr. Lorry came in late, from Tellson’s, 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 Sunday night when they had looked at the lightning

from the same place.
‘I began to think,’ said Mr. Lorry, pushing his brown wig
back, ‘that I should have to pass the night at Tellson’s. We
have been so full of business all day, that we have not known
what to do first, or which way to turn. There is such an un-
easiness 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 threaten-
ing 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
my long day’s botheration. Where is Manette?’
‘Here he is,’ said the Doctor, entering the dark room at
the moment.
‘I am quite glad you are at home; for these hurries and
forebodings by which I have been surrounded all day long,
have made me nervous without reason. You are not going
out, I hope?’
‘No; I am going to play backgammon with you, if you
like,’ said the Doctor.
‘I don’t think I do like, if I may speak my mind. I am

not fit to be pitted against you to-night. Is the teaboard still
there, Lucie? I can’t see.’
‘Of course, it has been kept for you.’
‘Thank ye, my dear. The precious child is safe in bed?’
‘And sleeping soundly.’
‘That’s right; all safe and well! I don’t know why anything
should 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 numerous and very loud, though, are
they not? Only hear them!’
Headlong, 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 in Saint An-
toine afar off, as the little circle sat in the dark London
window.
Saint Antoine had been, that morning, a vast dusky mass
of scarecrows heaving to and fro, with frequent gleams of
light above the billowy heads, where steel blades and bayo-
nets shone in the sun. A tremendous roar arose from the
throat of Saint Antoine, and a forest of naked arms strug-
gled in the air like shrivelled branches of trees in a winter
wind: all the fingers convulsively clutching at every weap-
on 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 heads of the crowd, like
a kind of lightning, no eye in the throng could have told;
but, muskets were being distributed—so were cartridges,
powder, and ball, bars of iron and wood, knives, axes, pikes,
every weapon that distracted ingenuity could discover or
devise. People who could lay hold of nothing else, set them-
selves with bleeding hands to force stones and bricks out of
their places in walls. 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 has a centre point, so,
all this raging circled round Defarge’s wine-shop, and every
human drop in the caldron had a tendency to be sucked to-
wards 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?’
‘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 imple-
ments, and in her girdle were a pistol and a cruel knife.

‘Where do you go, my wife?’
‘I go,’ said madame, ‘with you at present. You shall see
me at the head of women, by-and-bye.’
‘Come, then!’ cried Defarge, in a resounding voice. ‘Pa-
triots and friends, we are ready! The Bastille!’
With a roar that sounded 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
that point. Alarm-bells ringing, drums beating, the sea rag-
ing and thundering on its new beach, the attack began.
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 smoke, 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 draw-
bridge 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 Angels or the Devils—which you prefer—work!’
Thus Defarge of the wine-shop, still at his gun, which had
long grown hot.
‘To me, women!’ cried madame his wife. ‘What! We can
kill as well as the men when the place is taken!’ And to her,
with a shrill thirsty cry, trooping women variously armed,
but all armed alike in hunger and revenge.
Cannon, muskets, fire and smoke; but, still the deep

ditch, the single drawbridge, the massive stone walls, and
the eight great towers. Slight displacements of the raging
sea, made by the falling wounded. Flashing weapons, blaz-
ing torches, smoking waggonloads of wet straw, hard work
at neighbouring barricades in all directions, shrieks, vol-
leys, execrations, bravery without stint, boom smash and
rattle, and the furious sounding of the living sea; but, still
the deep ditch, and the single drawbridge, and the massive
stone walls, and the eight great towers, and still Defarge of
the wine-shop at his gun, grown doubly hot by the service
of Four 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-shop over the
lowered drawbridge, past the massive stone outer walls, in
among the eight great towers surrendered!
So resistless was the force of the ocean bearing him on,
that even to draw his breath or turn his head was as imprac-
ticable as if he had been struggling in the surf at the South
Sea, until he was landed in the outer courtyard of the Bas-
tille. There, against an angle of a wall, he made a struggle to
look about him. Jacques Three was nearly at his side; Ma-
dame Defarge, still heading some of her women, was visible
in the inner distance, and her knife was in her hand. Ev-
erywhere was tumult, exultation, deafening and maniacal
bewilderment, astounding noise, yet furious dumb-show.
‘The Prisoners!’
‘The Records!’

‘The secret cells!’
‘The instruments of torture!’
‘The Prisoners!’
Of all these cries, and ten thousand incoherences, ‘The
Prisoners!’ was the cry most taken up by the sea that rushed
in, as if there were an eternity of people, as well as of time
and space. When the foremost billows rolled past, bear-
ing 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 had a lighted torch in
his hand— separated him from the rest, and got him be-
tween himself and the wall.
‘Show me the North Tower!’ said Defarge. ‘Quick!’
‘I will faithfully,’ replied the man, ‘if you will come with
me. But there is no one there.’
‘What is the meaning of One Hundred and Five, North
Tower?’ asked Defarge. ‘Quick!’
‘The meaning, monsieur?’
‘Does it mean a captive, or a place of captivity? Or do you
mean that I shall strike you dead?’
‘Kill him!’ croaked Jacques Three, who had come close
up.
‘Monsieur, it is a cell.’
‘Show it me!’
‘Pass this way, then.’
Jacques Three, with his usual craving on him, and evi-
dently disappointed by the dialogue taking a turn that did
not seem to promise bloodshed, held by Defarge’s arm as he

held by the turnkey’s. Their three heads had been close to-
gether during this brief discourse, and it had been as much
as they could do to hear one another, even then: so tremen-
dous was the noise of the living ocean, in its irruption 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, down cav-
ernous flights of steps, and again up steep rugged ascents of
stone and brick, more like dry waterfalls than staircases, De-
farge, the turnkey, and Jacques Three, linked hand and arm,
went with all the speed they could make. Here and there, es-
pecially at first, the inundation started on them and swept
by; but when they had done descending, and were wind-
ing 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 clashing
lock, 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 was 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!’
‘A. M.!’ croaked Jacques Three, as he read greedily.
‘Alexandre Manette,’ said Defarge in his ear, following
the letters with his swart forefinger, deeply engrained with
gunpowder. ‘And here he wrote ‘a poor physician.’ And it
was he, without doubt, who scratched a calendar on this
stone. What is that in your hand? A crowbar? Give it me!’
He had still the linstock of his gun in his own hand. He
made a sudden exchange of the two instruments, and turn-
ing on the worm-eaten stool and table, beat them to pieces
in a few blows.
‘Hold the light higher!’ he said, wrathfully, to the turn-
key. ‘Look among those fragments with care, Jacques. And
see! 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 grat-
ing across it. In a few minutes, some mortar and dust came
dropping down, which he averted his face to avoid; and in
it, and in the old wood-ashes, and in a crevice in the chim-

ney 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?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Let us collect them together, in the middle of the cell.
So! Light them, you!’
The turnkey fired the little pile, which blazed high and
hot. Stooping again to come out at the low-arched door,
they left it burning, and retraced their way to the 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 Hotel 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 hus-
band!’ she cried, pointing him out. ‘See Defarge!’ She stood
immovable close to the grim old officer, and remained im-
movable 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; re-
mained 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 his 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 Hotel de Ville where the
governor’s body lay—down on the sole of the shoe of Ma-
dame Defarge where she had trodden on the body to steady
it for mutilation. ‘Lower the lamp yonder!’ cried Saint An-
toine, after glaring round for a new means of death; ‘here is
one of his soldiers to be left on guard!’ The swinging senti-
nel was posted, and the sea rushed on.
The sea of black and threatening waters, and of destruc-
tive upheaving 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 suffering
until the touch of pity could make no mark on them.
But, in the ocean of faces where every fierce and furi-
ous 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

overhead: 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
higher, seven dead faces, whose drooping eyelids and half-
seen eyes awaited the Last Day. Impassive faces, yet with a
suspended—not an abolished—expression on them; faces,
rather, in a fearful pause, as having yet to raise 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,
some discovered letters and other memorials of prisoners
of old time, long dead of broken hearts,—such, and such—
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.

XXII
The Sea Still Rises
H aggard Saint Antoine had had only one exultant week,

in which to soften his modicum of hard and bitter
bread to such extent as he could, with the relish of frater-
nal embraces and congratulations, when Madame Defarge
sat at her counter, as usual, presiding over the customers.
Madame Defarge wore no rose in her head, for the great
brotherhood of Spies had become, even in one short week,
extremely chary of trusting themselves to the saint’s mer-
cies. The lamps across his streets had a portentously elastic
swing with them.
Madame Defarge, with her arms folded, sat in the morn-
ing light and heat, contemplating the wine-shop and the
street. In both, there were several knots of loungers, squalid
and miserable, but now with a manifest sense of power en-
throned 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 has
grown for me, the wearer of this, to destroy life in you?’
Every lean bare arm, that had been without work before,

had this work always ready for it now, that 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 hammer-
ing into this for hundreds of years, and the last finishing
blows had told mightily on the expression.
Madame Defarge sat observing it, with such suppressed
approval as was to be desired in the leader of the Saint An-
toine women. One of her sisterhood knitted beside her. The
short, rather plump wife of a starved grocer, and the mother
of two children withal, this lieutenant had already earned
the complimentary name of The Vengeance.
‘Hark!’ said The Vengeance. ‘Listen, then! Who comes?’
As if a train of powder laid from the outermost bound of
Saint Antoine Quarter to the wine-shop door, had been sud-
denly fired, a fast-spreading murmur came rushing along.
‘It is Defarge,’ said madame. ‘Silence, patriots!’
Defarge came in breathless, pulled off a red cap he wore,
and looked around him! ‘Listen, everywhere!’ said madame
again. ‘Listen to him!’ Defarge stood, panting, against a
background of eager eyes and open mouths, formed out-
side the door; all those within the wine-shop had sprung
to their feet.
‘Say then, my husband. What is it?’
‘News from the other world!’
‘How, then?’ cried madame, contemptuously. ‘The other
world?’
‘Does everybody here recall old Foulon, who told the
famished people that they might eat grass, and who died,

and went to Hell?’
‘Everybody!’ from all throats.
‘The news is of him. He is among us!’
‘Among us!’ from the universal throat again. ‘And
dead?’
‘Not dead! He feared us so much—and with reason—
that he caused himself to be represented as dead, and had a
grand mock-funeral. But they have found him alive, hiding
in the country, and have brought him in. I have seen him
but now, on his way to the Hotel de Ville, a prisoner. I have
said that he had reason to fear us. Say all! HAD he reason?’
Wretched old sinner of more than threescore years and
ten, if he 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.
‘Patriots!’ said Defarge, in a determined voice, ‘are we
ready?’
Instantly Madame Defarge’s knife was in her girdle; the
drum was beating in the streets, as if it and a drummer had
flown together by magic; and The Vengeance, uttering ter-
rific shrieks, and flinging her arms about her head like all
the forty Furies at once, was tearing from house to house,
rousing the women.
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 wom-
en were a sight to chill the boldest. From such household
occupations as their bare poverty yielded, from their chil-
dren, from their aged and their sick crouching on the bare
ground famished and naked, they ran out with streaming
hair, urging one another, and themselves, to madness with
the wildest cries and actions. Villain Foulon taken, my sis-
ter! Old Foulon taken, my mother! Miscreant Foulon taken,
my daughter! Then, a score of others ran into the midst of
these, beating their breasts, tearing their hair, and scream-
ing, Foulon alive! Foulon who told the starving people they
might eat grass! Foulon who told my old father that he might
eat grass, when I had no bread to give him! Foulon who told
my baby it might suck grass, when these breasts where dry
with want! O mother of God, this Foulon! O Heaven our
suffering! Hear me, my dead baby and my withered father: I
swear on my knees, on these stones, to avenge you on Fou-
lon! Husbands, and brothers, and young men, Give us the
blood of Foulon, Give us the head of Foulon, 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! With these cries, numbers of the wom-
en, lashed into blind frenzy, whirled about, striking and
tearing at their own friends until they dropped into a pas-
sionate swoon, and were only saved by the men belonging to
them from being trampled under foot.
Nevertheless, not a moment was lost; not a moment! This
Foulon was at the Hotel de Ville, and might be loosed. Nev-
er, if Saint Antoine knew his own sufferings, insults, and

wrongs! Armed men and women flocked out of the Quarter
so fast, and drew even these last dregs after them with such
a force of suction, 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.
No. They were all by that time choking the Hall of Ex-
amination where this old man, ugly and wicked, was, and
overflowing into the adjacent open space and 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.
‘See!’ cried madame, pointing with her knife. ‘See the
old villain bound with ropes. That was well done to tie a
bunch of grass upon his back. Ha, ha! That was well done.
Let him eat it now!’ Madame put her knife under her arm,
and clapped her hands as at a play.
The people immediately behind Madame Defarge, ex-
plaining the cause of her satisfaction to those behind them,
and those again explaining to others, and those to others,
the neighbouring streets resounded with the clapping of
hands. Similarly, during two or three hours of drawl, and
the winnowing of many bushels of words, Madame De-
farge’s frequent expressions of impatience were taken up,
with marvellous quickness, at a distance: the more readily,
because certain men who had by some wonderful exercise
of agility climbed up the external architecture to look in
from the windows, knew Madame Defarge well, and acted
as a telegraph between her and the crowd outside the build-
ing.

At length the sun rose so high that it struck a kindly ray
as of hope or protection, directly down upon the old prison-
er’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!
It was known 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—Ma-
dame Defarge had but followed and turned her hand 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 had 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! Bring him to the
lamp!’
Down, and up, and head foremost on the steps of the
building; now, on his knees; now, on his feet; now, on his
back; dragged, and struck at, and stifled by the bunches of
grass and straw that were thrust into his face by hundreds
of hands; torn, bruised, panting, bleeding, yet always en-
treating 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 of dead wood drawn through a forest of legs; he was
hauled to the nearest street corner where 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 com-
posedly looked at him while they made ready, and while he
besought her: the women passionately screeching at him all

the time, and the men sternly calling out to have him killed
with grass in his mouth. Once, he went aloft, and the rope
broke, and they caught him shrieking; twice, he went aloft,
and the rope broke, and they caught him shrieking; then,
the rope was merciful, and held him, and his head was soon
upon a pike, with grass enough in 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 ene-
mies and insulters, was coming into Paris under a guard
five hundred strong, in cavalry 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 Fou-
lon company—set his 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 miser-
able bakers’ shops were beset by long files of them, patiently
waiting to buy bad bread; and while they waited with stom-
achs faint and empty, they beguiled the time by embracing
one another on the triumphs 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
streets, 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 infused some nourishment into the flinty viands,
and struck some sparks of cheerfulness out of them. Fathers
and mothers who had had their full share in the worst of
the day, played gently with their meagre children; and lov-
ers, with such a world around them and before them, loved
and hoped.
It was almost morning, when Defarge’s wine-shop part-
ed 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!’
‘Eh well!’ returned madame. ‘Almost.’
Saint Antoine slept, the Defarges slept: even The Ven-
geance slept with her starved grocer, and the drum was at
rest. The drum’s was the only voice in Saint Antoine that
blood and hurry had not changed. The Vengeance, as cus-
todian 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 hoarse tones of the men
and women in Saint Antoine’s bosom.

XXIII
Fire Rises
T here 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 igno-
rant soul and his poor reduced body together. The prison
on the crag was not so dominant as of yore; there were sol-
diers 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 he 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 peo-
ple. Everything was bowed down, dejected, oppressed, and
broken. Habitations, fences, domesticated animals, men,
women, children, and the soil that bore them—all worn
out.
Monseigneur (often a most worthy individual gentle-
man) was a national blessing, gave a chivalrous tone to
things, was a polite example of luxurious and shining fife,

and a great deal more to equal purpose; nevertheless, Mon-
seigneur as a class had, somehow or other, brought things
to this. Strange that Creation, designed expressly for Mon-
seigneur, should be so soon wrung dry and squeezed out!
There must be something short-sighted in the eternal ar-
rangements, surely! Thus 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 that its pur-
chase crumbled, and it now turned and turned with nothing
to bite, Monseigneur began to run away from a phenome-
non so low and unaccountable.
But, this was not the change on the village, and on many a
village like it. For scores of years gone by, Monseigneur had
squeezed it and wrung 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 the appearance of strange faces of low caste, rather than
in the disappearance of the high caste, chiselled, and other-
wise beautified and beautifying features of Monseigneur.
For, in these times, as the mender of roads worked, soli-
tary, in the dust, not often troubling himself to reflect that
dust he was and to dust he must return, being for the most
part too much occupied in thinking how little he had for
supper and how much more he would eat if he had it—in
these times, as he raised his eyes from his lonely labour,
and viewed the prospect, he would see some rough figure
approaching on foot, the like of which was once a rari-

ty in those parts, but was now a frequent presence. As it
advanced, the mender of roads would discern without sur-
prise, that it was a shaggy-haired man, of almost barbarian
aspect, tall, 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 highways, dank with the marshy
moisture of many low grounds, sprinkled with the thorns
and leaves and moss of many byways through woods.
Such a man came upon him, like a ghost, at noon in the
July weather, as he sat on his heap of stones under a bank,
taking such shelter as he could get from a shower of hail.
The man looked at him, looked at the village in the hol-
low, at the mill, and at the prison on the crag. When he had
identified these objects in what benighted mind he had, he
said, in a dialect that was just intelligible:
‘How goes it, Jacques?’
‘All well, Jacques.’
‘Touch then!’
They joined hands, and the man sat down on the heap
of stones.
‘No dinner?’
‘Nothing but supper now,’ said the 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 at it until it was in a bright glow: then, sud-
denly held it from him and dropped something into it from
between his finger and thumb, that blazed and went out in

a puff of smoke.
‘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?’ said the mender of roads.
‘To-night,’ said 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, with the hail driving in be-
tween them like a pigmy charge of bayonets, until the sky
began to clear over the village.
‘Show me!’ said the traveller then, moving to the brow
of the hill.
‘See!’ returned the mender of roads, with extended fin-
ger. ‘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 no streets and past
no fountains. Well?’
‘Well! About two leagues beyond the summit of that hill
above the village.’
‘Good. When do you cease to work?’
‘At sunset.’
‘Will you wake me, before departing? I have walked two
nights without resting. Let me finish my pipe, and I shall
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-
clouds, rolling away, revealed bright bars and streaks of sky
which were responded to by silver gleams upon the land-
scape, 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 home-spun stuff and hairy skins of beasts, the powerful
frame attenuated by spare living, and the sullen and desper-
ate 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, stuffed with leaves and grass, had been heavy to drag
over the many long leagues, and his clothes were chafed into
holes, as he himself was into sores. Stooping down beside
him, the road-mender tried to get a peep at secret weapons
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 roads,
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 small fancy similar figures, stopped by no obstacle,
tending to centres all over France.
The man slept on, indifferent to showers of hail and in-

tervals of brightness, to sunshine on his face and shadow,
to the paltering lumps of dull ice on his body and the dia-
monds 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!’ said the sleeper, rising on his elbow. ‘Two leagues
beyond the summit of the hill?’
‘About.’
‘About. Good!’
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 usu-
ally 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, an-
other 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 that direction too; glanced down from be-
hind 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 by-
and-bye.
The night deepened. The trees environing the old cha-
teau, 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, like a swift messenger
rousing those within; uneasy rushes of wind went through
the hall, among the old spears and knives, and passed la-
menting 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 cautiously to come together in the courtyard.
Four lights broke out there, and moved away in different di-
rections, and all was black again.
But, not for long. Presently, the chateau began to make
itself strangely visible by some light of its own, as though it
were growing luminous. Then, a flickering streak played be-
hind the architecture of the front, picking out transparent
places, and showing where balustrades, arches, and windows
were. Then it soared higher, and grew broader and brighter.
Soon, from a score of the great windows, flames burst forth,
and the stone faces awakened, stared out of fire.
A faint murmur arose about the house from the few peo-
ple who were left there, and there was a saddling of a horse
and riding away. There was spurring and splashing through
the darkness, and bridle was drawn in the space by the vil-
lage fountain, and the horse in a foam stood at Monsieur
Gabelle’s door. ‘Help, Gabelle! Help, every one!’ The toc-
sin 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 in the sky. ‘It must be forty feet
high,’ said they, grimly; and never moved.
The rider from the chateau, and the horse in a foam, clat-
tered away through the village, and galloped up the stony
steep, to the prison on the crag. At the gate, a group of of-
ficers were looking at the fire; removed from them, a group
of soldiers. ‘Help, gentlemen— officers! The chateau is on
fire; valuable objects may be saved from the flames by time-
ly aid! Help, help!’ The officers looked towards the soldiers
who looked at the fire; gave no orders; and answered, with
shrugs and biting of lips, ‘It must burn.’
As the rider rattled down the hill again and through the
street, the village was illuminating. The mender of roads,
and the two hundred and fifty particular friends, inspired
as one man and woman by the idea of lighting up, had dart-
ed into their houses, and were putting candles in every dull
little pane of glass. The general scarcity of everything, oc-
casioned candles to be borrowed in a rather peremptory
manner of Monsieur Gabelle; and in a moment of reluc-
tance and hesitation on that functionary’s part, the mender
of roads, once so submissive to authority, had remarked
that carriages were good to make bonfires with, and that
post-horses would roast.
The chateau 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 regions, 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 Mar-
quis, burning at the stake and contending with the fire.
The chateau 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 splits branched out in the solid walls, like crystallisa-
tion; stupefied birds wheeled about and dropped into the
furnace; four fierce figures trudged away, East, West, North,
and South, along the nightenshrouded roads, guided by the
beacon they had 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 those latter days—became
impatient for an interview with him, and, surrounding his
house, summoned him to come forth for personal confer-
ence. 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 housetop behind his stack of chimneys; this time re-
solved, if his door were broken in (he was a small Southern

man of retaliative temperament), to pitch himself head fore-
most over the parapet, and crush a man or two below.
Probably, Monsieur Gabelle passed a long night up there,
with the distant chateau for fire and candle, and the beat-
ing at his door, combined with the joy-ringing, for music;
not to mention his having an ill-omened lamp slung across
the road before his posting-house gate, which the village
showed a lively inclination to displace in his favour. A try-
ing suspense, to be passing a whole summer night on the
brink of the black ocean, ready to take that plunge into
it upon which Monsieur Gabelle had resolved! 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
that 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-peaceful streets, where they had been born and bred;
also, there were other villagers and townspeople less fortu-
nate 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 wending 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 cal-
culate successfully.

XXIV
Drawn to the
Loadstone Rock
I n 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 flow, higher and higher, to
the terror and wonder of the beholders 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 inmates listened
to the echoes in the corner, with hearts that failed them
when they heard the thronging feet. For, the footsteps had
become to their minds as the footsteps of a people, tumul-
tuous under a red flag and with their 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 in France, 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
have been the mark for a hurricane of national bullets. It
had never been a good eye to see with—had long had the
mote in it of Lucifer’s pride, Sardana—palus’s luxury, and
a mole’s blindness—but it had dropped out and was 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
ninety-two was come, and Monseigneur was by this time
scattered far and wide.
As was natural, the head-quarters and great gather-
ing-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 munifi-
cent 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 anticipating

plunder or confiscation, had made provident remittances to
Tellson’s, were always to be heard of there by their needy
brethren. To which it must be added that every new-comer
from France reported himself and his tidings at Tellson’s,
almost as a matter of course. For such variety of reasons,
Tellson’s was at that time, as to French intelligence, a kind
of High Exchange; and this was so well known to the pub-
lic, and the inquiries made there were in consequence so
numerous, that Tellson’s sometimes wrote the latest news
out in a line or so and posted it in the Bank windows, for all
who ran through Temple Bar to read.
On a steaming, 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 set apart for in-
terviews with the House, was now the news-Exchange, and
was filled 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, ‘I must still suggest
to you—’
‘I understand. That I am too old?’ said Mr. Lorry.
‘Unsettled weather, a long journey, uncertain means of
travelling, a disorganised country, a city that may not be
even safe for you.’
‘My dear Charles,’ said Mr. Lorry, with cheerful confi-
dence, ‘you touch some of the reasons for my going: not for
my staying away. It is safe enough for me; nobody will care
to interfere with an old fellow of hard upon fourscore when
there are so many people there much better worth interfer-

ing with. As to its being a disorganised city, if it were not a
disorganised city there would be no occasion to send some-
body from our House here to our House there, who knows
the city and the business, of old, and is in Tellson’s confi-
dence. As to the uncertain travelling, the long journey, and
the winter weather, if I were not prepared to submit myself
to a few inconveniences for the sake of Tellson’s, after all
these years, who ought to be?’
‘I wish I were going myself,’ said Charles Darnay, some-
what restlessly, and like one thinking aloud.
‘Indeed! You are a pretty fellow to object and advise!’ ex-
claimed Mr. Lorry. ‘You wish you were going yourself? And
you a Frenchman born? You are a wise counsellor.’
‘My dear Mr. Lorry, it is because I am a Frenchman born,
that the thought (which I did not mean to utter here, how-
ever) has passed through my mind often. One cannot help
thinking, having had some sympathy for the miserable peo-
ple, and having abandoned something to them,’ he spoke
here in his former thoughtful manner, ‘that one might be
listened to, and might have the power to persuade to some
restraint. Only last night, after you had left us, when I was
talking to Lucie—’
‘When you were talking to Lucie,’ Mr. Lorry repeated.
‘Yes. I wonder you are not ashamed to mention the name
of Lucie! Wishing you were going to France at this time of
day!’
‘However, I am not going,’ said Charles Darnay, with a
smile. ‘It is more to the purpose that you say you are.’
‘And I am, in plain reality. The truth is, my dear Charles,’

Mr. Lorry glanced at the distant House, 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 knows 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! Now, a judicious selection from these
with the least possible delay, and the burying of them, or
otherwise getting of them out of harm’s way, is within the
power (without loss of precious time) of scarcely any one
but myself, if any one. And shall I hang back, when Tellson’s
knows this and says this—Tellson’s, whose bread I have eat-
en these sixty years—because I am a little stiff about the
joints? Why, I am a boy, sir, to half a dozen old codgers
here!’
‘How I admire the gallantry of your youthful spirit, Mr.
Lorry.’
‘Tut! Nonsense, sir!—And, my dear Charles,’ said Mr.
Lorry, glancing at the House again, ‘you are to remem-
ber, that getting things out of Paris at this present time, no
matter what things, is next to an impossibility. Papers and
precious matters were this very day brought to us here (I
speak in strict 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 Eng-

land; but now, everything is stopped.’
‘And do you really go to-night?’
‘I really go to-night, for the case has become too pressing
to admit of delay.’
‘And do you take no one with you?’
‘All sorts of people have been proposed to me, but I will
have nothing to say to any of them. I intend to take Jerry.
Jerry has been my bodyguard on Sunday nights for a long
time past and I am used to him. Nobody will suspect Jerry
of being anything but an English bull-dog, or of having any
design in his head but to fly at anybody who touches his
master.’
‘I must say again that I heartily admire your gallantry
and youthfulness.’
‘I must say again, nonsense, nonsense! When I have exe-
cuted this little commission, I 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 at Mr. Lorry’s usual desk,
with Monseigneur swarming within a yard or two of it,
boastful of what he would do to avenge himself on the
rascal-people before long. It was too much the way of Mon-
seigneur 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 if it were the 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
misused and perverted resources that should have made

them prosperous, had not seen it inevitably coming, years
before, and had not in plain words recorded what they saw.
Such vapouring, combined with the extravagant plots of
Monseigneur for the restoration of a state of things that had
utterly exhausted itself, and worn out Heaven and earth as
well as itself, was hard to be endured without some remon-
strance by any sane man who knew the truth. And it was
such vapouring all about his ears, like a troublesome confu-
sion of blood in his own head, added to a latent uneasiness
in his mind, which had already made Charles Darnay rest-
less, and which still kept him so.
Among the talkers, was Stryver, of the King’s Bench Bar,
far on his way to state promotion, and, therefore, loud on
the theme: broaching to Monseigneur, his devices for blow-
ing the people up and exterminating them from the face of
the earth, and doing without them: and for accomplishing
many similar objects akin in their nature to the abolition of
eagles by sprinkling salt on the tails of the race. Him, Dar-
nay heard with a particular feeling of objection; and Darnay
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 discov-
ered any traces of the person to whom it was addressed?
The House laid the letter down so close to Darnay that he
saw the direction—the more quickly because it was his own
right name. The address, turned into English, ran:
‘Very pressing. To Monsieur heretofore the Marquis St.

Evremonde, of France. Confided to the cares of Messrs.
Tellson and Co., Bankers, London, England.’
On the marriage morning, Doctor Manette had made
it his one urgent and express request to Charles Darnay,
that the secret of this name should be—unless he, the Doc-
tor, dissolved the obligation—kept 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.
‘No,’ said Mr. Lorry, in reply to the House; ‘I have re-
ferred 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 person of this plot-
ting 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 something disparaging to say,
in French or in English, concerning the Marquis who was
not to be found.
‘Nephew, I believe—but in any case degenerate succes-
sor—of the polished Marquis 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 his glass in passing; ‘set himself in oppo-
sition to the last Marquis, abandoned the estates when he

inherited them, and left them to the ruffian herd. They will
recompense him now, I hope, as he deserves.’
‘Hey?’ cried the blatant Stryver. ‘Did he though? Is that
the sort of fellow? Let us look at his infamous name. D—n
the fellow!’
Darnay, unable to restrain himself any longer, touched
Mr. Stryver on the shoulder, and said:
‘I know the fellow.’
‘Do you, by Jupiter?’ said Stryver. ‘I am sorry for it.’
‘Why?’
‘Why, Mr. Darnay? D’ye hear what he did? Don’t ask,
why, in these times.’
‘But I do ask why?’
‘Then I tell you again, Mr. Darnay, I am sorry for it. I am
sorry to hear you putting any such extraordinary questions.
Here is a fellow, who, infected by the most pestilent and
blasphemous code of devilry that ever was known, aban-
doned his property to the vilest scum of the earth that ever
did murder by wholesale, and you ask me why I am sorry
that a man who instructs youth knows him? Well, but I’ll
answer you. I am sorry because I believe there is contami-
nation in such a scoundrel. That’s why.’
Mindful of the secret, Darnay with great difficulty
checked himself, and said: ‘You may not understand the
gentleman.’
‘I understand how to put YOU in a corner, Mr. Darnay,’
said Bully Stryver, ‘and I’ll do it. If this fellow is a gentle-
man, 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 butch-
erly mob, I wonder he is not at the head of them. But, no,
gentlemen,’ said Stryver, looking all round, and snapping
his fingers, ‘I know something of human nature, and I tell
you that you’ll never find a fellow like this fellow, trusting
himself to the mercies of such precious PROTEGES. No,
gentlemen; he’ll always show ‘em a clean pair of heels very
early in the scuffle, and sneak away.’
With those words, and a final snap of his fingers, Mr.
Stryver shouldered himself into Fleet-street, amidst the
general approbation of his hearers. Mr. Lorry and Charles
Darnay were left alone at the desk, in the general departure
from the Bank.
‘Will you take charge of the letter?’ said Mr. Lorry. ‘You
know where to deliver it?’
‘I do.’
‘Will you undertake to explain, that we suppose it to have
been addressed here, on the chance of our knowing where
to forward it, and that it has been here some time?’
‘I will do so. Do you start for Paris from here?’
‘From here, at eight.’
‘I will come back, to see you off.’
Very ill at ease with himself, and 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. ‘MONSIEUR HERETOFORE THE MAR-
QUIS.

‘After having long been in danger of my life at the hands
of the village, I have been seized, with great violence and in-
dignity, and brought a long journey on foot to Paris. On the
road I have suffered a great deal. Nor is that all; my house
has been destroyed—razed to the ground.
‘The crime for which I am imprisoned, Monsieur hereto-
fore the Marquis, and for which I shall be summoned before
the tribunal, and shall lose my life (without your so gener-
ous help), is, they tell me, treason against the majesty of the
people, in that I have acted against them for an emigrant.
It is in vain I represent that I have acted for them, and not
against, according to your commands. It is in vain I rep-
resent that, before the sequestration of emigrant property,
I had remitted the imposts they had ceased to pay; that I
had collected no rent; that I had had recourse to no process.
The only response is, that I have acted for an emigrant, and
where is that emigrant?
‘Ah! most gracious Monsieur heretofore the Marquis,
where is that emigrant? I cry in my sleep where is he? I de-
mand of Heaven, will he not come to deliver me? No answer.
Ah Monsieur heretofore the Marquis, I send my desolate
cry across the sea, hoping it may perhaps reach your ears
through the great bank of Tilson known at Paris!
‘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 true to you. Oh Monsieur heretofore the
Marquis, I pray you be you true 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 afflicted,
‘Gabelle.’
The latent uneasiness in Darnay’s mind was roused to vi-
gourous life by this letter. The peril of an old servant and a
good one, whose only crime was fidelity to himself and his
family, stared him so reproachfully in the face, that, as he
walked to and fro in the Temple considering what to do, he
almost hid his face from the passersby.
He knew very well, that in his horror of the deed which
had culminated the bad deeds and bad reputation of the old
family house, in his resentful suspicions of his uncle, and in
the aversion with which his conscience regarded the crum-
bling fabric that he was supposed to uphold, he had acted
imperfectly. He knew very well, that in his love for Lucie,
his renunciation of his social place, though by no means
new to his own mind, had been hurried and incomplete. He
knew that he ought to have systematically worked it out and
supervised it, and that he had meant to do it, and that it had
never been done.
The happiness of his own chosen English home, the ne-
cessity of being always actively employed, the swift changes
and troubles of the time which had followed on one an-
other so fast, that the events of this week annihilated the
immature plans of last week, and the events of the week fol-
lowing made all new again; he knew very well, that to the
force of these circumstances he had yielded:—not without

disquiet, but still without continuous and accumulating re-
sistance. That he had watched the times for a time of action,
and that they had shifted and struggled until the time had
gone by, and the nobility were trooping from France by ev-
ery highway and byway, 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 that might impeach him for it.
But, he had oppressed no man, he had imprisoned no
man; he was so far from having harshly exacted payment
of his dues, that he had relinquished them of his own will,
thrown himself on a world with no favour in it, won his
own private place there, and earned his own bread. Mon-
sieur 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 credi-
tors would let them have in the winter, and such produce
as could be saved from the same grip in the summer—and
no doubt he 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 he would go to Paris.
Yes. Like the mariner in the old story, the winds and
streams had driven him within the influence of the Load-
stone Rock, and it was drawing him to itself, and he must
go. Everything that arose before his mind drifted him on,
faster and faster, more and more steadily, to the terrible at-
traction. His latent uneasiness had been, that bad aims were
being worked out in his own unhappy land by bad instru-

ments, and that he who could not fail to know that he was
better than they, was not there, trying to do something to
stay bloodshed, and assert the claims of mercy and human-
ity. 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 galling, for old reasons. Upon those, had
followed Gabelle’s letter: the appeal of an innocent prisoner,
in danger of death, to his justice, honour, and good name.
His resolution was made. He must go to Paris.
Yes. The Loadstone Rock was drawing him, and he must
sail on, until he struck. He knew of no rock; he saw hardly
any danger. The intention with which he had done what he
had done, even although he had left it incomplete, presented
it before him in an aspect that would be gratefully acknowl-
edged in France on his presenting himself to assert it. Then,
that glorious vision of doing good, which is so often the san-
guine 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 he walked to and fro with his resolution made, he
considered that neither Lucie nor her father must know of it
until he was gone. Lucie should be spared the pain of sepa-
ration; and her father, always 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, through the pain-
ful anxiety to avoid reviving old associations of France in
his mind, he did not discuss with himself. But, that circum-
stance too, had had its influence in his course.
He walked to and fro, with thoughts very busy, until it
was time to return to Tellson’s and take leave of Mr. Lor-
ry. As soon as he arrived in Paris he would present himself
to this old friend, but he must say nothing of his intention
now.
A carriage with post-horses was ready at 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?’
‘That I will, and readily,’ said Mr. Lorry, ‘if it is not dan-
gerous.’
‘Not at all. Though it is to a prisoner in the Abbaye.’
‘What is his name?’ said Mr. Lorry, with his open pock-
et-book in his hand.
‘Gabelle.’
‘Gabelle. And what is the message to the unfortunate
Gabelle in prison?’
‘Simply, ‘that he has received the letter, and will come.’’
‘Any time mentioned?’
‘He will start upon his journey to-morrow night.’
‘Any person mentioned?’
‘No.’

He helped Mr. Lorry to wrap himself in 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 Mr. Lorry
at parting, ‘and take precious care of them till I come back.’
Charles Darnay shook his head and doubtfully smiled, 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, ex-
plaining the strong obligation he was under to go to Paris,
and showing her, at length, the reasons that he had, for feel-
ing confident that he could become 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, he wrote that
he would despatch letters in proof of his safety, immediately
after his 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 unsuspicious. 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 do it, so strange
it was to him to act in anything without her quiet aid), and
the day passed quickly. Early in the evening he embraced
her, and her scarcely less dear namesake, pretending that he
would return by-and-bye (an imaginary engagement took
him out, and he had secreted a valise of clothes ready), and
so he 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 letters with a trusty porter, to
be delivered half an hour before midnight, and no sooner;
took horse for Dover; and began his journey. ‘For the love of
Heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the honour of your noble
name!’ was the poor prisoner’s cry with which he strength-
ened his sinking heart, as he left all that was dear on earth
behind him, and floated away for the Loadstone Rock.
The end of the second book.

Book the Third—the
Track of a Storm

I
In Secret
T he traveller fared slowly on his way, who fared towards

Paris from England in the autumn of the year one thou-
sand seven hundred and ninety-two. More than enough of
bad roads, bad equipages, and bad horses, he would have en-
countered 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 fraught with other obstacles
than these. Every town-gate and village taxing-house had
its band of citizenpatriots, with their national muskets 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 accom-
plished, when Charles Darnay began to perceive that for
him along these country roads there was no hope of return
until he should have been declared a good citizen at Paris.

Whatever might befall now, he must on to his journey’s end.
Not a mean village closed upon him, not a common barrier
dropped across the road behind him, but he knew it to be
another iron door in the series that was barred between him
and England. The universal watchfulness so encompassed
him, that if he had been taken in a net, or were being for-
warded 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
days upon his journey in France alone, when he 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 afflicted Gabelle’s let-
ter from his prison of the Abbaye would have got him on so
far. His difficulty at the guard-house in this small place had
been such, that he felt his journey to have come to a crisis.
And he was, therefore, as little surprised 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 with 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 I could dispense with the escort.’
‘Silence!’ growled a red-cap, striking at the coverlet with
the butt-end of his musket. ‘Peace, aristocrat!’
‘It is as the good patriot says,’ observed the timid func-
tionary. ‘You are an aristocrat, and must have an escort—and
must pay for it.’
‘I have no choice,’ said Charles Darnay.
‘Choice! Listen to him!’ cried the same scowling red-cap.
‘As if it was not a favour to be protected from the lamp-
iron!’
‘It is always as the good patriot says,’ observed the func-
tionary. ‘Rise 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 o’clock in the morning.
The escort were two mounted patriots in red caps and
tri-coloured cockades, armed with national muskets and
sabres, 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 patri-
ots 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 traversed
without change, except of horses and pace, all the miredeep
leagues that lay between them and the capital.
They travelled in the night, halting an hour or two af-

ter daybreak, and lying by until the twilight fell. The escort
were so wretchedly clothed, that they twisted 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 chronical-
ly drunk, and carrying his musket very recklessly, 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 repre-
sentations, 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 himself that the aspect of affairs
was very alarming. An ominous crowd gathered to see him
dismount of the posting-yard, and many voices called out
loudly, ‘Down with the emigrant!’
He stopped in the act of swinging himself out of his sad-
dle, and, resuming it as his safest place, said:
‘Emigrant, my friends! Do you not see me here, in France,
of my own will?’
‘You are a cursed emigrant,’ cried a farrier, making at
him in a furious manner through the press, hammer in
hand; ‘and you are a cursed aristocrat!’
The postmaster interposed himself between this man
and the rider’s bridle (at which he was evidently making),
and soothingly said, ‘Let him be; let him be! He will be

judged at Paris.’
‘Judged!’ repeated the farrier, swinging his hammer. ‘Ay!
and condemned as a traitor.’ At this the crowd roared ap-
proval.
Checking the postmaster, who was for turning his horse’s
head to the yard (the drunken patriot sat composedly in his
saddle looking on, with the line round his wrist), Darnay
said, as soon as he could make his voice heard:
‘Friends, you deceive yourselves, or you are deceived. I
am not a traitor.’
‘He lies!’ cried the smith. ‘He is a traitor since the de-
cree. His life is forfeit to the people. His cursed life is not
his own!’
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 his horse into the yard, the
escort rode in close upon his horse’s flanks, and the post-
master shut 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 smith spoke of?’ Darnay
asked the postmaster, when he had thanked him, and stood
beside him in the yard.
‘Truly, a decree for selling the property of emigrants.’
‘When passed?’
‘On the fourteenth.’
‘The day I left England!’
‘Everybody says it is but one of several, and that there
will be others—if there are not already-banishing all em-

igrants, and condemning all to death who return. That is
what he meant when he said your life was not your own.’
‘But there are no such decrees yet?’
‘What do I know!’ said the postmaster, shrugging his
shoulders; ‘there may be, or there will be. It is all the same.
What would you have?’
They rested on some straw in a loft until the middle of
the night, and then rode forward again when all the town
was asleep. Among the many wild changes observable on
familiar things which made this wild ride unreal, not the
least was the seeming rarity of sleep. After long and lonely
spurring over dreary roads, they would come to a cluster
of poor cottages, not steeped in darkness, but all glittering
with lights, and would find the people, in a ghostly man-
ner 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 Beau-
vais that night to help them out of it and they passed on
once more into solitude and loneliness: jingling through
the untimely cold and wet, among impoverished fields that
had yielded no fruits of the earth that year, diversified by
the blackened remains of burnt houses, and by the sudden
emergence from ambuscade, and sharp reining up across
their way, of patriot patrols on the watch on all the roads.
Daylight at last found them before the wall of Paris. The
barrier was closed and strongly guarded when they rode up
to it.
‘Where are the papers of this prisoner?’ demanded a res-
olute-looking man in authority, who was summoned out by

the guard.
Naturally struck by the disagreeable word, Charles Dar-
nay requested the speaker to take notice that he was a free
traveller and French citizen, in charge of an escort which
the disturbed state of the country had imposed upon him,
and which he had paid for.
‘Where,’ repeated the same personage, without taking
any heed of him whatever, ‘are the papers of this prisoner?’
The drunken patriot had them in his cap, and produced
them. Casting his eyes over Gabelle’s letter, the same per-
sonage in authority showed some disorder and surprise,
and looked at Darnay with a close attention.
He left escort and escorted without saying a word, how-
ever, and went into the guard-room; meanwhile, they sat
upon their horses outside the gate. Looking about him while
in this state of suspense, Charles Darnay observed that the
gate was held by a mixed guard of soldiers and patriots, the
latter far outnumbering the former; and that while ingress
into the city for peasants’ carts bringing in supplies, and
for similar traffic and traffickers, was easy enough, egress,
even for the homeliest people, was very difficult. A numer-
ous medley of men and women, not to mention beasts and
vehicles of various sorts, was waiting to issue forth; but,
the previous identification was so strict, that they filtered
through the barrier very slowly. Some of these people knew
their turn for examination to be so far off, that they lay
down on the ground to sleep or smoke, while others talked
together, or loitered about. The red cap and tri-colour cock-
ade were universal, both among men and women.

When he had sat in his saddle some half-hour, taking
note of these things, Darnay found himself confronted
by the same man in authority, who directed the guard to
open the barrier. Then he delivered to the escort, drunk and
sober, a receipt for the escorted, and requested him to dis-
mount. He did so, and the two patriots, leading his tired
horse, turned and rode away without entering the city.
He accompanied his conductor into a guard-room,
smelling of common wine and tobacco, where certain sol-
diers and patriots, asleep and awake, drunk and sober, and
in various neutral states between sleeping and waking,
drunkenness and sobriety, were standing and lying about.
The light in the guard-house, half derived from the waning
oil-lamps of the night, and half from the overcast day, was
in a correspondingly uncertain condition. Some registers
were lying open on a desk, and an officer of a coarse, dark
aspect, presided over these.
‘Citizen Defarge,’ said he to Darnay’s conductor, as he
took a slip of paper to write on. ‘Is this the emigrant Evre-
monde?’
‘This is the man.’
‘Your age, Evremonde?’
‘Thirty-seven.’
‘Married, Evremonde?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where married?’
‘In England.’
‘Without doubt. Where is your wife, Evremonde?’
‘In England.’

‘Without doubt. You are consigned, Evremonde, to the
prison of La Force.’
‘Just Heaven!’ exclaimed Darnay. ‘Under what law, and
for what offence?’
The officer looked up from his slip of paper for a mo-
ment.
‘We have new laws, Evremonde, and new offences, since
you were here.’ He said it with a hard smile, and went on
writing.
‘I entreat you to observe that I have come here voluntari-
ly, in response to that written appeal of a fellow-countryman
which lies before you. I demand no more than the opportu-
nity to do so without delay. Is not that my right?’
‘Emigrants have no rights, Evremonde,’ was the stolid
reply. The officer wrote until he had finished, read over to
himself what he had written, sanded it, and handed it to De-
farge, with the words ‘In secret.’
Defarge motioned with the paper to the prisoner that he
must accompany him. The prisoner obeyed, and a guard of
two armed patriots attended them.
‘Is it you,’ said Defarge, in a low voice, as they went down
the guardhouse steps and turned into Paris, ‘who married
the daughter of Doctor Manette, once a prisoner in the Bas-
tille that is no more?’
‘Yes,’ replied Darnay, looking at him with surprise.
‘My name is Defarge, and I 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? Yes!’
The word ‘wife’ seemed to serve as a gloomy reminder

to Defarge, to say with sudden impatience, ‘In the name
of that sharp female newly-born, and called La Guillotine,
why did you come to France?’
‘You heard me say why, a minute ago. Do you not believe
it is the truth?’
‘A bad truth for you,’ said Defarge, speaking with knitted
brows, and looking straight before him.
‘Indeed I am lost here. All here is so unprecedented, so
changed, so sudden and unfair, that I am absolutely lost.
Will you render me a little help?’
‘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 I am going to so unjustly, shall I have
some free communication with the world outside?’
‘You will see.’
‘I am not to be buried there, prejudged, and without any
means of presenting my case?’
‘You will see. But, what then? 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 he sank into this
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?’
‘I will do,’ Defarge doggedly rejoined, ‘nothing for you.
My duty is to my country and the People. I am the sworn
servant of both, against you. I will do nothing for you.’
Charles Darnay felt it hopeless 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 to
the spectacle of prisoners passing along the streets. The very
children scarcely noticed him. A few passers turned their
heads, and a few shook their fingers at him as an aristo-
crat; otherwise, that a man in good clothes should be going
to prison, was no more remarkable than that a labourer in
working clothes should be going to work. In one narrow,
dark, and dirty street through which they passed, an ex-
cited 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 he caught from this
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) he
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 he left England, he of
course knew now. That perils had thickened about him fast,

and might thicken faster and faster yet, he of course knew
now. He could not but admit to himself that he might not
have made this journey, if he could have foreseen the events
of a few days. And yet his misgivings were not so 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 mas-
sacre, 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 years 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?
Of unjust treatment in detention and hardship, and in
cruel separation from his wife and child, he foreshadowed
the likelihood, or the certainty; but, beyond this, he dread-
ed nothing distinctly. With this on his mind, which was
enough to carry into a dreary prison courtyard, he arrived
at the prison of La Force.
A man with a bloated face opened the strong wicket, to
whom Defarge presented ‘The Emigrant Evremonde.’
‘What the Devil! How many more of them!’ exclaimed
the man with the bloated face.
Defarge took his receipt without noticing the exclama-
tion, and withdrew, with his two fellow-patriots.

‘What the Devil, I say again!’ exclaimed the gaoler, left
with his wife. ‘How many more!’
The gaoler’s wife, being provided with no answer to
the question, merely replied, ‘One must have patience, my
dear!’ 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 like 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. Extraor-
dinary how soon the noisome flavour of imprisoned sleep,
becomes manifest in all such places that are ill cared for!
‘In secret, too,’ grumbled the gaoler, looking at the writ-
ten 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 arched
room: sometimes, resting on a stone seat: in either case de-
tained to be imprinted on the memory of the chief and his
subordinates.
‘Come!’ said the chief, at length taking up his keys, ‘come
with me, emigrant.’
Through the dismal prison twilight, his new charge ac-
companied him by corridor and staircase, 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 seated 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.
In the instinctive association of prisoners with shameful
crime and disgrace, the new-comer recoiled from this com-
pany. But the crowning unreality of his long unreal ride,
was, their all at once rising to receive him, with every re-
finement of manner known to the time, and with all the
engaging graces and courtesies of life.
So strangely clouded were these refinements by the pris-
on manners and gloom, so spectral did they become in the
inappropriate squalor and misery through which they were
seen, that Charles Darnay seemed to stand in a company of
the dead. Ghosts all! The ghost of beauty, the ghost of state-
liness, 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 dismissal from the desolate shore, all
turning on him eyes that were changed by the death they
had died in coming there.
It struck him motionless. The gaoler standing at his side,
and the other gaolers moving about, who would have been
well enough as to appearance in the ordinary exercise of
their functions, looked so extravagantly coarse contrast-
ed with sorrowing mothers and blooming daughters who
were there—with the apparitions of the coquette, the young
beauty, and the mature woman delicately bred—that the in-
version of all experience and likelihood which the scene of
shadows presented, was heightened to its utmost. Surely,
ghosts all. Surely, the long unreal ride some progress of dis-
ease that had brought him to these gloomy shades!
‘In the name of the assembled companions in misfor-

tune,’ said a gentleman of courtly appearance and address,
coming forward, ‘I have the honour of giving you welcome
to La Force, and of condoling with you on the calamity that
has brought you among us. May it soon terminate happily!
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 he could find.
‘But I hope,’ said the gentleman, following the chief gaol-
er with his eyes, who moved across the room, ‘that you are
not in secret?’
‘I do not understand the meaning of the term, but I have
heard them say so.’
‘Ah, what a pity! We so much regret it! But take courage;
several members of our society have been in secret, at first,
and it has lasted but a short time.’ Then he added, raising his
voice, ‘I grieve to inform the society—in secret.’
There was a murmur of commiseration as Charles Dar-
nay 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 un-
der the gaoler’s hand; and the apparitions vanished from his
sight forever.
The wicket opened on a stone staircase, leading upward.
When they bad ascended forty steps (the prisoner of half 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?’
‘How do I know!’
‘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 mat-
tress. 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 un-
wholesomely bloated, both in face and person, as to look
like a man who had been drowned and filled with water.
When the gaoler was gone, he thought in the same wander-
ing way, ‘Now am I left, as if I were dead.’ Stopping then,
to look down at the mattress, he 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 like muffled drums with a wild swell of
voices added to them. ‘He made shoes, he made shoes, he
made shoes.’ The prisoner counted the measurement again,
and paced faster, to draw his mind with him from that lat-
ter repetition. ‘The ghosts that vanished when the wicket
closed. There was one among them, the appearance of a lady

dressed in black, who was leaning in the embrasure of a win-
dow, and she had a light shining upon her golden hair, and
she looked like * * * * Let us ride on again, for God’s sake,
through the illuminated villages with the people all awake!
* * * * He made shoes, he made shoes, he 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 count-
ing; and the roar of the city changed to this extent—that it
still rolled in like muffled drums, but with the wail of voices
that he knew, in the swell that rose above them.

II
The Grindstone
T ellson’s Bank, established in the Saint Germain Quar-

ter of Paris, was in a wing of a large house, approached
by a courtyard and shut off from the street by a high wall
and a strong gate. The house belonged to a great nobleman
who had lived in it until he made a flight 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
metempsychosis no other than the same Monseigneur, the
preparation of whose chocolate for whose lips had once oc-
cupied three strong men besides the cook in question.
Monseigneur gone, and the three strong men absolving
themselves from the sin of having drawn his high wages, by
being more than ready and willing to cut his throat on the
altar of the dawning Republic one and indivisible of Liber-
ty, 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 emissaries of the law were in
possession of Monseigneur’s house, and had marked it with

the tri-colour, and were drinking brandy in its state apart-
ments.
A place of business in London like Tellson’s place of busi-
ness 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 courtyard, and even to a Cupid over the
counter? Yet such things were. Tellson’s had 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 from
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 provo-
cation. 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 his money.
What money would be drawn out of Tellson’s henceforth,
and what would lie there, lost and forgotten; what plate and
jewels would tarnish in Tellson’s hiding-places, while the
depositors rusted in prisons, and when they should have vi-
olently 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 he thought heavily of these
questions. He sat by a newly-lighted wood fire (the blighted
and unfruitful year was prematurely cold), and on his hon-
est and courageous face there was a deeper shade than the

pendent lamp could throw, or any object in the room dis-
tortedly reflect—a shade of horror.
He occupied rooms in the Bank, in his fidelity to the
House of which he had grown to be a part, lie strong root-
ivy. it chanced that they derived a kind 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 he did his
duty. On the opposite side of the courtyard, under a col-
onnade, 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 neighbour-
ing 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
glass window, but the lattice blind outside it, and he had
closed both again, and he 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 indescribable ring in it, weird and unearthly,
as if some unwonted sounds 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

he thought, ‘They have come back!’ and sat listening. But,
there was no loud irruption into the courtyard, as he had
expected, and he heard the gate clash again, and all was qui-
et.
The nervousness and dread that were upon him inspired
that vague uneasiness respecting the Bank, which a great
change would naturally awaken, with such feelings roused.
It was well guarded, and he got up to go among the trusty
people who were watching it, when his door suddenly
opened, and two figures rushed in, at sight of which he fell
back in amazement.
Lucie and her father! Lucie with her arms stretched out
to him, and with that old look of earnestness so concen-
trated and intensified, 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. Lorry, breathless and confused.
‘What is the matter? Lucie! Manette! What has happened?
What has brought you here? What is it?’
With the look fixed upon him, in her paleness and wild-
ness, she panted out in his arms, imploringly, ‘O my dear
friend! My husband!’
‘Your husband, Lucie?’
‘Charles.’
‘What of Charles?’
‘Here.
‘Here, in Paris?’
‘Has been here some days—three or four—I don’t know
how many— I can’t collect my thoughts. An errand of gen-

erosity brought him here unknown to us; he was stopped at
the barrier, and sent to prison.’
The old man uttered an irrepressible cry. Almost at the
same moment, the beg of the great gate rang again, and a
loud noise of feet and voices came pouring into the court-
yard.
‘What is that noise?’ said the Doctor, turning towards
the window.
‘Don’t look!’ cried Mr. Lorry. ‘Don’t look out! Manette,
for your life, don’t touch the blind!’
The Doctor turned, with his hand upon the fastening of
the window, and said, with a cool, bold smile:
‘My dear friend, I have a charmed life in this city. I have
been a Bastille prisoner. There is no patriot in Paris—in
Paris? In France—who, knowing me to have been a pris-
oner in the Bastille, would touch me, except to overwhelm
me with embraces, or carry me in triumph. 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. I
knew it would be so; I knew I could help Charles out of all
danger; I told Lucie so.—What is that noise?’ His hand was
again upon the window.
‘Don’t look!’ cried Mr. Lorry, absolutely desperate. ‘No,
Lucie, my dear, nor you!’ He got his arm round her, and held
her. ‘Don’t be so terrified, my love. I solemnly swear to you
that I know of no harm having happened to Charles; that I
had no suspicion even of his being in this fatal place. What
prison is he in?’
‘La Force!’

‘La Force! Lucie, my child, if ever you were brave and ser-
viceable in your life—and you were always both—you will
compose yourself now, to do exactly as I bid you; for more
depends upon it than you can think, or I can say. There is no
help for you in any action on your part to-night; you cannot
possibly stir out. I say this, because what I must bid you to
do for Charles’s sake, is the hardest thing 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. You must leave your fa-
ther and me alone for two minutes, and as there are Life and
Death in the world you must not delay.’
‘I will be submissive to you. I see in your face that you
know I can do nothing else than this. I know you are true.’
The old man kissed her, and hurried her into his room,
and turned the key; then, came hurrying back to the Doc-
tor, and opened the window and partly opened the blind,
and put his hand upon the Doctor’s arm, and looked out
with him into the courtyard.
Looked out upon a throng of men and women: not
enough in number, or near enough, to fill the courtyard: not
more than forty or fifty in all. The people in possession of
the house had let them in at the gate, and they had rushed 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 workers, and such awful work!
The grindstone had a double handle, and, turning at it
madly were two men, whose faces, as their long hair Rapped
back 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
eyebrows and false moustaches were stuck upon them, and
their hideous countenances were all bloody and sweaty,
and all awry with howling, and all staring and glaring with
beastly excitement and want of sleep. As these ruffians
turned and turned, their matted locks 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; men in all sorts of
rags, with 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, bayonets, 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 weap-
ons 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
given twenty years of life, to petrify with a well-directed
gun.
All this was seen in a moment, as the vision of a drown-

ing man, or of any human creature at any very great pass,
could see a world if it were there. They drew back from
the window, and the Doctor looked for explanation in his
friend’s ashy face.
‘They are,’ Mr. Lorry whispered the words, glancing fear-
fully round at the locked room, ‘murdering the prisoners. If
you are sure of what you say; if you really have the power
you think you have—as I believe you have—make yourself
known to these devils, and get taken to La Force. It may be
too late, I don’t know, but let it not be a minute later!’
Doctor Manette pressed his hand, hastened bareheaded
out of the room, and was in the courtyard when Mr. Lorry
regained the blind.
His streaming white hair, his remarkable face, and the
impetuous confidence of his manner, as he put the weap-
ons 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 Mr. Lorry saw him, surround-
ed by all, and in the midst of a line of 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 Bas-
tille prisoner in front there! Save the prisoner Evremonde at
La Force!’ and a thousand answering shouts.
He closed the lattice again with a fluttering heart, closed
the window and the curtain, hastened to Lucie, and told
her that her father was assisted by the people, and gone in
search of her 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 he sat
watching them in such quiet as the night knew.
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 fall-
en on the pillow beside her pretty charge. O the long, long
night, with the moans of the poor wife! And O the long,
long night, with no return of her father and no tidings!
Twice more in the darkness the bell at the great gate
sounded, and the irruption was repeated, and the grindstone
whirled and spluttered. ‘What is it?’ cried Lucie, affrighted.
‘Hush! 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 began to dawn, and he
softly detached himself from the clasping hand, and cau-
tiously looked out again. A man, so besmeared that he
might have been a sorely wounded soldier creeping back to
consciousness on a field of slain, was rising from the pave-
ment 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 cush-
ions.
The great grindstone, Earth, had turned when Mr. Lorry
looked out again, and the sun was red on the courtyard. But,

the lesser grindstone stood alone there in the calm morn-
ing air, with a red upon it that the sun had never given, and
would never take away.

III
The Shadow
O ne of the first considerations which arose in the busi-

ness mind of Mr. Lorry when business hours came
round, was this:—that he had no right to imperil Tellson’s
by sheltering the wife of an emigrant prisoner under the
Bank roof, His own possessions, safety, life, he would have
hazarded for Lucie and her child, without a moment’s de-
mur; but the great trust he held was not his own, and as to
that business charge he was a strict man of business.
At first, his mind reverted to Defarge, and he thought of
finding out the wine-shop again and taking counsel with
its master in reference to the safest dwelling-place in the
distracted state 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 her father had spoken of
hiring a lodging for a short term, in that Quarter, near the
Banking-house. As there was no business objection to this,

and as he foresaw that even if it were all well with Charles,
and he were to be released, he could not hope to leave the
city, Mr. Lorry went out in quest of such a lodging, and
found a suitable one, high up in a removed by-street where
the closed blinds in all the other windows of a high melan-
choly square of buildings marked deserted homes.
To this lodging he at once removed Lucie and her child,
and Miss Pross: giving them what comfort he could, and
much more than he had himself. He left Jerry with them,
as a figure to fill a doorway that would bear considerable
knocking on the head, and retained to his 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 closed. He was again alone in his room of the previous
night, considering what to do next, when he heard a foot
upon the stair. In a few moments, a man stood in his pres-
ence, who, with a keenly observant look at him, addressed
him by his name.
‘Your servant,’ said Mr. Lorry. ‘Do you know me?’
He was a strongly made man with dark curling hair,
from forty-five 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-shop?’
Much interested and agitated, Mr. Lorry said: ‘You come
from Doctor Manette?’
‘Yes. I come from Doctor Manette.’

‘And what says he? What does he send me?’
Defarge gave into his anxious hand, an open scrap of pa-
per. It bore the words in the Doctor’s writing:
“Charles is safe, but I cannot safely leave this place yet. I have
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 re-
lieved after reading this note aloud, ‘to where his wife
resides?’
‘Yes,’ returned Defarge.
Scarcely noticing as yet, in what a curiously reserved and
mechanical way Defarge spoke, Mr. Lorry put on his hat
and they went down into the courtyard. There, they found
two women; one, knitting.
‘Madame Defarge, surely!’ said Mr. Lorry, who had left
her in exactly the same attitude some seventeen years ago.
‘It is she,’ observed her husband.
‘Does Madame go with us?’ inquired Mr. Lorry, seeing
that she moved as they moved.
‘Yes. That she may be able to recognise the faces and
know the persons. It is for their safety.’
Beginning to be struck by Defarge’s manner, Mr. Lorry
looked dubiously at him, and led the way. Both 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, have done to him.
“DEAREST,—Take courage. I am well, and your father has

influence around me. You cannot answer this. Kiss our child
for me.’
That was all the writing. It was so 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 a passion-
ate, loving, thankful, womanly action, but the hand made
no response—dropped cold and heavy, and took to its knit-
ting again.
There was something in its touch 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 Ma-
dame Defarge. Madame Defarge met the lifted eyebrows
and forehead with a cold, impassive stare.
‘My dear,’ said Mr. Lorry, striking in to explain; ‘there
are frequent risings in the streets; and, although it is not
likely they will ever trouble you, Madame Defarge wishes to
see those whom she has the power to protect at such times,
to the end that she may know them—that she may iden-
tify them. I believe,’ said Mr. Lorry, rather halting in his
reassuring words, as the stony manner of all the three im-
pressed itself upon him more and more, ‘I state the case,

Citizen Defarge?’
Defarge looked gloomily at his wife, and gave no other
answer than 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 knows no French.’
The lady in question, whose rooted conviction that she
was more than a match for any foreigner, was not to be shak-
en by distress and, danger, appeared with folded arms, and
observed in English to The Vengeance, whom her eyes first
encountered, ‘Well, I am sure, Boldface! I hope YOU are
pretty well!’ She also 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. Lorry; ‘this 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 kneeled on the ground beside her, and
held her to her breast. The shadow attendant on Madame
Defarge and her party seemed then to fall, threatening and
dark, on both the mother and the child.
‘It is enough, my husband,’ said Madame Defarge. ‘I have
seen them. We may go.’
But, the suppressed manner had enough of menace in
it—not visible and presented, but indistinct and withheld—

to alarm Lucie into saying, as she laid her appealing hand
on Madame Defarge’s dress:
‘You will be good to my poor husband. You will do him
no harm. You will help me to see him if you can?’
‘Your husband is not my business here,’ returned Ma-
dame Defarge, looking down at her with perfect composure.
‘It is the daughter of your father who is my business here.’
‘For my sake, then, be merciful to my husband. For my
child’s sake! She will put her hands together and pray you
to be merciful. We are more afraid of you than of these oth-
ers.’
Madame Defarge received it as a compliment, and looked
at her husband. Defarge, who had been uneasily 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 something touching influence?’
‘That my father,’ said Lucie, hurriedly taking the paper
from her breast, but with her alarmed eyes on her question-
er and not on it, ‘has much influence around him.’
‘Surely it will release him!’ said Madame Defarge. ‘Let
it do so.’
‘As a wife and mother,’ cried Lucie, most earnestly, ‘I im-
plore 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. O 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 Vengeance:
‘The wives and mothers we have been used to see, since
we were as little as this child, and much less, have not been
greatly considered? We have known THEIR 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 children, poverty, nakedness, hun-
ger, thirst, sickness, misery, oppression and neglect of all
kinds?’
‘We have seen nothing else,’ returned The Vengeance.
‘We have borne this a long time,’ said Madame 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?’
She resumed her knitting and went out. The Vengeance
followed. Defarge went last, and closed the door.
‘Courage, my dear Lucie,’ said Mr. Lorry, as he raised
her. ‘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 thankless, I 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? A shadow indeed! No substance in
it, Lucie.’
But the shadow of the manner of these Defarges was dark
upon himself, for all that, and in his secret mind it troubled
him greatly.

IV
Calm in Storm
D octor Manette 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 kept from the
knowledge of Lucie was so well concealed from her, that not
until long afterwards, when France and she were far apart,
did she know that eleven hundred defenceless prisoners of
both sexes and all ages had been killed by the populace;
that four days and nights had been darkened by this deed
of horror; and that the air around her had been tainted by
the slain. She only knew that there had been an attack upon
the prisons, that all political prisoners had been in danger,
and that some had been dragged out by the crowd and mur-
dered.
To Mr. Lorry, the Doctor communicated under an in-
junction of secrecy on which he had no need to dwell, that
the crowd had taken him through a scene of carnage to the
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 released, or (in 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 se-
cret and unaccused prisoner in the Bastille; that, one of the
body so sitting in judgment had risen and identified him,
and that this man was Defarge.
That, hereupon he had ascertained, through the regis-
ters on the table, that his son-in-law was among the living
prisoners, and had pleaded hard 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 lav-
ished on himself as a notable sufferer under the overthrown
system, it had been accorded to him to have Charles Dar-
nay brought before the 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 se-
cret conference. That, the man sitting as President had then
informed Doctor Manette that the prisoner must remain in
custody, but should, for his sake, be held inviolate 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 re-
main and assure himself that his son-in-law 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 Blood until the danger was over.

The sights he had seen there, with brief snatches 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
cut to pieces. One prisoner there was, he said, who had been
discharged into the street free, but at whom a mistaken sav-
age had thrust a pike as he passed out. Being besought to
go to him and dress the wound, the Doctor had passed out
at the same gate, and had found him in the arms of a com-
pany of Samaritans, who were seated on the bodies of their
victims. With an inconsistency as monstrous as anything
in this awful nightmare, they had helped the healer, 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 with his hands, and swooned away in the midst of it.
As Mr. Lorry received these confidences, and as he
watched the face of his friend now sixty-two years of age,
a misgiving 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 he 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 waste
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 aid of Heaven I will do it!’ Thus,
Doctor Manette. And when Jarvis Lorry saw the kindled
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 clock, for so many years, and then set going
again with an energy which had lain dormant during the
cessation of its usefulness, he believed.
Greater things than the Doctor had at that time to
contend with, would have yielded before his persevering
purpose. While he kept himself in his place, as a physician,
whose business was with all degrees of mankind, bond and
free, rich and poor, bad and good, he used his personal in-
fluence so wisely, 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 mixed with the general body of prisoners;
he saw her husband weekly, and brought sweet messages to
her, straight from his lips; 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 connections abroad.
This new life of the Doctor’s was an anxious life, no
doubt; still, the sagacious Mr. 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 knew, that up to that time, his

imprisonment had been associated in the minds of his
daughter and his friend, with his personal affliction, de-
privation, 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 safe-
ty and deliverance, he became so far exalted by the change,
that he took the lead and direction, and required them as
the weak, to trust to him as the strong. The preceding rela-
tive positions of himself and Lucie were reversed, yet only
as the liveliest gratitude and affection could reverse them,
for he could have had no pride but in rendering some ser-
vice to her who had rendered so much to him. ‘All curious
to see,’ thought Mr. 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 hands.’
But, though the Doctor tried hard, and never ceased try-
ing, to get Charles 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 began; the king was tried,
doomed, and beheaded; the Republic of Liberty, Equality,
Fraternity, or Death, declared for victory or death against
the world in arms; the black flag waved night and day from
the great towers of Notre Dame; three hundred thousand
men, summoned to rise against the tyrants of the earth,
rose from all the varying soils of France, as if the dragon’s
teeth had been sown broadcast, and had yielded fruit equal-
ly 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 among 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 morning were the first day, other count of time
there was none. Hold of it was lost in the raging 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
which obtains in all such cases, the time was long, while
it flamed by so fast. A revolutionary tribunal in the capi-
tal, 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 ob-
tain no hearing; these things became the established order
and nature of appointed things, and seemed to be ancient
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 foundations of the world—the figure
of the sharp female called La Guillotine.
It was the popular theme for jests; it was the best cure for
headache, it infallibly prevented the hair from turning grey,
it imparted a peculiar delicacy to the complexion, it was the
National Razor which shaved close: who kissed La Guillo-
tine, 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. Models of it were worn 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 a young Devil, and was put together again
when the occasion wanted it. It hushed the eloquent, struck
down the powerful, abolished the beautiful and good. Twen-
ty-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 Scrip-
ture had descended to the chief functionary who worked
it; but, so armed, he was stronger than his namesake, and
blinder, and tore away the gates of God’s own Temple every
day.
Among these terrors, and the brood belonging to them,
the Doctor walked with a steady head: confident in his pow-
er, cautiously persistent in his end, never doubting that he
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 lain 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 vio-
lently drowned by night, and prisoners were shot in lines
and squares under the southern wintry sun. Still, the Doc-
tor 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 hospi-
tal 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.

V
The Wood-Sawyer
O ne year and three months. During all that time Lucie

was never sure, from hour to hour, but that the Guil-
lotine would strike off her husband’s head next day. Every
day, through the stony streets, the tumbrils now jolted
heavily, filled with Condemned. Lovely girls; bright wom-
en, 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 cel-
lars of the loathsome 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,
O Guillotine!
If the suddenness of her calamity, and the whirling
wheels of the time, had stunned the 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 always be.

As soon as they were established in their new residence,
and her father had entered on the routine of his avocations,
she arranged the little household as exactly as if her hus-
band had been there. Everything had its appointed place
and its appointed time. Little Lucie she taught, as regu-
larly, as if they had all been united in their English home.
The slight devices with which 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
clothes of happy days. She lost her colour, and the old and
intent expression was a constant, not an occasional, thing;
otherwise, she remained very pretty and comely. Some-
times, 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 reso-
lutely answered: ‘Nothing can happen to him without my
knowledge, and I know that I can save him, Lucie.’
They had not made the round of their changed life many
weeks, when her father 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 af-

ternoon. When he can get to it—which depends on many
uncertainties and incidents—he 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.’
‘O show me the place, my father, and I will go there ev-
ery 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 in-
clement 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 of a cutter of wood into lengths for burn-
ing, 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 established voluntarily some time ago, among the
more thorough patriots; but, was now law for everybody.
‘Walking here again, citizeness?’
‘You see me, citizen!’
The wood-sawyer, who was a little man with a redun-
dancy 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 he. And went on sawing
his wood.
Next day he was looking out for her, and accosted her the
moment she appeared.
‘What? Walking here again, citizeness?’
‘Yes, citizen.’
‘Ah! A child too! Your mother, is it not, my little citize-
ness?’
‘Do I say yes, mamma?’ whispered little Lucie, drawing
close to her.
‘Yes, dearest.’
‘Yes, citizen.’
‘Ah! But it’s not my business. My work is my business.
See my saw! I call it my Little Guillotine. La, la, la; La, la, la!
And off his head comes!’
The billet fell as he spoke, and he threw it into a basket.
‘I call myself the Samson of the firewood guillotine. See
here again! Loo, loo, loo; Loo, loo, loo! And off HER head
comes! Now, a child. Tickle, tickle; Pickle, pickle! And off
ITS head comes. All the family!’
Lucie shuddered as he threw two more billets into his
basket, 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 roof 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!’ he would generally say at those times, and would
briskly fall to his sawing again.
In all weathers, in the snow and frost of winter, in the
bitter winds of spring, in the hot sunshine of summer, in
the rains of autumn, and again in the snow and frost of win-
ter, Lucie passed two hours of every day at this place; and
every day on leaving it, she kissed the prison wall. Her hus-
band saw her (so she learned from her father) it might be
once in five or six times: it might be twice or thrice run-
ning: it might be, not for a week or a fortnight together. It
was enough that he could and did see her when the chances
served, and on that possibility she would have waited out
the day, seven days a week.
These occupations brought her 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, deco-
rated with little pikes, and with little red caps stuck upon
them; also, with tricoloured ribbons; also, with the stan-
dard inscription (tricoloured letters were the favourite),
Republic One and Indivisible. Liberty, Equality, Fraternity,
or Death!
The miserable shop 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 with most inappropri-

ate 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.
His shop was shut and he was not there, which was a relief
to Lucie, and left her quite alone.
But, he was not far off, for presently she heard a troubled
movement and a shouting 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 Ven-
geance. There could not be fewer than five hundred people,
and they were dancing like five thousand demons. There was
no other music than their own singing. They danced to the
popular Revolution 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 Luc-
ie, some ghastly apparition of a dance-figure gone raving
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. While those were down,
the rest linked hand in hand, and all spun round togeth-
er: then the ring broke, and in 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 screaming off.
No fight could have been half so terrible as this dance. It was
so emphatically a fallen sport—a something, once innocent,
delivered over 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 all 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 and dirt, were
types of the disjointed time.
This was the Carmagnole. As it passed, leaving Lucie
frightened and bewildered in the doorway of the wood-
sawyer’s house, the feathery snow fell as quietly and lay as
white and soft, as if it had never been.
‘O 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, I know. I have seen it many times. Don’t
be frightened! Not one of them would harm you.’
‘I am not frightened for myself, my father. But when I
think of my husband, and the mercies of these people—’
‘We will set 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 high-
est 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 she
kissed her hand, ‘no.’
A footstep in the snow. Madame Defarge. ‘I salute you,
citizeness,’ from the Doctor. ‘I salute you, citizen.’ This in
passing. Nothing more. Madame Defarge gone, like a shad-
ow over the white road.
‘Give me your arm, my love. Pass from here with an air
of cheerfulness and courage, for his sake. That was well
done;’ they had left the spot; ‘it shall not be in vain. Charles
is summoned for to-morrow.’
‘For to-morrow!’
‘There is no time to lose. I am well prepared, but there
are 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 he will presently
be summoned for to-morrow, and removed to the Con-
ciergerie; I have timely information. You are not afraid?’
She could scarcely answer, ‘I trust in you.’
‘Do so, implicitly. Your suspense is nearly ended, my dar-
ling; 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 well what it meant.
One. Two. Three. Three tumbrils faring away with their
dread loads over the hushing snow.
‘I must see Lorry,’ the Doctor repeated, turning her an-
other way.

The staunch old gentleman was still in his trust; had nev-
er 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 had in keeping, and to hold his peace.
A murky red and yellow sky, 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 One 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 sur-
prised, to take his favourite in his arms? 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
which he had issued, he said: ‘Removed to the Conciergerie,
and summoned for to-morrow?’

VI
Triumph
T he 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 vari-
ous prisons to their prisoners. The standard gaoler-joke
was, ‘Come out and listen to the Evening Paper, you inside
there!’
‘Charles Evremonde, called Darnay!’
So at last began the Evening Paper at La Force.
When a name was called, its owner stepped apart into a
spot reserved for those who were announced as being thus
fatally recorded. Charles Evremonde, called Darnay, had
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 his
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 already been 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 crea-
ture he had since cared for and parted with, 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 some games of forfeits and a little concert, for that eve-
ning. They crowded to the grates and shed tears there; but,
twenty places in the projected entertainments had to be re-
filled, and the time was, at best, short to the lock-up 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. Similar-
ly, though with a subtle difference, a species of fervour or
intoxication, known, without doubt, to have led some per-
sons 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 pass-
ing 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. All the fifteen were condemned,

and the trials of the whole occupied an hour and a half.
‘Charles Evremonde, called Darnay,’ was at length ar-
raigned.
His judges sat upon the Bench in feathered hats; but the
rough red cap and tricoloured cockade was the head-dress
otherwise prevailing. Looking at the Jury and the turbu-
lent audience, he might have thought that the usual order of
things was reversed, and that the felons were trying the hon-
est men. The lowest, cruelest, and worst populace of a city,
never without its quantity of low, cruel, and bad, were the
directing spirits of the scene: noisily commenting, applaud-
ing, 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 dag-
gers, 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 Defarge.
He noticed that she once or twice whispered in his ear, and
that she seemed to be his wife; but, what he 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 Manette, in his usual
quiet dress. As well as the prisoner could see, he and Mr.
Lorry were the only men there, unconnected with the Tri-
bunal, who wore their usual clothes, and had not assumed

the coarse garb of the Carmagnole.
Charles Evremonde, called Darnay, was accused by the
public prosecutor as an emigrant, whose life was forfeit to
the Republic, under the decree which banished all emi-
grants 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 the
Republic!’
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?
Undoubtedly it was.
Was he not an emigrant then? 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 relinquished 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 the 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?
He handed in the names of two witnesses; Theophile Ga-
belle, and Alexandre Manette.
But he had married in England? the President reminded
him.

True, but not an English woman.
A citizeness of France?
Yes. By birth.
Her name and family?
‘Lucie Manette, only daughter of Doctor Manette, the
good physician who sits there.’
This answer had a happy effect upon the audience. Cries
in exaltation of the well-known good physician rent the hall.
So capriciously were the people moved, that tears immedi-
ately rolled down several ferocious countenances which had
been glaring at the prisoner a moment before, as if with im-
patience to pluck him out into the streets and kill him.
On these few steps of his dangerous way, Charles Darnay
had set his foot according to Doctor Manette’s reiterated in-
structions. The same cautious counsel directed every step
that lay before him, and had prepared every inch of his
road.
The President asked, why had he returned to France
when he did, and not sooner?
He had not returned sooner, he replied, simply be-
cause he had no means of living in France, save those he
had resigned; whereas, in England, he lived by giving in-
struction in the French language and literature. He had
returned when he did, on the pressing and written entreaty
of a French citizen, who represented that his life was endan-
gered by his absence. He had 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?
The populace cried enthusiastically, ‘No!’ and the Presi-

dent rang his bell to quiet them. Which it did not, for they
continued to cry ‘No!’ until they left off, of their own will.
The President required the name of that citizen. The ac-
cused explained that the citizen was his first witness. He
also referred with 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 busi-
ness imposed on the Tribunal by the multitude of enemies of
the Republic with 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 against him was answered,
as to himself, by the surrender of the citizen Evremonde,
called Darnay.
Doctor Manette was next questioned. His high per-
sonal 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
imprisonment; that, the accused had remained in England,
always faithful and devoted to his daughter and himself in
their exile; that, so far from being in favour with the Aris-

tocrat government there, he had actually been tried for his
life by it, as the foe of England and friend of the United
States—as he brought these circumstances into view, with
the greatest discretion and with the straightforward force
of truth and earnestness, the Jury and the populace became
one. At last, when he appealed by name to Monsieur Lor-
ry, an English gentleman then and there present, who, like
himself, had been a witness on that English trial and could
corroborate his account of it, the Jury declared that 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 individu-
ally), the populace set up a shout of applause. All the voices
were in the prisoner’s favour, and the President declared
him free.
Then, began one of those extraordinary scenes with
which the populace sometimes gratified their fickleness,
or their better impulses towards generosity and mercy, or
which they regarded as some set-off against their swollen
account of cruel rage. No man can decide now to which of
these motives such extraordinary scenes were referable; it is
probable, to a blending of all the three, with the second pre-
dominating. 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 faint-
ing 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.
His removal, to make way for other accused persons who
were to be tried, rescued him from these caresses for the
moment. Five 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 Republic!’
The five had had, 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—ex-
cept 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 they had 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 this car of triumph, 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 heaving about him, and casting up to sight from the

stormy deep such wrecks of faces, that he 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. Reddening
the snowy streets with the prevailing Republican colour,
in winding and tramping through them, as they had red-
dened them below the snow with a deeper dye, they carried
him thus into the courtyard of the building where he lived.
Her father had gone on before, to prepare her, and when her
husband stood upon his feet, she dropped insensible in his
arms.
As he held her to his heart and turned her beautiful head
between his face and the brawling crowd, so that his tears
and her lips might come together unseen, a few of the people
fell to dancing. Instantly, all the rest fell to dancing, and the
courtyard overflowed with the Carmagnole. Then, they ele-
vated into the vacant chair a young woman from the crowd
to be carried as the 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 whirled them away.
After grasping the Doctor’s hand, as he stood victorious
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 Lucie,
who was lifted up to clasp her arms round his neck; and af-
ter embracing the ever zealous and faithful Pross who lifted
her; he took his wife in his arms, and carried her up to their

rooms.
‘Lucie! My own! I am safe.’
‘O dearest Charles, let me thank God for this on my
knees as I have prayed to Him.’
They all reverently bowed their heads and hearts. When
she was again in his arms, he said to her:
‘And now speak to your father, dearest. No other man in
all this France could have done what he has done for me.’
She laid her head upon her father’s breast, as she had laid
his poor head on her own breast, long, long ago. He was
happy in the return he had made her, he was recompensed
for his suffering, he was proud of his strength. ‘You must
not be weak, my darling,’ he remonstrated; ‘don’t tremble
so. I have saved him.’

VII
A Knock at the Door
‘I have saved him.’ It was not another of the dreams in

which he had often come back; he was really here. And
yet his wife trembled, and a vague but heavy fear was upon
her.
All the air round 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 mal-
ice, it was so impossible to forget that many as blameless as
her husband and as dear to others as he was to her, every
day shared the fate from which he had been clutched, that
her heart could not be as lightened of its load as she felt it
ought to be. The shadows of the wintry afternoon were be-
ginning to fall, and even now the dreadful carts were rolling
through the streets. 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 supe-
riority to this woman’s weakness, which was wonderful to
see. No garret, no shoemaking, no One Hundred and Five,
North Tower, now! He had accomplished the task he had set

himself, his promise was redeemed, he had saved Charles.
Let them all lean upon 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 his imprisonment, had had to pay
heavily for his bad food, and for his guard, and towards the
living of the poorer prisoners. Partly on this account, and
partly to avoid a domestic spy, they kept no servant; the cit-
izen and citizeness who acted as porters at the courtyard
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 be-
low; and, as the afternoon shadows deepened, the owner
of that name himself appeared, from overlooking a painter
whom Doctor Manette had employed to add to the list the
name of Charles Evremonde, called Darnay.
In the universal fear and distrust that darkened the time,
all the usual harmless ways of life were changed. In the Doc-
tor’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 pos-

sible for talk and envy, was the general desire.
For some months past, Miss Pross and Mr. Cruncher
had discharged the office of purveyors; the former carrying
the money; the latter, the basket. Every afternoon at about
the time when the public lamps were lighted, they fared
forth on this duty, and made and brought home such pur-
chases 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 had had a
mind, she had no 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 marketing was
to plump a noun-substantive at the head of a shopkeeper
without any introduction in the nature of an article, and,
if it happened not to be the name of the thing she wanted,
to look round for that thing, lay hold of it, and hold on by
it until the bargain was concluded. She always made a bar-
gain for it, by holding up, as a statement of its just price, 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 hoarsely professed himself at Miss Pross’s service.
He had worn all his rust off long ago, but nothing would file
his spiky head down.
‘There’s all manner of things wanted,’ said Miss Pross,
‘and we shall have a precious time of it. We want wine,
among the rest. Nice toasts these Redheads will be drink-
ing, wherever we buy it.’

‘It will be much the same to your knowledge, miss, I
should think,’ retorted Jerry, ‘whether they drink your
health or the Old Un’s.’
‘Who’s he?’ said Miss Pross.
Mr. Cruncher, with some diffidence, explained himself
as meaning ‘Old Nick’s.’
‘Ha!’ said Miss Pross, ‘it doesn’t need an interpreter to
explain the meaning of these creatures. They have but one,
and it’s Midnight Murder, and Mischief.’
‘Hush, dear! Pray, pray, be cautious!’ cried Lucie.
‘Yes, 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! Take care of the dear hus-
band you have recovered, and don’t move your pretty head
from his shoulder as you have it now, till you see me again!
May I ask a question, Doctor Manette, before I go?’
‘I think you may take that liberty,’ the Doctor answered,
smiling.
‘For gracious sake, don’t talk about Liberty; we have
quite enough of that,’ said Miss Pross.
‘Hush, dear! Again?’ Lucie remonstrated.
‘Well, my sweet,’ said Miss Pross, nodding her head em-
phatically, ‘the short and the long of it is, that I am a subject
of His Most Gracious Majesty King George the Third;’ Miss
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!’

Mr. Cruncher, in an access of loyalty, growlingly repeat-
ed 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, approvingly. ‘But the question, Doctor Ma-
nette. Is there’—it was 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 yet.’
‘Heigh-ho-hum!’ said Miss Pross, cheerfully repressing
a sigh as she glanced at her darling’s 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 Sol-
omon used to say. Now, Mr. Cruncher!—Don’t you move,
Ladybird!’
They went out, leaving Lucie, and her husband, her fa-
ther, and the child, by a bright fire. Mr. Lorry was expected
back presently from the Banking House. Miss Pross had
lighted the lamp, but had put it aside in a corner, that they
might enjoy the fire-light 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.
‘My dear!’ said her father, stopping in his story, and

laying his hand on hers, ‘command yourself. What a disor-
dered state you are in! The least thing—nothing—startles
you! YOU, your father’s daughter!’
‘I thought, my father,’ said Lucie, excusing herself, with
a pale face and in a faltering voice, ‘that I heard strange feet
upon the stairs.’
‘My love, the staircase is as still as Death.’
As he said the word, a blow was struck upon the door.
‘Oh father, father. What can this be! Hide Charles. Save
him!’
‘My child,’ said the Doctor, rising, and laying his hand
upon her shoulder, ‘I HAVE saved him. What weakness is
this, my dear! Let me go to the door.’
He took the lamp in his hand, crossed the two interven-
ing outer rooms, and opened it. A rude clattering of feet
over the floor, and four rough men in red caps, armed with
sabres and pistols, entered the room.
‘The Citizen Evremonde, called Darnay,’ said the first.
‘Who seeks him?’ answered Darnay.
‘I seek him. We seek him. I know you, Evremonde; I saw
you before the Tribunal to-day. You are again the prisoner
of the Republic.’
The four surrounded him, where he stood with his wife
and child clinging to him.
‘Tell me how and why am I again a prisoner?’
‘It is enough that you return straight to the Conciergerie,
and will know to-morrow. You are summoned for to-mor-
row.’
Doctor Manette, whom this visitation had so turned into

stone, that be stood with the lamp in his hand, as if be woe
a statue made to hold it, moved after these words were spo-
ken, put the lamp down, and confronting the speaker, and
taking him, not ungently, by the loose front of his red wool-
len shirt, said:
‘You know him, you have said. Do you know me?’
‘Yes, I know you, Citizen Doctor.’
‘We all know you, Citizen Doctor,’ said the other three.
He looked abstractedly from one to another, and said, in
a lower voice, after a pause:
‘Will you answer his question to me then? How does this
happen?’
‘Citizen Doctor,’ said the first, reluctantly, ‘he has been
denounced to the Section of Saint Antoine. This citizen,’
pointing out the second who had entered, ‘is from Saint
Antoine.’
The citizen here indicated nodded his head, and added:
‘He is accused by Saint Antoine.’
‘Of what?’ asked the Doctor.
‘Citizen Doctor,’ said the first, with his former reluctance,
‘ask no more. If the Republic demands sacrifices from you,
without doubt you as a good patriot will be happy to make
them. The Republic goes before all. The People is supreme.
Evremonde, we are pressed.’
‘One word,’ the Doctor entreated. ‘Will you tell me who
denounced him?’
‘It is against rule,’ answered the first; ‘but you can ask
Him of Saint Antoine here.’
The Doctor turned his eyes upon that man. Who moved

uneasily on his feet, rubbed his beard a little, and at length
said:
‘Well! Truly it is against rule. But he is denounced—and
gravely—by the Citizen and Citizeness Defarge. And by one
other.’
‘What other?’
‘Do YOU ask, Citizen Doctor?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then,’ said he of Saint Antoine, with a strange look, ‘you
will be answered to-morrow. Now, I am dumb!’

VIII
A Hand at Cards
H appily unconscious of the new calamity at home, Miss

Pross threaded her way along the narrow streets and
crossed the river by the bridge of the Pont-Neuf, reckon-
ing in her mind the number of indispensable purchases 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 the shops they passed, had a wary eye for all gregarious
assemblages of people, and turned out of their road to avoid
any very excited group of talkers. It was a raw evening, and
the misty river, blurred to the eye with blazing lights and
to the ear with harsh noises, showed where the barges were
stationed in which the smiths worked, making guns for the
Army of the Republic. Woe to the man who played tricks
with THAT Army, or got undeserved promotion in it! Bet-
ter for him that his beard had never grown, for the National
Razor shaved him close.
Having purchased a few small articles of grocery, and
a measure of oil for the lamp, Miss Pross bethought her-
self of the wine they wanted. After peeping into several
wine-shops, she stopped at the sign of the Good Republi-

can Brutus of Antiquity, not far from the National Palace,
once (and twice) the Tuileries, where the aspect of things
rather took her fancy. It had a quieter look than any other
place of the same 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, Miss Pross
resorted to the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, at-
tended by her cavalier.
Slightly observant of the smoky lights; of the people, pipe
in mouth, playing with limp cards and yellow dominoes; of
the one barebreasted, bare-armed, soot-begrimed workman
reading a journal aloud, and of the others listening to him;
of the weapons worn, or laid aside to be resumed; of the two
or three customers fallen forward asleep, who in the pop-
ular high-shouldered shaggy black spencer looked, in that
attitude, like slumbering bears or dogs; the two outlandish
customers approached the counter, and showed what they
wanted.
As their wine was measuring out, a man parted from an-
other man in a corner, and rose to depart. In going, he had
to face Miss Pross. No sooner did he face her, than Miss
Pross uttered a scream, and clapped her hands.
In a moment, the whole company were on their feet.
That somebody was assassinated by somebody vindicating
a difference of opinion was the likeliest occurrence. Every-
body looked to see somebody fall, but only saw a man and a
woman standing staring at each other; the man with all the
outward aspect of a Frenchman and a thorough Republi-
can; the woman, evidently English.

What was said in this disappointing anti-climax, by the
disciples of the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, ex-
cept that it was something very voluble and loud, would
have been as so much Hebrew or Chaldean to Miss Pross
and her protector, though they had been all ears. But, they
had no ears for anything in their surprise. For, it must be
recorded, that not only was Miss Pross lost in amazement
and agitation, but, Mr. Cruncher—though it seemed on his
own separate and individual account—was in a state of the
greatest wonder.
‘What is the matter?’ said the man who had caused Miss
Pross to scream; speaking in a vexed, abrupt voice (though
in a low tone), and in English.
‘Oh, Solomon, dear Solomon!’ cried Miss Pross, clapping
her hands again. ‘After not setting eyes upon you or hearing
of you for so long a time, do I find you here!’
‘Don’t call me Solomon. Do you want to be the death of
me?’ asked the man, in a furtive, frightened way.
‘Brother, brother!’ cried Miss Pross, bursting into tears.
‘Have I ever been so hard with you that you ask me such a
cruel question?’
‘Then hold your meddlesome tongue,’ said Solomon, ‘and
come out, if you want to speak to me. Pay for your wine, and
come out. Who’s this man?’
Miss Pross, shaking her loving and dejected head at her
by no means affectionate brother, said through her tears,
‘Mr. Cruncher.’
‘Let him come out too,’ said Solomon. ‘Does he think me
a ghost?’

Apparently, Mr. Cruncher did, to judge from his looks.
He said not a word, however, and Miss Pross, exploring the
depths of her reticule through her tears with great difficul-
ty paid for her 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 to relapse into their former places
and pursuits.
‘Now,’ said Solomon, stopping at the dark street corner,
‘what do you want?’
‘How dreadfully unkind in a brother nothing has ever
turned my love away from!’ cried Miss Pross, ‘to give me
such a greeting, and show me no affection.’
‘There. Confound it! There,’ said Solomon, making a dab
at Miss Pross’s lips with his own. ‘Now are you content?’
Miss Pross only shook her head and wept in silence.
‘If you expect me to be surprised,’ said her brother Solo-
mon, ‘I am not surprised; I knew you were here; I know of
most people who are here. If you really don’t want to en-
danger my existence—which I half believe you do—go your
ways as soon as possible, and let me go mine. I am busy. I
am an official.’
‘My English brother Solomon,’ mourned Miss Pross,
casting up her tear-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! I
would almost sooner have seen the dear boy lying in his—’
‘I said so!’ cried her brother, interrupting. ‘I knew it. 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 would I never see you again, dear Solo-
mon, though I have ever loved you truly, and ever shall. Say
but one affectionate word to me, and tell me there is noth-
ing angry or estranged between us, and I will detain you
no longer.’
Good Miss Pross! As if the estrangement between them
had come of any culpability of hers. As if Mr. Lorry had
not known it for a fact, years ago, in the quiet corner in
Soho, that this precious brother had spent her money and
left her!
He was saying the affectionate word, however, with a far
more grudging condescension and patronage than he could
have shown if their relative merits and positions had been
reversed (which is invariably the case, all the world over),
when Mr. Cruncher, touching him on the shoulder, hoarse-
ly and unexpectedly interposed with the following singular
question:
‘I say! Might I ask the favour? As to whether your name
is John Solomon, or Solomon John?’
The official turned towards him with sudden distrust.
He had not previously uttered a word.
‘Come!’ said Mr. Cruncher. ‘Speak out, you know.’
(Which, by the way, was more than he could do himself.)
‘John Solomon, or Solomon John? She calls you Solomon,
and she must know, being your sister. And I know you’re
John, you know. Which of the two goes first? And regarding
that name of Pross, likewise. That warn’t your name over

the water.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I don’t know all I mean, for I can’t call to mind
what your name was, over the water.’
‘No?’
‘No. But I’ll swear it was a name of two syllables.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Yes. T’other one’s was one syllable. I know you. You was
a spy— witness at the Bailey. What, in the name of the Fa-
ther of Lies, own father to yourself, was you called at that
time?’
‘Barsad,’ said another voice, striking 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 his riding-coat,
and he stood at Mr. Cruncher’s elbow as negligently as he
might have stood at the Old Bailey itself.
‘Don’t be alarmed, my dear Miss Pross. I arrived at Mr.
Lorry’s, to his surprise, yesterday evening; we agreed that
I would not present myself elsewhere until all was well, or
unless I could be useful; I present myself here, to beg a little
talk with your brother. I wish you had a better employed
brother than Mr. Barsad. I wish for your sake Mr. Barsad
was not a Sheep of the Prisons.’
Sheep was 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—
‘I’ll tell you,’ said Sydney. ‘I lighted on you, Mr. Barsad,
coming out of the prison of the Conciergerie while I was

contemplating the walls, an hour or more ago. You have a
face to be remembered, and I remember faces well. Made
curious by seeing you in that connection, and having a rea-
son, to which you are no stranger, for associating you with
the misfortunes of a friend now very unfortunate, I walked
in your direction. I walked into the wine-shop 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 call-
ing. And gradually, what I had done at random, seemed to
shape itself into a purpose, Mr. Barsad.’
‘What purpose?’ the spy asked.
‘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 Tell-
son’s Bank, for instance?’
‘Under a threat?’
‘Oh! Did I say that?’
‘Then, why should I go there?’
‘Really, Mr. Barsad, I 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 power-
fully in aid of his quickness and skill, in such a business as
he had in his secret mind, and with such a man as he had to
do with. His practised eye saw it, and made the most of it.
‘Now, I told you so,’ said the spy, casting a reproachful
look at his sister; ‘if any trouble comes of this, it’s your do-

ing.’
‘Come, come, Mr. Barsad!’ exclaimed Sydney. ‘Don’t be
ungrateful. But for my great respect for your sister, I might
not have led up so pleasantly to a little proposal that I wish
to make for our mutual satisfaction. Do you go with me to
the Bank?’
‘I’ll hear what you have got to say. Yes, I’ll go with you.’
‘I propose that we first conduct your sister safely to the
corner of her own street. Let me take your arm, Miss Pross.
This is not a good city, at this time, for you to be out in, un-
protected; and as your escort knows Mr. Barsad, I will invite
him to Mr. Lorry’s with us. Are we ready? Come then!’
Miss Pross recalled soon afterwards, and to the end of
her life remembered, that as she pressed her hands on Syd-
ney’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 contradict-
ed his light manner, but changed and raised the man. She
was too much occupied then with fears for the brother who
so little deserved her affection, and with Sydney’s friendly
reassurances, adequately to heed what she observed.
They left her 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 had 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 elderly gen-
tleman from Tellson’s, 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 he saw a stranger.
‘Miss Pross’s brother, sir,’ said Sydney. ‘Mr. Barsad.’
‘Barsad?’ repeated the old gentleman, ‘Barsad? I have an
association with the name—and with the face.’
‘I told you you had a remarkable face, Mr. Barsad,’ ob-
served Carton, coolly. ‘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.’ Mr. Lorry immediately remembered, and regard-
ed his new visitor with an undisguised look of abhorrence.
‘Mr. Barsad has been recognised by Miss Pross as the af-
fectionate brother you have heard of,’ said Sydney, ‘and has
acknowledged the relationship. I pass to worse news. Dar-
nay has been arrested again.’
Struck with consternation, the old gentleman exclaimed,
‘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. Barsad?’
‘Just now, if at all.’
‘Mr. Barsad is the best authority possible, sir,’ said Syd-
ney, ‘and I have it from Mr. Barsad’s communication to a
friend and brother Sheep over a bottle of wine, that the ar-
rest has taken place. He left the messengers at the gate, and
saw them admitted by the porter. There is no earthly doubt
that he is retaken.’
Mr. Lorry’s business eye read in the speaker’s face that it
was loss of time to dwell upon the point. Confused, but sen-
sible that something might depend on his presence of mind,

he commanded himself, and was silently attentive.
‘Now, I trust,’ said Sydney to him, ‘that the name and in-
fluence of Doctor Manette may stand him in as good stead
to-morrow—you said he 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, Mr. Lorry, by Doctor Ma-
nette’s not having had the power to prevent this arrest.’
‘He may not have known of it beforehand,’ said Mr. Lor-
ry.
‘But that very circumstance would be alarming, when we
remember how identified he is with his son-in-law.’
‘That’s true,’ Mr. Lorry acknowledged, with his troubled
hand at his chin, and his 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 tomorrow. Now,
the stake I have resolved to play for, in case of the worst, is a
friend in the Conciergerie. And the friend I purpose to my-
self to win, is Mr. Barsad.’
‘You need have good cards, sir,’ said the spy.
‘I’ll run them over. I’ll see what I hold,—Mr. Lorry, you
know what a brute I am; I wish you’d give me a little bran-
dy.’
It was put before him, and he drank off a glassful—drank
off another glassful—pushed the bottle thoughtfully away.

‘Mr. Barsad,’ he went on, in the tone of one who real-
ly was looking over a hand at cards: ‘Sheep of the prisons,
emissary of Republican committees, now turnkey, now
prisoner, always spy and secret informer, so much the more
valuable here for being English that an Englishman is less
open to suspicion of subornation in those characters than
a Frenchman, represents himself to his employers under
a false name. That’s a very good card. Mr. Barsad, now in
the employ of the republican French government, was for-
merly in the employ of the aristocratic English government,
the enemy of France and freedom. That’s an excellent card.
Inference clear as day in this region of suspicion, that Mr.
Barsad, still in the pay of the aristocratic English govern-
ment, is the spy of Pitt, the treacherous foe of the Republic
crouching in its bosom, the English traitor and agent of all
mischief so much spoken of and so difficult to find. That’s
a card not to be beaten. Have you followed my hand, Mr.
Barsad?’
‘Not to understand your play,’ returned the spy, some-
what uneasily.
‘I play my Ace, Denunciation of Mr. Barsad to the near-
est Section Committee. Look over your hand, Mr. Barsad,
and see what you have. Don’t hurry.’
He drew the bottle near, poured out another glassful of
brandy, and drank it off. He saw that the spy was fearful
of his drinking 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, Mr. Barsad. Take time.’

It was a poorer hand than he suspected. Mr. 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 swearing 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 had been
a spy upon Saint Antoine and Defarge’s wine-shop; had re-
ceived from the watchful police such heads of information
concerning Doctor Manette’s imprisonment, release, and
history, as should serve him for an introduction to familiar
conversation with the Defarges; and tried them on Ma-
dame Defarge, and had broken down with them signally.
He always remembered with fear and trembling, that that
terrible woman had knitted when he talked with her, and
had looked ominously at him as her fingers moved. He had
since seen her, in the Section of Saint Antoine, over and
over again produce her knitted registers, and denounce
people whose lives the guillotine then surely swallowed up.
He knew, as every one employed as he was did, that he was
never safe; 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 de-
nounced, and on such grave grounds as had just now been

suggested to his mind, he foresaw that the dreadful woman
of whose unrelenting character he had seen many proofs,
would produce against him that fatal register, and would
quash his last chance of life. Besides that all secret men are
men soon terrified, here were surely 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?’
‘I think, sir,’ said the spy, in the meanest manner, as he
turned to Mr. Lorry, ‘I may appeal to a gentleman of your
years and benevolence, to put it to this 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 I am a spy, and that it is considered
a discreditable station—though it must be filled by some-
body; but this gentleman is no spy, and why should he so
demean himself as to make himself one?’
‘I play my Ace, Mr. Barsad,’ said Carton, taking the an-
swer on himself, and looking at his watch, ‘without any
scruple, in a very few minutes.’
‘I should have hoped, gentlemen both,’ said the spy, al-
ways striving to hook Mr. 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, sir?’
‘I have thoroughly made up my mind about it.’
The smooth manner of the spy, curiously in dissonance

with his ostentatiously rough dress, and probably with his
usual demeanour, received such a check from the inscruta-
bility of Carton,—who was a mystery to wiser and honester
men than he,—that it faltered here and failed him. While he
was at a loss, Carton said, resuming his former air of con-
templating cards:
‘And indeed, now I think again, I have a strong impres-
sion that I have another good card here, not yet enumerated.
That friend and fellow-Sheep, who spoke of himself as pas-
turing in the country prisons; who was he?’
‘French. You don’t know him,’ said the spy, quickly.
‘French, eh?’ repeated Carton, musing, and not appear-
ing to notice him at all, though he echoed his word. ‘Well;
he may be.’
‘Is, I assure you,’ said the spy; ‘though it’s not impor-
tant.’
‘Though it’s not important,’ repeated Carton, in the same
mechanical way—‘though it’s not important—No, it’s not
important. No. Yet I know the face.’
‘I think not. I am sure not. It can’t be,’ said the spy.
‘It-can’t-be,’ muttered Sydney Carton, retrospectively,
and idling his glass (which fortunately was a small one)
again. ‘Can’t-be. Spoke good French. Yet like a foreigner, I
thought?’
‘Provincial,’ said the spy.
‘No. Foreign!’ cried Carton, striking his open hand on
the table, as a light broke clearly on his mind. ‘Cly! Dis-
guised, but the same man. We had that man before us at
the Old Bailey.’

‘Now, there you are hasty, sir,’ said Barsad, with a smile
that gave his aquiline nose an extra inclination to one side;
‘there you really give me an advantage over you. Cly (who I
will unreservedly admit, at this distance of time, was a part-
ner of mine) has been dead several years. I attended him
in his last illness. He was buried in London, at the church
of Saint Pancras-in-the-Fields. His unpopularity with the
blackguard multitude at the moment prevented my follow-
ing his remains, but I helped to lay him in his coffin.’
Here, Mr. Lorry became aware, from where he sat, of a
most remarkable goblin shadow on the wall. Tracing it to its
source, he discovered it to be caused by a sudden extraor-
dinary rising and stiffening of all the risen and stiff hair on
Mr. Cruncher’s head.
‘Let us be reasonable,’ said the spy, ‘and let us be fair.
To show you how mistaken you are, and what an unfound-
ed assumption yours is, I will lay before you a certificate of
Cly’s burial, which I happened to have carried in my pock-
et-book,’ with a hurried hand he produced and opened it,
‘ever since. There it is. Oh, look at it, look at it! You may take
it in your hand; it’s no forgery.’
Here, Mr. Lorry perceived the reflection 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, Mr. 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
coffin?’
‘I did.’
‘Who took him out of it?’
Barsad leaned back in his chair, and stammered, ‘What
do you mean?’
‘I mean,’ said Mr. Cruncher, ‘that he warn’t never in it.
No! Not he! I’ll 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 at Jerry.
‘I tell you,’ said Jerry, ‘that you buried paving-stones and
earth in that there coffin. Don’t go and tell me that you bur-
ied 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 I 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 half a guinea.’
Sydney Carton, who, with Mr. Lorry, had 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 pres-
ent time is ill-conwenient for explainin’. What I stand to, is,
that he knows well wot that there Cly was never in that there
coffin. Let him say he was, in so much as a word of one syl-
lable, and I’ll 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. ‘I 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 antecedents as yourself, who, moreover, has
the mystery about him of having feigned death and come
to life again! A plot in the prisons, of the foreigner against
the Republic. A strong card—a certain Guillotine card! Do
you play?’
‘No!’ returned the spy. ‘I throw up. I confess that we were
so unpopular with the outrageous mob, that I only got away
from England at the risk of being ducked to death, and that
Cly was so ferreted up and down, that he never would have
got away at all but for that sham. Though how this man
knows it was a sham, is a wonder of wonders to me.’
‘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!’— Mr. Cruncher could not be restrained
from making rather an ostentatious parade of his liberal-
ity—‘I’d catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a
guinea.’
The Sheep of the prisons turned from him to Sydney Car-
ton, and said, with more decision, ‘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 is 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 I had better trust my life
to the chances of a refusal than the chances of consent. In
short, I should make that choice. You talk of desperation.

We are all desperate here. Remember! I may denounce you
if I think proper, and I can swear my way through stone
walls, and so can others. Now, what do you want with me?’
‘Not very much. You are a turnkey at the Conciergerie?’
‘I 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? You are a
turnkey at the Conciergerie?’
‘I am sometimes.’
‘You can be when you choose?’
‘I can pass in and out when I 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 be-
tween you and me. Come into the dark room here, and let
us have one final word alone.’

IX
The Game Made
W hile Sydney Carton and the Sheep of the prisons

were in the adjoining dark room, speaking so low
that not a sound was heard, Mr. Lorry looked at Jerry in
considerable doubt and mistrust. That honest tradesman’s
manner of receiving the look, did not inspire confidence;
he changed the leg on which he rested, as often as if he had
fifty of those limbs, and were trying them all; he examined
his finger-nails with a very questionable closeness of atten-
tion; and whenever Mr. Lorry’s eye caught his, he was taken
with that peculiar kind of short cough requiring the hollow
of a hand before it, which is seldom, if ever, known to be an
infirmity attendant on perfect openness of character.
‘Jerry,’ said Mr. 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, ‘Agicultooral character.’
‘My mind misgives me much,’ said Mr. Lorry, angrily

shaking a forefinger at him, ‘that you have used the respect-
able and great house of Tellson’s as a blind, and that you
have had an unlawful occupation of an infamous descrip-
tion. 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.’
‘I hope, sir,’ pleaded the abashed Mr. Cruncher, ‘that a
gentleman like yourself wot I’ve had the honour of odd job-
bing till I’m grey at it, would think twice about harming of
me, even if it wos so—I don’t say it is, but even if it wos. And
which 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 sides to it. There
might be medical doctors at the present hour, a picking up
their guineas where a honest tradesman don’t pick up his
fardens—fardens! no, nor yet his half fardens— half fardens!
no, nor yet his quarter—a banking away like smoke at Tell-
son’s, and a cocking their medical eyes at that tradesman
on the sly, a going in and going out to their own carriag-
es—ah! 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 Mrs. Cruncher, 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
is ruinating—stark ruinating! Whereas them medical doc-
tors’ wives don’t flop—catch ‘em at it! Or, if they flop, their
toppings goes in favour of more patients, and how can you
rightly have one without t’other? Then, wot with undertak-
ers, 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 wos 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 his way out, being once in— even
if it wos so.’
‘Ugh!’ cried Mr. Lorry, rather relenting, nevertheless, ‘I
am shocked at the sight of you.’
‘Now, what I would humbly offer to you, sir,’ pursued Mr.
Cruncher, ‘even if it wos so, which I don’t say it is—’
‘Don’t prevaricate,’ said Mr. Lorry.
‘No, I will NOT, sir,’ returned Mr. Crunches as if noth-
ing were further from his thoughts or practice—‘which I
don’t say it is—wot I 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 is where your head is, if such should be your
wishes. If it wos so, which I still don’t say it is (for I will
not prewaricate to you, sir), let that there boy keep his fa-
ther’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 undug—if it wos so-by diggin’ of ‘em in
with a will, and with conwictions respectin’ the futur’ kee-
pin’ 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, ‘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 with-

out heads, dear me, plentiful enough fur to bring the price
down to porterage and hardly that, without havin’ his seri-
ous 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, I 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 Car-
ton and the spy returned from the dark room. ‘Adieu, Mr.
Barsad,’ said the former; ‘our arrangement thus made, you
have nothing to fear from me.’
He sat down in a chair on the hearth, over against Mr.
Lorry. When they were alone, Mr. Lorry asked him what
he had done?
‘Not much. If it should go ill with the prisoner, I have en-
sured 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 be-
fore the Tribunal, will not save him.’
‘I never said it would.’
Mr. Lorry’s eyes gradually sought the fire; his sympathy
with his darling, and the heavy disappointment of his sec-

ond arrest, gradually weakened them; he was an old man
now, overborne with anxiety 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.
I could not see my father weep, and sit by, careless. And I
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 his usu-
al 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 his hand, and Carton gently pressed it.
‘To return to poor Darnay,’ said Carton. ‘Don’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 worse, to convey to him the means of anticipat-
ing the sentence.’
Mr. Lorry had not thought of that, and he looked quickly
at Carton to see if it were in his mind. 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, I had better not
see her. I can put my hand out, to do any little helpful work
for her that my hand can find to do, without that. You are
going to her, I hope? She must be very desolate to-night.’
‘I am going now, directly.’
‘I am glad of that. She has such a strong attachment to
you and reliance on you. How does she look?’

‘Anxious and unhappy, but very beautiful.’
‘Ah!’
It was a long, grieving sound, like a sigh—almost like
a sob. It attracted Mr. Lorry’s eyes to Carton’s face, which
was turned to the fire. A light, or a shade (the old gentleman
could not have said which), passed from it as swiftly as a
change will sweep over a hill-side 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 look very pale, with
his long brown hair, all untrimmed, hanging loose about
him. His indifference to fire was sufficiently remarkable to
elicit a word of remonstrance from Mr. Lorry; his boot was
still upon the hot embers of the flaming 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 hand-
some features, and having the expression of prisoners’ faces
fresh in his mind, he was strongly reminded of that expres-
sion.
‘And your duties here have drawn to an end, sir?’ said
Carton, turning to him.
‘Yes. As I was telling you last night when Lucie came in
so unexpectedly, I have at length done all that I can do here.
I hoped to have left them in perfect safety, and then to have
quitted Paris. I have my Leave to Pass. I 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 seventy-eighth year.’
‘You have been useful all your life; steadily and constant-
ly occupied; trusted, respected, and looked up to?’
‘I have been a man of business, ever since I have been a
man. indeed, I may say that I 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!’
‘A solitary old bachelor,’ answered Mr. Lorry, shaking his
head. ‘There is nobody to weep for me.’
‘How can you say that? Wouldn’t She weep for you?
Wouldn’t her child?’
‘Yes, yes, thank God. I didn’t quite mean what I said.’
‘It IS a thing to thank God for; is it not?’
‘Surely, surely.’
‘If you could say, with truth, to your own solitary heart,
to-night, ‘I have secured to myself the love and attachment,
the gratitude or respect, of no human creature; I have won
myself a tender place in no regard; I have done nothing
good or serviceable to be remembered by!’ your seventy-
eight years would be seventy-eight heavy curses; would they
not?’
‘You say truly, Mr. Carton; I think they would be.’
Sydney turned his eyes again upon the fire, and, after a
silence of a few moments, said:
‘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 his softened manner, Mr. Lorry an-
swered:
‘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 remembrances that had long fallen
asleep, of my pretty young mother (and I so old!), and by
many associations of the days when what we call the World
was not so real with me, and my faults were not confirmed
in me.’
‘I understand the feeling!’ 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 I should prowl about the streets a long
time, don’t be uneasy; I shall reappear in the morning. You
go to the Court to-morrow?’
‘Yes, unhappily.’
‘I 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 pris-
on of La Force, where she had stood hundreds of times. A
little wood-sawyer, having closed his shop, was smoking his
pipe at his shop-door.
‘Good night, citizen,’ said Sydney Carton, pausing in go-
ing by; for, the man eyed him inquisitively.
‘Good night, citizen.’
‘How goes the Republic?’
‘You mean the Guillotine. Not ill. Sixty-three to-day. We
shall mount to a hundred soon. Samson and his men com-
plain sometimes, of being exhausted. Ha, ha, ha! He is so
droll, that Samson. Such a Barber!’
‘Do you often go to see him—’
‘Shave? Always. Every day. What a barber! You have seen
him at work?’
‘Never.’
‘Go and see him when he has a good batch. Figure this
to yourself, citizen; he shaved the sixty-three to-day, in less
than two pipes! Less than two pipes. Word of honour!’
As the grinning little man held out the pipe he was smok-
ing, to explain how he timed the executioner, Carton was so

sensible of a rising desire to strike the life out of him, that
he turned away.
‘But you are not English,’ said the wood-sawyer, ‘though
you wear English dress?’
‘Yes,’ said Carton, pausing again, and answering over his
shoulder.
‘You speak like a Frenchman.’
‘I am an old student here.’
‘Aha, a perfect Frenchman! Good night, Englishman.’
‘Good night, citizen.’
‘But go and see 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 usual,
for the best public thoroughfares remained uncleansed in
those times of terror—he stopped at a chemist’s shop, which
the owner was closing with his own hands. A small, dim,
crooked shop, kept in a tortuous, up-hill thoroughfare, by a
small, dim, crooked 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? You
know the consequences of mixing them?’
‘Perfectly.’
Certain small packets were made and given to him. He
put them, one by one, in the breast of his inner coat, count-
ed out the money for them, and deliberately left the shop.
‘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 he
said these words aloud under the fast-sailing clouds, nor
was it more expressive of negligence than defiance. It was
the settled manner of a tired man, who had wandered and
struggled and got lost, but who at length struck into his
road and saw its end.
Long ago, when he had been famous among his earliest
competitors as a youth of great promise, he had followed
his father to the grave. His mother had died, years before.
These solemn words, which had been read at his father’s
grave, arose in his mind as he went down the dark streets,
among the heavy shadows, with the moon and the clouds
sailing on high above him. ‘I am the resurrection and the
life, saith the Lord: he 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 natu-
ral sorrow rising in him for the sixty-three who had been
that day put to death, and for to-morrow’s victims then
awaiting their doom in the prisons, and still of to-morrow’s
and to-morrow’s, the chain of association that brought the

words home, like a rusty old ship’s anchor from the deep,
might have been easily found. He did not seek it, but repeat-
ed 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 prayers were said, for the popular revul-
sion had 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 crossed 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 night-
caps, 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 her for a kiss.
‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that
believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he 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 echoes of his feet, and were in the air.
Perfectly calm and steady, he sometimes repeated them to
himself as he walked; but, he heard them always.
The night wore out, and, as he stood upon the bridge
listening 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 de-
livered over to Death’s dominion.
But, the glorious sun, rising, seemed to strike those
words, that burden of the night, straight and warm to his
heart in its long bright rays. And looking along them, with
reverently shaded eyes, a bridge of light appeared to span
the air between him and the sun, while the river sparkled
under it.
The strong tide, so swift, so deep, and certain, was like a
congenial friend, in the morning stillness. He walked by the
stream, far 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 softened colour of a
dead leaf, then glided into his view, floated by him, and died
away. As its silent track in the water disappeared, the prayer

that had broken up out of his heart for a merciful consid-
eration of all his poor blindnesses and errors, ended in the
words, ‘I am the resurrection and the life.’
Mr. Lorry was already out when he got back, and it was
easy to surmise where the good old man was gone. Sydney
Carton drank 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 black
sheep—whom many fell 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 admir-
ing love and pitying tenderness, yet so courageous for his
sake, that it called the healthy blood into his face, bright-
ened his 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
exactly.
Before that unjust Tribunal, there was little or no order
of procedure, ensuring to any accused person any reason-
able hearing. There could have been no such Revolution,
if all laws, forms, and ceremonies, had not first been so
monstrously abused, that the suicidal vengeance of the Rev-
olution was to scatter them all to the winds.
Every eye was turned to the jury. The same determined
patriots and good republicans as yesterday and the day be-

fore, and to-morrow and the day after. Eager and prominent
among them, one man with a craving face, and his fingers
perpetually hovering about his lips, whose appearance gave
great satisfaction to the spectators. A lifethirsting, canni-
bal-looking, bloody-minded juryman, the Jacques Three of
St. 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 sought some other eye in the crowd, and
gleamed at it approvingly; and heads nodded at one anoth-
er, before bending forward with a strained attention.
Charles Evremonde, called Darnay. Released yesterday.
Reaccused and retaken yesterday. Indictment delivered to
him last night. Suspected and Denounced enemy of the Re-
public, Aristocrat, one of a family of tyrants, one of a race
proscribed, for that they had used their abolished privi-
leges to the infamous oppression of the people. Charles
Evremonde, called Darnay, in right of such proscription,
absolutely Dead in Law.
To this effect, in as few or fewer words, the Public Pros-
ecutor.
The President asked, was the Accused openly denounced
or secretly?
‘Openly, President.’
‘By whom?’
‘Three voices. Ernest Defarge, wine-vendor of St. An-
toine.’

‘Good.’
‘Therese Defarge, his wife.’
‘Good.’
‘Alexandre Manette, physician.’
A great uproar took place in the court, and in the midst
of it, Doctor Manette was seen, pale and trembling, stand-
ing where he had been seated.
‘President, I indignantly protest to you that this is a forg-
ery and a fraud. You know 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 where is the false
conspirator who says that I denounce the husband of my
child!’
‘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 life, 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 child herself, you would have no duty but to sacri-
fice her. Listen to what is to follow. In the meanwhile, be
silent!’
Frantic acclamations were again raised. Doctor Manette
sat down, with his eyes looking around, and his lips trem-
bling; his daughter drew closer to him. The craving man on
the jury rubbed his hands 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 expounded the sto-
ry of the imprisonment, and of his having been a mere boy
in the Doctor’s service, and of the release, and of the state
of the prisoner when released and delivered to him. This
short examination followed, for the court was quick with
its work.
‘You did good service at the taking of the Bastille, citi-
zen?’
‘I believe so.’
Here, an excited woman screeched from the crowd: ‘You
were one of the best patriots there. Why not say so? You
were a cannoneer that day there, and you were among the
first to enter the accursed fortress when it fell. Patriots, I
speak the truth!’
It was The Vengeance who, amidst the warm commen-
dations of the audience, thus assisted the proceedings. The
President rang his bell; but, The Vengeance, warming with
encouragement, shrieked, ‘I defy that bell!’ wherein she was
likewise much commended.
‘Inform the Tribunal of what you did that day within the
Bastille, citizen.’
‘I knew,’ said Defarge, looking down at his wife, who
stood at the bottom of the steps on which he was raised,
looking steadily up at him; ‘I knew that this prisoner, of
whom I speak, had been confined in a cell known as One
Hundred and Five, North Tower. I knew it from himself.
He knew himself by no other name than One Hundred and
Five, North Tower, when he made shoes under my care. As
I serve my gun that day, I resolve, when the place shall fall,

to examine that cell. It falls. I mount to the cell, with a fel-
low-citizen who is one of the Jury, directed by a gaoler. I
examine it, very closely. In a hole in the chimney, where
a stone has been worked out and replaced, I find a written
paper. This is that written paper. I have made it my busi-
ness to examine some specimens of the writing of Doctor
Manette. This is the writing of Doctor Manette. I 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 tri-
al looking lovingly at his wife, his wife only looking from
him to look with solicitude at her father, Doctor Manette
keeping his eyes fixed on the reader, Madame Defarge nev-
er taking 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 follows.

X
The Substance of
the Shadow
‘I , Alexandre Manette, unfortunate physician, 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. I write it at stolen intervals,
under every difficulty. I 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 char-
coal from the chimney, mixed with blood, in the last month
of the tenth year of my captivity. Hope has quite depart-
ed from my breast. I know from terrible warnings I have
noted in myself that my reason will not long remain unim-
paired, 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 I write the truth as I shall answer
for these my last recorded words, whether they be ever read

by men or not, at the Eternal Judgment-seat.
‘One cloudy moonlight night, in the third week of De-
cember (I think the twenty-second of the month) in the
year 1757, I was walking on a retired part of the quay by the
Seine for the refreshment of the frosty air, at an hour’s dis-
tance from my place of residence in the Street of the School
of Medicine, when a carriage came along behind me, driven
very fast. As I stood aside to let that carriage pass, appre-
hensive that it might otherwise run me down, a head was
put out at the window, and a voice called to the driver to
stop.
‘The carriage stopped as soon as the driver could rein
in his horses, and the same voice called to me by my name.
I 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 side 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 I could
see) face too.
‘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?’
‘Gentlemen,’ I returned, ‘I am that Doctor Manette of

whom you speak so graciously.’
‘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 fol-
lowed, 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 be-
tween themselves and the carriage door. They were armed.
I was not.
‘Gentlemen,’ said I, ‘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 I am summoned.’
‘The reply to this was made by him who had spoken sec-
ond. ‘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 de-
scribe it. Enough. Will you please to enter the carriage?’
‘I could do nothing but comply, and I entered it in si-
lence. They both entered after me—the last springing in,
after putting up the steps. The carriage turned about, and
drove on at its former speed.
‘I repeat this conversation exactly as it occurred. I have
no doubt that it is, word for word, the same. I describe ev-
erything exactly as it took place, constraining my mind not
to wander from the task. Where I make the broken marks
that follow here, I leave off for the time, and put my paper
in its hiding-place.
****

‘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—I did not estimate the dis-
tance at that time, but afterwards when I traversed it—it
struck out of the main avenue, and presently stopped at
a solitary house, 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
immediately, in answer to the ringing of the bell, and one of
my two conductors struck the man who opened it, with his
heavy riding glove, across the face.
‘There was nothing in this action to attract my particu-
lar attention, for I had seen common people struck more
commonly than dogs. But, the other of the two, being angry
likewise, struck the man in like manner with his 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 had opened
to admit us, and had relocked), I had heard cries proceeding
from an upper chamber. I was conducted to this chamber
straight, the cries growing louder as we ascended the stairs,
and I 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 handkerchiefs. I noticed that these bonds were all por-
tions of a gentleman’s dress. On one of them, which was a

fringed scarf for a dress of ceremony, I saw the armorial
bearings of a Noble, and the letter E.
‘I saw this, within the first minute of my contemplation
of the patient; for, in her restless strivings she had turned
over on her face on the edge of the bed, had drawn the end
of the scarf into her mouth, and was in danger of suffo-
cation. My first act was to put out my 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 looked into her
face. Her eyes were dilated and wild, and she constantly
uttered piercing shrieks, and repeated the words, ‘My hus-
band, my father, and my brother!’ and then counted up to
twelve, and said, ‘Hush!’ For an instant, and no more, she
would pause to listen, and then the piercing shrieks would
begin again, and she would repeat the cry, ‘My husband,
my father, and my brother!’ and would count up to twelve,
and say, ‘Hush!’ There was no variation in the order, 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?’
‘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 was the elder who replied, ‘Since about
this hour last night.’
‘She has a husband, a father, and a brother?’
‘A brother.’
‘I do not address her brother?’

‘He answered with great contempt, ‘No.’
‘She has some recent association with the number
twelve?’
‘The younger brother impatiently rejoined, ‘With twelve
o’clock?’
‘See, gentlemen,’ said I, 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 have come provid-
ed. 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.
****
‘I opened some of the bottles, smelt them, and put the
stoppers 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?’ 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 that I desired to give. As I in-
tended 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, indifferently fur-
nished—evidently, recently occupied and temporarily used.

Some thick old hangings had been nailed up before the win-
dows, to deaden the sound of the shrieks. They continued to
be uttered in their regular succession, with the cry, ‘My hus-
band, my father, and my brother!’ the counting up to twelve,
and ‘Hush!’ The frenzy was so violent, that I had not unfas-
tened 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
sufferer’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.’
‘I was startled, and asked, ‘Is it a pressing case?’
‘You had better see,’ he carelessly answered; and took up
a light.
****
‘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. Hay
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 get at the other. My memory is circumstantial
and unshaken. I 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 I saw them all that night.

‘On some hay on the ground, with a cushion thrown
under his head, lay a handsome peasant boy—a boy of not
more than seventeen at the most. He lay on his back, with
his teeth set, his right hand clenched on his breast, and his
glaring eyes looking straight upward. I could not see where
his wound was, as I kneeled on one knee over him; but, I
could see that he was dying of a wound from a sharp point.
‘I am a doctor, my poor fellow,’ said I. ‘Let me examine
it.’
‘I do not want it examined,’ he answered; ‘let it be.’
‘It was under his hand, and I soothed him to let me move
his hand away. The wound was a sword-thrust, received
from twenty to twentyfour hours before, but no skill could
have saved him if it had been looked to without delay. He
was then dying fast. As I turned my eyes to the elder broth-
er, I 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 has this been done, monsieur?’ said I.
‘A crazed young common dog! A serf! Forced my brother
to draw upon him, and has fallen by my brother’s sword—
like a gentleman.’
‘There was no touch of pity, sorrow, or kindred human-
ity, in this answer. The speaker seemed to acknowledge that
it was inconvenient to have that different order of creature
dying there, and that it would have been better if he had
died in the usual obscure routine of his vermin kind. He
was quite incapable of any compassionate feeling about the
boy, or about his fate.

‘The boy’s eyes had slowly moved to him as he had spo-
ken, and they now slowly moved to me.
‘Doctor, they are very proud, these Nobles; but we com-
mon dogs are proud too, sometimes. They plunder us,
outrage us, beat us, kill us; but we have a little pride left,
sometimes. She—have 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.
‘I said, ‘I have seen her.’
‘She is my sister, Doctor. They have had their shameful
rights, these Nobles, in the modesty and virtue of our sis-
ters, many years, but we have had good girls among us. I
know 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 who 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, his spirit spoke with a dreadful
emphasis.
‘We 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 meat, we ate it in fear, with the door barred and the shut-
ters closed, that his people should not see it and take it from

us—I say, we were so robbed, and hunted, and were made so
poor, that our father told us it was a dreadful thing to bring
a child into the world, and that what we should most pray
for, was, that our women might be barren and our miser-
able race die out!’
‘I had never before seen the sense of being oppressed,
bursting forth like a fire. I had supposed that it must be la-
tent in the people somewhere; but, I had never seen it break
out, until I saw it in the dying boy.
‘Nevertheless, Doctor, my sister married. He 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’s brother saw her and admired her,
and asked that man to lend her to him—for what are hus-
bands among us! He was willing enough, but my sister was
good and virtuous, and hated his brother with a hatred as
strong as mine. What did the two then, to persuade her hus-
band to use his influence with her, to make her willing?’
‘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 was true. The two opposing kinds of pride confronting
one another, I can see, even in this Bastille; the gentleman’s,
all negligent indifference; the peasants, all trodden-down
sentiment, and passionate revenge.
‘You know, Doctor, that it is among the Rights of these
Nobles to harness us common dogs to carts, and drive us.
They so harnessed him and drove him. 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 night, and ordered him back into his harness in the day.
But he was not persuaded. No! Taken out of harness one day
at noon, to feed—if he could find food—he sobbed twelve
times, once for every stroke of the bell, and died on her bo-
som.’
‘Nothing human could have held life in the boy but his
determination to tell all his wrong. He forced back the gath-
ering shadows of death, as he forced his clenched 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 pass me on the road. When 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 HIS vassal. Then, I tracked the brother here, and
last night climbed in—a common dog, but sword in hand.—
Where is the loft window? It was somewhere here?’
‘The room was darkening to his sight; the world was nar-
rowing around him. I 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 I, though a
common dog, so struck at him as to make him draw. Let
him break into as many pieces as he will, the sword that he
stained with my common blood; he drew to defend him-
self—thrust at me with all his skill for his life.’
‘My 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
sword that seemed to have been a soldier’s.
‘Now, lift me up, Doctor; lift me up. Where is he?’
‘He is not here,’ I said, supporting the boy, and thinking
that he referred to the brother.
‘He! 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, in-
vested for the moment with extraordinary 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 things are to be answered for, I summon you and
yours, to the last of your bad race, to answer for them. I
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 sum-
mon your brother, the worst of the bad race, to answer for
them separately. I mark 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 as it dropped, he
dropped with it, and I laid him down dead.
****
‘When I returned to the bedside of the young woman, I
found her raving in precisely the same order of continuity. I
knew that this might last for many hours, and that it would
probably end in the silence of the grave.
‘I repeated the medicines I had given her, and I sat at the
side of the bed until the night was far advanced. She never
abated the piercing quality of her shrieks, never stumbled in
the distinctness or the order of her words. They were always
‘My husband, my father, and my brother! One, two, three,
four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Hush!’
‘This lasted twenty-six hours from the time when I first
saw her. I had come and gone twice, and was again sitting
by her, when she began to falter. I did what little could be
done to assist that opportunity, and by-and-bye she sank
into a lethargy, and lay like the dead.
‘It was as if the wind and rain had lulled 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 to. 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 I lost the little hope I had had
of her.
‘Is she dead?’ asked the Marquis, whom I will still de-
scribe 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,’ I answered him, ‘in sor-
row and despair.’
‘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,
‘Doctor, finding my brother in this difficulty with these
hinds, I 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.’
‘I listened to the patient’s breathing, and avoided an-
swering.
‘Do you honour me with your attention, Doctor?’
‘Monsieur,’ said I, ‘in my profession, the communica-
tions of patients are always received in confidence.’ I was
guarded in my answer, for I was troubled in my mind with
what I had heard and seen.
‘Her breathing 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 difficulty, the cold is so severe, I
am so fearful of being detected and consigned to an un-
derground cell and total darkness, that I must abridge this
narrative. There is no confusion or failure in my memory; it
can recall, and could detail, every word that was ever spo-

ken between me and those brothers.
‘She lingered for a week. Towards the last, I could under-
stand some few syllables that she said to me, by placing my
ear close to her lips. She asked me where she was, and I told
her; who I was, and I 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.
‘I had no opportunity of asking her any question, un-
til I had told the brothers she was sinking fast, and could
not live another day. Until then, though no one was ever
presented to her consciousness save the woman and myself,
one or other of them had 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
mind—I 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 to affect the mind of either of them was the
consideration that this was highly degrading to the family,
and was ridiculous. As often as I caught the younger broth-
er’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 I saw
this. I also saw that I was an incumbrance 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 I had

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, im-
patient 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?’ said the elder, when I went in.
‘She is dead,’ said I.
‘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 on the table. I had considered the question,
and had resolved to accept nothing.
‘Pray excuse me,’ said I. ‘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 can-
not read what I have written with this gaunt hand.
‘Early in the morning, the rouleau of gold was left at my
door in a little box, with my name on the outside. From the
first, I had anxiously considered what I ought to do. I de-
cided, 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 expected that the
matter would 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 I
was conscious that there might be danger for others, if oth-
ers were compromised by possessing the knowledge that I
possessed.
‘I 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 let-
ter was lying before me just completed, when I was told that
a lady waited, who wished to see me.
****
‘I 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 handsome, but not
marked for long life. She was in great agitation. She present-
ed herself to me as the wife of the Marquis St. Evremonde.
I connected the title by which the boy had addressed the el-
der brother, with the initial letter embroidered on the scarf,
and had no difficulty in arriving at the conclusion that I had
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 I 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 husband’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
hateful to the suffering many.
‘She had reasons for believing that there was a young sis-
ter living, and her greatest desire was, to help that sister. I
could tell her nothing but that there was such a sister; be-
yond that, I knew nothing. Her inducement to come to me,
relying on my confidence, had been the hope that I could tell
her the name and place of abode. Whereas, to this wretched
hour I am ignorant of both.
****
‘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 she be! The brother distrusted and
disliked her, 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 him in tears,
‘I would do all I can to make what poor amends I can. He
will never prosper in his inheritance otherwise. I have 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 jew-
els—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?’
The child answered her bravely, ‘Yes!’ I kissed her hand, and
she took him in her arms, and went away caressing him. I
never saw her more.
‘As she had mentioned her husband’s name in the faith
that I knew it, I added no mention of it to my letter. I sealed
my letter, and, not trusting it out of my own hands, deliv-
ered 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 I sat with my wife—O 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. Honore, 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 muffler was drawn tightly
over my mouth from behind, and my arms were pinioned.
The two brothers crossed the road from a dark corner, and
identified me with a single gesture. The Marquis took from
his pocket the letter I had written, showed it me, burnt it in
the light of a lantern that was held, and extinguished the
ashes with his foot. Not a word was spoken. I was brought
here, I was brought to my living grave.
‘If it had pleased GOD 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 I 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 an-
swered for. I denounce them to Heaven and to earth.’
A terrible sound arose when the reading of this docu-
ment 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 was not
a head in the nation but must have dropped before it.
Little need, in presence of that tribunal and that audi-
tory, to show how the Defarges had not made the 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 anath-
ematised 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 de-
nouncer 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 vir-
tues of antiquity, and for sacrifices and self-immolations on

the people’s altar. Therefore when the President said (else
had his own head quivered on his shoulders), 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 child an orphan, there was
wild excitement, patriotic fervour, not a touch of human
sympathy.
‘Much influence around him, has that Doctor?’ mur-
mured Madame Defarge, smiling to The Vengeance. ‘Save
him now, my Doctor, save him!’
At every juryman’s vote, there was a roar. Another and
another. Roar and roar.
Unanimously voted. At heart and by descent an Aristo-
crat, an enemy of the Republic, a notorious oppressor of the
People. Back to the Conciergerie, and Death within four-
and-twenty hours!

XI
Dusk
T he wretched wife of the innocent man thus doomed to

die, fell under the sentence, as if she had been mortally
stricken. But, she uttered no sound; and so strong was the
voice within her, 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 arms
towards her husband, with nothing in her face but love and
consolation.
‘If I might touch him! If I might embrace him once! O,
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 peo-
ple had all poured out to the show in the streets. Barsad
proposed to the rest, ‘Let her 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, where he, by lean-
ing over the dock, could fold her in his arms.
‘Farewell, dear darling of my soul. My parting blessing
on my love. We shall meet again, where the weary are at
rest!’
They were her husband’s words, as he held her to his bo-
som.
‘I can bear it, dear Charles. I am supported from above:
don’t suffer for me. A parting blessing for our child.’
‘I send it to her by you. I kiss her by you. I say farewell to
her by you.’
‘My husband. No! A moment!’ He was tearing himself
apart from her. ‘We shall not be separated long. I feel that
this will break my heart by-and-bye; but I will do my duty
while I can, and when I leave her, God will raise up friends
for her, as He did for me.’
Her father had followed her, and would have fallen on his
knees to both 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 what you underwent when you
suspected my descent, and when you knew it. We know now,
the natural antipathy you strove against, and conquered, for
her dear sake. We thank you with all our hearts, and all our
love and duty. Heaven be with you!’
Her father’s only answer was to draw his hands through
his white hair, and wring them with a shriek of anguish.
‘It could not be otherwise,’ said the prisoner. ‘All things

have worked together as they have fallen out. it was the al-
ways-vain endeavour to discharge my poor mother’s trust
that first brought my fatal presence near you. Good could
never come of such evil, a happier end was not in nature
to so unhappy a beginning. Be comforted, and forgive me.
Heaven bless you!’
As he was drawn away, his wife released him, and stood
looking after him with her hands touching one another in
the attitude of prayer, and with a radiant look upon her face,
in which there was even a comforting smile. As he went out
at the prisoners’ door, she turned, laid her head lovingly on
her father’s breast, 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 her up.
Only her father and Mr. Lorry were with her. His arm trem-
bled as it raised her, and supported her head. Yet, there was
an air about him that was not all of pity—that had a flush
of pride in it.
‘Shall I take her to a coach? I shall never feel her weight.’
He carried her lightly to the door, and laid her tenderly
down in a coach. Her father and their old friend got into it,
and he took his seat beside the driver.
When they arrived at the gateway where he had paused
in the dark not many hours before, to picture to himself on
which of the rough stones of the street her feet had trodden,
he lifted her again, and carried her up the staircase to their
rooms. There, he laid her down on a couch, where her child
and Miss Pross wept over her.
‘Don’t recall her to herself,’ he 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,
springing 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! O, look at her, dear Carton! Can you, of all the people
who love her, bear to see her so?’
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—‘I may kiss her?’
It was remembered afterwards that when he bent down
and touched her face with his lips, he murmured some
words. The child, who was nearest to him, told them after-
wards, and told her grandchildren when she was a handsome
old lady, that she heard him say, ‘A life you love.’
When he had gone out into the next room, he turned
suddenly on Mr. 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 recognisant of your ser-
vices; are they not?’
‘Nothing connected with Charles was concealed from
me. I had the strongest assurances that I should 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.’
‘I intend to try. I will not rest a moment.’
‘That’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 ef-
fort. It would cost nothing to lay down if it were not.’
‘I will go,’ said Doctor Manette, ‘to the Prosecutor and
the President straight, and I will go to others whom it is
better not to name. I will write too, and—But stay! There
is a Celebration in the streets, and no one will be accessible
until dark.’
‘That’s true. Well! It is a forlorn hope at the best, and not
much the forlorner for being delayed till dark. I should like
to know how you speed; though, mind! I expect nothing!
When are you likely to have seen these dread powers, Doc-
tor 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, shall I hear what you have
done, either from our friend or from yourself?’
‘Yes.’
‘May you prosper!’
Mr. Lorry followed Sydney to the outer door, and, touch-
ing him on the shoulder as he was going away, caused him
to turn.
‘I have no hope,’ said Mr. Lorry, in a low and sorrowful
whisper.

‘Nor have I.’
‘If any one of these men, or all of these men, were dis-
posed to spare him—which is a large supposition; for what
is his life, or any man’s to them!—I doubt if they durst spare
him after the demonstration 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
his 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 consolatory to her. Otherwise, she
might think ‘his life was want only thrown away or wasted,’
and that might trouble her.’
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ returned Mr. Lorry, drying his eyes, ‘you
are right. But he will perish; there is no real hope.’
‘Yes. He will perish: there is no real hope,’ echoed Car-
ton.
And walked with a settled step, down-stairs.

XII
Darkness
S ydney Carton paused in the street, not quite decided

where to go. ‘At Tellson’s banking-house at nine,’ he said,
with a musing face. ‘Shall I do well, in the mean time, to
show myself? I think so. It is best that these people should
know there is such a man as I here; it is a sound precaution,
and may be a necessary preparation. But care, care, care!
Let me think it out!’
Checking his steps which had begun to tend towards an
object, he took a turn or two in the already darkening street,
and traced the thought in his mind to its possible conse-
quences. His first impression was confirmed. ‘It is best,’ he
said, finally resolved, ‘that these people should know there
is such a man as I here.’ And he turned his face towards
Saint Antoine.
Defarge had described himself, that day, as the keeper of
a wine-shop in the Saint Antoine suburb. It was not difficult
for one who knew the city well, to find his house without
asking any question. Having ascertained its situation, Car-
ton came out of those closer streets again, and dined at a
place of refreshment and fell 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 refreshed,
and went out into the streets again. As he passed along to-
wards Saint Antoine, he stopped at a shop-window where
there was a mirror, and slightly altered the disordered ar-
rangement of his loose cravat, and his coatcollar, and his
wild hair. This done, he went on direct to Defarge’s, and
went in.
There happened to be no customer 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 conversation with the Defarges, man
and wife. The Vengeance assisted in the conversation, like a
regular member of the establishment.
As Carton walked in, took his seat and asked (in very
indifferent 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 he had ordered.
He repeated what he had already said.
‘English?’ asked Madame Defarge, inquisitively raising
her dark eyebrows.
After looking at her, as if the sound of even a single
French word were slow to express itself to him, he answered,
in his former strong foreign accent. ‘Yes, madame, yes. I am
English!’

Madame Defarge returned to her counter to get the
wine, and, as he took up a Jacobin journal and feigned to
pore over it puzzling out its meaning, he heard her say, ‘I
swear to you, like Evremonde!’
Defarge brought him the wine, and gave him Good Eve-
ning.
‘How?’
‘Good evening.’
‘Oh! Good evening, citizen,’ filling his glass. ‘Ah! and
good wine. I drink to the Republic.’
Defarge went back to the counter, and said, ‘Certainly, a
little like.’ Madame sternly retorted, ‘I tell you 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 looking
forward with so much pleasure to seeing him once more
to-morrow!’
Carton followed the lines and words of his paper, with a
slow forefinger, and with a studious and absorbed face. They
were all leaning their arms on the counter close together,
speaking low. After a silence of a few moments, during
which they all looked towards him without disturbing his
outward attention from the Jacobin editor, they resumed
their conversation.
‘It is true what madame says,’ observed Jacques Three.
‘Why stop? There is great force in that. Why stop?’
‘Well, well,’ reasoned Defarge, ‘but one must stop some-
where. After all, the question is still where?’
‘At extermination,’ said madame.

‘Magnificent!’ croaked Jacques Three. The Vengeance,
also, highly approved.
‘Extermination is good doctrine, my wife,’ said Defarge,
rather troubled; ‘in general, I say nothing against it. But this
Doctor has suffered much; you have seen him to-day; you
have observed his face when the paper was read.’
‘I have observed his face!’ repeated madame, contemp-
tuously and angrily. ‘Yes. I have observed his face. I have
observed his face to be not the face of a true friend of the
Republic. Let him take care of his face!’
‘And you have observed, my wife,’ said Defarge, in a dep-
recatory manner, ‘the anguish of his daughter, which must
be a dreadful anguish to him!’
‘I have observed his daughter,’ repeated madame; ‘yes,
I have observed his daughter, more times than one. I have
observed her to-day, and I have observed her other days. I
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 pa-
per), and to let it fall with a rattle on the ledge before her, as
if the axe had dropped.
‘The citizeness is superb!’ croaked the Juryman.
‘She is an Angel!’ 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.’
‘No!’ protested Defarge. ‘Not if to lift this glass would do
it! But I would leave the matter there. I say, stop there.’

‘See you then, Jacques,’ said Madame Defarge, wrath-
fully; ‘and see you, too, my little Vengeance; see you both!
Listen! For other crimes as tyrants and oppressors, I have
this race a long time on my register, 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 this 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 paper is read through,
and the lamp is burnt out, and the day is gleaming in above
those shutters and between those iron bars, that I 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 I tell him, ‘Defarge, I
was brought up among the fishermen of the sea-shore, and
that peasant family so injured by the two Evremonde broth-
ers, 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 sister’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!’ Ask
him, is that so.’
‘It is so,’ assented Defarge once more.

‘Then tell Wind and Fire where to stop,’ returned ma-
dame; ‘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. Defarge, 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!’
Customers entered, and the group was broken up. The
English customer paid for what he had had, perplexedly
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 his, in pointing out the road.
The English customer was not without his 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, he
emerged from it to present himself in Mr. Lorry’s room
again, where he found the old gentleman walking to and fro
in restless anxiety. He said he had been with Lucie until just
now, and had only left her 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 hours
gone: where could he be?
Mr. Lorry waited until ten; but, Doctor Manette not re-

turning, and he being unwilling to leave Lucie any longer, it
was arranged that he should go back to her, and come to the
banking-house again at midnight. In the meanwhile, Car-
ton would wait alone by the fire for the Doctor.
He waited and waited, and the clock struck twelve; but
Doctor Manette did not come back. Mr. Lorry returned,
and found no tidings of him, and brought none. Where
could he be?
They were discussing this question, and were almost
building up some weak structure of hope on his prolonged
absence, when they heard him on the stairs. The instant he
entered the room, it was plain that all was lost.
Whether he had really been to any one, or whether he had
been all that time traversing the streets, was never known.
As he stood staring at them, they asked him no question, for
his face told them everything.
‘I cannot find it,’ said he, ‘and I must have it. Where is
it?’
His head and throat were bare, and, as he spoke with a
helpless look straying all around, he took his coat off, and
let it drop on the floor.
‘Where is my bench? I have been looking everywhere for
my bench, and I can’t find it. What have they done with my
work? Time presses: I must finish 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 wretch,’ he implored them,
with a dreadful cry; ‘but give me my work! What is to be-
come of us, if those shoes are not done to-night?’
Lost, utterly lost!
It was so clearly beyond hope to reason with him, or try
to restore him, that—as if by agreement—they each put a
hand upon his shoulder, and soothed him to sit down be-
fore the fire, with a promise that he should have his work
presently. He sank into the chair, and brooded over the em-
bers, and shed tears. As if all that had happened since the
garret time were a momentary fancy, or a dream, Mr. 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 such
emotions. His lonely 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:
‘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 mo-
ment, steadily attend to me? Don’t ask me why I make the
stipulations I am going to make, and exact the promise I 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
monotonously rocking itself to and fro, and moaning. They
spoke in such a tone as they would have used if they had

been watching by a sick-bed in the night.
Carton stooped to pick up the coat, which lay almost en-
tangling his feet. As he did so, a small case in which the
Doctor was accustomed to carry the lists of his day’s duties,
fell lightly on the floor. Carton took it up, and there was a
folded paper in it. ‘We should look at this!’ he said. Mr. Lor-
ry nodded his consent. He opened it, and exclaimed, ‘Thank
GOD!’
‘What is it?’ asked Mr. Lorry, eagerly.
‘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 Englishman?’
Mr. Lorry held it open in his hand, gazing in his earnest
face.
‘Keep it for me until to-morrow. I shall see him to-mor-
row, you remember, and I had better not take it into the
prison.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’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 barrier and the frontier! You see?’
‘Yes!’
‘Perhaps he obtained it as his last and utmost precau-
tion against evil, yesterday. When is it dated? 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, I have rea-
son to think, will be.’
‘They are not in danger?’
‘They are in great danger. They are in danger of denun-
ciation by Madame Defarge. I know it from her own lips. I
have overheard words of that woman’s, to-night, which have
presented their danger to me in strong colours. I have lost
no time, and since then, I have seen the spy. He confirms
me. He knows that a wood-sawyer, living by the prison
wall, is under the control of the Defarges, and has been re-
hearsed by Madame Defarge as to his having seen Her’—he
never mentioned Lucie’s name—‘making signs and signals
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 father’s—
for both have been seen with her at that place. Don’t look so
horrified. You will save them all.’
‘Heaven grant I may, Carton! But how?’
‘I am going to tell you how. It will depend on you, and
it could depend on no better man. This new denunciation
will certainly not take place until after to-morrow; prob-
ably not until two or three days afterwards; more probably
a week afterwards. You know it is a capital crime, to mourn
for, or sympathise with, a victim of the Guillotine. 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 strength to her case, and
make herself doubly sure. You follow me?’
‘So attentively, and with so 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 to-morrow have your horses ready, so
that they may be in starting trim at two o’clock in the af-
ternoon.’
‘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? Tell her, to-night, what you know of her dan-
ger as involving her child and her father. Dwell upon that,
for she would lay her own fair head beside her husband’s
cheerfully.’ He faltered for an instant; then went on as be-
fore. ‘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 sad state, will
submit himself to her; do you not?’
‘I am sure of it.’
‘I thought so. Quietly and steadily have all these arrange-
ments made in the courtyard 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 I wait for you under all circumstanc-
es?’

‘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!’
‘Why, then,’ said Mr. Lorry, grasping his eager but so
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 any reason—and no life can possibly be
saved, and many lives must inevitably be sacrificed.’
‘I will remember them. I hope to do my part faithfully.’
‘And 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’s hand to his lips, he did
not part from him then. He helped him so far to arouse the
rocking figure before the dying embers, as to get a cloak and
hat put upon it, and to tempt it forth to find where the bench
and work were hidden that it still moaningly besought to
have. He walked on the other side of it and protected it to
the courtyard of the house where the afflicted heart—so
happy in the memorable time when he had revealed his
own desolate heart to it—outwatched the awful night. He
entered the courtyard and remained there for a few mo-
ments alone, looking up at the light in the window of her
room. Before he went away, he breathed a blessing towards
it, and a Farewell.

XIII
Fifty-two
I n the black prison of the Conciergerie, the doomed of the

day awaited their fate. They were in number as the weeks
of the year. Fifty-two were to roll that afternoon on the life-
tide of the city to the boundless everlasting sea. Before their
cells were quit of them, new occupants were appointed; be-
fore their blood ran into the blood spilled yesterday, the
blood that was to mingle with theirs to-morrow was already
set apart.
Two score and twelve were told off. From the farmer-
general of seventy, whose riches could not buy his life, to the
seamstress of twenty, whose poverty and obscurity could
not save her. Physical 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 heartless indifference, smote
equally without distinction.
Charles Darnay, alone in a cell, had sustained himself
with no flattering delusion since he came to it from the Tri-
bunal. In every line of the narrative he had heard, he had
heard his condemnation. He had fully comprehended that

no personal influence could possibly save him, that he was
virtually sentenced by the millions, and that units could
avail him nothing.
Nevertheless, it was not easy, with the face of his beloved
wife fresh before him, to compose his mind to what it must
bear. His hold on life was strong, and it was very, very hard,
to loosen; by gradual efforts and degrees unclosed a little
here, it clenched the tighter there; and when he brought his
strength to bear on that hand and it yielded, this was closed
again. There was a hurry, too, in all his thoughts, a turbu-
lent and heated working of his heart, that contended against
resignation. If, for a moment, he did feel resigned, then his
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 consideration
that there was no disgrace in the fate he must meet, and that
numbers went the same road wrongfully, and trod it firmly
every day, sprang up to stimulate him. Next 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 he could raise
his thoughts much higher, and draw comfort down.
Before it had set in dark on the night of his condemna-
tion, he had travelled thus far on his last way. Being allowed
to purchase the means of writing, and a light, he sat down
to write until such time as the prison lamps should be ex-
tinguished.
He wrote a long letter to Lucie, showing her that he had
known nothing of her father’s imprisonment, until he had

heard 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 sake, never
to seek to know 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 story of the Tower, on
that old Sunday under the dear old plane-tree in the garden.
If he had preserved any definite remembrance of it, there
could be no doubt that he had supposed it destroyed with
the Bastille, when he had found no mention of it among the
relics of prisoners which 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 had done
nothing for which he could justly reproach himself, but had
uniformly forgotten himself for their joint sakes. Next to
her preservation 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 rousing him from any despondency or dangerous
retrospect towards which he foresaw he might be tending.
To Mr. Lorry, 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 letters before the lights were
put out. When he lay down on his straw bed, he thought he
had done with this world.
But, it beckoned him back in his sleep, and showed itself
in shining forms. Free and happy, back in the old house in
Soho (though it had nothing in it like the real house), un-
accountably released and light of heart, he was with Lucie
again, and she told him it was all a dream, and he had never
gone away. A pause of forgetfulness, and then he had even
suffered, and had come back to her, dead and at peace, and
yet there was no difference in him. Another pause of obliv-
ion, and he awoke in the sombre morning, unconscious
where he was or what had happened, until it flashed upon
his mind, ‘this is the day of my death!’
Thus, had he come through the hours, to the day when
the fifty-two heads were to fall. And now, while he was com-
posed, and hoped that he could meet the end with quiet
heroism, a new action began in his waking thoughts, which
was very difficult to master.
He had never seen the instrument that was to terminate
his life. How high it was from the ground, how many steps
it had, where he would be stood, how he would be touched,

whether the touching hands would be dyed red, which way
his face would be turned, whether he would be the first,
or might be the last: these and many similar questions, in
nowise 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 origi-
nated in a strange besetting desire to know what to do when
the time came; a desire gigantically disproportionate to the
few swift moments to which it referred; a wondering that
was more like the wondering of some other spirit within
his, than his own.
The hours went on as he walked to and fro, and the clocks
struck the numbers he would never hear again. Nine gone
for ever, ten gone for ever, eleven gone for ever, twelve com-
ing on to pass away. After a hard contest with that eccentric
action of thought which 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.
He 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 knew he would be summoned some time earlier, inas-
much as the tumbrils jolted heavily 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 others.
Walking regularly to and fro with his arms folded on
his breast, a very different man from the prisoner, who had

walked to and fro at La Force, he heard One struck away
from him, without surprise. The hour had measured like
most other hours. Devoutly thankful to Heaven for his re-
covered 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 was put in the lock, and turned. Before the door
was opened, or as it opened, a man said in a low voice, in
English: ‘He has never seen me here; I have kept out of his
way. Go you in alone; I wait near. Lose 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 smile on his features, and a cautionary finger on
his lip, Sydney Carton.
There was something so bright and remarkable in his
look, that, for the first moment, the prisoner misdoubt-
ed him to be an apparition of his own imagining. But, he
spoke, and it was his voice; he took the prisoner’s hand, and
it was his real grasp.
‘Of all the people upon earth, you least expected to see
me?’ he said.
‘I could not believe it to be you. I can scarcely believe it
now. You are not’—the apprehension came suddenly into
his mind—‘a prisoner?’
‘No. I am accidentally possessed of a power over one of
the keepers here, and in virtue of it I stand before you. I
come from her— your wife, dear Darnay.’
The prisoner wrung his hand.

‘I bring you a request from her.’
‘What is it?’
‘A most earnest, pressing, and emphatic entreaty, ad-
dressed to you in the most pathetic tones of the voice so
dear to you, that you well remember.’
The prisoner turned his face partly aside.
‘You have no time to ask 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 against the wall of the cell, behind the
prisoner. 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!’
‘Carton, there is no escaping from this place; it never can
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 I ask you to pass out at that door, tell me it is mad-
ness 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 quickness, and with a strength both of
will and action, that appeared quite supernatural, he forced
all these changes upon him. The prisoner was like a young
child in his hands.
‘Carton! Dear Carton! It is madness. It cannot be accom-
plished, it never can be done, it has been attempted, and has

always failed. I implore you not to add your death to the bit-
terness of mine.’
‘Do I ask you, my dear Darnay, to pass the door? When
I ask that, refuse. There are pen and ink and paper on this
table. Is your hand steady enough to write?’
‘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 his breast,
stood close beside him.
‘Write exactly as I speak.’
‘To whom do I address it?’
‘To no one.’ Carton still had his hand in his breast.
‘Do I date it?’
‘No.’
The prisoner looked up, at each question. Carton, stand-
ing over him with his hand in his breast, looked down.
‘If you remember,’’ said Carton, dictating, ‘the words
that passed between us, long ago, you will readily compre-
hend 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’?’ Carton asked.
‘I have. Is that a weapon in your hand?’
‘No; I am not armed.’
‘What is it in your hand?’

‘You shall know directly. Write on; there are but a few
words more.’ He dictated again. ‘I am thankful that the
time has come, when I 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 moved
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?’ he asked.
‘Vapour?’
‘Something that crossed me?’
‘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 disor-
dered, the prisoner made an effort to rally his attention.
As he looked at Carton with clouded eyes and with an al-
tered manner of breathing, Carton—his hand again in his
breast—looked steadily at him.
‘Hurry, hurry!’
The prisoner bent over the paper, once more.
‘If it had been otherwise;’’ Carton’s hand was again
watchfully and softly stealing down; ‘I never should have
used the longer opportunity. If it had been otherwise;’’ the
hand was at the prisoner’s face; ‘I should but have had so
much the more to answer for. If it had been otherwise—’
Carton looked at the pen and saw it was trailing off into un-
intelligible signs.
Carton’s hand moved back to his breast no more. The
prisoner sprang up with a reproachful look, but Carton’s

hand was close and firm at his nostrils, and Carton’s left
arm caught him round the waist. For a few seconds he faint-
ly struggled with the man who had come to lay down his life
for him; but, within a minute or so, he was stretched insen-
sible on the ground.
Quickly, but with hands as true to the purpose as his
heart was, Carton dressed himself in the clothes the prison-
er had laid aside, combed back his hair, and tied it with the
ribbon the prisoner had worn. Then, he softly called, ‘Enter
there! Come in!’ and the Spy presented himself.
‘You see?’ 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?’
‘Mr. Carton,’ the Spy answered, with a timid snap of his
fingers, ‘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, Mr. Carton, if the tale of fifty-two is to be
right. Being made right by you in that dress, I shall have no
fear.’
‘Have no fear! I shall soon be out of the way of harming
you, and the rest will soon be far from here, please God!
Now, get assistance and take me to the coach.’
‘You?’ said the Spy nervously.
‘Him, man, with whom I have exchanged. You go out at
the gate by which you brought me in?’
‘Of course.’
‘I was weak and faint when you brought me in, and I
am fainter now you take me out. The parting interview has

overpowered me. Such a thing has happened here, often,
and too often. Your life is in your own hands. Quick! Call
assistance!’
‘You swear not to betray me?’ said the trembling Spy, as
he paused for a last moment.
‘Man, man!’ returned Carton, stamping his foot; ‘have I
sworn by no solemn vow already, to go through with this,
that you waste the precious moments now? Take him your-
self to the courtyard you know of, place him yourself in the
carriage, show him yourself to Mr. Lorry, tell him your-
self 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 ta-
ble, resting his forehead on his hands. The Spy returned
immediately, with two men.
‘How, then?’ 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 blank.’
They raised the unconscious figure, placed it on a litter
they had brought to the door, and bent to carry it away.
‘The time is short, Evremonde,’ said the Spy, in a warn-
ing voice.
‘I know it well,’ answered 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 closed, and Carton was left alone. Straining his
powers of listening 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 un-
usual. Breathing more freely in a little while, he sat down at
the table, and listened again until the clock struck Two.
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, ‘Follow me,
Evremonde!’ and he followed into a large dark room, at a
distance. It was a dark winter day, and what with the shad-
ows 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 fifty-two 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 Evremonde,’ she 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
accused of?’
‘Plots. Though the just Heaven knows that I am innocent
of any. Is it likely? Who would think of plotting with a poor
little weak creature like me?’
The forlorn smile with which she said it, so touched him,
that tears started from his eyes.
‘I am not afraid to die, Citizen Evremonde, but I have
done nothing. I am not unwilling to die, if the Republic
which is to do so much good to us poor, will profit by my
death; but I do not know how that can be, Citizen Evre-
monde. Such a poor weak little creature!’
As the last thing on earth that his heart was to warm and
soften to, it warmed and softened to this pitiable girl.
‘I heard you were released, Citizen Evremonde. I hoped
it was true?’
‘It was. But, I was again taken and condemned.’
‘If I may ride with you, Citizen Evremonde, will you
let me hold your hand? I am not afraid, but I am little and
weak, and it will give me more courage.’
As the patient eyes were lifted to his face, he saw a sud-
den doubt in them, and then astonishment. He pressed the
work-worn, hunger-worn young fingers, and touched his
lips.
‘Are you dying for him?’ she whispered.
‘And his wife and child. Hush! Yes.’
‘O you will let me hold your brave hand, stranger?’

‘Hush! Yes, my poor sister; to the last.’
The same shadows that are falling on the prison, are fall-
ing, in that same hour of the early afternoon, on the Barrier
with the crowd about it, when a coach going out of Paris
drives up to be examined.
‘Who goes here? Whom have we within? Papers!’
The papers are handed out, and read.
‘Alexandre Manette. Physician. French. Which is he?’
This is he; this helpless, inarticulately murmuring, wan-
dering old man pointed out.
‘Apparently the Citizen-Doctor is not in his right mind?
The Revolution-fever will have been too much for him?’
Greatly too much for him.
‘Hah! Many suffer with it. Lucie. His daughter. French.
Which is she?’
This is she.
‘Apparently it must be. Lucie, the wife of Evremonde; is
it not?’
It is.
‘Hah! Evremonde has an assignation elsewhere. Lucie,
her child. English. This is she?’
She and no other.
‘Kiss me, child of Evremonde. Now, thou hast kissed a
good Republican; something new in thy family; remember
it! Sydney Carton. Advocate. English. Which is he?’
He lies here, in this corner of the carriage. He, too, is
pointed out.
‘Apparently the English advocate is in a swoon?’
It is hoped he will recover in the fresher air. It is rep-

resented that he is not in strong health, and has separated
sadly from a friend who is under the displeasure of the Re-
public.
‘Is that all? It is not a great deal, that! Many are under the
displeasure of the Republic, and must look out at the little
window. Jarvis Lorry. Banker. English. Which is he?’
‘I am he. Necessarily, being the last.’
It is Jarvis Lorry who has replied to all the previous ques-
tions. It is Jarvis Lorry who has alighted and stands with
his hand on the coach door, replying to a group of offi-
cials. 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
the wife of an aristocrat who has gone to the Guillotine.
‘Behold your papers, Jarvis Lorry, countersigned.’
‘One can depart, citizen?’
‘One can depart. Forward, my postilions! A good jour-
ney!’
‘I salute you, citizens.—And 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 insen-
sible traveller.
‘Are we not going too slowly? Can they not be induced to
go faster?’ asks Lucie, clinging to the old man.
‘It would seem like flight, my darling. I must not urge
them too much; it would rouse suspicion.’

‘Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued!’
‘The road is clear, my dearest. So far, we are not pur-
sued.’
Houses in twos and threes pass by us, solitary farms,
ruinous buildings, dye-works, tanneries, and the like,
open country, avenues of leafless trees. The hard uneven
pavement is under us, the soft deep mud is on either side.
Sometimes, we strike into the skirting mud, to avoid the
stones that clatter us and shake us; sometimes, we stick in
ruts and sloughs 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—doing anything but stopping.
Out of the open country, in again among ruinous build-
ings, solitary 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?
Is not this the same place twice over? Thank Heaven, no.
A village. Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued!
Hush! 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; leisure-
ly, the new postilions follow, sucking and plaiting the lashes
of their whips; leisurely, the old postilions count their mon-
ey, make wrong additions, and arrive at dissatisfied results.
All the time, our overfraught hearts are beating at a rate
that would far outstrip the fastest gallop of the fastest horses
ever foaled.

At length the new postilions are in their saddles, and
the old are left behind. We are through the village, up the
hill, and down the hill, 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?
‘Ho! Within the carriage there. Speak then!’
‘What is it?’ asks 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?’
‘Fifty-two.’
‘I said so! A brave number! My fellow-citizen here would
have it forty-two; ten more heads are worth having. The
Guillotine goes handsomely. I love it. Hi forward. Whoop!’
The night comes on dark. He moves more; he is begin-
ning to revive, and to speak intelligibly; he thinks they are
still together; he asks him, by his name, what he has in his
hand. O pity us, kind Heaven, and help us! Look out, look
out, and see if we are pursued.
The wind is rushing after us, and the clouds are flying
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.

XIV
The Knitting Done
I n that same juncture of time when the Fifty-Two awaited

their fate Madame Defarge held darkly ominous council
with The Vengeance and Jacques Three of the Revolution-
ary Jury. Not in the wine-shop did Madame Defarge confer
with these ministers, but in the shed of the wood-sawyer,
erst a mender of roads. The sawyer himself did not partici-
pate in the conference, but abided at a little distance, like an
outer satellite who was not to speak until required, or to of-
fer an opinion until invited.
‘But our Defarge,’ said Jacques Three, ‘is undoubtedly a
good Republican? Eh?’
‘There is no better,’ the voluble Vengeance protested in
her shrill notes, ‘in France.’
‘Peace, little Vengeance,’ said Madame Defarge, laying
her hand with a slight frown on her lieutenant’s lips, ‘hear
me speak. My husband, fellow-citizen, is a good Republican
and a bold man; he has deserved well of the Republic, and
possesses its confidence. But my husband has his weakness-
es, and he is so weak as to relent towards this Doctor.’
‘It is a great pity,’ croaked Jacques Three, dubiously shak-

ing his head, with his cruel fingers at his hungry mouth; ‘it
is not quite like a good citizen; it is a thing to regret.’
‘See you,’ said madame, ‘I 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 Evremonde people are to be
exterminated, and the wife and child must follow the hus-
band 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, he
spoke like an epicure.
Madame Defarge cast down her eyes, and reflected a lit-
tle.
‘The child also,’ observed Jacques Three, with a medita-
tive enjoyment of his words, ‘has golden hair and blue eyes.
And we seldom have a child there. It is a pretty sight!’
‘In a word,’ said Madame Defarge, coming out of her
short abstraction, ‘I cannot trust my husband in this matter.
Not only do I feel, since last night, that I dare not confide to
him the details of my projects; but also I feel that if I delay,
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. We ought to
have six score a day.’
‘In a word,’ Madame Defarge went on, ‘my husband has
not my reason for pursuing this family to annihilation, and
I have not his reason for regarding this Doctor with any
sensibility. I must act for myself, therefore. Come hither,

little citizen.’
The wood-sawyer, who held her in the respect, and him-
self in the submission, of mortal fear, advanced with his
hand to his red cap.
‘Touching those signals, little citizen,’ said Madame De-
farge, sternly, ‘that she made to the prisoners; you are ready
to bear witness to them this very day?’
‘Ay, ay, why not!’ cried the sawyer. ‘Every day, in all
weathers, from two to four, always signalling, sometimes
with the little one, sometimes without. I know what I 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. ‘Transparently!’
‘There is no doubt of the Jury?’ inquired Madame De-
farge, letting her eyes turn to him with a gloomy smile.
‘Rely upon the patriotic Jury, dear citizeness. I answer
for my fellow-Jurymen.’
‘Now, let me see,’ said Madame Defarge, pondering
again. ‘Yet once more! Can I spare this Doctor to my hus-
band? I have no feeling either way. Can I spare him?’
‘He would count as one head,’ observed Jacques Three,
in a low voice. ‘We really have not heads enough; it would
be a pity, I think.’
‘He was signalling with her when I saw her,’ argued Ma-
dame 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 admira-
ble and marvellous of witnesses. The little citizen, not to be
outdone, declared her to be 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 batch of to-day executed.—You?’
The question was addressed to the wood-sawyer, who
hurriedly replied in the affirmative: seizing the occasion to
add that he was the most ardent of Republicans, and that he
would be in effect the most desolate of Republicans, if any-
thing 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 per-
sonal safety, every hour in the day.
‘I,’ said madame, ‘am equally engaged at the same place.
After it is over-say at eight to-night—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 be-
came embarrassed, evaded her glance as a small dog would
have done, retreated among his wood, and hid his confu-
sion over the handle of his saw.
Madame Defarge beckoned the Juryman and The Ven-
geance 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 his
death. She will be mourning and grieving. She will be in
a state of mind to impeach the justice of the Republic. She
will be full of sympathy with its enemies. I will go to her.’
‘What an admirable woman; what an adorable woman!’
exclaimed Jacques Three, rapturously. ‘Ah, my cherished!’
cried The Vengeance; and embraced her.
‘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 orders of my Chief,’ said The Ven-
geance with alacrity, and kissing her cheek. ‘You will not
be late?’
‘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 slightly 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 disfiguring 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 character, of shrewd sense and readiness, of
great determination, of that kind of beauty which not only
seems to impart to its possessor firmness and animosity,
but to strike into others an instinctive recognition of those
qualities; the troubled time would have heaved her up, un-
der any circumstances. But, imbued from her childhood
with a brooding sense of wrong, and an inveterate hatred
of a class, opportunity had 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 an 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 punish-
ment, 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 sense of pity, even for herself.
If she had been laid low in the streets, in any of the many
encounters in which she had 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 feel-
ing than a fierce desire to change places with the man who
sent here 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 loaded
pistol. Lying hidden at her waist, was a sharpened dagger.

Thus accoutred, and walking with the confident tread of
such a character, and with the supple freedom 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 completion of its load, had
been planned out last night, the difficulty of taking Miss
Pross in it had much engaged Mr. Lorry’s 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 anxious
consideration, that Miss Pross and Jerry, who were at
liberty to leave the city, should leave it at three o’clock in
the lightestwheeled conveyance known to that period. Un-
encumbered 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 prog-
ress 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 min-
utes in tortures of suspense, and were now concluding their
arrangements to follow the coach, even as Madame De-

farge, taking her way through the streets, now drew nearer
and nearer to the else-deserted lodging in which they held
their consultation.
‘Now what do you think, 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 start-
ing from this courtyard? Another carriage having already
gone from here to-day, it might awaken suspicion.’
‘My opinion, miss,’ returned Mr. Cruncher, ‘is as you’re
right. Likewise wot I’ll stand by you, right or wrong.’
‘I am so distracted with fear and hope for our precious
creatures,’ said Miss Pross, wildly crying, ‘that I am inca-
pable of forming any plan. Are YOU capable of forming any
plan, my dear good Mr. Cruncher?’
‘Respectin’ a future spear o’ life, miss,’ returned Mr.
Cruncher, ‘I hope so. Respectin’ any present use o’ this here
blessed old head o’ mind, I think not. 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 cry-
ing, ‘record them at once, and get them out of the way, like
an excellent man.’
‘First,’ said Mr. Cruncher, who was all in a tremble, and
who spoke with an ashy and solemn visage, ‘them poor
things well out o’ this, never no more will I do it, never no
more!’
‘I am quite sure, Mr. Cruncher,’ returned Miss Pross,
‘that you 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, ‘it shall not be named to you.
Second: them poor things well out o’ this, and never no
more will I interfere with Mrs. Cruncher’s 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.—O my poor dar-
lings!’
‘I go so far as to say, miss, moreover,’ 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
respectin’ flopping has undergone a change, and that wot I
only hope with all my heart as Mrs. Cruncher may be a flop-
ping at the present time.’
‘There, there, there! I hope she is, my dear man,’ cried the
distracted Miss Pross, ‘and I hope she finds it answering her
expectations.’
‘Forbid it,’ proceeded Mr. Cruncher, with additional so-
lemnity, additional slowness, and additional tendency to
hold forth and hold out, ‘as anything wot I have ever said
or done should be wisited on my earnest wishes for them
poor creeturs now! Forbid it as we shouldn’t all flop (if it
was anyways conwenient) to get ‘em out o’ this here dismal
risk! Forbid it, miss! Wot I say, for-BID it!’ This was Mr.
Cruncher’s conclusion after a protracted but vain endeav-
our to find a better one.

And still 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 Mrs. Cruncher as much as I
may be able to remember and understand of what you have
so impressively said; and at all events you may be sure that
I shall bear witness to your being thoroughly in earnest at
this dreadful time. Now, pray let us think! My esteemed Mr.
Cruncher, let us think!’
Still, Madame Defarge, pursuing her way along the
streets, came nearer and nearer.
‘If you were to go before,’ said Miss Pross, ‘and stop the
vehicle and horses from coming here, and were to wait
somewhere for me; wouldn’t that be best?’
Mr. Cruncher thought it might be best.
‘Where could you wait for me?’ asked Miss Pross.
Mr. 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.
‘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
postinghouse straight, and make that change.’
‘I am doubtful,’ said Mr. Cruncher, hesitating and shak-
ing 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! Bless you,
Mr. Cruncher! 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 ago-
nised entreaty clasping his, 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 which was already
in course of execution, was a great relief to Miss Pross. The
necessity of composing her appearance so that it should at-
tract 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.
Afraid, in her extreme perturbation, of the loneliness
of the deserted rooms, and of half-imagined faces peep-
ing from behind every open door in them, Miss Pross got
a basin of cold water and began laving her eyes, which were
swollen and red. Haunted by 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. In
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 Evremonde; 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.
Madame Defarge’s dark eyes followed her through this
rapid movement, and rested on her when it was finished.
Miss Pross had nothing beautiful about her; years had
not tamed the wildness, or softened the grimness, of her
appearance; but, she too was a determined woman in her
different way, and she measured Madame Defarge with her
eyes, every inch.
‘You might, from your appearance, be the wife of Luci-
fer,’ said Miss Pross, in her breathing. ‘Nevertheless, 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 ma-
levolent enemy.
‘On my way yonder,’ said Madame Defarge, with a slight
movement of her hand 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. I wish to see her.’
‘I 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 de-
duce from look and manner, what the unintelligible words
meant.
‘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 you hear?’
‘If those eyes of yours were bed-winches,’ returned Miss
Pross, ‘and I was an English 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 idiomatic
remarks in detail; but, she so far understood them as to per-
ceive that she was set at naught.
‘Woman imbecile and pig-like!’ said Madame Defarge,
frowning. ‘I take no answer from you. I demand to see her.
Either tell her that I demand to see her, or stand out of the
way of the door and let me go to her!’ This, with an angry
explanatory wave of her right arm.
‘I little thought,’ said Miss Pross, ‘that I should ever want
to understand your nonsensical language; but I would give
all I have, except the clothes I 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 Miss Pross first became aware of her; but,
she now advanced one step.
‘I 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 head, if
you lay a finger on me!’
Thus Miss Pross, with a shake of her head and a flash
of her eyes between every rapid sentence, and every rapid
sentence a whole 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 weakness. ‘Ha, ha!’ she laughed, ‘you poor
wretch! What are you worth! I address myself to that Doc-
tor.’ Then she raised her voice and called out, ‘Citizen
Doctor! Wife of Evremonde! Child of Evremonde! Any per-
son but this miserable fool, answer the Citizeness Defarge!’
Perhaps the following silence, perhaps some latent dis-
closure in the expression of Miss Pross’s face, perhaps a
sudden misgiving apart from either suggestion, whispered
to Madame Defarge that they were gone. Three of the doors
she opened swiftly, and looked in.
‘Those rooms are all in disorder, there has been hurried
packing, 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 her-
self.
‘As long as you don’t know whether they are in that room
or not, you are uncertain what to do,’ said Miss Pross to
herself; ‘and you shall not know that, if I can prevent your
knowing it; and know that, or not know that, you shall not
leave here while I can hold you.’
‘I have been in the streets from the first, nothing has
stopped me, I will tear you to pieces, but I will have you
from that door,’ said Madame Defarge.
‘We are alone at the top of a high house in a solitary
courtyard, we are not likely to be heard, and I pray for bodi-
ly strength 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 De-
farge to struggle and to strike; Miss Pross, with the vigorous
tenacity 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 her face; but, Miss Pross, with her head down, held
her round the waist, and clung to her with more than the
hold of a drowning woman.
Soon, Madame Defarge’s hands ceased to strike, and felt

at her encircled waist. ‘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 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 taking 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 her bonnet, or she
could 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 grip-
ping fingers were deep in her face, and her hair was torn,
and her dress (hastily composed with unsteady hands) was
clutched and dragged a hundred ways.

In crossing the bridge, she 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
were stopped at the gate, sent to prison, and charged with
murder! In the midst of these fluttering thoughts, the escort
appeared, took her in, and took her away.
‘Is there any noise in the streets?’ she asked him.
‘The usual noises,’ Mr. Cruncher replied; and looked sur-
prised by the question and by her aspect.
‘I don’t hear you,’ said Miss Pross. ‘What do you say?’
It was in vain for Mr. Cruncher to repeat what he said;
Miss Pross could not hear him. ‘So I’ll nod my head,’
thought Mr. Cruncher, amazed, ‘at all events she’ll see that.’
And she did.
‘Is there any noise in the streets now?’ asked Miss Pross
again, presently.
Again Mr. Cruncher nodded his head.
‘I don’t hear it.’
‘Gone deaf in an hour?’ said Mr. Cruncher, ruminating,
with his mind much disturbed; ‘wot’s come to her?’
‘I feel,’ said Miss Pross, ‘as if there had been a flash and
a crash, and that crash was the last thing I should ever hear
in this life.’
‘Blest if she ain’t in a queer condition!’ said Mr. Crunch-
er, more and more disturbed. ‘Wot can she have been a
takin’, to keep her courage up? Hark! 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. O, my good man, there was first a great crash, and
then a great stillness, and that stillness seems to be fixed
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 Mr. Cruncher, glancing
over his shoulder, ‘it’s my opinion that indeed she never will
hear anything else in this world.’
And indeed she never did.

XV
The Footsteps Die

Out For Ever
A long the Paris streets, the death-carts rumble, hol-

low and harsh. Six tumbrils carry the day’s wine to La
Guillotine. All the devouring and insatiate Monsters imag-
ined 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 climate, a blade, a leaf, a
root, a sprig, a peppercorn, which will grow to maturity un-
der conditions more certain than those that have produced
this horror. Crush humanity out of shape once more, un-
der similar hammers, and it will twist itself into the same
tortured forms. Sow the same seed of rapacious license and
oppression over again, and it will surely yield the same fruit
according 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 mon-
archs, the equipages of feudal nobles, the toilettes of flaring
Jezebels, the churches that are not my father’s house but

dens of thieves, the huts of millions of starving peasants!
No; the great magician who majestically works out the
appointed order of the Creator, never reverses his transfor-
mations. ‘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! 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 popu-
lace in the streets. Ridges of faces are thrown 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
occupation 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 to see the sight; then he points his
finger, with something of the complacency of a curator 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 with 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

shattered 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 often turned up to some of them,
and they are asked some question. It would seem to be al-
ways the same question, for, it is always followed 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 curiosity 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 curiosity or care for the scene
about him, and always speaks to the girl. Here and there in
the long street of St. Honore, cries are raised against him. If
they move him at all, 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 coming-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 himself, ‘Has he sacrificed me?’ when
his face clears, as he looks into the third.
‘Which is Evremonde?’ says a man behind him.
‘That. At the back there.’
‘With his hand in the girl’s?’
‘Yes.’
The man cries, ‘Down, Evremonde! To the Guillotine all
aristocrats! Down, Evremonde!’

‘Hush, hush!’ the Spy entreats him, timidly.
‘And why not, citizen?’
‘He is going to pay the forfeit: it will be paid in five min-
utes more. Let him be at peace.’
But the man continuing to exclaim, ‘Down, Evremonde!’
the face of Evremonde is for a moment turned towards him.
Evremonde 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 execution, 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 are following to the
Guillotine. In front of it, seated in chairs, as in a garden
of public diversion, are a number of women, busily knit-
ting. On one of the fore-most chairs, stands The Vengeance,
looking about for her friend.
‘Therese!’ she cries, in her shrill tones. ‘Who has seen
her? Therese Defarge!’
‘She never missed before,’ says a knitting-woman of the
sisterhood.
‘No; nor will she miss now,’ cries The Vengeance, petu-
lantly. ‘Therese.’
‘Louder,’ the woman recommends.
Ay! Louder, Vengeance, much louder, and still she will
scarcely hear thee. Louder yet, Vengeance, with a little
oath or so added, and yet it will hardly bring her. Send oth-
er 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!
‘Bad Fortune!’ cries The Vengeance, stamping her foot in
the chair, ‘and here are the tumbrils! And Evremonde will
be despatched in a wink, and she not here! See her knitting
in my hand, and her empty chair ready for her. I cry with
vexation and disappointment!’
As The Vengeance descends from her elevation to do it,
the tumbrils begin to discharge their loads. The ministers
of Sainte Guillotine are robed and ready. Crash!—A head
is held up, and the knittingwomen 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 falter-
ing or pausing in their Work, count Two.
The supposed Evremonde descends, and the seamstress
is lifted out next after him. He has not relinquished her pa-
tient hand 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 she 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 I have been able to raise my thoughts to Him who
was put to death, that we might have hope and comfort here
to-day. I think you were sent to me by Heaven.’
‘Or you to me,’ says Sydney Carton. ‘Keep your eyes upon
me, dear child, and mind no other object.’

‘I mind nothing while I hold your hand. I 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 throng 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 Uni-
versal Mother, else so wide apart and differing, have come
together on the dark highway, 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 my-
self, whom I love very dearly. She is five years younger than
I, and she lives in a farmer’s house in the south country.
Poverty parted us, and she knows nothing of my fate—for
I cannot write—and if I could, how should I tell her! It is
better as it is.’
‘Yes, yes: better as it is.’
‘What I have been thinking as we came along, and what
I 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 hun-
gry, 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 think:’ the uncomplaining eyes in which there is
so much endurance, fill 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?’
‘It cannot be, my child; there is no Time there, and no
trouble there.’
‘You comfort me so much! I am so ignorant. Am I to kiss
you now? Is the moment come?’
‘Yes.’
She kisses his lips; he kisses hers; they solemnly bless
each other. The spare hand does not tremble as he releases
it; nothing worse than a sweet, bright constancy is in the
patient face. She goes next before him—is gone; the knit-
ting-women count Twenty-Two.
‘I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord: he
that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he 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
peacefullest man’s face ever beheld there. Many added that
he looked sublime and prophetic.
One of the most remarkable sufferers by the same axe—a
woman-had asked at the foot of the same scaffold, not long
before, to be allowed to write down the thoughts that were
inspiring her. If he had given any utterance to his, and they
were prophetic, they would have been these:
‘I see Barsad, and Cly, Defarge, The Vengeance, the Ju-

ryman, 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 pres-
ent 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 years to come, I
see the evil of this time and of the previous time of which
this is the natural birth, gradually making expiation for it-
self and wearing out.
‘I see the lives for which I lay down my life, peaceful,
useful, prosperous and happy, in that England which I shall
see no more. I see Her with a child upon her bosom, who
bears my name. I see her father, aged and bent, but other-
wise restored, and faithful to all men in his healing office,
and at peace. I see the good old man, so long their friend, in
ten years’ time enriching them with all he has, and passing
tranquilly to his reward.
‘I see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the
hearts of their descendants, generations hence. I see her, an
old woman, weeping for me on the anniversary of this day.
I see her and her husband, their course done, lying side by
side in their last earthly bed, and I know that each was not
more honoured and held sacred in the other’s soul, than I
was in the souls of both.
‘I see that child who lay upon her bosom and who bore
my name, a man winning his way up in that path of life
which once was mine. I see him winning it so well, that my
name is made illustrious there by the light of his. I see the
blots I threw upon it, faded away. I see him, fore-most of just

judges and honoured men, bringing a boy of my name, with
a forehead that I know and golden hair, to this place— then
fair to look upon, with not a trace of this day’s disfigure-
ment —and I hear him tell the child my story, with a tender
and a faltering voice.
‘It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever
done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever
known.’

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A Tale of Two Cities

By Charles Dickens (1859)

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I t was the Dover road that lay, on a Friday night late in

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The Night Shadows

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