 CHAPTER 1 THE PERIOD It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. It was the age of wisdom. It was the age of foolishness. It was the epoch of belief. It was the epoch of incredulity. It was the season of light. It was the season of darkness. It was the spring of hope. It was the winter of despair. We had everything before us. We had nothing before us. We were all going direct to heaven. We were all going direct the other way. In short, the period was so far like the present period that some of its noisiest 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 forever. It was the year of our Lord 1,775. Spiritual revelations were conceded to England at that favored period, as at this. Mrs. Southcott had recently attained her five and 20th blessed birthday, of whom a prophetic private in the lifeguards had heralded this 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 around dozen of years after wrapping out its messages as the spirits of this very year last past, supernaturally deficient in originality, wrapped 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 favored on the whole as to matter spiritual than her sister of the shield and trident, rolled with exceeding smoothness downhill, making paper money and spending it under the guidance of her Christian pastor, she entertained herself, besides, with such humane achievements as sentencing a youth to have his hands cut off, his tongue torn out with pincers, and his body burned alive because he had not kneeled down in the rain to do honor to a dirty procession of monks which passed within his view at a distance of some 50 or 60 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, be stattered with rustic mire, snuffed about by pigs, and roosted in by poultry, which the farmer death had already set apart to be his tumbles of the revolution. 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 for as much 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 burglaries by armed men and highway robberies took place in the capital itself every night. Families were publicly cautioned not to go out of town without removing their furniture to upholsterers warehouses for security. The highwaymen in the dark was a city tradesman in the light and being recognized and challenged by his fellow tradesman, whom he stopped in his character of the captain, gallantly shot him through the head and rode away. The mail was waylaid by seven robbers and the guard shot three dead and then got shot dead himself by the other four in consequence of the failure of his ammunition, after which the mail was robbed in peace, that magnificent potentate, the Lord Mayor of London was made to stand and deliver on Turnham Green by one highwayman who to spoil the illustrious creature inside of all his retinue. Prisoners in London jails fought battles with their turnkeys and the majesty of the law fired blunder buses in among them loaded with rounds of shot and ball. Thieves snipped off diamond crosses from the necks of noble lords at court drawing rooms. Musketeers went into St. Giles to search for contraband goods and the mob fired on the musketeers and the musketeers 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 burning people in the hand at Newgate by the dozen and now burning pamphlets at the door of Westminster Hall today taking the life of an atrocious murderer and tomorrow of a wretched pilferer who had robbed the 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, 1,775. 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 rites with a high hand. Thus did the year 1,775 conduct their greatness and myriads of small creatures, the creatures of this chronicle among the rest along the roads that lay before them. End of chapter. Chapter two of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. This livery box recording is in the public domain. Recording by Richard Reimann, audiblyspeaking.com. The Mail. It 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 Shooters Hill. He walked uphill 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 also heavy that the horses had three times already come to a stop besides once drawing the coach cross the road with the mutinous intent of taking it back to Blackheath. Reigns and whip and coachman and guard however, in combination had read that article of war which forbade a purpose otherwise strongly in favor 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 stumbling between wiles 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 weary, whoa, so ho then, the near leader violently shook his head and everything upon it, like an unusually emphatic horse, denying that the coach could be got up the hill. Whenever the leader made this rattle, the passenger started as a nervous passenger might and was disturbed in mind. There was a steaming mist in all the hollows and it had roamed in its forlornness up the hill like an evil spirit seeking rest and finding none. A clammy and intensely cold mist, it made its slow way through the air in ripples that visibly followed and overspread one another as the waves of an unwholesome sea might do. It was dense enough to shut out everything from the light of the coach lamps, but these its own workings and a few yards of road and the reek of the laboring horses steamed into it as if they had made it all. Two other passengers besides the one were plotting up the hill by the side of the mail. All three were wrapped to the cheekbones and over the ears and wore jackboots. Not one of the three could have said from anything he saw what either of the other two was like and each was hidden under almost as many wrappers from the eyes of the mind as from the eyes of the body of his two companions. In those days, travelers were very shy of being confidential on a short notice for anybody on the road might be a robber or in league with robbers. As to the latter, when every posting house and alehouse could produce somebody in the captain's pay ranging from the landlord to the lowest stable nondescript, it was the likeliest thing upon the cards. So the guard of the Dover mail fought to himself that Friday night in November, 1775, lumbering up Shooters 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 blunder bus 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 horses. 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. Whoa, 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, hello, the guard replied. What a clock do you make it, Joe? 10 minutes, good, past 11. My blood, ejaculated the vexed coachman and not atop of Shooters yet. Yeah, get on with you. The emphatic horse cut short by the whip and 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 squashing along by its side. They had stopped when the coach stopped and they kept close company with it. If any one of the three had had the hardy hood 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 opened the coach door to let the passengers in. Joe cried the coachman in a warning voice looking down from his box. Why do you say Tom? They both listened. I say a horse had a canter coming up, Joe. I say a horse had a gallop, Tom. Returned the guard, leaving his hold of the door and mounting Nimbly to his place. Gentlemen, in the king's name, all of you. With this hurried adoration, he cocked his blunder bus 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 remained in the road below him. They all looked from the coachman to the guard and from the guard to the coachman and listened. The coachman looked back and the guard looked back. And even the emphatic leader pricked up his ears and looked back without contradicting. The stillness consequent on the cessation of the rumbling and laboring of the coach added to the stillness of the night made it very quiet indeed. The panting of the 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 furious 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 splashing and floundering, a man's voice called from the mist. Is that the Dover mail? Never you'll 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 book passenger showed in a moment that it was his name. The guard, the coachman, and the other two passengers 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. Gentlemen 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? I don't like Jerry's voice, if it is Jerry, growled the guard to himself. He's horser than suits me, is Jerry. Yes, Mr. Lorry. What is the matter? A dispatch sent after you from over Yonder. Tea 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. Hello, you? Well, and hello, you, said Jerry more horsely than before. Come on at a foot pace, do you mind me? And if you've got holsters to that saddle of urine, don't let me see your hand go nigham, 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 eddy mist and came to the side of the mail, where the passenger stood. The rider stooped and casting 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 quiet business confidence. The watchful guard with his right hand at the stock of his raised blunderbuss is left at the barrel and his eye on the horseman answered curtly, sir, there is nothing to apprehend. I belong to Telsen's bank. You must know Telsen's bank in London. I am going to Paris on business, a crown to drink. I may read this, if so be as your quick, sir. He opened it in the light of the coach lamp on that side and read first to himself and then allowed, wait at Dover for Mamzell. It's not long you see, guard. Jerry say that my answer was recalled to life. Jerry started in his saddle. That's a blizing strange answer too, said he at his horsest. Take that message back and they will know that I receive 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 we're now making a general pretense 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 blunder bus in his arm chest and having looked to the rest of its contents and having looked to the supplementary pistols that he wore in his belt, looked to a smaller chest beneath his seat in 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. Hello, 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, where 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. After standing with the bridle over his heavily splashed arm until the wheels of the mail were no longer within hearing and the night was quite still again, he turned to walk down the hill. After that gallop from Temple Bar, old lady, I won't trust your forelegs till I get you on the level, said this horse messenger, glancing at his mare. Recall to life. That's a blising strange message. Much of that wouldn't do for you, Jerry. I say, Jerry, you'd be in a blising bad way if recalling to life was to come into fashion, Jerry. End of chapter. Chapter 3 of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Richard Reiman, audiblyspeaking.com. The Night Shadows. A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other, a solemn consideration. When I enter a great city by night, that every one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret, that every room in every one of them encloses its own secret, that every beating heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there is in some of its imaginings a secret to the heart nearest it. Something of the awfulness, even of death itself, is referable to this. No more can I turn the leaves of this dear book that I love and vainly hope in time to read it all. No more can I look into the depths of this unfalmable water wherein, as momentary lights glanced into it, I have had glimpses of buried treasure and other things submerged. It was appointed that the book should shut with a spring forever and forever when I had read but a page. It was appointed 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 neighbor is dead. My love, the darling of my soul, is dead. It is the inexorable consolidation and perpetuation of the secret that was always in that individuality in 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 personality to me or than I am to them? As to this, his natural and not to be alienated inheritance, the messenger on horseback had exactly the same possessions as the king, the first minister of state or the richest merchant in London. So with the three passengers shut up in the narrow compass of one lumbering old male 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 60 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 tendency 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 color 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 liquor 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 cribsman, it wouldn't suit your line of business. Be cold. Bust me if I don't think he'd been a drinking. His message perplexed his mind to that degree that he was feigned several times to take off his hat to scratch his head except on the crown which was raggedly bald. He had stiff black hair standing jaggedly all over it and growing downhill 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 Leapfrog 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 Telsen's bank by Temple Bar, who was to deliver it to greater authorities within, the shadows of the night took such shapes to him as arose out of the message and took such shapes to the mayor 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 male coach lumber jolted, rattled and bumped upon its tedious way with its three fellow inscrutables inside. To whom likewise the shadows of the night revealed themselves in the forms their dozing eyes and wandering thoughts suggested. Telsen's bank had a run upon it in the mail. As the bank passenger, with an arm drawn through the leather strap which did what lay in it to keep him from pounding against the next passenger and driving into his corner whenever the coach got a special jolt nodded in his place with half shut eyes, the little coach windows and the coach lamp dimly gleaming through them and the bulky bundle of opposite passenger became the bank and did a great stroke of business. The rattle of the harness was the chink of money and more drafts were honored in five minutes than even Telsen's with all its foreign and home connection ever paid and thrice the time. Then the strong rooms underground at Telsen's with such of their valuable stores and secrets as were known to the passenger and it was not a little that he knew about them opened before him and he went in among them with the great keys and the feebly burning candle and found them safe and strong and sound and still just as he had last seen them. But though the bank was almost always with him and though the coach in a confused way like the presence of pain under an opiate was always with him, there was another current of impression that never ceased to run. He was on his way to dig someone out of a grave. Now, which of the multitude of faces that showed themselves before him was the true face of the buried person? The shadows of the night did not indicate but they were all the faces of a man of five and 40 by years and they differed principally in the passions they expressed and in the gasliness of their worn and wasted state, pride, contempt, defiance, stubbornness, submission, lamentation, succeeded one another. So did varieties of sunken cheek, cadaverous color, 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 specter. Married how long? The answer was always the same. Almost 18 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 contradictory. 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. Then it was, Take me to her. Sometimes it was staring and bewildered. And then it was, I don't know her. I don't understand. After such imaginary 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 creature out. Got at last, with earth hanging about his face and hair, He would suddenly fan away to dust. The passenger would then start to himself and lower the window, To get the reality of mist and rain on his cheek. Yet even when his eyes were opened on the mist and rain, On the moving patch of light from the lamps, And a hedge at the roadside retreating by jerks, The night shadows outside the coach would fall into the train Of the night shadows within. The real banking house by Temple Bar, The real business of the 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. Buried how long? Almost 18 years. I hope you care to live. I can't say. Dig, dig, dig, until an impatient movement from one of the two passengers Would admonish him to pull up the window, Draw his arms securely through the leather strap, And speculate upon the two slumbering forms, Until his mind lost its hold of them, And they again slid away into the bank and the grave. Buried how long? Almost 18 years. You had abandoned all hope of being dug out? Long ago. The words were still in his hearing as just spoken, Distinctly in his hearing as ever-spoken words had been in his life, When the weary passenger started to the consciousness of daylight, And found that the shadows of the night were gone. He lowered the window and looked out at the rising sun. There was a ridge of plowed land, With a plow upon it where it had been left last night When the horses were unyoked. Beyond a quiet coppice-wood, In which many leaves of burning red and golden yellow Still remained upon the trees. 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. End of chapter 3 Chapter 4 of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, by Richard Reimann, audibly speaking. The Preparation When 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 traveler upon. By that time there was only one adventurous traveler left to be congratulated, for the two others have been set down at their respective roadside destinations. The mildewy inside of the coach, with its damp and dirty straw, its disagreeable 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 muddy legs, was rather like a larger sort of dog. There will be a packet to collay, to-morrow, drawer. Yes, sir, if the weather holds and the wind sets tolerable fair, the tide will serve pretty nicely at about two in the afternoon, sir. Bed, sir? 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 release and hot water to concord. Pull off gentleman's boots in concord. You will find a good sequel fire, sir. Fetch barber to concord. Stir about there now for concord. The concord bed chamber being always assigned to a passenger by the mail, and passengers by the mail being always heavily wrapped up from head to foot. The room had the odd interest for the establishment of the Royal George, that although but one kind of man was seen to go into it, all kinds and varieties of men came out of it. Consequently, another drawer and two boarders and several maids in 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 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 under his flapped waistcoat, as though it pitted its gravity and longevity against the levity and evanescence of the brisk fire. He had a good leg, and he 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 neighboring 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 Telsen's Bank. He had a healthy color in his cheeks and his face, though lined, bore a few traces of anxiety. But perhaps the confidential bachelor clerks in Telsen's Bank were principally occupied with the cares of other people, and perhaps secondhand cares, like secondhand clothes, come easily off and on. Taking his resemblance to a man who was sitting for his portrait, Mr. Laurie 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. Jarvis Laurie, or she may only ask for a gentleman from Telsen's Bank. Pleased to let me know. Yes, sir. Telsen's Bank in London, sir? Yes. Yes, sir. We have often times the honor to entertain your gentleman in their traveling backwards and forwards betwixt London and Paris, sir. A vast deal of traveling, sir, in Telsen 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 traveling yourself, 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 Telsen and Company was flourishing a matter of fifty, not to speak of, fifteen years ago. You might travel 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 attitude, and stood surveying the guest while he ate and drank, as from an observatory or watchtower, according to the immemorial 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 desert of heaps of sea and stones tumbling wildly about, and the sea did what it liked, and what it liked was destruction. It thundered at the town, and thundered at the cliffs, and brought the coast down madly. The air among the houses was of so strong a piscatory flavor 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 realized large fortunes, and it was remarkable that nobody in the neighborhood could endure a lamp lighter. 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 vapor. Mr. Lorie'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 digging, 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. Lorie 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 in-yard, he sat down his glass untouched. This is Madame Iselle, 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 Telsens so soon. Miss Manette had taken some refreshment on the road and required none then and was extremely anxious to see the gentleman from Telsens immediately if it suited his pleasure and convenience. The gentleman from Telsens had nothing left for it but to empty his glass with an air of stolid desperation, settle his odd little flex and wig at the ears, and follow the waiter to Miss Manette's apartment. It was a large dark room furnished in a unirial 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. Laurie, 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-traveling hat by its ribbon in her hand. As his eyes rested on a short, slight, pretty figure, a quantity of golden hair, a pair of blue eyes 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 expressions. 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, pure 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. Miss your hand, Miss, said Mr. Laurie, with the manners of an earlier date, as he made his formal bow again and took his seat. I received a letter from the bank, sir, yesterday, informing 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. Laurie moved in his chair and cast a troubled look towards the hospital procession of negro cupids, as if they had any help for anybody in their absurd baskets. But it necessary that I should go to Paris, there to communicate with the gentleman of the bank, so good as to be dispatched to Paris for the purpose, myself. As I was prepared to hear, sir, she curtsied to him, young ladies made curtsies 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 necessary 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 favor of his waiting for me here. I was happy, said Mr. Laurie, 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 eager interest to know what they are. Naturally, said Mr. Laurie, 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 expression, but it was pretty uncharacteristic besides being singular, and she raised her hand as if with an involuntary action she caught at or stayed, from passing shadow. Are you quite a stranger to me, sir? Am I not? Mr. Laurie opened his hands and extended them outward with an argumentative smile. Between the eyebrows and just over the little feminine nose, the line of which was as delicate and fine as it was possible to be, the expression deepened itself as she took her seat thoughtfully in the chair, by which she had hitherto remained standing. He watched her as he 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 Minette? If you please, sir. Miss Minette, I am a man of business. I have a business charge to quit 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 willfully to mistake the words she had repeated when he added in a hurry. Yes, customers. In the banking business we usually call our connection our customers. He was a French gentleman, a scientific gentleman, a man of great acquirements, a doctor. Not of Beauvais? Why, yes, of Beauvais. Like Monsieur Minette, your father. The gentleman was of Beauvais. Like Monsieur Minette, your father. The gentleman was of repute in Paris. I had the honor 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 English lady, and I was one of the trustees. His affairs, like the affairs of many other French gentlemen and French families, were entirely in Telsen'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 passed 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 rough-in-forehead was very intent upon him. That when I was left in orphan through my mother surviving my father only two years, it was you who brought me to England. I am almost sure it was you. Mr. Laurie 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's straight way 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 never seen you since. No, you have been the ward of Telsen's house since, and I have been busy with the other business of Telsen'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 employment, Mr. Laurie 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 resumed his former attitude. So far, miss, as you have remarked, this is the story of your regretted father. Now comes the difference. If your father had not died when he did, don't be frightened. How you start! She did indeed start, and she caught his wrist with both her hands. Pray, said Mr. Laurie in a soothing tone, bringing his left hand from the back of the chair to lay it on the supplicatory fingers that clasped him in so violent a tremble. Pray control your agitation a matter of business, as I was saying. Her look so discomposed him that he stopped, wandered, and began anew. As I was saying, if Miss Jordanman 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 and 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 anyone 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 collectively, and you are collected. That's good. Though his manner was less satisfied than his words. A matter of business, regarded as a matter of business, business that must be done. Now, if this doctor's wife, though a lady of great courage and spirit, had suffered so intensely from this cause, before her little child was born, the little child was a daughter, sir? A daughter. 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 belief that her father was dead. No, don't kneel in heaven's name. Why should you kneel to me? For the truth, oh dear, good compassionate, sir, for the truth, a matter of business. You confuse me. And how can I transact business if I am confused? Let us be clearheaded. If you could kindly mention now, for instance, what nine times nine pens are, or how many shillings in twenty ginnies it would be so encouraged, I should be so much more at my ease about your state of mind. Without directly answering to this appeal, she sat so still when he had very gently raised her. And the hands that had not ceased to clasp his wrists were so much more steady than they had been that she communicated some reassurance to Mr. Jarvis Laurie. 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 brokenhearted, having never slackened her unavailing search for your father, she left you at two years old to grow to be blooming, beautiful, and happy, without the dark cloud upon you of living in uncertainty, whether your father soon wore his heart out in prison or wasted there through many lingering 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 gray. 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 expression in the forehead, which had so particularly attracted his notice and which was now immovable, had deepened into one of pain and horror. But he has been 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, ostrich 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. Laurie quietly chafed the hand 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, wrong gentleman. And with a fair sea voyage and a fair land journey, you will soon be 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 haunted me. Only one thing more, said Mr. Laurie, 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 whether he has been for years overlooked or always designately held prisoner. It would be worse than useless now to make any inquiries because it would be too 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 Telsen'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 memoranda 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 detach himself lest he should hurt her. Therefore he called out loudly for assistance without moving. A wild-looking woman, whom even in his agitation, Mr. Laurie observed to be all of red color, and to have red hair, and to be dressed in some extraordinary, tight-fitting fashion, and to have on her head a most wonderful bonnet like a grenadier wouldn't measure, and, good measure too, or a great stilt in cheese, came running into the room in advance of the inservants, and soon settled the question of his detachment from the poor young lady, by laying a brawny hand upon his chest and sending him flying back against the nearest wall. I really think this must be a man, was Mr. Laurie's breathless reflection, simultaneously with his coming against the wall. Why look at you all, baldest figure, addressing the inservants. 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, intended her with great skill and gentleness, calling her my precious and my bird, and spreading her golden hair aside over her shoulders with great pride and care. And you in brown, she said indignantly, turning to Mr. Laurie. Couldn't you tell her what you had to tell her without frightening her to death? Look at her with her pretty pale face and her cold hands. Do you call that being a banker? Mr. Laurie was so exceedingly disconcerted by a question so hard to answer, that he could only look on at a distance with much feebler sympathy and humility, while a strong woman, having banished the inservants 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. Laurie. No thanks to you in brown if she does. My darling pretty. I hope, said Mr. Laurie, after another pause of feeble sympathy and humility, that you accompany Miss Minette to France? A likely thing too, replied the strong woman. If it was ever intended that I should go across saltwater, do you suppose Providence would have cast my lot on an island? This being another question hard to answer, Mr. Jarvis Laurie withdrew to consider it. End of chapter four. Chapter five of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Richard Reiman, audiblyspeaking.com. 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 business 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 light of thought expressly to lame all living creatures that approached them had damned it into little pools. These were surrounded each by its own jostling group or crowd according to its size. Some men yield 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 infant's mouths. Others made small mud embankments to stem the wine as it ran. Others directed by lookers on up at high windows darted here and there to cut off little streams of wine that started away in new directions. Others devoted themselves to the sodden and lead-eyed pieces of the cask, licking and even chomping the moisture line-rotted fragments with eager relish. There was no drainage to carry off the wine and not only did it all get taken up but so much mud got taken up along with it that there might have been a scavenger in the street if anybody acquainted with it could have believed in such a miraculous presence. A shrill sound of laughter and of amused voices, voices of men, women and children resounded in the street while this wine game lasted. There was little roughness in the sport and much playfulness. There was a special companionship in it and observable inclination on the part of everyone to join some other one which led, especially among the luckier or lighthearted, to frolicsome embraces, drinking of health's, 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 abudut were raked into a gridiron pattern by fingers, these demonstrations ceased as suddenly as they had broken out. The man who had left his saw sticking in the firewood he was cutting said it in motion again. The women who had left on a doorstep 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 natural to it than sunshine. The wine was red wine and had stained the ground of the narrow street in the suburb of San Antoine in Paris where it was spilled. It had stained many hands too and many faces and many naked feet and many wooden shoes. The hands of the man who sawed the wood left red marks on the billets and the forehead of the woman who had 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 leaves, 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 clouds settled on San 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 presence, nobles of great power, all of them, but most especially the last. Samples of a people that had undergone a terrible grinding and re-grinding in the mill and certainly not in the fabulous mill which ground old people young, shivered at every corner, passed in and out of every doorway, looked from every window, fluttered in every vestige of a garment that the wind shook. The mill which had worked them down was the mill that grinds young people old. The children had ancient faces and grave voices and upon them and upon the grown faces and plowed into every furrow of age and coming up afresh was the sign hunger. It was prevalent everywhere. Hunger was pushed out of the tall houses in the wretched clothing that hung upon poles and lines. Hunger was patched into them with straw and rag and wood and paper. Hunger was repeated in every fragment of the small modicum of firewood that the man sawed off. Hunger stared down from the smokeless chimneys and started up from the filthy street that had no awful 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 far-thing pourager of husky chips of potato fried with some reluctant drops of oil. Its abiding place was in all things fitted to it. A narrow winding street full of offense and stench with other narrow winding streets diverging all people 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 wanting among them nor compressed lips white with what they suppressed nor foreheads knitted into the likeness of the gallows rope they mused about enduring or inflicting. The trade 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 meager loaves. The people rudely pictured as drinking in the wine shops croaked over their scanty measures of thin wine and beer and were gloweringly 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 murderous. 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 lamp lighter 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's scarecrows of that region would have watched the lamp lighter in their idleness and hunger so long as to conceive the idea of improving on his method and hauling up men by those ropes and pulleys to flare upon the darkness of their condition. But the time was not come yet and every wind that blew over France shook the rags of the scarecrows in vain for the birds, fine of song and feather, took no warning. The wine shop was a corner shop better than most others in its appearance and degree and the master of the wine shop had stood outside it in a yellow waistcoat and green britches looking on at the struggle for the lost wine. It's not my affair, said he with a final shrug of the soldiers. The people from the market did it. Let them bring another. There his eyes happened to catch the tall joker writing up his joke he called to him across the way. Say then, my gaspard, what do you do there? The fellow pointed to his joke with immense significance as is often the way with his tribe. He missed its mark and completely failed as is often the way with his tribe too. Well now, are you a subject for the mad hospital? Said the wine shopkeeper 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, perhaps accidentally, perhaps not, upon the joker's heart. The joker wrapped 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 recross the road and entered the wine shop. The wine shopkeeper was a bull-necked, martial-looking man of 30 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 breath between them, good-humored looking on the whole but implacable looking too. Evidently, a man of a strong resolution and a set purpose, a man not desirable to be met, rushing down a narrow pass with a gulf on either side where 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 woman 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 manner. There was a character about Madame Defarge from which one might have predicated that she did not often make mistakes against herself in any of the reckonings over which she presided. Madame Defarge, being sensitive to cold, was wrapped in fur and had a quantity of bright shawl twined about her head, though not to the concealment of her large 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 toothpick by the breadth of a line, suggested to her husband that he could do well to look around the shop among the customers for any new customer who had dropped in while he stepped over the way. The wine shopkeeper, accordingly, rolled his eyes about until he 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 Madame 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 Monsieur Defarge. Is all the spilt wine swallowed? Every drop, Jacques, answered Monsieur Defarge. When this interchange of Christian name was affected, 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 pieces know the tastes of wine or of anything but black bread and death. Is it not so, Jacques? It is so, Jacques, Monsieur Defarge, returned. At the second interchange of the Christian name, Madame 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 completed 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 around the wine shop, took up her knitting with great apparent calmness and repose of spirit and became absorbed in it. Gentlemen, said her husband who had kept his bright eye observantly upon her, good day. The chamber furnished bachelor fashion that you wish 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 gentlemen advanced from his corner and begged the favor of a word. Willingly, sir, said Monsieur Defarge and quietly stepped with him to the door. Their conference was very short, but very decided. Almost at the first word, Monsieur Defarge started and became deeply attentive. It had not lasted a minute when he nodded and went out. The gentlemen 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 Minette 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 tile paved entry to the gloomy tile paved staircase, Monsieur Defarge bent down on one knee to the child of his old master and put her hand to 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 humor in his face nor any openness of aspect left, but had become a secret, angry, dangerous man. It is very high. It is a little difficult, better to begin slowly. Thus, Monsieur Defarge in a stern voice to Mr. Lorry as they began ascending the 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 has 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 spirit grew heavier and heavier "'as he and his two companions ascended 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 staircase, "'left its own heap of refuse on its own landing, "'besides flinging other refuse from its own windows. "'The uncontrollable and hopeless mass of decomposition, "'so engendered, would have polluted the air, "'even if poverty and deprivation had not loaded it "'with their intangible impurities. "'The two bad sources combined made it almost insupportable. "'Through such an 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 became greater every instant, "'Mr. Jarvis-Lori twice stopped to rest. "'Each of these stoppages was made at a doleful grading, "'by which any languishing good heirs "'that were left uncorrupted seemed to escape, "'and all spoiled and sickly vapors seemed to crawl in. "'Through the rusted bars, tastes rather than glimpses "'were caught of the jumbled neighborhood, "'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 Garrett story was reached. "'The keeper of the line shop "'always going a little in advance, "'and always going on the side which Mr. Lori 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 in, my friend,' said Mr. Lori, surprised. "'Aye, yes,' was the grim reply of Monsieur Defarge. "'You think it necessary to keep "'the unfortunate gentleman so retired?' "'I think it necessary to turn the key,' "'the short 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. Lori. "'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. Lori 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 like 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 line shop. "'I forgot them in the surprise of your visit,' explained Bashur 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. Lory asked him in a whisper with a little anger. "'Do you make a show of Mr. Mennett? "'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. "'Jock 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 answered something. Little more than a single syllable could have been spoken on either side. He looked back over his shoulder and beckoned them to enter. Mr. Lory got his arms securely around the daughter's waist and held her, where he felt that she was sinking. "'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 a friend's construction. To exclude the cold, one half of this door was fast closed and the other was opened but a very little way. Such a scanty portion of light was emitted through these means that it was difficult on first coming in to see anything and long habit alone could have slowly formed in anyone the ability to do any work requiring nicety in such obscurity. Yet work of that kind was being done in the garret for with his back towards the door and his face towards the window where the keeper of the wine shop stood looking at him. A light haired man sat on a low bench stooping forward and very busy making shoes. End of chapter. Chapter 6 of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Stickins. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Richard Reiman, audiblyspeaking.com. The Shoemaker. Good day, said Mishore Defarge, looking down at the white head that bent low over the shoemaking. It was raised for a moment and a very faint voice responded 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 moment 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 disuse. It was like the last feeble echo of a sound made long and long ago. So entirely had it lost the life and resonance of the human voice that it affected the senses like a once beautiful color 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 traveler 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 gates 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 similarly 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 the stress upon the second word. The opened half door was opened a little further and secured at that angle for the time. A broad ray of light fell into the garret and showed the workman with an unfinished shoe upon his lap pausing in his labor. 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 hollowness 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 habit of associating place with sound. He never spoke without first wandering in this manner and forgetting to speak. Are you going to finish that pair of shoes today? Ask Defarge, motioning to Mr. Laurie to come forward. What did you say? Do you mean to finish that pair of shoes today? 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. Laurie 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 lead color 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. What did you say? Here is a visitor. The shoemaker looked up as before but without removing 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. Laurie 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 shoemaker replied. I forget what it was you asked me. What did you say? I said, couldn't you describe the kind of shoe for Monsieur'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 knuckles of the right hand in the hollow of the left and then the knuckles of the left hand in the hollow of the right and then passed a hand across his bearded chin and so on in regular changes without a moment's intermission. The task of recalling him from the vagrancy into which he always sank when he had spoken was like recalling some very weak person from a swoon or endeavoring 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. 105 North Tower. Is that all? 105 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. Laurie, looking 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 shoemaker by trade. I learned it here. I taught myself. I asked Gleeve to... He lapsed away, even for minutes, ringing those measured changes on his hands the whole time. His eyes came slowly back at last to the face from which they had wandered. 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 Gleeve to teach myself and I got it with much difficulty after a long while and I have made shoes ever since. As he held out his hands for the shoe that had been taken from him, Mr. Laurie said, still looking in his face, Mr. Minnet, do you remember nothing of me? The shoe dropped to the ground and he sat looking fixedly at the questioner. Mr. Minnet, Mr. Laurie laid his hand upon Defarge'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, Mr. Minnet? As the captive of many years sat looking fixedly by turns at Mr. Laurie and at Defarge, some long obliterated marks of an actively intent intelligence in the middle of the forehead gradually forced themselves through the black mist that had fallen on him. They were overcrowded again, they were fainter, they were gone, but they had been there. And so exactly it 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 frightened compassion, if not even to keep him off and shut out the sight of him, but which were now extending towards him, trembling with eagerness to lay the spectral face upon her warm young breast and love it 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 and gloomy abstraction 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 recognized him, Mishor? Ask Defarge in a whisper. Yes, for a moment. At first I thought it was quite hopeless, but I have unquestionably seen for a single moment a 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 labor. 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 the 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 labored 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 jailer'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, advancing his hand by little and little. He took it up and looked at it. In the midst of the action he went astray and with another deep sigh fell to work at his shoemaking. But not for long, releasing 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 gentleman. Do not come near us. Do not speak. Do not move. The 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 gloomy. It can't be. See what the prisoner is? These are not the hands she knew. This is not the faith 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. Oh, 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. Oh, 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 freedom shining on him. If you hear in my voice, I don't know that it is so but I hope it is. If you hear in my voice any resemblance to a voice that once was sweet music in your ears, weep for it, 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 around 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 was living and of my mother who was dead, you learn that I have to kneel to my honored 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. Oh, 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 heeding breast and shaken form had long yielded to the calm that must follow all storms, emblem to humanity of the rest and silence into which the storm called life must hush at last, they came forward to raise the father and daughter from the ground. He had gradually 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. Laurie 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? He asked Mr. Laurie. 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 in here. More than that, Monsieur Minette is, for all reasons, best out of France. Say, shall I hire a carriage and post horses? That's business, said Mr. Laurie, resuming on the shortest notice his methodical manners. And if business is to be done, I had better do it. Then be so kind, urged Miss Minette, as to leave us here. You see how composed he has become and you cannot be afraid to leave him with me now? Why should you be? If you will lock the door to secure us from interruption, I do not doubt that you will find him when you come back as quiet as you leave him. In any case, I will take care of him until you return and then we will remove him straight. Both Mr. Laurie and Defarge were rather disinclined to this course and in favor of one of them remaining. But as there were not only carriage and horses to be seen to, but traveling 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, 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 gleaned through the chinks in the wall. Mr. Laurie and Mr. Defarge had made all ready for the journey and had brought with them besides traveling cloaks and wrappers, bread and meat, wine and hot coffee. Mr. Defarge put this provender and the lamp he carried on the shoemaker's bench. There was nothing else in the garret but a pallet bed and he and Mr. Laurie 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 daughter's drawing her arm through his and took and kept her hand in both his own. They began to descend, matured to farge going first with the lamp, Mr. Lory closing the little procession. They had not traversed many steps of the long main staircase when he stopped and stared at the roof and around at the walls. You remember the place, my father? You remember coming up here? What did you say? 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, 105 North Tower. And when he looked about him, it evidently was for the strong fortress walls which had long encompassed him. On there reaching the courtyard, he instinctively altered his tread as being an 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 doorpost, knitting and saw nothing. The prisoner had got into a coach and his daughter had followed him when Mr. Laurie'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 lamp light through the courtyard. She quickly brought them down and handed them in. And immediately afterwards leaned against the doorpost knitting and saw nothing. Defarge got up on the box and gave the word to the barrier, the postillion cracked his whip and they clattered away under the feeble overswinging lamps. Under the overswinging lamps, swinging ever brighter in the better streets and ever dimmer in the worse. And by lighted shops, gay crowds, illuminated coffee houses and theater doors to one of the city gates. Soldiers with lanterns at the guard house there, your papers travelers, sit here then, Mr. or the officer, said Defarge getting down and taking him gravely apart. These are the papers of Mr. or inside with the white head. They were consigned to me with him at the, he dropped his voice. There was a flutter among the military lanterns and one of them being handed into the coach by an arm in uniform. The eyes connected with the arm looked not an every day or an every night look at Mishula with the white head. It is well forward from the uniform. Adieu from Defarge. And so under a short grove of feebler and feebler overswinging 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 shadows 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 Laurie, sitting opposite the buried man who had been dug out and wondering what subtle powers were forever 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. I can't say. End of chapter. Book II Chapter 1 of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. The Golden Thread. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Richard Reiman, audiblyspeaking.com. Five years later. Telsen's Bank by Temple Bar was an old fashioned place even in the year 1780. It was very small, very dark, very ugly, very incomodious. 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 incomodiousness. 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 places of business. Telsen's, they said, wanted no elbow room. Telsen's wanted no light. Telsen's wanted no embellishment. Nox and companies might or Snook's brothers might but Telsen's thank heaven. Any one of these partners would have disinherited his son on the question of rebuilding Telsen's. In this respect, the house was much on a par with the country which did very often disinherited sons for suggesting improvements in laws and customs that had long been highly objectionable but were only the more respectable. Thus it had come to pass that Telsen's was the triumphant perfection of inconvenience. After bursting open the door of idiotic obscenity with a weak rattle in its throat you fell into Telsen'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 check shake as if the wind rustled it while they examined the signature by the dingiest of windows which were always under a shower bath of mud from Fleet Street and which were made the dingier by their own iron bars proper and the heavy shadow of Temple Bar. If your business necessitated you're 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 odor as if they were fast decomposing into rags again. Your plate was stowed away among the neighboring cesspools and evil communications corrupted its good polish in a day or two. Your deeds got into extemporized strong rooms made of kitchens and sculleries and fretted all the fat out of their parchment into the banking house air. Your lighter boxes of family papers went upstairs into a barma side room that always had a great dining table in it and never had a dinner. And where, even in the year 1780, 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 Teppel Bar with an insensate brutality and ferocity worthy of Abyssinia or Ashante. 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 telsons. Death is nature's remedy for all things and why not legislations? 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 perloiner of 40 shillings and sixpence was put to death. The holder of a horse at Telsons door who made off with it was put to death. The coiner of a bad shillings was put to death. The sounders of three-fourths of the notes and 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, Telsons, in its day, like greater places of business, its contemporaries, had taken so many lives that if the heads laid low before it had been arranged 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 dimcovers and hutches at Telsons, the oldest of men carried on the business gravely. When they took a young man into Telsons' 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 Telson flavor and blue mold upon him. Then only was he permitted to be seen, spectacularly pouring over large books and casting his britches and gaiters into the general weight of the establishment. Outside Telsons, 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 12 who was his express image. People understood that Telsons, 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 Hounstich, he had received the added appellation of Jerry. The scene was Mr. Cruncher's private lodging in hanging sword alley, Whitefriars. The time, half past seven of the clock on a windy March morning, Anno Domini, 1780. Mr. Cruncher himself always spoke of the year of our Lord as Anna Domino's. Apparently under the impression that the Christian era dated from the invention of a popular game by a lady who had bestowed her name upon it. Mr. Cruncher's apartments were not in a savory neighborhood and were but to a 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 a bed was already scrubbed throughout and between the cups and saucers arranged 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 first he slept heavily, but by degrees, began to roll and surge in bed until he arose 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, must me if she ain't at it again. A woman of orderly and industrious appearance rose for her knees in a corner with sufficient haste and trepidation to show that she was the person referred to. Why, said Mr. Cruncher looking out of bed for a boot, you're at it again, are you? After hailing the morn 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, a garrow waiter? I was only saying my prayers. Saying your prayers, you're a nice woman. What do you mean by flopping yourself down and praying again me? I was not praying against you. I was praying for you. You aren't, and if you were, I won't be took the liberty with it. Here, your mother's a nice woman, young Jerry, going to praying again 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 can see that female, said Mr. Cruncher, with unconscious inconsistency, that the worth of your prayers may be, aim 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 again, I tell you. I can't afford it. I'm not going to be made unlucky by your sneaking. If you must go flopping yourself down, flop in favor of your husband and child and not in opposition to him. If I had any but an unnatural wife and this poor boy had any but an unnatural mother, I might have made some money last week instead of being counter-prayed and counter-minded and religiously second-wanted into the worst of luck. Bust me, said Mr. Cruncher, who all this time had been putting on his clothes. If I ain't what with piety and one bloated thing and another been choused this last week into as bad luck as ever a poor devil of an honest tradesman met with, young Jerry, dress yourself, my boy. And while I clean my boots, keep an 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 addresses his wife once more, I won't be gone again in this matter. I am as rickety as a hackney coach. I'm as sleepy as laudanum. My lines is stained to that degree that I shouldn't know if it wasn't for the pain in them, which was me and which was 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, agarowater. 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 bootleaning and his general preparation for business. 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 the suppressed cry of, you are going to flop, mother. Hello, father. And after raising this fictitious 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, a Garowater, what are you up to? Add it again. His wife explained that she had merely asked a blessing. Don't do it, said Mr. Cruncher looking about as if he rather expected to see the loaf disappear under the efficacy of his wife's petitions. I ain't going to be blessed out of house and home. I won't have my widdles blessed 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 menagerie. Towards nine o'clock, he smoothed his ruffled aspect and presenting as respectable and business-like and exterior as he could overlay his natural self with, issued forth to the occupation of the day. He could scarcely be called a trade in spite of his favorite description of himself as a honest tritesman, his stock consisted of a wooden stool, made out of a broken back chair cut down, which stool, young Jerry, walking at his father's side, carried every morning to beneath the banking house window that was nearest Temple Bar, where, with the addition of the first handful of straw that could be gleaned from any passing vehicle to keep the cold and wet from the aw-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 inlooking. Encamped at a quarter before nine, in good time to touch his three-cornered hat to the oldest of men as they passed into Telsons, Jerry took up his station on this windy March morning with young Jerry standing by him when not engaged 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 considerable 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 washful of him as of everything else in Fleet Street. The head of one of the regular indoor messengers attached to Telsons 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 Godspeed, young Jerry seated himself on the stool, entered on his reversionary interest in the straw his father had been chewing and cogitated. Always rusty, his fingers as always rusty, muttered young Jerry, where does my father get all that iron rust from? He don't get no iron rust here. End of chapter. Book the second chapter two of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Richard Reiman, audibly speaking.com. A sight. You know the old Bailey well, no doubt, said one of the oldest of clerks to Jerry the messenger. Yes, 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 Bailey. Much better, said Jerry, not unlike a reluctant witness at the establishment in question. Then I, as an honest tridesman, wish to know the Bailey. Very well. Find the door where the witnesses go in and show the doorkeeper this note for Mr. Lorry. He will let you in. Into the court, sir? Into the court. Mr. Cruncher's eyes seem 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 doorkeeper will pass the note to Mr. Lorry and do you make any gesture that will attract 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 quattering, 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 spy on a man, I think. It's hard enough to kill him, but it's very hard to spy on 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 mind is. Well, well, said the old clerk. We all have our various ways of gaining a livelihood. Some of us have damp ways and some of us have dry ways. Here is the letter. Go along. Jerry took the letter and remarked into 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 outside Newgate had not obtained one famous notoriety that has since attached to it. But the jail was a vile place in which most kinds of debauchery and villainy were practiced and where dire diseases were bred that came into court with the prisoners and sometimes rushed straight from the dock at my Lord Chief's 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 prisoners and even died before him. For the rest, the Old Bailey was famous as a kind of deadly in-yard from which pale travelers 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 institution, very humanizing 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 include 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 messenger 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 Bedlam. Only the former entertainment was much the dearer. Therefore, all the Old Bailey doors were well guarded, except indeed the social doors by which the criminals got there and those were always left wide open. After some delay and demure, the door grudgingly turned on its hinges a very little way and allowed Mr. Cruncher 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? Eh, returned the man with 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 burned 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 doorkeeper whom he saw making his way to Mr. Laurie with the note in his hand. Mr. Laurie sat at a table among the gentlemen in wigs, not far from a wig gentleman at the prisoner's council who had a great bundle of papers before him and nearly opposite another wig gentleman with his hands in his pockets, whose whole attention, when Mr. Cruncher looked at him then or afterwards, seemed to be concentrated on the ceiling of the court. After some gruff coughing and rubbing of his chin and signing with his hand, Jerry attracted the notice of Mr. Laurie 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. Blessed if I know, said Jerry. What have you got to do with it then if a person may inquire? Blessed if I know that either, said Jerry. The entrance of the judge in a consequent great stir and settling down in the court stopped the dialogue. Presently the doc became the central point of interest. Two jailers who had been standing there went out and the prisoner was brought in and put to the bar. Everybody present except the one-wig 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 themselves at anybody's cost to have you with him. Stood a tiptoe, got upon ledges, stood upon next to nothing to see every inch of him. Conspicuous among these latter like an animated bit of the spiked wall of Newgate, Jerry stood, aiming at the prisoner the beery breath of a wet 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 whatnot 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 20, well-grown and well-looking, with a sunburk cheek and a dark eye. His condition was that of a young gentleman. He was plainly dressed in black or very dark gray, 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 the 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 that 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 diverse occasions and by diverse means and ways, assisted Louis, the French king, in his wars against our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth. That was to say, by coming and going, between the dominions of our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, and those of the said French Louis, and wickedly, falsely, traitorously, and otherwise evil and verbously revealing to the said French Louis 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 satisfaction, 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 making 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 composedly that they had not displaced a leaf of the herbs with which it was strewn. The court was all be strewn with herbs and sprinkled with vinegar as a precaution against jail air and jail 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 a vulnerable 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 immediately and so much to the changing of his aspect, that all the eyes that were turned upon him turned to them. The spectators saw in the two figures a young lady of little more than 20, and a gentleman who was evidently her father, a man of a very remarkable appearance in respect of the absolute whiteness of his hair, and a certain indescribable intensity of face, not of an active kind, but pondering and self-communy. 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 stareurs who 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 observations 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 prisoners. 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 General rose to spin the rope, grind the axe, and hammer the nails into the scaffold. End of chapter. Book II, chapter III of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Richard Reiman, audiblyspeaking.com. A Disappointment. Mr. Attorney General had to inform the jury that the prisoner before them, though young in years, was old in the reasonable practices which claimed the forfeit of his life, that this correspondence with the public enemy was not a correspondence of today or of yesterday or even of last year or of the year before, that it was certain that the prisoner had, for longer than that, been in the habit of passing 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 providence, however, had put it into the heart of a person who was beyond fear and beyond reproach to ferret out the nature of the prisoner's schemes and, struck with horror, to disclose them to his majesty's chief secretary of state and most honorable 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 prisoner's friend, but at once in an auspicious and an evil hour detecting his infamy had resolved to emulate the traitor he could no longer cherish in his bosom on the sacred altar of his country. That if statues were decreed in Britain as in ancient Greece and Rome to public benefactors, this shining citizen would assuredly have had one, that as they were not so decreed, he probably would not have one. That virtue, as had been observed by the poets, in many passages which he well knew the jury would have, word for word, at the tips of their tongues, where at the jury's countenance is 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. But the lofty example of this immaculate and unimpeachable witness for the crown, to refer to whom however unworthily was an honor, had communicated 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 disparagement attempted of this admirable servant, but that in a general way he preferred him to his, Mr. Attorney General's, brothers and sisters and honored 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 documents of their discovery 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 already 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 reasons, the jury, being a loyal jury as he knew they were and being a responsible jury as they knew they were must positively find the prisoner guilty and make an end of him whether they liked it or not. That they never could lay their heads upon their pillows. That they never could tolerate the idea of their 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 had 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 as a variation 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 appeared in the witness box. Mr. Solicitor General then, following his leader's lead, examined the patriot, John Barsad, gentlemen by name. The story of his pure soul was exactly what Mr. Attorney General had described it to be. Perhaps if it had a fault, a little too exactly. Having released his noble bosom of its burden, he would have modestly withdrawn himself but that the weak gentleman with the papers before him sitting not far from Mr. Laurie begged to ask him a few questions. The weak gentleman sitting opposite, still looking at the ceiling of the court. Had he ever been a spy himself? No, he's 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 inherited it? Yes, he had. From whom? Distant relation? Very distant? Rather. Ever been in prison? Certainly not. Never in a debtor's prison? Didn't see what I had to do with it. Never in a debtor's prison? Come once again. Never? Yes. How many times? Two or three times. Not five or six? Perhaps. Of what profession? Gentlemen. Ever been kicked? Might have been. Frequently? No. Ever kicked downstairs? Decidedly not. Once received a kick on the top of a staircase 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 lived by cheating at play? Never. Ever lived by play? Not more than other gentlemen do. Ever borrow money of the prisoner? Yes. Ever pay him? No. Was not this intimacy with the prisoner in reality a very slight one forced upon the prisoner in coaches, ins, and packets? No. Sure he saw the prisoner with these lists? Certain. Knew no more about the lists? No. Had not procured them himself, for instance? No. Expect 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 Kly, swore his way through the case at a great rate. He had taken service with the prisoner in good faith and simplicity four years ago. He 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 active 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 traveling, he had seen similar lists to these in the prisoner's pockets over and over again. He had taken these lists from the drawer of the 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 never been suspected of stealing a silver teapot. 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-Lory. Mr. Jarvis-Lory, are you a clerk in Telsen's bank? I am. On a certain Friday night in November, 1,775, 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. Laurie, 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. Laurie, 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. Laurie, 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. Laurie? I certainly have seen that. Mr. Laurie, 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 package 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. Laurie. He was the only passenger who came on board in the dead of the night. He was. Were you traveling alone, Mr. Laurie, or with any companion? With two companions, a gentleman and a lady. They are here. They are here. Had you any conversation with the prisoner? Hardly any. The weather was stormy and the passage long and rough and I lay on a sofa almost from shore to shore. Miss Minette, 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 Minette, look upon the prisoner. To be confronted with such pity and such earnest youth and beauty was far more trying to be accused than to be confronted with all the crowd. Standing as it were, apart with her on the edge of his grave, not all the staring curiosity that looked on could for the moment nerve him to remain quite still. His hurried right hand parceled 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 color rushed to his heart. The buzz of the great flies was loud again. Miss Minette, have you seen the prisoner before? Yes, sir. Where? On board of the package ship just now referred to sir and on the same occasion. You are the young lady just now referred to? Almost unhappily I am. The plaintive tone of her compassion merged into the less musical voice of the judge as he said something fiercely. Answer the questions put to you and make no remark upon them. Miss Minette, had you any conversation with the prisoner 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, knitting 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 advise 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 harbor. He did it for me. He expressed great gentleness and kindness for my father's state and I'm 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 landed in their boat. Had any papers been handed about among them, similar 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 hanging there. It was a dull lamp and they spoke very low and I did not hear what they said and only saw that they looked at papers. Now to the prisoner's conversation, Ms. Minet. 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 today, buzzing from the blue flies. Ms. Minet, if the prisoner does not perfectly understand that you give the evidence which it is your duty to give, which you must give and which you cannot escape from giving with great unwillingness, he is the only person present in that condition, pleased to go on. He told me that he was traveling on business of a delicate and difficult nature, which might get people into trouble and that he was therefore traveling under an assumed 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, Ms. Minet? 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 III, but there was no harm in his way of saying this. It was said laughingly and to be guile at the time. And he strongly marked expression of face on the part of a chief actor in a scene of great interest to whom many eyes are directed will be unconsciously imitated by the spectators. Her forehead was painfully anxious and intent as she gave this evidence and in the pauses when she stopped for the judge to write it down, watched its effect upon the counsel for and against. Among the lookers on there was the same expression in all quarters of the court in so much 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 Dr. Minet who was called accordingly. Dr. Minet, look upon the prisoner. Have you ever seen him before? Once when he called 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 daughter? 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 imprisonment without trial or even accusation in your native country, Dr. Minet? He answered in a tone that went to every heart, along the 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 cannot even say what time when I employed myself in my captivity in making shoes to the time when I found myself living in London with my dear daughter here. She had become familiar to me when a gracious God restored my faculty. But I am quite unable even to say how she had become 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 object 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 traveled 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 a hotel in that garrison and dockyard town waiting for another 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 wig gentleman 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 attention and curiosity at the prisoner. You say again you are quite sure that it was the prisoner? 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 mistaken. 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. They'll say you, are they very like each other? Allowing for my learned friend's appearance being careless 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 at the prisoner's counsel whether they were next to try Mr. Carton in the 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 whether 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 and 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 unblushing trafficker in blood and one of the greatest scoundrels upon earth since the curse of Judas which he certainly did look rather like. How the virtuous servant Kly was his friend and partner and was worthy to be. How the watchful eyes of those foragers and false swears had rested on the prisoner as a victim because some family affairs in France he being of French extraction it require his making those passages across the channel though what those affairs were consideration for others who were near and dear to him for bad him even for his life to disclose. How the evidence that had been warped and rested from the young lady whose anguish and giving that 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 practice for popularity on the lowest national antipathy in 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 illusions. 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 himself 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 excitement. While his learned friend Mr. Stryver massing 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 light 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 demeanor 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 neighbor 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 we? Yet this Mr. Carton took in more of the details of the scene than he appeared to take in. For now, when Miss Manette's head dropped upon her father'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 removed and much sympathy with her father. It had evidently been a great distress to him to have the days of his imprisonment recalled. He had shown strong internal agitation when he was questioned and that pondering or brooding look which made him old had been upon him like a heavy cloud ever since. As he passed out, the jury who had turned back and paused a moment spoke through their foremen. They were not agreed and wished to retire. My lord, perhaps 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 rumored 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. Laurie 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 messenger I know and we'll get to Temple Bar long before I can. Jerry had just enough forehead to knuckle and he knuckled it in acknowledgement of his communication and a shilling. Mr. Carton came up at the moment and touched Mr. Laurie 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. Laurie reddened as if he were conscious of having debated 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 direction 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 insolent. He stood half turn from the prisoner lounging with his elbow against the bar. I do ask it, except my cordial thanks. What, said Carton, still only half turn 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 favor. 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 horse messenger, uncomfortably seated on a form, after taking that reflection, had dropped into a doze when a loud murmur and a rapid type of people, setting up the stairs that led to the court, carried him along with them. Jerry, Jerry, Mr. Laurie was already calling at the door when he got there. Here, sir, it's a fight to get back in. Here I am, sir. Mr. Laurie handed him a paper through the throng. Quick, have you got it? Yes, sir. He still he written on the paper was the word acquitted. If you had sent the message recalled to life again, Mother Jerry, as he turned, I should have known what you meant this time. He had no opportunity of saying or so much as thinking anything else until he was clear of the old Bailey. For the crowd came pouring out with a 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. End of chapter. Book two, chapter four of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recorded by Richard Reiman, audiblyspeaking.com. Congratulatory. From 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 Dr. Minette, Lucy Minette, his daughter, Mr. Laurie, the solicitor for the defense and its counsel, Mr. Stryver, stood gathered round Mr. Charles Darne, just released, congratulating him on his escape from death. It would have been difficult by a far brighter light to recognize in Dr. Minette, intellectual at face and upright 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 overcrowded him fitfully without any apparent reason. While one external cause, and that a reference to his long-lingering agony would always, as on the trial, evoke this condition from the depths of his soul, it was also in its nature to arise of itself and to draw a gloom over him as incomprehensible to those unacquainted with his story as if they had seen the shadow of the actual Bastille thrown upon him by a summer sun when the substance was 300 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 influence 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. Darne had kissed her hand fervently and gratefully and it turned to Mr. Stryver whom he warmly thanked. Mr. Stryver, a man of little more than 30, but looking 20 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 companies and conversations that argued well for his shouldering his way up in life. He still had his wig and gown on and he said squaring himself at his late client to that degree that he squeezed the innocent Mr. Laurie clean out of the group. I'm glad to have brought you off with honor, Mr. Darne. 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. Darne, and my best is as good as another man's, I believe. It clearly being incumbent on someone to say much better. Mr. Laurie said it, perhaps not quite disinterestedly, but with the interested object of squeezing himself back again. You think so, said Mr. Striper. Well, you have been present all day and you ought to know you are a man of business too. And as such, quote Mr. Laurie, whom the council 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 Dr. Minette to break up this conference and order us all to our homes. Miss Lucy looks ill. Mr. Darne has had a terrible day. We are worn out. Speak for yourself, Mr. Laurie, said Striper. I have a night's work to do yet. Speak for yourself. I speak for myself, answered Mr. Laurie, and for Mr. Darne, and for Miss Lucy, and Miss Lucy, 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 curious look at Darne. 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 Lucy, 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 under the impression, which he himself had originated, that he would not be released that night. The lights were nearly all extinguished in the passages, the iron gates were being closed with a jar and a rattle, and the dismal place was deserted until tomorrow morning's interest of gallows, pillory, whipping post and branding iron should repeal it. Walking between her father and Mr. Darne, Lucy Manette passed into the open air. A hackney coach was called and the father and daughter departed in it. Mr. Striver 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. Laurie and Mr. Darne stood upon the pavement. So, Mr. Laurie, men of business may speak to Mr. Darne now. Nobody had made any acknowledgement 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. Darne. Mr. Laurie reddened and said warmly, you have mentioned 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 meddled, Mr. Laurie. You are as good as another. I have no doubt. Better, I daresay. And indeed, sir, pursued Mr. Laurie, 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. Carton. It is a pity you have not, sir. I think so too. If you had pursued Mr. Laurie, perhaps you would attend to it. Lord love you, no, I shouldn't, said Mr. Carton. Well, sir, cried Mr. Laurie, thoroughly heated by his indifference. Business is a very good thing, a very respectable 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 prosperous and happy life. Chair there. Perhaps a little angry with himself, as well as with the barrister. Mr. Laurie bustled into the chair and was carried off to Telsons. Carton, who smelt of port wine and did not appear to be quite sober, laughed then and turned to Darnay. This is a strange chance that throws you and me together. This must be a strange night to you, standing alone here with your counterpart on these street stones. I hardly seen 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 began 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. Throwing his arm through his own, he took him down Ludgate Hill to Fleet Street and so up a cupboard way into a tavern. Here they were shown into a little room where Charles Darnay was soon recruiting his strength with a good plain dinner and good wine, while Carton sat opposite to him at the same table with a 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 particular. Indeed, I began to think we are not much alike in any particular you and I. Confused by the emotion of the day and feeling his being there with this double, of course, 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 the 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 it in another. That's a fair young lady to hand to a coach in the dark, Mr. Darnay, he said, filling his new goblet. A slight frown and a laconic, yes, or the answer. That's a fair young lady to be pity by and wep 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 suppose she was. The allusion served as a timely reminder to Darnay that this disagreeable companion had, of his own free will, assisted him in the straight 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 careless 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 disconcerted. 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. Mr. 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 10. 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, I'll ask 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. Maybe so, Mr. Darnay, maybe 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 candle, 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 resembles you? There is nothing in you to like, you know that. Ah, confound you. What a change you have made in yourself. 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. End of chapter. Book 2, Chapter 5 of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recorded by Richard Reiman, audiblyspeaking.com. The Jackal. Those were drinking days and most men drank hard. So very great is the improvement time has brought about in such habits that a moderate statement of the quantity of wine and punch which one man would swallow in the course of a night without any detriment to his reputation as a perfect gentleman would seem in these days a ridiculous exaggeration. The learned 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 compiers in this particular any more than in the drier parts of the legal race. A favorite at the Old Bailey and Ike at the Sessions, Mr. Stryver had begun consciously to hew away the lower staves of the ladder on which he mounted. Sessions and Old Bailey had now to summon their favorite, especially, to their longing arms and shouldering itself towards the visage of the Lord Chief Justice in the Court of Kings bench, the fluoride countenance of Mr. Stryver might be daily seen bursting out of the bed of wigs like a great sunflower pushing its way at the sun from among a rank garden full of flaring companions. 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 remarkable improvement came upon him as to this. The more business he got, the greater his power seemed to grow at getting at its pith and marrow. And however late at night, he sat carousing with Sidney Carton. He always had his points at his fingers ends in the morning. Sidney Carton, idlest and most unpromising of men, was Stryver's great ally. What the two drank together between Hilary Term and Miklamis might have floated a king 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 rumored 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 Sidney 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 honor 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 Benchwalk and paper buildings, turned into the Stryver chambers. The Stryver Clark, who never assisted at these conferences, 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 Geoffrey's 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 later.' They went into a dingy room lined with books and littered with papers where there was a blazing fire. A kettle steamed upon the hob and in the midst of the wreck of papers, a table shone with plenty of wine upon it and brandy and rum and sugar and lemons. "'You have had your bottle,' I perceived Sidney. "'Tue to night, I think. "'I've been dining with the day's client "'or seeing him dying. "'It's all one.' "'That was a rare point, Sidney, "'that you brought to bear upon the identification. "'How did you come by it? "'When did it strike you?' "'I thought he was a rather 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 punch. "'You and your luck, Sidney. "'Get to work, get to work.' "'Sell only 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 ringing 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 tonight, 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, Sidney, 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 and his waistband, "'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 naughty 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 handgear "'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 meditate. "'The jackal then invigorated himself "'with a bumper for his throttle "'and a fresh application to his head "'and applied himself to the collection "'of a second meal. "'This was administered to the lion "'in the same manner "'and was not disposed of "'until the clock struck three in the morning. "'And now we have done, Sidney, "'Villabupper of Punch,' said Mr. Stryler. "'The jackal removed the towels from his head, "'which had been steaming again, "'shook himself, yawned, shivered, "'and complied. "'You were very sound, Sidney, "'in the matter of those crown witnesses today. "'Every question told. "'I always am sound, am I not? "'I don't gain say it. "'What has roughened your temper? "'Put some punch to it and smooth it again. "'With the deprecatory grunt, "'the jackal again complied. "'The old Sidney Carton of Old Shrewsbury School,' "'said Stryler, nodding his head over him "'as he reviewed him in the present and the past. "'The old seesaw, Sidney, "'up one minute and down the next, "'now in spirits and now in despondency.' "'Ah,' returned the other sighing. "'Yes, the same Sidney 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 friends, "'squaring himself at him with a bullying air, "'as if the fire grate had been the furnace "'in which the stained endeavor was forged. "'And the one delicate thing to be done "'for the old Sidney Carton of Old Shrewsbury School "'was to shoulder him into it. "'Your way is, and always was, a lame way. "'You summoned no energy and purpose. "'Look at me.' "'Oh, botheration,' returned Sidney "'with a lighter and more good-humored laugh. "'Don't you be moral.' "'How have I done what I have done?' said Striper. "'How do I do what I do?' "'Partly through paying me to help you, I suppose. "'But it's not worth your while to apostrophize 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 fellow 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'm not sure "'that it was not yours. "'You were always driving and riving "'and shouldering and passing "'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 Striper, holding up his glass. "'Are you turned in a pleasant direction? "'Apparently not, for he became gloomy again. "'Pretty witness? "'He muttered, looking down into his glass. "'I have had enough of witnesses today and tonight. "'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 Sidney?' said Mr. Striper, "'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 sympathized 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 stand had risen far away and the first spray of it in its advance had begun to overwhelm the city. Waste forces within him and a desert all around, this man stood still on his way across a silent terrace and saw for a moment lying in the wilderness before him, a mirage of honorable 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. Climbing to a higher chamber in a well of houses, he threw himself down in his clothes on a neglected bed and its pillow was wet with wasted tears. Sadly, sadly, the sun rose. It rose upon no sadder sight than the man of good abilities and good emotions, incapable of their directed exercise, incapable of his own help and his own happiness, sensible of the blight on him and resigning himself to let it eat him away. End of chapter. Book II, chapter six of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recorded by Richard Reimann, audiblyspeaking.com. Hundreds of people. The quiet lodgings of Dr. Manette were in a quiet street corner not far from Soho Square. On the afternoon of a certain fine Sunday when the waves of four months had rolled over the trial for treason and carried it as to the public interest and memory far out to sea, Mr. Jarvis Laurie walked along the sunny streets from Clarkinwell where he lived on his way to dying with the doctor. After several relapses into business absorption, Mr. Laurie had become the doctor's friend and the quiet street corner was the sunny part of his life. On this certain fine Sunday, Mr. Laurie walked towards Soho early in the afternoon for three reasons of habit. Firstly, because on fine Sundays, he often walked out before dinner with the doctor and Lucy. Secondly, because on unfavorable Sundays, he was accustomed to be with them as the family friend, talking, reading, looking out a window and generally getting through the day. Thirdly, because he happened to have his own little shrew doubts to solve and knew how the waves of the doctor's household pointed to that time as a likely time for solving them. A quieter 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 lodgings 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 wildflowers grew and the Hawthorne blossomed in the now vanished fields. As a consequence, country heirs circulated in Soho with vigorous freedom, instead of languishing into the parish like stray poppers 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 that you could see beyond it into a glare of brightness. It was a cool spot, stayed but cheerful, a wonderful place for echoes and a very harbor from the raging streets. There ought to have been a tranquil bark in such an anchorage and there was. The doctor occupied two floors of a large stiff house where several collings 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 plain tree rustled its green leaves, church organs claimed to be made and silver to be chased and likewise gold to be beaten by some mysterious giant who had a golden arm starting out of the wall of the front hall as if he had beaten himself precious and menaced a similar conversion of all visitors. Very little of these trades or of a lonely lodger rumored to live upstairs or of a dim coach trimming maker asserted to have a counting house below was ever heard or seen. Occasionally, a stray workman putting his coat on traversed the hall or a stranger appeared about there or a distant clink was heard across the courtyard or a thump from the golden giant. These, however, were only the exceptions required to prove the rule that the sparrows in the plain tree behind the house and the echoes in the corner before it had their own way from Sunday morning until Sunday night. Dr. Manette received such patience here as his old reputation and its revival in the floating whispers of his story 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 Laurie's knowledge, thoughts and notice when he rang the doorbell of the tranquil house in the corner on the fine Sunday afternoon. Dr. Manette at home, expected home. Miss Lucy at home, expected home. Miss Pras at home, possibly at home but of a certainty impossible for handmade to anticipate intentions of Miss Pras as to admission or denial of the fact. As I am at home myself, said Mr. Laurie, I'll go upstairs. Although the doctor's daughter had known nothing of the country of her birth, she appeared to have innately derived from it that ability to make much of little means, which is one of its most useful and most agreeable characteristics. Simple as the furniture was, it was set off by so many little adornments of no value but for their taste and fancy that its effect was delightful. The disposition of everything in the rooms from the largest object to the least, the arrangement of colors, 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. Laurie stood looking about him, the very chairs and tables seem 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 open that the air might pass freely through them all. Mr. Laurie, 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 Lucy's birds and flowers and books and desk and work table and box of watercolors. The second was the doctor's consulting room used also as the dining room. The third, changingly speckled by the rustle of the plane tree in the yard was the doctor's bedroom and there in a corner stood the disused shoemaker's bench and tray of tools, much as it had stood on the fifth floor of the dismal house by the wine shop in the suburb of San Antoine in Paris. I wonder, said Mr. Laurie, pausing in his looking about, that he keeps that reminder of his sufferings about him. And while I wonder at that, was the abrupt inquiry that made him start. He proceeded from Miss Pross, the wild red woman, strong of hand, whose acquaintance he at first made at the Royal George Hotel at Dover and it since improved. I should have thought, Mr. Laurie began. Poo, you'd have thought, said Miss Pross and Mr. Laurie 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. Laurie 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 lady bird. Indeed. Her gracious say something else besides indeed, or you'll fidget me to death, said Miss Pross, whose character disassociated from stature was shortness. Really then, said Mr. Laurie 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 worthy of lady bird 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 proposition was questioned, she exaggerated it. Dear me, said Mr. Laurie as the safest remark he could think of. I had lived with the darling or the darliness lived with me and paid me for it, which she certainly should never have done. You may take your affidavit. If I could have afforded to keep either myself or her for nothing since she was 10 years old and it's really very hard, said Miss Pross. Not seen with precision, what was very hard? Mr. Laurie 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 the beginning of it, said Mr. Laurie. 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 Dr. Minette except that he is not worthy of such a daughter, which is no imputation on him for it was not to be expected that anybody should be under any circumstances. But it really is doubly and trebly hard to have crowds and multitudes of people turning up after him. I could have forgiven him to take Lady Bird's affections away from me. Mr. Laurie 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 willingly slaves to youth when they have lost it, to beauty they never had, to accomplishments that they were never fortunate enough to gain, to bright hopes that never shown upon their own somber lives. He knew enough of the world to know that there is nothing in it better 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 angels than many ladies immeasurably better got up both by nature and art who had balances at Tillsons. There never was nor will be but one man worthy of ladybird, said Miss Pross. And that was my brother Solomon if he hadn't made a mistake in life. Here again, Mr. Lori's inquiries into Miss Pross's personal 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 forevermore with no touch of compunction. Miss Pross's fidelity of belief in Solomon deducting a mere trifle for this slight mistake was quite a serious matter with Mr. Lori 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 Lucy never refer to the shoemaking time yet? Never. And yet kicks that bench in those tools beside him. Ah, return 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. Lori had begun when Miss Pross took him up short with? Never imagine anything. Have no imagination at all. Thanks and corrected. Do you suppose you go so far as to suppose sometimes? Now and then, said Miss Pross. Do you suppose, Mr. Lori went on with a laughing twinkle in his bright eye as it looked kindly at her, that Dr. Meneth 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 Lady Bird 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. Lori replied, no, no, no, surely not. To return to business, is it not remarkable that Dr. Meneth, unquestionably innocent 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 was so devotedly attached to him, believe me, Miss Pross, I don't approach the topic with you out of curiosity, but out of zealous interest. Well, to the best of my understanding and bad's the best, you'll tell me, said Miss Pross, softened by the tone of the apology. He is afraid of the whole subject. Afraid? It's plain enough, I should think, why he may be. It's 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 pleasant, I should think. It was a profounder remark than Mr. Laurie had looked for. True, said he, and fearful to reflect upon. Yet a doubt looks in my mind, Miss Pross, whether it is good for Dr. Minette to have that suppression always shut up within him. Indeed, it is this doubt and the uneasiness that sometimes 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. Lady Bird has learned to know then that his mind is walking up and down, walking 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 till her love and company have brought him to himself. Not withstanding Miss Pross's denial of her own imagination, there was a perception of the pain of being monotonously haunted by one sad idea in her 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. Laurie 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 upstairs 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 thanking 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 spoiled Lucy in accents and with eyes that had as much spoiling in them as Miss Pross had and would have had more if it were possible. Mr. Laurie was a pleasant sight too, beaming at all this in his little wig and thanking his bachelor stars for having lighted him in his declining years to a home. But no hundreds of people came to see the sights and Mr. Laurie looked in vain for the fulfillment of Miss Pross' prediction. Dinner time and still, no hundreds of people. In the arrangements of the little household, Miss Pross took charge of the lower regions and always acquitted herself marvelously. Her dinners of a very modest quality were so well cooked and so well served and so neat in their contrivances, half English and half French, that nothing could be better. Miss Pross' friendship being of the thoroughly practical kind, she had ravaged Soho and the adjacent provinces in search of impoverished French who tempted by shillings and half crowns would impart culinary mystery 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 periods, either in the lower regions or in her own room on the second floor, a blue chamber to which no one but her ladybird ever gained admittance. On this occasion, Miss Pross, responding to ladybird's pleasant face and pleasant efforts to please her, unbent exceedingly, so the dinner was very pleasant too. It was an oppressive day and after dinner, Lucy proposed that the wine should be carried out under the plain tree and they should sit there in the air. As everything turned upon her and revolved about her, they went out under the plain tree and she carried the wine down for the special benefit of Mr. Lori. She had installed herself sometime before as Mr. Lori's cupbearer and while I sat under the plain tree talking, she kept his glass replenished. Mysterious backs and ends of houses peeped at them as they talked and the plain tree whispered to them in its own way above their heads. Still, the hundreds of people did not present themselves. Mr. Darne presented himself while they were sitting under the plain tree, but he was only one. Dr. Manette received him kindly and so did Lucy, 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 especially young. The resemblance between him and Lucy 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, he was very agreeable to trace the likeness. He had been talking all day on many subjects and with unusual vivacity. Pray Dr. Manette said Mr. Darne as they sat under the plain tree and he said it in the natural pursuit of the topic in hand which happened to be the old buildings of London. Have you seen much of the tower? Lucy and I have been there, but only casually. We have seen enough of it to know that it teams with interest a little more. I have been there as you remember, said Darne with a smile, though reddening a little angrily in another character and not in a character that gives facilities for seeing much of it. They told me a curious thing when I was there. What was that? Lucy 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 cornerstone 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 prisoner with those initials and many fruitless guesses were made what the name could have been. At length, it was suggested that the letters were not initials, but the complete word dig. The floor was examined very carefully under the inscription and in the earth beneath a stone or tile or some fragment of paving were found the ashes of a paper mingled with the ashes of a small leather 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 jailer. My father, exclaimed Lucy, you're 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 raindrops on it, but he said not a single word in reference to the discovery that had been told of. And as they went into the house, the business eye of Mr. Laurie 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 courthouse. He recovered himself so quickly, however, that Mr. Laurie had doubts of his business eye. The arm of the golden giant 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. Carton had lounged in, but he made only two. The night was so very sultry that although they sat with doors and windows open, they were 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. Lucy sat by her father. Darnay sat beside her. Carton leaned against the 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 spectral wings. The raindrops are still falling, large, heavy and few, said Dr. Minette. It comes slowly, it comes surely, said Carton. They spoke low as people watching and waiting mostly 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 Lucy. Sometimes I have sat here of an evening until I have fancied, but even the shade of a foolish fancy makes me shudder tonight. 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 impressive as we originate them, I think. They are not to be communicated. I have sometimes sat alone here of an evening, listening until I have made the echoes out to be the echoes of all the footsteps that are coming by and by into our lives. There is a great crowd coming one day into our lives. If that be so, Sidney 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 fancy, but you asked for it. When I have yielded myself to it, I have been alone and then I have imagined them the footsteps of the people who are to come into my life and my fathers. 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 lightning. 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 peel of thunder. 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 St. Paul's was striking one in the cleared air when Mr. Laurie, escorted by Jerry, high-booted and burying a lantern, set forth on his return passage to Clarkinwell. There were solitary patches of road on the way between Soho and Clarkinwell. And Mr. Laurie, 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. Laurie, to bring the dead out of their graves. I never see the night myself, master, nor yet I don't expect to, what would do that? answered Jerry. Good night, Mr. Cartman, 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. End of chapter. Book two, chapter seven of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Richard Rhyman, audiblayspeaking.com. Monsignor in town. Monsignor, one of the great lords in power at the court, held his fortnightly reception in his grand hotel in Paris. Monsignor was in his inner room, his sanctuary of sanctuaries, the holiest of holiests to the crowd of worshipers in the suite of rooms without. Monsignor was about to take his chocolate. Monsignor could swallow a great many things with ease and was by some few selling minds supposed to be rather rapidly swallowing France. But his morning's chocolate could not so much as get into the throat of Monsignor without the aid of four strong men besides the cook. Yes, it took four men, all four ablaze with gorgeous decoration, and the chief of them unable to exist with fewer than two gold watches in his pocket, emulative of the noble in chaste fashion set by Monsignor to conduct the happy chocolate to Monsignor's lips. One lack he carried the chocolate pot into the sacred presence. A second, nilled and frothed the chocolate with the little instrument he bore for that function. A third, presented the favored napkin. A fourth, he of the two gold watches, poured the chocolate out. It was impossible for Monsignor 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 ignobley waited on by only three men. He must have died of two. Monsignor had been out at a little supper last night where the comedy and the grand opera were charmingly represented. Monsignor was out at a little supper most nights with fascinating company. So polite and so impressable was Monsignor that the comedy and the grand opera had far more influence with him in the tiresome articles 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 favored always was for England by way of example, in the regretted days of the Mary Stuart who sold it. Monsignor had one truly noble idea of general public business, which was to let everything go on in its own way of particular public business. Monsignor 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, Monsignor 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 fullness thereof are mine, sayeth Monsignor. Yet Monsignor had slowly found that vulgar embarrassments crept into his affairs, both private and public, and he had as to both classes of affairs, allied himself perforce with a farmer general. As to finances public because Monsignor could not make anything out of all of them and must consequently let them out to somebody who could, as to finances private because farmer generals were rich and Monsignor after generations of great luxury and expense was growing poor. Hence Monsignor had taken his sister from a convent while there was yet time to ward off the impending 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 appropriate cane with the golden apple on top of it was now among the company and the outer rooms much prostrated before by mankind, always accepting superior mankind of the blood of Monsignor, who his own wife included, looked down upon him with the loftiest contempt. A sumptuous man was the farmer general, 30 horses stood in his stables, 24 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, how so ever his matrimonial relations conduced to social morality was at least the greatest reality among the personages who attended at the hotel of Monsignor that day. For the rooms though a beautiful scene to look at and adorn 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 and the rags and nightcaps elsewhere. And not so far off either, 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 business. If that could have been anybody's business at the house of Monsignor. Military officers destitute of military 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 nearly or remotely of the order of Monsignor 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 Monsignor or the state, yet equally unconnected with anything that was real or with lives passed and traveling by any straight road to any earthly end were no less abundant. Doctors who made great fortunes out of dainty remedies for imaginary disorders that never existed smiled upon their courtly patients in the anti chambers of Monsignor. Projectors who had discovered every kind of remedy for the little evils with which the state was touched except the remedy of setting 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 Monsignor. Unbelieving philosophers who were remodeling 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 transmutation of medals at this wonderful gathering accumulated by Monsignor. 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 subject of human interest were in the most exemplary state of exhaustion at the hotel of Monsignor. Such homes had these various notabilities left behind them in the fine world of Paris that the spies among the assembled devotees of Monsignor forming a goodly half of the polite company 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 realization 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 grandmamas of 60 dressed and supped as at 20. The leprosy of unreality disfigured every human creature in attendance upon Monsignor. In the outermost room were half a dozen exceptional people who 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 members 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 Monsignor's guidance. Besides these dervishes were other three who had rushed into another sect which mended matters with a jargon about the center of truth, holding that man had got out of the center of truth which did not need much demonstration but had not got out of the circumference and then he was to be kept from flying out of the circumference and was even to be shoved back into the center 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 Monsignor 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 delicate complexions artificially preserved and mended, such gallant swords to look at and such delicate honor to the sense of smell would surely keep anything going forever and ever. The exquisite gentleman of the finest breeding wore little pendant 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 fan San 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 palace 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 descended to the common executioner who in pursuance of the charm was required to officiate frizzled, powdered in a gold lace coat, pumps, and white silk stockings. At the gallows and the wheel, the ax was a rarity, Monsieur Paris, as it was the Episcopal mode among his brother professors 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 1780th year of our Lord could possibly doubt that a system rooted in a frizzled hangman, powder, gold laced, pumped, and white silk stocking would see the very stars out. Monseigneur having eased his foreman of their burdens and taken his chocolate, caused the doors of the holiest of holiest 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 worshipers 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 another, Monseigneur affably passed through his rooms to the remote region of the circumference of truth. There Monseigneur turned and came back again. There Monseigneur 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 downstairs. 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 downstairs. He was a man of about 60, 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 otherwise, 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 changing color 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 helping such a look was to be found in the line of the mouth and the lines of the orbits of the eyes being much too horizontal and thin. Still, in the effect of the face made, it was a handsome 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 Monsignor might have been warmer in his manner. It appeared 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 recklessness of a man brought no check into the face or to the lips of the master. The complaint had sometimes been made itself 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 abandonment 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 clutching each other and clutching children out of its way. At last, sweeping 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 little wounded behind and why not? But the frightened valet had got down in a hurry and there were 20 hands at the horse's bridles. What has gone wrong, said the mature, 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 basement of the fountain and was down in the mud and wet, howling over it like a wild animal. Barton, mature of the marquee, said a ragged and submissive man, it is a child. Why does he make that abominable noise? Is it his child? Excuse me, mature of the marquee, it is a pity, yes. The fountain was a little removed for the street opened where it was into a space some 10 or 12 yards square. As the tall man suddenly got up from the ground and came running at the carriage, mature of the marquee clapped his hand for an instant on his sword hilt. Killed, shrieked the man in wild desperation, extending both arms at their length above his head and staring at him, dead. The people closed round and looked at mature of the marquee. 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 spoken was flat and tame in its extreme submission. Mishor the marquee ran his eyes over them all as if they had been mere rats come out of their holes. He took out his purse. It is extraordinary to me, said he. That you people cannot take care of yourselves and your children. One of you or the other is forever in the way. How do I know what injury you have done my horses? See, give him that. He threw out a gold coin for the valet to pick up and all the heads craned forward that all the eyes might look down at it as it fell. The tall man called out again with a most unearthly cry, dead. He was arrested by the quick arrival of another man for whom the rest made way. On seeing him, the miserable creature fell upon his shoulder sobbing and crying and pointing to the fountain where some women were stooping 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 guest bard. 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? Mishore 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 daining to look at the assemblage a second time, Mishore 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 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 Mishore 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 groveling 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 carriage 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 contemptuous eyes passed over her and over all the other rats. And he leaned back in his seat again and gave the word, go on. He was driven on and other carriages came 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 looking 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 bitten 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 eight. 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. End of chapter. Book two, chapter eight of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Richard Reiman, audibly speaking.com. Monsignor 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 dejected disposition to give up and wither away. The share of the marquee in his traveling carriage which might have been lighter conducted by four post horses and two postillions fagged up a steep hill. A blush on the countenance of Monsignor of 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 setting sun. The sunset struck so brilliantly into the traveling carriage when it gained the hilltop that its occupant was steeped in crimson. It will die out, said Monsignor of the Marquis glancing at his hands directly. In effect, the sun was so low that it dipped at the moment. 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 marquee going down together, there was no glow left when the drag was taken off. But there remained a broken country, bold and open, a little village at the bottom of the hill, a broad sweep and rise beyond it, a church tower, a windmill, a forest for the chase and a crag with a fortress on it used as a prison. Round upon all these darkening objects as the night drew on, the marquee looked with the air of one who was coming near home. The village had its one poor street with its poor brewery, 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 signs 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 solid 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 prospect, 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. Herald did by a courier in advance and by the cracking of his postillions whips which twined snake-like about their heads in the evening air as if he came attended by the furies. Monsieur Le Marquis drew up in his traveling carriage 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 shore filing down of misery, warm face and figure that was to make the meagerness of Frenchmen and English superstition which should have survived the truth through the best part of a hundred years. Monsieur Le Marquis cast his eyes over the submissive faces that grouped before him as the like of himself had grouped before Monsignor of the court. Only the difference was that these faces grouped 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 fellows closed round to look and listen in the manner of the people at the Paris fountain. I passed you on the road. Monsignor, it is true. I had the honor of being passed on the road. Coming up the hill and at the top of the hill, both. Monsignor, it is true. What did you look at so fixedly? Monsignor, I looked at the man. He stooped a little and with his tattered blue cap pointed under the carriage. All his fellows stooped to look under the carriage. Black man, pig, and why look there? Pardon, Monsignor. He swung by the chain of the shoe, the drag. Who demanded the traveler? Monsignor, 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, Monsignor. 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, Monsignor. 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 hanging down. Then recovered himself, fumbled with his cap, and made a bow. What was he like? Monsignor, 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 little 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 sensible that such vermin were not to ruffle him, to see a thief accompanying my carriage and not open that great mouth of yours. Put him aside, Monsieur Gabel. Monsieur Gabel was the postmaster and some other taxing functionary united. He had come out with great obsequiousness to assist at this examination and had held the examine by the drapery of his arm in an official manner. Bah, go aside, said Monsieur Gabel. Lay hands on this stranger if he seeks to lodge in your village tonight and be sure that his business is honest, Gabel. Monsignor, I am flattered to devote myself to your orders. 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? Monsignor, he precipitated himself over the hillside, head-first as a person plunges into the river. See to it, Gabel. Go on. The half-dozen who were peering at the chain were still among the wheels, like sheep. The wheels turned so suddenly that they were lucky to save their skins and bones. They had very little else to save, or they might not have been so fortunate. The burst with which the carriage started out of the village and up the rise beyond was soon checked by the steepness of the hill. Gradually it subsided to a foot pace, swinging and lumbering upward among the many sweet scents of a summer night. The postillions, 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 dull distance. At the steepest point of the hill, there was a little burial ground with a cross and a new large figure of our savior on it. It was a poor figure in wood done by some inexperienced rustic carver, but he had studied the figure from the life, his own life, maybe, for it was dreadfully spare and thin. To this distressful emblem of a great distress that had long been growing worse and was not at its worst, a woman was kneeling. She turned her head as the carriage came up to her, rose quickly, and presented herself at the carriage door. It is you, Monsignor, Monsignor, a petition. With an exclamation of impatience, but with his unchangeable face, Monsignor looked out. How, then, what is it? Always petitions. Monsignor, for the love of the great God, my husband, the forester. What of your husband, the forester? Always the same with you people. He cannot pay something. He has paid all, Monsignor. He is dead. Well, he is quiet. Can I restore him to you? Alas, no, Monsignor. But he lies yonder under a little heap of poor grass. Well? Monsignor, 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 turn she clasped her veins 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. Monsignor, hear me. Monsignor, 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? Monsignor, the good God knows. But I don't ask it. My petition is that a morsel of stone or wood with my husband's name may be 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. Monsignor, they are so many. They increase so fast there is so much want. Monsignor, Monsignor. The valet had put her away from the door. The carriage had broken into a brisk drop. The postilians had quickened the pace. She was left far behind. And Monsignor, again escorted by the furies, was rapidly diminishing the league or two of distance that remained between him and his chateau. The sweet sense 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 specter, 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 casements 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 overhanging trees was upon mature the marquee 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? Monsignor, not yet. End of chapter. Book two, chapter nine of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Richard Reiman, audiblyspeaking.com. The Gorgons head. It was a heavy mass of building, that chateau of Monsieur and the marquee, with a large stone courtyard before it and two stone sweeps of staircase meeting in a stone terrace before the principal door. A stony business altogether with heavy stone balustrades and stone urns and stone flowers and stone faces of men and stone heads of lions in all directions, as if the Gorgons head had surveyed it when it was finished two centuries ago. Up the broad flight of shallow steps, Monsieur the marquee, flambeau, proceeded, went from his carriage, sufficiently disturbing the darkness to illicit 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 flambeau 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, saved the falling of a fountain into its stone basin, for it was one of those dark nights that hold their breath by the hour together and then he'd have a long, low sigh and hold their breath again. The great door clanged behind him and Monsieur the marquee 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 peasant 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 marquee, with his flambeau bearer going on before, went up the staircase to a door in a corridor. This throne 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 where the burning of wood in winter time and all luxuries befitting the state of a marquee in a luxurious age and country. The fashion of the last Louis, but one, of the line that was never to break, the four-teeth 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 top towers, a small lofty room with its window wide open and the wooden jealousy blinds closed so that the dark night only showed in slight horizontal lines of black, alternating with their broad lines of stone color. My nephew, said the marquee, glancing at the supper preparation. They said he was not arrived, nor was he, but he had been expected with Monsignor. Ah, it is not probable he will arrive tonight. Nevertheless, leave the table as it is. I shall be ready in a quarter of an hour. In a quarter of an hour, Monsignor was ready and sat down alone to his sumptuous and joyous 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 color. Monsignor, that? Outside the blinds. Open the blinds. It was done. Well, Monsignor, 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 around for instructions. Good, said the imperturbable master. Close them again. That was done too and the marquee went on with his supper. He was halfway 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 was arrived? It was the nephew of Monsignor. He had been some few leagues behind Monsignor early in the afternoon. He had diminished the distance rapidly but not so rapidly as to come up with Monsignor on the road. He had heard of Monsignor at the posting houses as being before him. He was to be told, said Monsignor, that supper awaited 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. Monsignor received him in a courtly manner but they did not shake hands. You left Paris yesterday, sir? He said to Monsignor as he took his seat at table. Yesterday and you? I came direct from London? Yes. You have been a long time coming, said the marquee 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 moment in his answer, the various business. Without doubt, said the polished uncle. So long as the 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 meeting 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 unexpected 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, return the nephew, whether if it had carried me to the utmost brink of death, you would have cared to stop me there. The deep and 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 reading that it was not reassuring. Indeed, sir, pursued the nephew, for anything I know you may have expressly worked to give a more suspicious appearance to the suspicious circumstances that surrounded me. No, no, no, said the uncle pleasantly. But however that may be, resumed the nephew glancing at him with deep distrust. I know that your 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 pulsation in the two marks. Do me the favor to recall that I told you so long ago. I recall it. Thank you, said the marquee, very sweetly indeed. His tone lingered in the air, almost like the tone of a musical instrument. In effect, sir, pursued the nephew, I believe it to be at once your bad fortune and my good fortune that has kept me out of a prison in France here. I do not quite understand, returned the uncle sipping his coffee. Dare I ask you to explain? I believe that if you were not in disgrace with the court and had not been overshadowed by that cloud for years past, a letter to cachet would have sent me to some fortress indefinitely. It is possible, said the uncle with great calmness, for the honor of the family, I could even resolve to incommode 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, return the uncle with refined politeness. I would not be sure of that. A good opportunity for consideration, surrounded by the advantages of solitude, might influence your destiny to far greater advantage than you influence it for yourself. But it is useless to discuss the question, I am, as you say, at a disadvantage. These little instruments of correction, these gentle aids to the power and honor of families, these slight favors 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 and all such things has 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 pioneered 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 the country around 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 sustained its grandeur. Ha! 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 mass looked at him sideways with a stronger concentration of keenness, closeness and dislike than was comfortable with its wearer's assumption of indifference. Repression is the only lasting philosophy. The dark deference of fear and slavery, my friend, observed the marquis, will keep the dog so 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 a 50 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 jarred plunder at Reign's. As for the roof he vaunted, he might have found that shutting out the sky in a new way to whip forever 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 honor and repose of the family if you will not. But you must be fatigued. Shall we terminate our conference for the night? One moment more. An hour if you please. Sir, said the nephew, we have done wrong and are reaping 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 honorable family whose honor 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 system 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 forever 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, Mr. Charles, I see. This property and France are lost to me, said the nephew 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 tomorrow, which I have the vanity to hope is not probable or 20 years hence, you do me too much honor, 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 misery and ruin? Ha, said the Marquis, glancing around 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, oppression, hunger, nakedness and suffering. Ha, said the Marquis again in a well-satisfied manner. If it ever becomes mine, it shall be put into some hands better qualified to free it slowly if such a thing as possible from the weight that drags it down so that the miserable people who cannot leave it and who have been long rung 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 someday work. In England, for example, yes, the family honor, sir, is safe from me in this country. 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 bedchamber 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 indifferently 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 seeing you again in the morning. Good repose. Light mature my nephew to his chamber there, and burn mature 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 had come and gone, who sure 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 impenetently wicked sort. His story, whose periodical 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 Paris 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 mature 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 and the stables rattled at their racks, the dogs barked, and the owl made a noise with very little resemblance in it to the noise conventionally assigned to the owl by men poets. But it is the obstinate custom of such creatures, hardly ever to say what is set down for them. For three heavy hours, the stone faces of the 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 undistinguishable from one another. The figure on the cross might have come down for anything that could be seen of it. In the village, taxers and taxed were fast asleep, dreaming 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 unheard, both melting away like the minutes that were falling from the spring of time through three dark hours. Then the gray 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 steel 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 crimson. The carol of the birds was loud and high and on the weather-beaten sill of the great window of the bed chamber of Monsieur the Marquis, one little bird sang its sweetest song with all its might. At this, the nearest stone face seemed to stare amazed and with open mouth and dropped under jaw looked awe-stricken. Now the sun was full up and movement began in the village. Casement windows opened, crazy doors were unbarred, and people came forth shivery, 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 livestock 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, attended on the latter prayers, the lead 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 freshness pouring at doorways, leaves sparkled and rustled at iron-gated 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 mourning. 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 booting 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 hilltop beyond the village with his day's dinner, not much to carry, lying in a bundle that it was worth no crows 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 sultry 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 standing about in their depressed manner and whispering low, but showing no other emotions than grim curiosity and surprise. The lead 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 repaying 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 authorities 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 50 particular friends and was smiting himself in the breast with his blue cap. What did all this portend? And what portended the swift hoisting up of Mishor Gabel behind a servant on horseback and the conveying away of the said Gabel, 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 200 years. It lay back on the pillow of Mishor the Marquis. It was like a fine mask, suddenly startled, made angry and petrified. Driven home into the heart of the stone figure attached to it was a knife. Round its hilt was a frill of paper on which was scrawled. Drive him fast to his tomb. This from Jacques, end of chapter. Book two, chapter 10 of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Richard Reimann, audiblyspeaking.com. Two promises. More months to the number of 12 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 render 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 ability had dropped out of Telsen's ledgers to turn cooks and carpenters. As a tutor whose attainments made the students way unusually pleasant and profitable and as an elegant translator who brought something to his work besides mere dictionary knowledge, young Mr. Darnay soon became known and encouraged. He was well appointed moreover with the circumstances of his country and those were of ever growing interest. So with great perseverance and untiring industry he prospered. In London he had expected neither to walk on pavements of gold nor to lie on beds of roses. If he had had any such exalted expectation he would not have prospered. He had expected labor and he found it and he 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 languages instead of conveying Greek and Latin through the custom house. The rest of his time he passed in London. Now from the days when it was always summer in Eden to these days when it is mostly winter in fallen latitudes, the world of a man has invariably gone one way. Charles Darnay's way, the way of the love of a woman. He had loved Lucy Minette from the hour of his danger. He had never heard a sound so sweet and dear as the sound of her compassionate voice. He had never seen a face so tenderly beautiful as hers when it was confronted with his own on the edge of a 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, long 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 Dr. Minette. It was the close of the summer day and he knew Lucy to be out with Ms. Prost. He found the doctor reading in his armchair at a window. 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 resolution and vigor 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 Cindy 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. Ms. Minette as well said the doctor as he stopped short and your return will delight us all. She has gone out on some household matters but will soon be home. Dr. Minette 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 outed 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 Dr. Minette of being so intimate here. So he at length began for some year and a half that I hope the topic on which I'm about to touch may not he was stayed by the doctors putting out his hand to stop it. When he had kept it so a little while he said drawing it back. Is Lucy 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 firm admiration, true homage and deep love Dr. Minette he said deferentially. There was another blank silence before her father rejoined. 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 without knowing my secret heart and the hopes and fears and anxieties with which it has long been laden. Dear Dr. Minette, I love your daughter fondly, dearly, disinterestedly, 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 to 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 motioned 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 Lucy. 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 Lucy? No, nor written, never. It would be ungenerous to effect not to know that your self-denial is to be referred to your consideration for her father. 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, Dr. Minette? I will have seen you together from day to day that between you and Miss Minette there is an affection so unusual, so touching, so belonging to the circumstances in which it has been nurtured, that it can have few parallels, even in the tenderness between a father and a child. I know, Dr. Minette, 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 fervor of her present years and character, united to the trustfulness and attachment of the early days in which you were lost to her. I know perfectly well that if you had been restored to her from the world beyond this life, you could hardly be invested in her sight with a more sacred character than that in which you are always with her. I know that when she is clinging to you, the hands of a baby, girl, and woman, all in one around 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 brokenhearted, loves you through your dreadful trial and in your blessed restoration. I have known this night and day since I have known you in your home. Her father sat silent with his face bent down. His breathing was a little quicken, but he repressed all other signs of agitation. Dear Dr. Manette, always knowing this, always seeing her and you with this hallowed light about you, I have foreborn and foreborn. 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 happiest to make her my wife, I must at any time put any separation between her and you, I could or would breathe a word of what I now say. Besides that, I should know it to be hopeless. I should know it to be a baseness. If I had any such possibility, even at a remote distance of years, harbored 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 honored hand. He laid his own upon it as he spoke. No, dear Dr. Manette, like you a voluntary exile from France, like you driven from it by its distractions, oppressions, 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 divide with Lucy 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 darken out and dread. You speak so feelingly and so manfully, Charles Darnay, that I thank you with all my heart and will open all my heart, or nearly so. Have you any reason to believe that Lucy 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 hopefulness tomorrow. 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 Minette 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 involved in it? I understand equally well that a word from her father in any suitor's favor would outweigh herself and all the world, for which reason, Dr. Minette, 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 Lucy 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 one of these. Or both, said Darnay. I had not thought of both. I should not think either, likely. You want a promise from me. Tell me what it is. It is that if Miss Minette should bring to you at any time, on her own part, such a confidence as I have ventured to lay before you, you will bear testimony to what I have said and to 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 stakenness. This is what I ask, the condition on which I ask it, and which you have an undoubted right to require. I will observe immediately. I give the promise, said the doctor, without any condition. 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 essential to her perfect happiness, I will give her to you. If there were, Charles Darnay, if there were, the young man had taken his hand gratefully. Their 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 Dr. Minette, breaking 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 remember, my own. I wish to tell you what that is and why I am in England. Stop, said the doctor of Boubaix. 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 Lucy 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 tonight. Go, God bless you. It was dark when Charles Darnay left him and it was an hour later and darker when Lucy came home. She hurried into the room alone for Miss Prost had gone straight upstairs 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 hammering sound in his bedroom. Passing lightly across the intermediate room, she looked in at his door and came running back frightened, crying to herself with her blood all chilled. What shall 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 jewels and his old unfinished work were all as usual. End of chapter. Book two, chapter 11 of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Richard Reiman, audibly speaking.com. A companion picture. Sidney, said Mr. Stryver on that self-same night or morning to his jackal, makes another bowl of punch. I have something to say to you. Sidney 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 affected at last. The Stryver arrears were handsomely fetched up. Everything was got rid of until November should come with its fogs atmospheric and fogs legal and bring gris to the mill again. Sidney was none the livelier and none the soberer for so much application. He had taken a deal of extra wet tallying to pull him through the night. A correspondingly extra quantity of wine had preceded the tallying and he was in a very damaged condition as he had now pulled his turban off and threw it into the basin in which he had steeped it at intervals for the last six hours. Are you mixing that other bowl of punch? Said Stryver of the Portley with his hands in his waistband glancing round from the sofa where he lay on his back. I am. Now look here. I'm 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? Yes. Do I know her? Yes. 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. Sidney, I rather despair of making myself intelligible to you because you are such an insensible dog. And you, returns Sidney, busy concocting the punch, are such a sensitive and political spirit. Come, rejoins 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 tenor sort of fellow than you. You are 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 to be more agreeable? Who takes more pains to be agreeable? Who knows better how to be agreeable in a woman's society than you do? Go on, said Sidney 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 Dr. Minet's house as much as I have, or more than I have. Why, I have been ashamed of your morose-ness there. Your manners have been of that silent and sullen and hangdog kind that upon my life and soul, I have been ashamed of you, Sidney. It should be very beneficial to a man in your practice at the bar to be ashamed of anything, returns Sidney. You ought to be much obliged to me. You shall not get off in that way, rejoined Stryver, shouldering the rejoinder at him. No, Sidney, 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. Sidney 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 Sidney Carton. Who is the lady? Now don't let my announcement of the name make you uncomfortable, Sidney, 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 sliding terms. I did? Certainly, and in these chambers. Sidney Carton looked at his punch and looked at his complacent friend, drank his punch, and looked at his complacent friend. You made mention of the young lady as a golden-haired doll. The young lady is Miss Manette. If you had been a fellow of any sensitiveness or delicacy of feeling in that kind of way, Sidney, I might have been a little resentful of your employing in 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 pictures or a piece of music of mine who had no ear for music. Sidney Carton drank the punch at a great rate, drank it by bumpers looking at his friend. Now you know all about it, Sid, said Mr. Striver. 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 already 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, Striver, you take it more easily than I fancied you would and are less mercenary on my behalf 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, Sidney, 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 this manette will tell well in any station and will always do me credit. So I have made up my mind. And now Sidney, oh boy, I want to say a word to you about your prospects. You are in a bad way, you know. You really are in a bad way. You 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 offensive. Now let me recommend you, pursued striver, 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. Marry. Provide somebody to take care of you. Never mind your having no enjoyment of women's society nor understanding 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-ledding way and marry her against a rainy day. That's the kind of thing for you. Now think of it, Sidney. I'll think of it, said Sidney. End of chapter. Book II, chapter 12 of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Richard Reiman, audiblyspeaking.com. The Fellow of Delegacy. Mr. Striver, having made up his mind to that magnanimous bestowal of good fortune on the doctor's daughter, resolved to make her happiness known to her before he left town for the long vacation. After some mental debating of the point, he came to the conclusion that it would be as well to get all the preliminaries done with, and they could then arrange at their leisure whether he should give her his hand a week or two before Nicolamus term or in the little Christmas vacation between it and Hillary. 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, Striver C.J. was satisfied that no planer case could be. Accordingly, Mr. Striver inaugurated the long vacation with a formal proposal to take Miss Minette to Vauxhall Gardens, that failing to Ramele. That, unaccountably failing too, it behooved him to present himself in Soho and there declare his noble mind. Towards Soho, therefore, Mr. Striver shouldered his way from the temple while the bloom of the long vacation's infancy was still upon it. Anybody who had seen him projecting himself into Soho while he was yet on St. Dunstan'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 Telsons, and he, both banking at Telsons and knowing Mr. Lorry as the intimate friend of the Minettes, it entered Mr. Striver'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 black closet where Mr. Lorry sat at great books ruled for figures with perpendicular iron bars at his window as if that were ruled for figures too and everything under the clouds were a sum. Hello, said Mr. Striver. How do you do? I hope you are well. It was Striver's grand peculiarity that he always seemed too big for any place or space. He was so much too big for Telsons 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 Striver head had been butted into its responsible waistcoat. The discreet Mr. Lorry said in a sample tone of the voice he would recommend under the circumstances. How do you do, Mr. Striver? How do you do, sir? And shook hands. There was a peculiarity in his manner of shaking hands always to be seen in any clerk at Telsons who shook hands with the customer when the house pervaded the air. He shook in a self-abnegating way as one who shook for Telson and Coe. Can I do anything for you, Mr. Striver? asked Mr. Lorry 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 eyes strayed to the house far off. I am going, said Mr. Striver, leaning his arms confidentially 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 Striver, 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. Striver, Mr. Lorry paused and shook his head at him in the oddest 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 Striver, slapping the desk with his contentious 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. Damn it all, sir, said Striver, 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 Striver. Oh, if you come to prosperous, you are prosperous, said Mr. Lorry. And advancing. If you come to advancing, you know, said Mr. Lorry, delighted to be able to make another admission. Nobody can doubt that. Then what on earth is your meaning, Mr. Lorry, demanded Striver, perceptively crestfallen? Well, I, were you going there now, asked Mr. Lorry. Straight, said Striver, with a plump of his fist on the desk. Then I think I wouldn't if I was you. Why, said Striver, now I'll put you in a corner, forensically shaking a forefinger at him. You are a man of business and bound to have a reason. State your reason. Why wouldn't you go? Because, said Mr. Lorry, I wouldn't go on such an object without having some cause to believe that I should succeed. Damn me, cried Striver, but this beats everything. Mr. Lorry glanced at the distant house and glanced at the angry Striver. Here's a man of business, a man of years, a man of experience. In a bank, said Striver, 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. Striver remarked upon the peculiarity as if it would have been infinitely 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 Striver arm. The young lady, the young lady goes before all. Then you mean to tell me Mr. Lorry, said Striver, 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. Striver, said Mr. Lorry, red-name, 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 restrain himself from speaking disrespectfully of that young lady at this desk, not even Telsen should prevent my giving him a piece of my mind. The necessity of being angry in a suppressed tone had put Mr. Striver's blood vessels into a dangerous state when it was his turn to be angry. Mr. Lorry's veins, methodical as their course could usually be, were in no better state now it was his turn. This is what I mean to tell you, sir, said Mr. Lorry. Pray let there be no mistake about it. Mr. Striver 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 deliberately advised me not to go to Soho and offer myself, myself, Mr. Striver of the King's Bench Bar? Do you ask me for my advice, Mr. Striver? Yes, I do. Very good. Then I give it, and you have repeated it correctly. And all I can say of it is, laughs Striver with a vexed laugh, that this 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 at his arms, who is the trusted friend of Miss Manette and of her father, too, and who has a great affection for them both I have spoken. The confidence is not of my seeking recollect. Now you think I may not be right? Not I, said Striver, 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 mincing bread and butter nonsense. It's new to me, but you are right, I dare say. But I suppose, Mr. Striver, I claim to characterize for myself and understand me, sir, said Mr. Lorry, quickly flushing again. I will not, not even at Telsons, have it characterized for me by any gentleman breathing. There, I beg your pardon, said Striver. Granted, thank you. Well, Mr. Striver, I was about to say. It might be painful to you to find yourself mistaken. It might be painful to Dr. Manette to have the task of being explicit with you. It might be very painful to Miss Manette to have the task of being explicit with you. You know the terms upon which I have the honor 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 Striver. 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 tonight. Good morning. Then Mr. Striver turned and burst out of the bank, causing such a concussion of air on his passage through that to stand up against it, bowing behind the two counters, required 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 believed when they had bowed a customer out, still to keep on bowing in the empty office until they bowed another customer 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. Striver, shaking his forensic finger 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. Striver. I'll do that for you. Accordingly, when Mr. Laurie called that night his latest 10 o'clock, Mr. Striver, among the quantity of books and papers littered out for the purpose, seemed to have nothing less on his mind than the subject of the morning. He even showed surprise when he saw Mr. Laurie and was all together in an absent and preoccupied state. Well, said that good-natured emissary after a full half hour of bootless attempts to bring him around to the question. I have been to Soho. To Soho, repeated Mr. Striver coldly. Oh, to be sure. What am I thinking of? And I have no doubt, said Mr. Laurie, that I was right in the conversation we had. My opinion is confirmed and I reiterate my advice. I assure you, returned Mr. Striver, in the friendliest way. Then 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. Laurie. I dare say not, rejoined Striver, nodding his head in a smoothing and final way. No matter, no matter. But it does matter, Mr. Laurie urged. No, it doesn't. I assure you it doesn't. Having supposed that there was sense when there is no sense and a laudable 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 repented them in poverty and obscurity often before. In an unselfish aspect, I am sorry that the thing has dropped because 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. Laurie, 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 satisfied 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 lady better than I do. You were right. It never would have done. Mr. Laurie was sub-taken aback that he looked quite stupidly at Mr. Stryver shouldering him towards the door with an appearance of showering generosity, forbearance and goodwill on his airing 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. Laurie was out in the night before he knew where he was. Mr. Stryver was lying back on his sofa winking at his ceiling. End of chapter. Book 2, Chapter 13 of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Richard Reiman, audiblyspeaking.com. The fellow of no delicacy. If Sidney Carton ever shone anywhere, he certainly never shone in the house of Dr. 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 environed 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 gladness 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 beauties of architecture, inspires of churches and lofty buildings as perhaps the quiet time brought some sense of better things, elves 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 neighborhood. On a day in August when Mr. Striver, after notifying to his jackal that he had thought better of that marrying matter, had carried his delicacy into debonchire and when the sight and scent of flowers in the city streets had some waves of goodness in them for the worst of health for the sickliest and of youth for the oldest, Sidney's feet still trod those stones. From being irresolute and purposeless, his feet became animated by an intention and in the working out of that intention they took him to the doctor's door. He was shown upstairs and found Lucy 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 interchange 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, Ms. Minette, 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 and 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 followed. She had never seen him softened and was much distressed. He knew her to be so without looking at her and said, pray forgive me, Ms. Minette. 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'm sure that the best part of it might still be. I'm sure that you might be much, much worthier of yourself. Say of you, Ms. Minette, 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 holding. If it had been possible, Ms. Minette, that you could have returned the love the man you see before yourself, flung away, wasted, drunk, and 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? No, Ms. Minette, 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 impelling me upward that I thought were silent forever. I have had unformed ideas of striving afresh, beginning anew, shaking off sloth and sensuality and fighting out the abandoned 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? Oh, 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 service, idly burning away. Since it is mine as fortune, 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 reclaimed 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 Manette, I have come here to realize. 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-resuming disconversation by so much as a passing word. I will never refer to it again. If I were dead, that could not be sure 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 Lucy Manette wept mournfully for him as he stood looking back at her. Be comforted, he said. I am not worth such feeling, Miss Manette. An hour or two hence, and the low companions and low habits that I scorn but yield to will render me less worthy 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 here to foresee me. The last supplication 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 in 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 an 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. Oh, Miss Manette, when the little picture 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 Alast, God bless you, and left her. End of chapter. Book two, chapter 14 of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Richard Reiman, audiblyspeaking.com. The Honest Tradesman. To the eyes of Mr. Jeremiah Cruncher, sitting on his stool in Fleet Street with his grittly urchin beside him, a vast number and variety of objects in movement were every day presented. Who could sit upon anything in Fleet Street during the busy hours of the day and not be dazed and deafened by two immense processions, one ever-tending westward with the sun, the other ever-tending eastward from the sun, both ever-tending to the plains beyond the range of red and purple where the sun goes down. With his straw in his mouth, Mr. Cruncher sat watching the two streams, like the heathen rustic who has for several centuries been on duty watching one stream, saving that Jerry had no expectation of their ever-running dry. Nor would it have been an 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 Telsen'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 honor of drinking her very good health. And it was from the gifts bestowed upon him towards the execution of this benevolent purpose that he recruited his finances as just now observed. Time was when a poet sat upon a stool in a public place and mused in the sight of men. Mr. Cruncher sitting on a stool in a public place but not being a poet mused as little as possible and looked about him. It fell out that he was thus engaged in a season when crowds were few and belated women few and when his affairs in general were so unprosperous as to awaken a strong suspicion in his breast that Mrs. Cruncher must have been flopping in some pointed manner when an unusual concourse pouring down Fleet Street Westward attracted his attention. Looking that way, Mr. Cruncher made out that some kind of funeral was coming along and that there was a popular objection to this funeral which engendered uproar. Young Jerry, said Mr. Cruncher, turning to his offspring. It's a barion. Hurrah, 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 do you mean? What are you, a hurrah in that? What do you want to convey to your own father, you young rip? This boy is getting too many from me, said Mr. Cruncher, surveying him. Him and his hurrahers. Don't let me hear no more of you or you shall feel some more of me. You hear? I weren'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 atop of that there seat and look at the crowd. His son obeyed and the crowd approached. They were bawling and hissing around a dingy hearse and dingy morning coach in which morning coach there was only one mourner dressed in the dingy trappings that were considered essential to the dignity of the position. The position 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, yeah spies, yeah spies. With many compliments too numerous and forcible to repeat. Furals had at all times a remarkable attraction for Mr. Cruncher. He always pricked up his senses and became excited when a funeral passed tells us. Naturally, therefore 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, yeah 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 surprising heat and with the greatest ardor. Spies, yeah spies. At length the 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. Yeah, old Bailey spies. Why to be sure exclaimed Jerry, recalling the trial at which he had assisted. I've seen him, dead is he? Dead is mutton returned the other and can't be too dead. Have him out there spies, pull him 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 him out and to pull him out mobbed the two vehicles so closely that they came to a stop. On the crowds opening the coach doors, the one mourner scuffled out by 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 by street after shedding his cloak, hat, long hat band, white pocket hackerchief 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 already got the length of opening the hearse to take the coffin out when some brighter genius proposed instead it's being escorted to its destination amidst general rejoicing. Practical suggestions being much needed. This suggestion too was received with acclamation and the coach was immediately filled with eight inside and a dozen out while as many people got on the roof of the hearse as could by any exercise of ingenuity stick upon it. Among the first of these volunteers was Jerry Cruncher himself who modestly concealed his spiky head from the observation of Telsons in the further corner of the mourning coach. The officiating undertakers made some protest against these changes in the ceremonies but the river being alarmingly near and several voices remarking on the efficacy of cold immersion in bringing refractory members of the profession to reason the protest was faint and brief. The remodeled 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 driving the mourning coach. A bear leader, a popular street character of the time was impressed as an additional ornament before the cable car 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 shutting up before it. Its destination was the old church of St. Pancras far off in the fields. It got there in course of time insisted on pouring into the burial ground finally accomplished the internment 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 conceived the humor 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 realization 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 rumor got about that the guards were coming. Before this rumor 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. In the place had a soothing influence on him. He procured a pipe from a neighboring public house and smoked it looking in at the railings and maturely considering the spot. Jerry, said Mr. Cruncher, apostrophizing himself in his usual way. You see that there, cry that day and you see with your own eyes that he was a young and a straight maiden. Having smoked his pipe out and ruminate it a little longer he turned himself about that he might appear before the hour of closing on his station at Telsons. Whether his meditations on mortality had touched his liver or whether his general health had been previously at all amiss or whether he desired to show a little attention to an eminent man is not so much to the purpose as that he made a short call upon his medical advisor, 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 an honest tridesman, my ventures go wrong tonight, 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 before 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 all together. 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 infrequently 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 the large invisible oyster out of his saucer. I think so. I believe you. You are going out tonight? Asked his decent wife when he took another bite. Yes, I am. May I go with you, father? Asked his son briskly. No, you mate. I'm going, as your mother knows, a fishing. That's where I'm going to, going a fishing. Your fishing rod gets rather rusty, don't it, father? Never you mind. Shall you bring any fish home, father? If I don't, you'll have short comments tomorrow. Returned that gentle and shaking his head. That's questions enough for you. I ain't a going out till you've been along the bed. 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 prevented from meditating any petitions to his disadvantage. With this view, he urged his son to hold her in conversation also and led the unfortunate woman a hard life by dwelling on any causes of complaint he could bring against her rather than he would leave her for a moment to her own 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 unbeliever in ghosts should be frightened by a ghost's story. And mind you, said Mr. Cruncher, no games tomorrow. If I, as an honest tridesman, succeed in providing a jint of meter to, none of you are not touching of it and sticking to bread. If I, as an honest tridesman, am able to provide a little beer, none of you are declaring on water. When you go to Rome, do as Rome does. Rome will be an ugly customer to you if you don't. Mind your realm, you know. Then he began grumbling again. With your flying into the face of your own whittles and drink, I don't know how scarce you may and make the whittles and drink here by your flopping tricks and your unfeeling conduct. Look at your boy. He is your in, ain't he? He says thin as a lace. 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 are neglected above all things to lay a special stress on the discharge of that maternal function. So effectively and delicately indicated by his other parent. Thus the evening wore away with the Cruncher family until young Jerry was ordered to bed and his mother, laid under similar injunctions, obeyed them. Mr. Cruncher beguiled the earlier watches of the night with solitary pipes and did not start upon his excursion until nearly one o'clock. Towards that small and ghostly hour, he rose up from his chair, took a key out of his pocket, opened a locked cupboard and brought forth a sack, a crowbar, a convenient size, a rope and a chain and other fishing tackle of that nature. Disposing these articles about him in a skillful manner, he bestowed a parting defiance on Mrs. Cruncher, extinguished the light and went out. Young Jerry who had only made a faint 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 caping as close to house fronts, walls and doorways as his eyes were close to one another held his honored parent in view. The honored parents during Northward had not gone far when he was joined by another disciple of Isaac 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 fisherman was picked up here and that so silently that if Young Jerry had been superstitious, he might have supposed the second follower of the gentlecraft 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 10 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 honored 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 corner 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 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 honored 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 seem to have got a bite. There was a screwing and complaining sound down below and their bent figures were strained as if by a weight. By slow degrees the weight broke away the earth upon it and came to the surface. Young Jerry very well knew what it would be but when he saw it and saw his honored parent about to wrench it open he was so frightened being new to the site 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 necessary than breath. It being a spectral sort of race that he ran and one highly desirable to get to the end of. He had a strong idea that the coffin he had seen was running after him and pictured as hopping on behind him bolt upright upon its narrow end always on the point of overtaking 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 tropical boys 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 laughing. It got into shadows on the road and lay cunningly on its back to trip him up. All this time it was incessantly hopping on behind and gaining on him so that even 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 headboard of the bed. I told you I would, said Mr. Cruncher, and I did. Jerry, Jerry, Jerry, his wife implored. You opposed yourself to the profit of the business, said Jerry and me and my partners suffer. You was to honor and obey. Why the devil don't you? I tried to be a good wife, Jerry, the poor woman protested with tears. Is it being a good wife to oppose your husband's business? Is it honoring your husband to dishonor his business? Is it obeying your husband to disobey him on the vital 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 an honest triceman and not to occupy your female mind with calculations when he took to his trade or when he didn't. A honoring and obeying wife would let his tribe alone altogether. Call yourself a religious woman. If you're a religious woman, give me a irreligious one. You have no more natural 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 tradesmen's kicking off his clay soil boots and lying down at his length on the floor. After taking a timid peep at him lying on his back with his rusty hands under his head for a pillow, his son lay down too and fell asleep again. There was no fish for breakfast and not much of anything else. Mr. Cruncher was out of spirits and out of temper and kept an iron pot lit 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 a 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 compheres in Fleet Street in the city of London that fine morning. Father said young Jerry as they walked along taking care to keep at arm's length and to have the stool well between them. What's a resurrection man? Mr. Cruncher came to a stop on the pavement before he answered, how should I know? I thought you know everything, father, said the artless boy. Well, returned Mr. Cruncher going on again and lifting off his hat to give his spikes free play. He's a tridesman. 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. Person's bodies, ain't it, father? Asked the lively boy. I believe it is something of that sort, said Mr. Cruncher. Oh, father, I should so like to be a resurrection man when I'm quite grown up. Mr. Cruncher was soothed but shook his head in a dubious and moral way. It depends upon how you develop your talents. Be careful to develop 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 tridesman, there's hopes what that boy will yet be a blessing to you and a recompense to you for his mother. End of chapter. Book two, chapter 15 of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Richard Reiman, audiblyspeaking.com. Knitting. There 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 described 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 sourine for its influence on the mood of those who drank it was to make them gloomy. No vivacious speck and alien flame leaped out of the pressed grape of Monsieur Defarge but a smoldering fire that burnt in the dark lay hidden in the drinks of it. This had been the third morning in succession on which there had been early drinking at the wine shop of Monsieur Defarge. It had begun on Monday and here was Wednesday come. There had been more of early brooding than drinking for many men had listened and whispered and slunk about there from the time of the opening of the door who could not have laid a piece of money on the counter to save their souls. These were to the full as interested in the place, however, as if they could have commanded whole barrels of wine and they glided from seat to seat and from corner to corner swallowing talk in lieu of drink with greedy looks. Notwithstanding an unusual flow of company, the master of the wine shop was not visible. He was not missed for nobody who crossed the threshold look for him. Nobody asked for him. Nobody wondered to see only Madame Defarge in her seat presiding over the distribution of wine with a bowl of battered small coins before her as much defaced and beaten out of their original impress as the small coinage of humanity from whose ragged pockets they had come. A suspended interest and a prevalent absence of mind were perhaps observed by the spies who looked in at the wine shop as they looked in at every place high and low from the king's palace to the criminal's jail. 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 San Antoine in this finest 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 matured Defarge, the other a mender of roads in a blue cap. All a dust and a thirst, the two entered the wine shop. Their arrival had lighted a kind of fire in the breast of San 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, yet he elicited an answering chorus of, Good day, it is bad weather, gentlemen, said Defarge, shaking his head. Upon which every man looked at his neighbor and then all cast down their eyes and sat silent except one man who got up and went out. My wife, said Defarge, aloud, addressing Madame Defarge. I have traveled certain leagues with this good mender of roads called Jacques. I met him by accident a day and a 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 wiles and sat munching and drinking near Madame Defarge's counter. A third man got up and went out. Defarge refreshed himself with a draft 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 countrymen had made his breakfast. He looked at no one present and no one now looked at him, not even Madame Defarge who had taken up her 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 of 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 spoken a subdued voice. Jack one, Jack two, Jack three. This is the witness encountered by appointment by me, Jack four. He will tell you all. Speak, Jack five. The Mender of Roads blue cap in hand wiped his smarty forehead with it and said, where shall I commence, Mishore? Commence was Mishore Defarge's not unreasonable reply at the commencement. I saw him then, Mishore's, began the Mender of Roads. A year ago this running summer underneath the carriage of the marquee 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 marquee slowly ascending the hill, he hanging by the chain, like this. Again, the Mender of Roads went through the whole performance in which he ought to have been perfect by that time seeing that it had been the infallible resource and indispensable entertainment of his village during a whole year. Jack one struck in and asked if he had ever seen the man before. Never answered the Mender of Roads recovering his perpendicular. Jack three demanded how he afterwards recognized him then by his tall figure said the Mender of Roads softly and with his finger at his nose. When Mishore the marquee demands that evening say what he is like, I make response all as a specter. You should have said short as a dwarf, returned Jack two. But what did I know? The deed was not then accomplished. Neither did he confide in me. Observe, under those circumstances even, I do not offer my testimony. Mishore the marquee indicates me with his finger standing near our little fountain and says to me, bring that rascal. My faith, Mishores, I offer nothing. He is right there. Jack murmured the farge 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, 10, 11? No matter the number said the farge, he is well hidden but at last he is unluckily found. Go on. I am again at work upon the hillside and the sun is again about to go to bed. I am collecting my tools to descend to my cottage down in the village below where it is already dark when I raise my eyes and 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, Mishores, by my heap of stones to see the soldiers in their prisoner pass for it is a solitary road that where any spectacle is 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, Mishore. 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 recognize the tall man and he recognizes me. Ah, but he would be well content to precipitate himself over the hillside 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 recognize the tall man. He does not show the soldiers that he recognizes me. We do it and we know it with our eyes. Come on, says the chief of that company pointing into the village. Bring him fast to his tomb and they bring him faster. I follow. His arms are swell 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 mad men running to 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 village runs to look. They take him past the mill and up to the prison. All the village sees the prison gate open in the darkness of the night and swallow him like this. He opened his mouth as wide as he could and shut it with a sound snapping of his teeth. Observant of his unwillingness to mar the effect by opening it again, Defarge said, Go on, Jack. 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 streams 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 with a lofty iron cage, bloody and dusty as last night, looking through. He has no hand free to wave to me. I dare not to 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, Jack 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. Jack 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 window by turns looking from him to them and from them to him. Go on Jack, said Defarge. He remains up there in his iron cage some days. The village 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 towards 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 the 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 Jack, number one of that name, sternly interposed. Know that a petition was presented to the king and queen. All here, yourself accepted, 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 Jack, said the kneeling number 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 him ashores. Go on then, said Defarge. Again, on the other hand, they whisper at the fountain. Resumed the countrymen that he has 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 Monsignor and because Monsignor was the father of his tenants, serves what you will, he will be executed as a parasite. One old man says at the fountain that his right hand armed with the knife will be burnt off before his face, that into wounds which will be made in his arms, his breast and his legs, there will be poured boiling oil, melted lead, hot resin, wax and sulfur. 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 XV. But how do I know if he lives? I am no scholar. Listen once again, Jack, said the man with the restless hand and the craving air. The name of that prisoner was Damien's and it was all done in open day in the open streets of this city of Paris and nothing was more noticed in the vast concourse that saw it done than the crowd of ladies of quality and fashion who were full of eager attention to the last. To the last, Jack, prolonged until nightfall when he had lost two legs and an arm and still breathed and it was done. Why, how old are you? 35, said the mender of Rhodes who looked 60. It was done when you were more than 10 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 at that tomb. At length on Sunday night when all the villages asleep come soldiers winding down from the prison and their guns ring on the stones of the little street. Workmen dig, workmen hammer, soldiers laugh and sing. In the morning by the fountain, there is raised a gallows 40 feet high poisoning the water. The mender of Rhodes looked through rather than at the low ceiling and pointed as if he saw the gallows somewhere in the sky. All work is stopped, all assembled 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 gallows is fixed the knife blade upward with its poison in the air. He has hanged there 40 feet high and his 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 this spectacle. It is frightful, Mishours. 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 look back from the hill, the shadow struck across the church, across the mill, across the prison, seemed to strike across the earth, Mishours, to where the sky rests upon it. The hungry man nod one of his fingers as he looked at the other three and his finger quavered with the craving that was on him. That's all, Mishours. 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 jock 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. Doom to 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. I'll say you, Jacques, demanded number one, to be registered, to be registered as doom to destruction returned to Farge. Magnificent, croaked the man with the craving. The chateau and all the race, inquired the first. The chateau and all the race returned to Farge. Extermination. The hungry man repeated in a rapturous croak, Magnificent, and began gnawing another finger. Are you sure, asked Jacques, too, of the Farge, that no embarrassment can arise from our manner of keeping the register? Without doubt, it is safe, for no one beyond ourselves can decipher it. But shall we always be able to decipher it? Or I ought to say, will she? Jacques returned to Farge, drawing himself up. If madame, my wife, undertook to keep the register in her memory alone, she would not lose a word of it, not a syllable of it. Knitted in 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 paltrune that lives to erase himself from existence than to erase one letter of his name or crimes from the knitted register of madame de Farge. 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 de Farge. At least nothing more than would easily elevate himself to a gallows of the same height. I'd 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 de Farge, judiciously show a cat milk if you wish her to thirst for it. Judiciously show a dog his natural prey if you wish him to bring it down one day. Nothing more was said and the mender of roads being found already dozing on the topmost stair was advised to lay himself down on the pallet bed and take some rest. He needed no persuasion and was soon asleep. Worse quarters than de Farge's wine shop could easily have been found in Paris for a provincial slave of that degree. Saving for a mysterious dread of madame by which he was constantly haunted, his life was very new and agreeable. But madame sat all day at her counter, so expressly unconscious of him and so particularly determined not to perceive that his 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 victim, 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 Mature and himself to Versailles. It was additionally disconcerting to have madame knitting all the way there in a public conveyance. It was additionally 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 nearer. Yes, answered madame de Farge. I have a good deal to do. What do you make madame? Many things. For instance? For instance, returned madame de Farge, 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 splendor, and elegantly spurning figures and handsomely disdainful faces of both sexes. The Mender of Roads bathed himself so much to his temporary intoxication 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 sentiment. 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 demonstrations. But no, you are the fellow we want, said Defarge, in his ear. You make these fools believe that it will last forever. 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 forever 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 deceive them then, a little longer it cannot deceive them too much. Madam 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, madam, 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 to spoil them for your own advantage, you would pick out the richest and gayest. Say, would you not? Truly yes, madam. 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, madam. You have seen both dolls and birds today, said Madam Defarge, with a wave of her hand towards the place where they had last been apparent. Now, go home. End of chapter. Book II, Chapter 16 of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Richard Reiman, audiblyspeaking.com. Still knitting. Madam Defarge and mature her husband returned amicably to the bosom of San 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 Mishore 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 born in upon their starved fancy that the expression of the faces was altered. A rumor 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 faces of pride to faces of anger and pain, also that when that dangling figure was hauled up 40 feet above the fountain, they changed again and bore a cruel look of being avenged, which they would henceforth bear forever. 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 recognized and which nobody had seen of old. And on the scarce occasion when two or three ragged peasants emerged from the crowd to take a hurried peep at Mishore the Marquis petrified, a skinny finger would not have pointed to it for a minute before they all started away among the moss and leaves, like the more fortunate hares who could find a living there. Chateau and Hut, stone face and dangling figure, the red stain on the stone floor and the pure water in the village well, thousands of acres of land, a whole province of France, all France itself lay under the night sky, concentrated into a faint hair-breathed 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 analyze the manner of its composition, so sublimer intelligences may read in the feeble shining of this earth of ours, every thought and act, every vice and virtue of every responsible creature on it. The Defarge's husband and wife came lumbering under the starlight in their public vehicle to that gate of Paris where onto 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. Mishore 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 Sam 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 tonight, but all he knows. There is another spy commission for our quarter. There may be many more for all that he can say, but he knows of one. Ah, 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. Bar-Sad, said Defarge, making it French by pronunciation. But he had been so careful to get it accurately that he then spelt it with perfect correctness. Bar-Sad repeated Madame. Good, Christian name, John. John Bar-Sad repeated Madame after murmuring it once to herself. Good, his appearance, is it known? Age about 40 years, height about five feet nine, black hair, complexion dark, generally rather handsome visage, eyes dark, face thin, long and shallow, nose act line 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 tomorrow. 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 monies 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 began knotting them up in her handkerchief in a chain of separate knots for safekeeping 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 and need, as to the business and his domestic affairs, he walked up and down through life. The night was hot and the shop, closed shut and surrounded by so foul a neighborhood was ill-smelling. I'm sure 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 sense away as he put down his smoked-out pipe. You are fatigued, said Madame, praising her glance as she knotted the money. There are only the usual odors. 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 a ray or two for him. Oh, the men, the men. But my dear, began Defarge. But my dear, you are faint of heart tonight, 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 lightning, said Defarge. How long, demanded Madame, compositely. Does it take to make and store the lightning? Tell me. Defarge raised his head thoughtfully as if there was something in that too. It does not take a long time, said Madame, for an earthquake 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 preparing, though it is not seen or heard. That is your consolation, keep it. She tied a knot with flashing eyes, as if it throttled a foe. I tell thee, said Madame, extending her right hand for emphasis, that although it is a long time on the road, it is on the road and coming. I tell thee it never retreats and never stops. I tell thee it is always advancing. Look around and consider the lives of all the world that we 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 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 extended hand and strong action. Nothing that we do is done in vain. I believe with all my soul that we shall see the triumph, but even if not, even if I knew certainly not, show me the neck of an aristocrat and tyrant, and still I would, 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 nothing. Yes, but it is your weakness that you sometimes need to see your victim and your opportunity to sustain you, sustain 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 observing that it was time to go to bed. Next noon Tide 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 adventurous perquisitions into all the gluttonous little glasses near Madame fell dead at the bottom. Their decease made no impression on the other flies out from Nadi 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, perhaps they thought as much at court that sunny summer day. A figure entering at the door threw a shadow on Madame Defarge which she felt to be a new one. She laid down her knitting and began to pin her rose in her headdress before she looked at the figure. It was curious. The moment Madame Defarge took up the rose, the customer ceased talking and began gradually to drop out of the wine shop. Good day, Madame, said the newcomer. Good day, monsieur. She said it aloud but added to herself as she resumed her knitting. Huh, good day, age about 40, height about five feet nine, black hair, generally rather handsome visage, complexion, dark eyes, dark thin, long and shallow face, aquiline 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 the polite air. Marvelous cognac, this Madame. It was the first time it had ever been so complimented and Madame Defarge knew enough of its antecedents to know better. She said, however, that the cognac was flattered and took up her knitting. The visitor watched her fingers for a few moments and took the opportunity of observing 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? Past time, 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 San Antoine seemed to be decidedly opposed to a rose on the headdress of Madame Defarge. Two men had entered separately and had been about to order drink when, catching sight of that novelty, they faltered, made a pretence of looking about as if for some friend who 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 bar-sad 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, corrected him and definitely knitting an extra something into his name that boasted him no good. Pardon me, certainly it was I who said so, but you naturally 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. 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 itself 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 Gaspar's execution? Ah, the poor Gaspar, with a sigh of great compassion. My faith, returned Madame, coolly and lightly. If people use knives for such purposes, they have to pay for it. He knew beforehand what the price of his luxury was. He has paid the price. I believe, said the spy, dropping his soft voice to a tone that invited confidence and expressing an injured revolutionary susceptibility in every muscle of his wicked face. I believe there is much compassion and anger in this neighborhood touching the poor fellow between ourselves. Is there, asked Madame vacantly, is there not? Here's 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 yourselves, Mature, returned the keeper of the wine shop. You mistake me for another. That is not my name. I am Ernest Defarge. Is all the same, said the spy, eerily but discomforted too. Good day. Good day, answered Defarge, strightly. 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 San 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 a little counter and stood with his hand on the back of his wife's chair, looking over that barrier at the person to whom they were both opposed and whom either of them would have shot with the greatest satisfaction. The spy, well used to his business, did not change his unconscious attitude, but drained his little glass of cognac, took a sip of fresh water, and asked for another glass of cognac. Madame Defarge poured it out for him, took to her knitting again, and hummed a little song over it. You seem to know this quarter well, that is to say better than I do, observed Defarge. Not at all, but I hope to know it better. I am so profoundly interested in its miserable inhabitants. Ha, muttered Defarge. The pleasure of conversing with you, Monsieur Defarge, recalls to me, pursued the spy, that I have the honor of cherishing some interesting associations with your name. Indeed, said Defarge, with much indifference. Yes, indeed. When Dr. Manette was released, you, his old domestic, had the charge of him, I know. He was delivered to you. You see, I am informed of the circumstances. Such is the fact, certainly, said Defarge. He had had it conveyed to him in an accidental touch of his wife's elbow as she knitted and warbled, that he would do best to answer, but always with brevity. It was to you, said the spy, that his daughter came and it was from your care that his daughter took him, accompanied by a neat brown shawar. How is he called in a little wig, Lori of the Bank of Telsen and Company, over to England? Such is the fact, repeated Defarge. Very interesting remembrances, said the spy. I have known Dr. 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, madams struck in, looking up from her work in her little song, we never hear about them. We receive 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 correspondence. 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 has no Marquis there. He is Mr. Charles Darnay. Darnay 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 gentile manner before he departed, that he looked forward to the pleasure of seeing Monsieur and Madame Defarge again. For some minutes after he had immersed into the outer presence of San 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 Madame Eselmanette? 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 a 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 from sure her father and herself, her husband's name should be prescribed under your hand at this moment by the side of that infernal dog 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 rolled 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 San Antoine had an instinctive sense that the objectionable decoration was gone, or San Antoine was on the watch for its disappearance. Halbiet, the saint took courage to lounge in very shortly afterwards, and the wine shop recovered its habitual aspect. In the evening at which season of all others, San Antoine turned himself inside out and sat on doorsteps and window edges 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 eating and drinking. The hands moved for the jaws and the digestive apparatus. If the bony fingers had been still, the stomachs would have been more famine-pinched. But as the fingers went, the eyes went and the thoughts. And as Madame Defarge moved on from group to group, all three went quicker and fiercer among every little knot of women that she had spoken with and left behind. Her husband smoked at his door looking after her with admiration. A great woman, said 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, knitting. 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, knitting, counting, dropping heads. End of chapter. Book two, chapter 17 of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Richard Breiman, audiblyspeaking.com. One night, Never did the sun go down with a brighter glory on the quiet corner in Soho than one memorable evening when the doctor and his daughter sat under the plain 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. Lucy was to be married tomorrow. She had reserved this last evening for her father and they sat alone under the plain 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 tonight, 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 arranged as that it would part us, even by the length of a few of these streets, I should be more unhappy and self-reproachable 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 always sad, as the light of the sun itself is, as the light called human life is at its coming and going. Dear, dear, can you tell me this last time that you feel quite, quite sure that 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 conviction he could scarcely have assumed. Quite sure, my darling. More than that, he added, as he tenderly hissed her. My future is far brighter, Lucy, 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, devoted and young, cannot fully appreciate the anxiety I have felt that your life should not be wasted. She moved her hand toward his lips, but he took it in his and repeated the word. Wasted, my child, should not be wasted, struck aside from the natural order of things, for my sake. Your unselfishness cannot entirely comprehend how much my mind has gone on this. But only ask yourself, how could my happiness be perfect while yours was incomplete? 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 with Al-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 hearing him referred 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 O'Ae, 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 shining upon what I had lost, that I have beaten my head against my prison walls. I have looked at her in a state so dull 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 felicity 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, whether it was alive, whether it had been born alive or the poor mother's shock had killed it, whether it was a son who would someday avenge his father. There was a time in my imprisonment when my desire for vengeance was unbearable, whether it was a son who would never know his father's story, who might even lived away the possibility of his father's having disappeared of his own will and act, whether it was a daughter who would grow to be a woman. She drew closer to him and kissed his cheek in hand. I have pictured my daughter to myself as perfectly forgetful of me, rather altogether ignorant of me and unconscious of me. I have cast up the years of her age year after year. I have seen her married to a man who knew nothing of my fate. I have altogether perished from the remembrance 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 Lucy, 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 just say 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 affected me with something 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 graded window and the door, but you understand that that was not the child I am speaking of. The figure was not the image, the fancy? No, that was another thing. It stood before my disturbed sense of sight, but it never moved. The fandom 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 it was not the same. Can you follow me, Lucy? Hardly, I think. I doubt you must have been a solitary prisoner to understand these perplexed distinctions. His collected and calm manner could not prevent her blood from running cold as he thus tried to anatomize his old condition. In that more peaceful state I have imagined her in the moonlight coming to me and taking me out to show me that the home of her married life was full of her loving remembrance of her lost father. My picture was in her room and I was in her prayers. Her life was active, cheerful, useful, 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. Oh, my dear, my dear. Will you bless me as fervently tomorrow? You see, I recall these old troubles in the reason that I have tonight for loving you better than words can tell and thanking God for my great happiness. 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 by, they went into the house. There was no one bidden to the marriage but Mr. Lori. There was even to be no bridesmaid but the gaunt, Ms. Pross. The marriage was to make no change in their place of residence. They had been able to extend it by taking to themselves the upper rooms formerly belonging to the apocryphal invisible lodger and they desired nothing more. Dr. Manette was very cheerful at the little supper. They were only three at table and Ms. 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 Lucy good night and they separated. But in the stillness of the third hour of the morning, Lucy 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 untroubled 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 the 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 withdrew her hand and kissed his lips once more and went away. So the sunrise came and the shadows of the leaves of the plane tree moved upon his face as softly as her lips had moved in praying for him. End of chapter. Book two, chapter 18 of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. This liprivox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Richard Reimann, audiblyspeaking.com. Nine days. The 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. Laurie 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. Laurie, who could not sufficiently admire the bride and who had been moving round her to take in every point of her quiet, pretty dress. And so it was for this, my sweet Lucy, 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. Laurie. I am not crying, said Miss Pross. You are. I am my Pross. By this time, Mr. Laurie dared to be pleasant with her on occasion. You are just now. I saw you do it and I don't wonder at it. Such a present of plate as you have made them 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. Laurie, though upon my honor I had no intention of rendering those trifling articles of remembrance invisible to anyone. 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. Laurie any time these 50 years almost. Not at all, from Miss Pross. You think there never might have been a Mrs. Laurie? Ask the gentlemen of that name. Poo, rejoined Miss Pross. You were a bachelor in your cradle. Well, observed Mr. Laurie, 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. Laurie, that I was very unhandsomely dealt with and that I ought to have had a voice in the selection of my pattern. Enough. Now, my dear Lucy, drawing his arms 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 final 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 Kelsen 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 bachelor 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 color 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 downstairs to the chariot, which Mr. Lorry had hired in honor of the day. The rest followed in another carriage and soon, in a neighboring church where no strange eyes looked on, Charles Darnay and Lucy Manette were happily married. Besides the glancing tears that shone among the smiles of the little group when it was done, some diamonds, very bright and sparkling, glanced on the bride's hand, which were newly released from the dark obscurity of one of Mr. Lorry's pockets. They returned home to breakfast and all went well and in due course the golden hair that had mingled with the poor shoemaker's white locks in the Paris Garrett were mingled with them again in the morning sunlight on the threshold of the door at party. It was a hard party, 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 window and she was gone. The corner being out of the way of the idle and curious and the preparations having been very simple and few, the doctor, Mr. Lorry and Ms. 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 poison blow. He had naturally repressed much and some revulsion might have been expected in him when the occasion for repression was gone, but it was the old scared lost look that troubled Mr. Lorry and through his absent manner of clasping his head and drearily wandering away into his own room when they got upstairs, Mr. Lorry was reminded of defarged the wine shopkeeper and the starlight ride. I think he whispered to Ms. Pross after anxious consideration. I think we had best not speak to him just now or at all disturb him. I must look in at Telsons. 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 Telsons than to look out of Telsons. 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 doctor's rooms, he was stopped by a low sound of knocking. Good God, he said with a start. What's that? Ms. Pross with a terrified face was at his ear. Oh, me, oh, me, all is lost, cried she, ringing her hands. What is to be told to Lady Bird? He doesn't know me and is making shoes. Mr. Lorry said what he could to calm her and went himself into the doctor's room. The bench was turned towards the light as it had been when he had seen the shoemaker at the work before and his head was bent down and he was very busy. Dr. Minette, my dear friend, Dr. Minette. The doctor looked at him for a moment, half inquiringly, 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. 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 another that was lying by him and asked what it was. A young lady's walking shoe, he muttered without looking up. It ought to have been finished long ago, let it be. But Dr. Minette, 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 echo-less 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 perplexity as though he were trying to reconcile some doubts in his mind. Two things that once impressed themselves on Mr. Lorry as important above all others. The first, that this must be kept secret from Lucy. The second, that it must be kept secret from all who knew him. In conjunction with Ms. Pross, he took immediate steps towards the latter precaution by giving out that the doctor was not well and required a few days of complete rest. In aid of the kind deception to be practiced on his daughter, Ms. 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 resolved to watch him attentively with as little appearance as possible of doing so. He therefore made arrangements to have sent himself from Telsons 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 silent protest against the delusion into which he had fallen or was falling. He remained therefore in his seat near the window, reading and writing and expressing in as many pleasant and natural ways as he could think of, that it was a free place. Dr. Minette 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 manor, looked up in the old manor and repeated in the old, low voice. Out? Yes, for a walk with me, why not, 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 perceived an advantage here and was determined to hold it. Miss Prost 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 be times and went straight to his bench and to work. On the 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 evident that he heard what was said and that he thought about it however, confusedly. This encouraged Mr. Lorry to have Miss Prost in with her work several times during the day. At those times they quietly spoke of Lucy and of her father then present precisely in the usual manner as if there were nothing amiss. This was done without any demonstrative accompaniment not long enough or often enough to harass him and it lightened Mr. Lorry's friendly heart to believe that he looked up oftener and that he appeared to be stirred by some perception of inconsistency surrounding 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 looking down at the plane tree but on Mr. Lorry's return he 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 Lucy was unconscious and happy but he could not fail to observe that the shoemaker whose hand had been a little out at first was growing dreadfully skillful 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. End of chapter. Book two chapter 19 of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. Recording by Richard Reiman, audibly speaking.com. An opinion. Worn out by anxious watching, Mr. Lorry fell asleep at his post. On the 10th morning of his suspense, he was startled by the shining of the sun into the room where a heavy slumber had overtaken him when it was dark night. He rubbed his eyes and roused himself but he doubted when he had done so whether he was not still asleep. For going to the door of the doctor's room and looking in, he perceived that the shoemaker's bench and tools were put aside again and that the doctor himself sat reading at the window. He was in his usual morning dress and his face, which Mr. Lorry could distinctly see, though 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 employed as usual. It was there any sign within their range that the change of which he had so strong and impression had actually happened. It was but the inquiry of his first confusion and astonishment, the answer being obvious. If the impression were not produced by a real corresponding and sufficient cause, how came he, Jarvis Lorry, there? How came he to have fallen asleep in his clothes on the sofa in Dr. Manette's consulting room and to be debating these points outside the doctor's bedroom door in the early morning? Within a few minutes, Miss Prost stood whispering at his side. If he had had any particle of doubt left, her talk would have necessity have resolved it but he was by that time clear-headed and he 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 consciously proceed to seek direction and guidance from the opinion he had been in his anxiety so anxious to obtain. Miss Prost, 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 without overstepping those delicate and gradual approaches which Mr. Lorry felt to be the only safe advance, he had first supposed that his daughter's marriage had taken place yesterday. An accidental illusion purposely thrown out to the day of the week and to the day of the month set him thinking and counting and evidently made him uneasy. In all other respects, however, he was so compositely 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 Mr. Minette, 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 discolored by his late work, the doctor looked troubled and listened attentively. He had already glanced at his hands more than once. Dr. Minette, said Mr. Lorry, touching him affectionately 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 daughters, his daughters, my dear Minette. 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 Minette, 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 born down, one cannot say for how long, because I believe he cannot calculate the time himself and there are no other means of getting at it. It is the case of a shock from which the sufferer recovered by a process that he cannot trace himself as I once heard him publicly relate in a 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 application 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 duration? 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 collectively, though in the same low voice, engaged in that pursuit originally? Once. And when the relapse fell on him, was he in most respects 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. Laurie grasped his hand in return and neither of the two spoke for a little while. Now, my dear Minette, said Mr. Laurie 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. Dr. Minette sat meditating after these earnest words were spoken and Mr. Laurie 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. Laurie 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 impossible it is for him to force himself to utter a word upon the topic that oppresses him. Would he, asked Mr. Laurie, be sensibly relieved if he could prevail upon himself to impart that secret brooding to anyone 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. Laurie, gently laying his hand on the doctor's arm again, after a short silence on both sides, till what would you refer this attack? I believe, returned Dr. Minette, 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. Laurie with natural hesitation. The doctor looked decently round the room, shook his head, and answered in a low voice. Not at all. Now as to the future, hinted Mr. Laurie. As to the future, said the doctor, recovering firmness, I should have great hope. As it pleased heaven and its mercy to restore him so soon, I should have great hope. He, yielding under the pressure of a complicated something, long dreaded 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. Laurie. I am thankful, repeated the doctor, bending his head with reverence. There are two other points, said Mr. Laurie, 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 unusually energetic. He applies himself with great ardor 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 danger 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 Minette, if he were overworked now, my dear Laurie, I doubt if that could easily be. There has been a violent stress in one direction and it needs a counterweight. Excuse me, as a persistent man of business, assuming for a moment that he was overworked, it would show itself in some renewal of this disorder? I do not think so. I do not think, said Dr. Minette, 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 cord 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 organization 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 professed himself more relieved and encouraged than he really was, and approached his second and last point. He felt it to be the most difficult of all, but remembering his old Sunday morning conversation with Ms. 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. Laurie, 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 unexpectedly 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. Laurie, 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 nervously on the ground. You do not find it easy to advise me, said Mr. Laurie. I quite understand it to be a nice question, and yet I think, and there he shook his head and stopped. You see, said Dr. Minnet, turning to him after an uneasy pause. It is very hard to explain consistently the innermost 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 substituting the perplexity of the fingers for the perplexity of the brain, and by substituting, as he became more practiced, 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 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. Lori's face. But may not, mind, I ask for information as a plotting man of business who only deals with such material objects as guinea's, shillings, and banknotes. May not the retention of the thing involve the retention of the idea? If the thing were gone, my dear Minnet, 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. Lori 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'm sure it does no good. Come, give me your authority like a dear good man, for his daughters' sake, my dear Minnet. 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 removed when he is not there. Let him miss his old companion after an absence. Mr. Lori 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 14th day he went away to join Lucy and her husband. The precaution that had been taken to account for his silence, Mr. Lori had previously explained to him, and he had written to Lucy in accordance with it, and she had no suspicions. On the night of the day on which he left the house, Mr. Lori went into his room with a chopper, saw, chisel, and hammer, attended by Miss Prost carrying a light. There, with closed doors, and in a mysterious and guilty manner, Mr. Lori hacked the shoemaker's bench to pieces, while Miss Prost 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 commenced 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. Lori and Miss Prost, 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. End of chapter. Book two, chapter 20 of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Richard Reiman, audiblyspeaking.com. A plea. When the newly married pair came home, the first person who appeared to offer his congratulations was Sydney Carton. They had not been at home many hours when he presented himself. He was not improved in habits or in looks or in manner, but there was a certain rugged era of fidelity about him, which was new to the observation of Charles Darne. He watched his opportunity of taking Darne aside into a window and of speaking to him when no one overheard. Mr. Darne, 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 either. Charles Darne, as was natural, asked him in all good humor and good fellowship, what did he 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 occasion when I was more drunk 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 taken 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. I said Carton with the careless wave of his hand, as if he waved that away. On the drunken occasion in question, one of a large number, as you know, I was insufferable about liking you and not liking you. I wish you would forget it. I forgot it long ago. Fashion of speech again, but Mr. Darnay, oblivion is not so easy to me as you represented 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, return 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 important 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 clap-trap. I don't know that I cared what became of you when I rendered it. Mind, I say, when I rendered it, I am speaking of the past. You make light of the obligation, return Darnay, but I will not quarrel with your light answer. genuine truth, Mr. Darnay, trust me, I have gone aside for 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, asks Striver 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 disillusioned 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 unuseless, 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, Garten, by this time. They shook hands upon it and Sidney turned away. Within a minute afterwards he was to all outward appearance as unsubstantial as ever. When he was gone and in the course of an evening passed with Miss Prost, the doctor, and Mr. Laurie, Charles Darnay made some mention of this conversation in general terms and spoke of Sidney Carton as a problem of carelessness 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 very 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 tonight, 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 tonight for we have something on our mind tonight. What is it, my Lucy? 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 Carton deserves more consideration and respect than you expressed for him tonight. Indeed, my own, why so? This 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 seldom reveals and that there are deep wounds in it. My dear, I have seen it bleeding. It is a painful reflection to me, said Charles Darne, 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 repairable now, but I am sure that he is capable of good things, gentle things, even magnanimous things. He 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 all 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 remember 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 disclosure 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. Echoing Footsteps A wonderful corner for echoes, it has been remarked, that corner where the doctor lived. Ever busily winding the golden thread which bound her husband and her father and herself and her old directoress and companion in a life of quiet bliss, Lucy sat in the still house in the tranquilly resounding corner, listening to the echoing footsteps of years. At first there were times, though she was a perfectly happy young wife, when her work would slowly fall from her hands and her eyes would be dimmed. For there was something coming in the echoes, something light, a far off and scarcely audible yet, that stirred her heart too much. Fluttering 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 her so much, swelled to her eyes and broke like waves. That time passed and her little Lucy 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 the 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 predominate nowhere, Lucy 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. Low, Miss Pras, in harness of string, awakening the echoes as an unruly charger, whip corrected, snorting and pawling the earth under the plain 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 around the worn face of a little boy and he said with a radiant smile, Dear Papa and Mama, 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 wedded his young mother's cheek as the spirit departed from her embrace that had been entrusted to it. Suffer them and forbid them not. They see my father's face, oh father, blessed words. Thus the rustling of an angel's wings got blended with the other echoes and they were not holy of earth but had in them that breath of heaven. Size of the winds that blew over a little garden tomb were mingled with them also and both were audible to Lucy in a hushed murmur, like the breathing of a summer sea asleep upon a sandy shore. As the little Lucy comically studious at the task of the morning or dressing a doll at her mother's footstool, chattered in the tongues of the two cities that were blended in her life. The echoes rarely 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 the 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 Lucy 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 a stern. As the boat so favored is usually in a rough plight and mostly underwater, 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 dessert or disgrace made it the life he was to lead and he no more thought of emerging from his state of lions 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 patronage of the most offensive quality from every poor had walked before him like three sheep to the quiet corner in Soho and had offered as pupils to Lucy's husband, delicately saying, hello, here are three lumps of bread and cheese towards your matrimonial picnic, Darnay. The polite rejection 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 Tudor 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 offense as to justify any such offenders being carried off to some suitably retired spot and there hanged out of the way. These were among the echoes to which Lucy, 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 fathers always active and self-possessed and those of her dear husbands need not be told. Nor how the lightest echo of their united home directed by herself with such a wise and elegant thrift that it was more abundant than any waste was music to her. Nor how there were echoes all about her, sweet in her ears of the many times her father had told her that he found her more devoted to him married if that could be than single. And of the many times her husband 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 rumbled menacingly in the corner all through this space of time. And it was now about little Lucy'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, 1789, Mr. Laurie came in late from Telsons and sat himself down by Lucy 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. Laurie, pushing his brown wig back, that I should have to pass the night at Telsons. We have been so full of business all day that we have not known what to do first or which way to turn. There is such an uneasiness in Paris that we have actually a run of confidence upon us. Our customers over there seem not to be able to confide their property to us fast enough. There is positively a mania among some of them who are 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 Telsons are getting old and we really can't be troubled out of the ordinary course without due occasion. Still, said Darnay, you know how gloomy and threatening the sky is. I know that to be sure, assented Mr. Laurie, trying to persuade himself that his sweet temper was soured and that he grumbled, but I am determined to be peevish after my long days' botheration. Now, where is Manette?" Here he is, said the doctor, entering the dark room at the moment. I am quite glad you aren't 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 tonight. Is the T-board still there, Lucy? 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. Laurie, 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 San Antoine afar off as the little circle sat in the dark London window. San Antoine had been that morning a vast dusky mass of scarecrows heeding to and fro with frequent gleams of light above the billowy heads where steel blades and bayonets shone in the sun. A tremendous roar arose from the throat of San Antoine and a forest of naked arms struggle in the air like shriveled branches of trees in a winter wind, all the fingers convulsively clutching at every weapon or semblance of a weapon that was thrown up from the depths below no matter how far off. Who gave them out once 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 themselves with bleeding hands to force stones and bricks out of their places and walls. Every pulse and heart in San 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 center point, so all this raging, circled round Defarge's wine shop and every human drop in the cauldron had a tendency to be sucked towards the vortex where Defarge himself, already begrimmed with gunpowder and sweat, issued orders, issued arms, thrust this man back, dragged this man forward, disarmed one to arm another, labored and strove in the thickest of the uproar. Keep near to me, Jacques III, cried Defarge, and do you, Jacques I and II, separate and put yourselves at the head of as many of these patriots as you can. Where is my wife? Well, here you see me, said Madame, composed as ever, but not knitting today. Madame's resolute right hand was occupied with an axe in place of the usual softer implements and in her girdle were a pistol and a cruel knife. Where do you go, my wife? I go, said Madame, with you at present. You shall see me at the head of women by and by. Come then, cried Defarge, in a resounding voice. Patriots 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 raging 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 cannon ear, Defarge of the wine shop worked like a manful soldier, two fierce hours. Deep ditch, single drawbridge, massive stone walls, eight great towers, cannon, muskets, fire and smoke, one drawbridge down. Work, comrades, all work! Work, Jacques I, Jacques II, Jacques 1000, Jacques 2000, Jacques V and XX000, in the name of all the angels or the devils, which you prefer, work! Thus Defarge of the wine shop still had his gun, which had long grown hot. To me, women, cried the dam's 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, blazing torches, smoking wagon loaves of wet straw, hard work at neighboring barricades in all directions, shrieks, volleys, execrations, bravery without stint, boom, smash and rattle, and the furious sounding of the living sea, but still the deep ditch and the single drawbridge and the massive stone walls and the eight great towers and still Defarge of the wine shop at his gun, grown doubly hot by the service of four 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 lower 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 impracticable as if he had been struggling in the surf at the South Sea until he was landed in the outer courtyard of the Bastille. There against an angle of a wall, he made a struggle to look about him. Jacques III was nearly at his side, Madame Defarge still heading some of her women was visible in the inner distance and her knife was in her hand. Everywhere was tumult, exultation, deafening and maniacal bewilderment, astounding noise, yet furious dumb show. The prisoners, the records, the secret cells, the instruments of torture, the prisoners. Of all these cries and 10,000 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 bearing the prison officers with them and threatening them all with instant death that any secret nook remained undisclosed Defarge laid his strong hand on the breast of one of these men, a man with a gray head who had a lighted torch in his hand, separated him from the rest and got him between himself and the wall. Show me the North Tower, said Defarge. Quick, I will faithfully reply to the man. If you will come with me, but there is no one there. What is the meaning of 105 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 Jock three, who had come close up. Monsieur, it is a cell. Show it to me. Pass this way then. Jock three with his usual craving on him and evidently disappointed by the dialogue taking a turn that did not seem to promise bloodshed held by Defarge's arm as he held by the turn keys. Their three heads had been closed together during this brief discourse and it had been as much as they could do to hear one another even then. So tremendous was the noise of the living ocean in its eruption into the fortress and its inundation of courts and passages and staircases. All around outside too, it beat the walls with a deep horse 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 cavernous flights of steps and again up steep rugged ascents of stone and brick more like dry waterfalls than staircases Defarge, the turn key and Jock three linked hand and arm went with all the speed they could make. Here and there especially at first the inundation started on them and swept by but when they had done descending and were winding and climbing up a tower they were alone. Hemmed in here by the massive thickness of walls and arches the storm within the fortress and without was only audible to them in a dull subdued way as if the noise out of which they had come had almost destroyed their sense of hearing. The turn key 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 105 North Tower. There was a small heavily graded 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 turn key. 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. Alexander Manette said to Defarge in his ear following the letters with his swart forefinger deeply ingrained 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 lint-stock of his gun in his own hand. He made a sudden exchange of the two instruments and turning 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 turn key he crawled upon the hearth and peering up the chimney struck in prize at its sides with the crowbar and worked at the iron grating across it. In a few minutes some mortar and dust came dropping down which he averted his face to avoid and in it and in the old wood ashes and in a crevice in the chimney into which his weapon had slipped or wrought itself he groped with a cautious touch. Nothing in the wood? Nothing in the straw Jacques? Nothing. Let us collect them together in the middle of the cell. So, like them you. The turn key fired the little pile which blazed high and hot. Stooping again to come out at the low arch door they left it burning and retraced their way to the courtyard seeming to recover their sense of hearing as they came down until they were in the raging flood once more. They found it surging and tossing in quest of Defarge himself. San Antoine was clamorous to have its wine shopkeeper foremost in the guard upon the governor who had defended the best deal 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 unevenged. In the howling universe of passion and contention that seemed to encompass this grim old officer conspicuous in his gray coat and red decoration there was but one quite steady figure and that was a woman's. See, there is my husband. She cried pointing him out. See Defarge. She stood immovable close to the grim old officer and remained immovable close to him. Remained immovable close to him through the streets as Defarge and the rest bore him along. Remained immovable close to him when he was got near his destination and began to be struck at from behind. Remained 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 San Antoine was to execute his horrible idea of hoisting up men for lamps to show what he could be and do. San 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 Madame Defarge where she had trodden on the body to steady it for mutilation. Lower the lamp yonder, cried San Antoine after glaring round for a new means of death. Here is one of his soldiers to be left on guard. The swinging sentinel was posted and a sea rushed on. The sea of black and threatening waters and a destructive upheaving of wave against wave whose depths were yet unfathomed whose forces were yet unknown. The remorseless sea of turbulent 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 furious expression was in vivid life there were two groups of faces, each seven in number. So fixedly contrasting with the rest that never did see 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 that were carried higher, seven dead faces whose drooping eyelids and half-seen eyes awaited the last day. Impassive faces yet with the 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 did stick. Seven prisoners released, seven gory heads on pikes. The keys of the accursed fortress of the eight strong towers. Some discovered letters in other memorials of prisoners of old time, long dead of broken hearts. Such and such like the loudly echoing footsteps of San Antoine escort through the Paris streets in mid-July 1789. Now heaven defeat the fancy of Lucy 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 a cask at the farge's wine-shop door they are not easily purified when once stained red. End of chapter. Book II, chapter 22 of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Richard Reiman, audiblyspeaking.com. The sea still rises. Haggard San 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 eternal embraces and congratulations when Madame de Farge sat at her counter as usual presiding over the customers. Madame de Farge wore no rose in her head for the great brotherhood of spies had become even in one short week extremely cherry of trusting themselves to the saint's mercies. The lamps across his streets had a portentiously elastic swing with them. Madame de Farge with her arms folded sat in the morning light and heat contemplating the wine-shop and the street. In both there were several knots of loungers, squalid and miserable, but now with a manifest sense of power enthroned on their distress. The raggedest nightcap awry on the wretched 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 bear 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 San Antoine. The image had been hammering into this for hundreds of years and the last finishing blows had told mightily on the expression. Madame de Farge sat observing it with such suppressed approval as was to be desired in the leader of the San Antoine women. One of her sisterhood knitted beside her, the short, rather plump wife of a starved grocer and the mother of two children with all, this lieutenant had already earned the complimentary name of the vengeance. Ark, said the vengeance, listen then, who comes? As if a train of powder laid from the outermost bound of San Antoine quarter to the wine shop door had been suddenly fired, a fast-spreading murmur came rushing along. It is de Farge, said Madame, silence, Patriots. de Farge came in breathless, pulled off a red cappie wore and looked around him. Listen everywhere, said Madame again, listen to him. de Farge stood, panting against the background of eager eyes and open mouths, formed outside the door. All those within the wine shop had sprung to their feet. Say then, my husband, what is it? News from the other world. How then, cried Madame contemptuously, the other world. Does everybody here recall old Foulon 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 reasoned? Wretched old sinner of more than three scored years and 10, 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 terrific shrieks and flinging her arms about her head like all the 40 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 women were a sight to chill the boldest. From such household occupations as their bare poverty yielded, from their children, from their agent 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. A villain Fulon taken my sister. Old Fulon taken my mother. Miscreant Fulon taken my daughter. Then a score of others ran into the midst of these, beating their breasts, tearing their hair and screaming Fulon alive. Fulon who told the starving people they might eat grass. Fulon who told my old father that he might eat grass when I had no bread to give him. Fulon who told my baby it might suck grass when these breasts were dry with want. Oh mother of God this Fulon. Oh heaven our suffering. Hear me my dead baby and my withered father. I swear on my knees on these stones to avenge you on Fulon. Husbands and brothers and young men give us the blood of Fulon. Give us the head of Fulon. Give us the heart of Fulon. Give us the body and soul of Fulon. Ran Fulon to pieces and dig him into the ground. That grass may grow from him. With these cries, numbers of the women lashed into blind frenzy, whirled about striking and tearing at their own friends until they dropped into a passionate swoon and were only saved by the men belonging to them from being trampled underfoot. Nevertheless, not a moment was lost, not a moment. This Fulon was at the Hotel de Ville and might be loosed. Never if San 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 San Antoine's bosom but a few old crones and the wailing children. No, they were all by that time choking the Hall of Examination 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 III 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 explaining the cause of her satisfaction to those behind them and those again explaining to others and those to others, the neighboring streets resounded with the clapping of hands. Similarly, during two or three hours of drawl and the winnowing of many bushels of words, Madame Defarge's frequent expressions of impatience were taken up with marvelous 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 building. At length the sun rose so high that it struck a kindly ray as of hope or protection directly down upon the old prisoner's head. The favor was too much to bear. In an instant the barrier of dust and chat that it stood surprisingly long went to the winds and San 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. Madame Defarge had but followed and turned her hand in one of the ropes with which he was tied. The vengeance in Jacques III 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 cries 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 in 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 composedly 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 San Antoine to dance at the sight of. Nor was this the end of the day's bad work for San 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 dispatched, another of the people's enemies and insulters was coming into Paris under a guard 500 strong in Cavalry alone. San Antoine wrote his crimes on flaring sheets of paper, seized him, would have torn him out of the breast of an army to bear full on 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 whaling and breadless. Then the miserable baker's shops were beset by long files of them patiently waiting to buy bad bread and while they waited with stomachs 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 neighbors 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 vines and struck some sparks of cheerfulness out of them. Bothers and mothers who had had their full share in the worst of the day played gently with their meager children and lovers with such a world around them and before them, loved and hoped. It was almost morning when Defarge's wine shop parted with its last knot of customers and Monsieur Defarge said to Madame his wife in husky tones while fastening the door, at last it has come, my dear. Eh, well, returned Madame, almost. San Antoine slept, the Defarges slept, even the vengeance slept with her starved grocer and the drum was at rest. The drums was the only voice in San Antoine that blood and hurry had not changed. The vengeance, as custodian of the drum, could have wakened him up and had the same speech out of him as before the Bastille fell or Old Foulon was seized, not so with the hoarse tones of the men and women in San Antoine's bosom. End of chapter. Book II, chapter 23 of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Richard Reiman, audiblyspeaking.com. Fire Rises. There was a change on the village where the fountain fell and where the mender of roads went forth daily to hammer out of the stones on the highway. Such morsels of bread as might serve for patches to hold his poor ignorant soul and his poor reduced body together. The prison on the crag was not so dominant as of yore. There were soldiers to guard it but not many. There were officers to guard the soldiers but not one of them knew what his men would do beyond this, that it would probably not be what 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 shriveled and poor as the miserable people. Everything was bowed down, dejected, oppressed and broken. Habitations, fences, domesticated animals, men, women, children and the soil that bore them, all worn out. Monsignor, often a most worthy individual gentleman, was a national blessing, gave a chivalrous tone to things, was a polite example of luxurious and shining life and a great deal more to equal purpose. Nevertheless, Monsignor as a class had somehow or other brought things to this. Strange that creation designed expressly for Monsignor should be so soon rung dry and squeezed out. There must be something short-sighted in the eternal arrangements 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 purchase crumbled and it now turned and turned with nothing to bite, Monsignor began to run away from a phenomenon so low and unaccountable. But this was not the change on the village and on many a village like it. For scores of years gone by, Monsignor had squeezed it and rung 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 Monsignor made edifying spaces of barbarous and barren wilderness. No, the change consisted in the appearance of strange faces of low cast rather than in the disappearance of the high cast, chiseled and otherwise beautified and beautifying features of Monsignor. For in these times as the mender of roads worked, solitary 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 labor and viewed the prospect, he would see some rough figure approaching on foot the like of which was once a rarity in those parts but was now a frequent presence. As it advanced the mender of roads would discern without surprise 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 that 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 hollow, 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, oh, goes it, Jacques. Oh 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 suddenly held it from him and dropped something into it from between his finger and thumb that blazed and went out in a puff of 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. Tonight, said the mender of roads, tonight, 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 between them like a pygmy charge of bayonets until the sky began to clear over the village. Show me, said the traveler then, moving to the brow of the hill. See, returned the mender of roads with extended finger, you go down here and straight through the street and pass the fountain to the devil with all that, interrupted the other, rolling his eye over the landscape. I go through no streets and pass 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 way fairer 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 labor and the hail clouds rolling away, revealed bright bars and streaks of sky which were responded to by silver gleams upon the landscape, the little man who wore a red cap now in place of his blue one, seemed fascinated by the figure on the heap of stones. His eyes were so often turned towards it that he used his tools mechanically and one would have said to very poor a count. The bronze face, the shaggy black hair and beard, the coarse woolen red cap, the rough medley dress of homespun stuff and hairy skins of beasts, the powerful frame attenuated by spare living and the sullen and desperate compression of the lips in sleep inspired the mender of roads with awe. The traveller had travelled far and his feet were footsore and his ankles chafed in 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, guardhouses, 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 intervals of brightness, to sunshine on his face and shadow, to the pultering lumps of dull ice on his body and the diamonds into which the sun changed them until the sun was low in the west and the sky was glowing. Then the mender of roads, having got his tools together and all things ready to go down into the village, roused him. Good, 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 kind, brought there to drink and appearing even to whisper to them in his whispering to all the village. When the village had taken its poor supper, it did not creep to bed as it usually did but came out of doors again and remained there. A curious contagion of whispering was upon it and also when it gathered together at the fountain in the dark, another curious contagion of looking expectantly at the sky in one direction only. Monsieur Gabel, chief functionary of the place, became uneasy, went out on his house top alone and looked in that direction too, glanced down from behind his jimmies 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 toxin by and by. The night deepened, the trees enviring the old chateau, keeping its solitary state apart, moved an arising 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 lamenting up the stairs and shook the curtains of the bed where the last marquee had slept. East, west, north and south through the woods, four heavy-treading unkempt figures crushed the high grass and cracked the branches, striding unconsciously to come together in the courtyard. Four lights broke out there and moved away in different directions 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 behind the architecture of the front, picking out transparent places and showing where balustrades, parches 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 people who were left there and there was a saddling of a horse and riding away. There was sparing and splashing through the darkness and bridle was drawn in the space by the village fountain and the horse in a foam stood at Michur Gabel's door. Help, Gabel! Help everyone! The toxin rang impatiently but other help, if that were any, there was none. The mender of roads and 250 particular friends stood with folded arms at the fountain looking at the pillar of fire in the sky. It must be 40 feet high, said they, grimly and never moved. The rider from the chateau and the horse in a foam clattered away through the village and galloped up the stony steep to the prison on the crag. At the gate, a group of officers 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 timely aid. Help, help! The officers looked toward 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 250 particular friends inspired as one man and woman by the idea of lighting up had darted into their houses and were putting candles in every dull little pane of glass. The general scarcity of everything occasioned candles to be borrowed in a rather peremptory manner of Mishor Gabel and in a moment of reluctance 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 marquee burning at the stake and contending with the fire. The chateau burned, the nearest trees, laid hold of by the fire, scorched and shriveled, trees at a distance, fired by the four fierce figures, beguirked 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 crystallization, stupefied birds wheeled about and dropped into the furnace. Four fierce figures trudged away, east, west, north and south, along the night in shrouded roads guided by the beacon they had lighted towards their next destination. The illuminated village had seized the hold of the toxin and abolishing the lawful ringer rang for joy. Not only that, but the village lightheaded with famine, fire and bell ringing and be thinking itself that Monsieur Gabel had to do with the collection of rent and taxes. Though it was but a small installment of taxes and no rent at all that Gabel had got in those latter days, became impatient for an interview with him and surrounding his house summoned him to come forth for personal conference whereupon Monsieur Gabel did heavily bar his door and retire to hold council with himself. The result of that conference was that Gabel again withdrew himself to his house stop behind his stack of chimneys. This time resolved if his door were broken in, he was a small southern man, a retaliative temperament, to pitch himself foremost over the parapet and crush a man or two below. Probably, Monsieur Gabel passed a long night up there with the distant chateau for fire and candle and the beating at his door combined with the joy ringing for music, not to mention his having an ill omen lamp slung across the road before his posting house gate which the village showed a lively inclination to displace in his favor. A trying 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 Gabel had resolved. But the friendly dawn appearing at last and the rush candles of the village guttering out, the people happily dispersed and Monsieur Gabel 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 fortunate than the mender of roads and his fellows upon whom the functionaries and soldiery turned with success and whom they strung up in their turn. But the fierce figures were steadily 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 calculate successfully. End of chapter. Book two, chapter 24 of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Richard Reimann, audiblyspeaking.com. Drawn to the lodestone rock. In such risings of fire and risings of sea, the firm earth shaken by the rushes of an angry ocean which had now no ebb but 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 Lucy 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 tumultuous under a red flag and with their country declared in danger, changed into wild beasts by terrible enchantment long persisted in. Monsignor as a class had disassociated 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 altogether. 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 Monsignor 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 be held 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 moat in it of Lucifer's pride, Sardana police's luxury and the moles 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. The royalty was gone, had been besieged in its palace and suspended when the last tidings came over. The August of the year 1792 was come and Monsignor was by this time scattered far and wide. As was natural the headquarters in great gathering place of Monsignor in London was Telsen's bank. Spirits are supposed to haunt the places where their bodies most resorted and Monsignor 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, Telsen's was a munificent house and extended great liberality to old customers who had fallen from their highest state. Again, those nobles who had seen the coming storm in time and anticipating plunder or confiscation had made prominent remittances to Telsen's were always to be heard of there by their needy brethren to which it must be added that every newcomer from France reported himself and his tidings at Telsen's almost as a matter of course. For such variety of reasons, Telsen's was at that time as to French intelligence a kind of high exchange and this was so well known to the public and the inquiries made there were in consequence so numerous that Telsen'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 steamy misty afternoon, Mr. Laurie 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 interviews 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. Laurie. Unsettled weather, a long journey, uncertain means of traveling, a disorganized country, a city that may not even be safe for you. My dear Charles, said Mr. Laurie with cheerful confidence, 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 forescore when there are so many people there much better worth interfering with. As to its being a disorganized city, if it were not a disorganized city, there would be no occasion to send somebody from our house here to our house there who knows the city and the business of old and is in Telsen's confidence. As to the uncertain traveling, the long journey and the winter weather, if I were not prepared to submit myself to a few inconveniences for the sake of Telsen's, after all these years, who ought to be? I wish I were going myself, said Charles Darnay, somewhat restlessly and like one thinking aloud. Indeed, you are a pretty fellow to object and advise, explained Mr. Laurie, you wish you were going yourself and you, a Frenchman born, you are a wise counselor. My dear Mr. Laurie, it is because I am a Frenchman born that the thought, which I did not mean to utter here, however, has passed through my mind often. One cannot help thinking, having had some sympathy for the miserable people and having abandoned something to them, he spoke here in his formal 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 Lucy, when you were talking to Lucy, Mr. Laurie repeated, yes, I wonder you are not ashamed to mention the name of Lucy, 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 playing reality. The truth is, my dear Charles, Mr. Laurie 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, or who can say that Paris has not set a fire today or sat tomorrow. 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, upstairsly anyone, but myself, if anyone. And shall I hang back when Telsen's knows this and says this, Telsen's whose bread I have eaten these 60 years because I am a little stiff about the joints? Why I am a bully, sir, to half a dozen old codgers here. How I admire the gallantry of your youthful spirit, Mr. Laurie. Tut, nonsense, sir. And my dear Charles, said Mr. Laurie, glancing at the house again. You are to remember 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 life to whisper it, even to you. By the strangest bearers you can imagine, every one of whom had his head hanging on by a single hair as he passed the barriers. At another time our parcels would come and go as easily as in business like Old England, but now everything is stopped. And do you really go to night? I really go to night, for the case has become too pressing to admit a 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 bulldog or of having any design in his head, but to fly at anybody who touches his master. I must say again that I hardly admire your gallantry and youthfulness. I must say again, nonsense, nonsense. When I have executed this little commission, I shall perhaps accept Telsen's proposal to retire and live at my ease. Time enough then to think about growing old. This dialogue had taken place at Mr. Laurie's usual desk with Monsignor 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 Monsignor 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 vaporing combined with the extravagant plots of Monsignor 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 remonstrance by any sane man who knew the truth. And it was such vaporing all about his ears like a troublesome confusion of blood in his own head added to a latent uneasiness in his mind which had already made Charles Darnay restless and which still kept him so. Among the talkers was Stryver of the King's Bench Bar far on his way to state promotion and therefore loud on the theme, broaching to Monsignor his devices for blowing 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 Darnay 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. Laurie and laying a soiled and unopened letter before him asked if he had yet discovered any traces of the person to whom it was addressed. 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 mature here to for the Marquis Saint-Éry-Monde of France confided to the cares of Messers, Tillson and company, bankers, London, England. On the marriage morning, Dr. Minette had made it his one urgent and express request to Charles Darnay that the secret of this name should be unless he, the doctor, dissolved the obligation kept inviolate between them. Nobody else knew it to be his name. His own life had no suspicion of the fact Mr. Laurie could have none. No, said Mr. Laurie in reply to the house. I had referred it I think to everybody now here and no one can tell me where this gentleman is to be found. The hands of the clock verging upon the hour of closing the bank, there was a general set of the current of talkers past Mr. Laurie's desk. He held the letter out inquiringly and Monsignor looked at it in the person of that plotting an 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. Now few I believe, but in any case, the degenerate successor of the polished Marquis who was murdered, said one. Happy to say I never knew him. A quaven who abandoned his post, said another. This Monsignor 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 opposition 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 striver. Did he though, is that the sort of fellow? Let us look at his infamous name, damn the fellow. Darnay, unable to restrain himself any longer, touched Mr. Striver on the shoulder and said, I know the fellow. Do you, by Jupiter, said Striver? I am sorry for it. Why? Why, Mr. Darnay, do you 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, abandoned 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 contamination 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, Striver, and I'll do it. If this fellow is a gentleman, I don't understand him. You may tell him so with my compliments. You may also tell him from me that after abandoning his worldly goods and positioned to this butchery mob, I wonder he is not at the head of them. But no, gentlemen, said Striver, looking all around 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 protégés. No, gentlemen, he'll always show him a clean pair of heels very early in the scuffle and sneak away. With those words and a final snap of his fingers, Mr. Striver shouldered himself into Fleet Street amidst the general approbation of his heroes. Mr. Laurie 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. Laurie? 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 Striver 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 Abbey, Paris, June 21st, 1792. Monsieur, here to fore the Marquis. After having long been in danger of my life at the hands of the village, I have been seized with great violence and indignity and brought a long journey on foot to Paris. On the road I have suffered a great deal, nor is that all. My house has been destroyed, raised to the ground. The crime for which I am imprisoned, monsieur, here to fore the Marquis, and for which I shall be summoned before the tribunal and shall lose my life without your so generous help is, they tell me, treason against the majesty of the people, in that I have acted against them for an immigrant. It is in vain I represent that I have acted for them and not against according to your commands. It is in vain I represent that, before the sequestration of immigrant property, I have remitted the imposts they had ceased to pay, that I had collected no rent, that I had recourse to no process. The only response is that I have acted for an immigrant and where is that immigrant? Ah, most gracious monsieur, here to fore the Marquis, where is that immigrant? I cry in my sleep, where is he? I demand of heaven, will he not come to deliver me? No answer. Ah, monsieur, here to fore the Marquis, I send my desolate cry across the sea, hoping it may perhaps reach your ears through the great bank of Telsen, known at Paris. For the love of heaven, of justice, of generosity, of the honor of your noble name, I supplicate you, monsieur, here to fore the Marquis, to sucker and release me. My fault is that I have been true to you. Oh, monsieur, here to fore the Marquis, I pray you be you true to me. From this prison here of horror, from inside every hour tend nearer and nearer to destruction. I send you, monsieur, here to fore the Marquis, the assurance of my dolerous and unhappy service. You're afflicted, Gabel. The latent uneasiness in Darnay's mind was roused to vigorous life by this letter. The peril of an old servant and a good one, whose only crime was fidelity to himself and his family, stared him so reproachfully in the face that as he walked to and fro in the temple considering what to do, almost hid his face from the passerby. 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 crumbling fabric that he was supposed to uphold, he had acted imperfectly. He knew very well that in his love for Lucy, 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 necessity of being always actively employed, the swift changes and troubles of the time which had followed on one another so fast that the events of this week annihilated the immature plans of last week and the events of the week following made all new again. He knew very well that to the force of these circumstances he had yielded, not without disquiet but still without continuous and accumulating resistance. 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 every 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 the payment of his dues that he had relinquished them of his own will thrown himself on a world with no favor in it. Won his own private place there and earned his own bread. Monsieur Gavelle had held the impoverished and involved the state on written instructions to spare the people, to give them what little there was to give. Such fuel as the heavy creditors 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 favored the desperate resolution Charles Darnay had begun to make that he would go to Paris. Yes, like the Mariner and the Old Story, the winds and streams had driven him within the influence of the lodestone 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 attraction. His latent uneasiness had been that bad aims were being worked out in his own unhappy land by bad instruments 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 humanity. With this uneasiness half stifled and half reproaching him, he had been brought to the pointed comparison of himself with the brave old gentleman in whom duty was so strong. Upon that comparison, injurious to himself, had instantly followed the sneers of Monseigneur which had stung him bitterly and those of Stryver which above all were coarse and galling for old reasons. Upon those had followed Gabel's letter, the appeal of an innocent prisoner in danger of death to his justice, honor, and good name. His resolution was made. He must go to Paris. Yes, the lodestone 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 acknowledged in France on his presenting himself to a servant. Then that glorious vision of doing good which is so often the sanguine mirage of so many good minds arose before him and he even saw himself in the illusion with some influence to guide this raging revolution that was running so fearfully wild. As he walked to and fro with his resolution made, he considered that neither Lucy nor her father must know of it until he was gone. Lucy should be spared the pain of separation 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 painful anxiety to avoid reviving old associations of France in his mind he did not discuss with himself but that circumstance too had had its influence in his course. He walked to and fro with thoughts very busy until it was time to return to Telsons and take leave of Mr. Lorry. 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 dangerous. Not at all, though it is to a prisoner in the Abbey. What is his name? Said Mr. Lorry with his open pocketbook in his hand. Gabel, Gabel. And what is the message to the unfortunate Gabel in prison? Simply that he has received the letter and will come. Any time mentioned he will start upon his journey tomorrow 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 Lucy and to little Lucy, 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 14th of August. He sat up late and wrote two fervent letters. One was to Lucy explaining the strong obligation he was under to go to Paris and showing her at length the reasons that he had for feeling confident that he could become involved in no personal danger there. The other was to the doctor confiding Lucy and their dear child to his care and dwelling on the same topics with the strongest assurances. To both, he wrote that he would dispatch 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 by an imaginary engagement took him out and he had secreted of a lease 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 honor of your noble name was the poor prisoner's cry with which he strengthened his sinking heart as he left all that was dear on earth behind him and floated away for the lodestone rock. End of chapter. Book the third of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens, The Track of a Storm. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Richard Reimann, audiblyspeaking.com. Chapter one, In Secret. The traveler fared slowly on his way who fared towards Paris from England in the autumn of the year 1792. More than enough of bad roads, bad equipages, and bad horses he would have encountered to delay him, though the fallen and unfortunate King of France had been upon his throne in all his glory, but the change times were fraught with other obstacles than these. Every town, gate, and village taxing house had its band of citizen patriots with their national muskets and a most explosive state of readiness who stopped all comers and goers, cross-questioned them, inspected their papers, looked for their names and lists of their own, turned them back or sent them on, or stopped them and laid them in hold as their capricious judgment or fancy deemed best for the dawning republic, one and indivisible of liberty, equality, fraternity, or death. A very few French leagues of his journey were accomplished when Charles Darnay began to perceive that for him, along these country 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 forwarded to his destination in a cage, he could not have felt his freedom more completely gone. This universal watchfulness not only stopped him on the highway 20 times in a stage, but retarded his progress 20 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 dazed 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 Gavelle's letter from his prison of the Abbey would have got him on so far. His difficulty at the guardhouse 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 end 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. Immigrant, 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 functionary, 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 were not a favor to be protected from the lamp-iron. It is always as the good patriot says, observed the functionary, rise and dress yourself, immigrant. Darnay complied and was taken back to the guardhouse 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 tricolored cockades, armed with national muskets and sabers who rode one on either side of him. The escort had governed his own horse but a loose line was attached to his bridle, the end of which one of the patriots kept girded around 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 mire-deep leagues that lay between them and the capital. They traveled in the night, halting an hour or two after daybreak and lying by until the twilight fell. The escort were so wretchedly clothed that they twisted straw around their bare legs and thatched their ragged shoulders to keep the wet off, apart from the personal discomfort of being so attended and apart from such considerations of present danger as arose from one of the patriots being chronically drunk and carrying his 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 representations confirmable by the prisoner and the abbey 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 saddle 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 immigrant, 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. Aye, and condemned as a traitor. At this, the crowd roared approval. Checking the postmaster who was for turning his horse's head to the yard, the drunken patriot sat compositely 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 decree. 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 postmaster 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 immigrants. When passed, on the 14th, the Tehi left England. Everybody says it is but one of several and that there will be others, if there are not already, banishing all immigrants 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 and 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 manner in the dead of the night, circling hand in hand round a shriveled tree of liberty or all drawn up together, singing a liberty song. Happily, however, there was sleep in Beauvais that night to help them out of it and they passed on once more into solitude and 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 raining 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 resolute looking man in authority who was summoned out by the guard? Naturally struck by the disagreeable word, Charles Darnay requested the speaker to take notice that he was a free traveler and a 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 Gavelle's letter. The same personage in authority showed some disorder and surprise and looked at Darnay with a close attention. He left escort and escorted without saying a word, however, 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 numerous 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 talk together or loitered about. The red cap and tricolor cockade 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 and 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 dismount. 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 soldiers 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 guardhouse, 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. "'City's into fudge,' said he to Darnay's conductor as he took a slip of paper to write on. "'Is this the emigrant Evrimand?' "'This is the man.' "'Your age, Evrimand.' "'37.' "'Married Evrimand?' "'Yes. "'Where married?' "'In England?' "'Without doubt. "'Where is your wife, Evrimand?' "'In England?' "'Without doubt.' "'You are consigned, Evrimand, "'to the prison of La Force.' "'Just heaven!' exclaimed Darnay. "'Under what law and for what offense?' The officer looked up from his slip of paper for a moment. "'We have new laws, Evrimand, "'and new offenses, since you were here.' He said it with a hard smile and went on writing. "'I intrigue you to observe that I have come here voluntarily "'in response to that written appeal of a fellow countryman, "'which lies before you. "'I demand no more than the opportunity "'to do so without delay. "'Is not that my right?' "'Emigrants have no rights, Evrimand,' 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 Defarge, 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 Dr. Manette? "'Once a prisoner in the Bastille 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 San 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 rouse, 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?' "'One,' 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, pre-judged, "'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. Laurie of Telsen's bank, "'an English gentleman who is now in Paris, "'the simple fact, without comment, "'that I have been thrown into the prison of law 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 aristocrat. "'Otherwise, that a man in good clothes "'should be going to prison was no more remarkable "'than that a laborer in working clothes "'should be going to work. "'In one narrow, dark and dirty street "'through which they passed, "'an excited orator mounted on a stool "'was addressing an excited audience "'on the crimes against the people, "'of the king and of 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 massacre, days and nights long, "'which, within a few rounds of the clock, "'was to set a great mark of blood "'upon the blessed garnering time of harvest "'was as far out of his knowledge "'as if it had been a hundred thousand years away. "'The sharp female newly born and called Ligietine "'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 and detention and hardship "'and in cruel separation from his wife and child, "'he foreshadowed the likelihood or the certainty, "'but beyond this he dreaded 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 every monde. "'What the devil? "'How many more of them?' exclaimed the man "'with a bloated face. "'Defarge took his receipt "'without noticing the exclamation "'and withdrew with his two fellow patriots. "'What the devil, I say again,' exclaimed the jailer, "'left with his wife, how many more?' "'The jailer'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. "'Extraordinary how soon the noisome flavor "'of imprisoned sleep becomes manifest "'in all such places that are ill cared for?' "'In secret, too,' grumbled the jailer, "'looking at the written paper, "'as if it were not already full to bursting. "'He stuck the paper on a file in an ill humor, "'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 detained 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, immigrant.' "'Through the dismal prison twilight, "'his new charge accompanied him by corridor and staircase. "'And he 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 newcomer recoiled from this company. "'But the crowning unreality "'of his long, unreal ride was, "'they're all at once rising to receive him "'with every refinement of manner known to the time "'and with all the engaging graces and courtesies of life. "'So strangely clouded were these refinements "'by the prison manors 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 stateliness, the ghost of elegance, "'the ghost of pride, the ghost of frivolity, "'the ghost of wit, the ghost of youth, the ghost of age, "'all wading 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 jailer standing at his side "'and the other jailers moving about, "'who would have been well enough as to appearance "'in the ordinary exercise of their functions, "'looks so extravagantly coarse, "'contrasted 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 inversion 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 disease, "'that had brought him to these gloomy shades.' "'In the name of the assembled companions in misfortune,' "'said a gentleman of courtly appearance in a dress, "'coming forward, I have the honor "'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 impertinent self-swear, "'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 jailer 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 Darnay crossed the room, "'to a grated door where the jailer awaited him. "'And many voices, "'among which the soft and compassionate voices "'of women were conspicuous, "'gave him good wishes and encouragement. "'He turned at the grated door "'to render the thanks of his heart. "'It closed under the jailer's hand "'and the apparitions vanished from his sight forever. "'The wicket opened on a stone staircase, leading upward. "'When they had ascended forty steps, "'the prisoner of half an hour already counted them, "'the jailer opened a low black door "'and they passed into a solitary cell. "'It struck cold and damp, but was not dark. "'Yours,' said the jailer. "'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 mattress. "'As the jailer 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 jailer was so unwholesomely bloated, "'both in face and in person, "'as to look like a man who had been drowned "'and filled with water. "'When the jailer was gone, "'he thought in the same wandering 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 latter 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 window, "'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 counting, "'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.'" End of chapter. Book III, chapter 2 of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Richard Reiman, audiblyspeaking.com. The Grindstone. Telsen's Bank, established in the San Germain Quarter 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 methampsychosis, no other than the same Monsignor, the preparation of whose chocolate for whose lips had once occupied three strongmen besides the cook in question. Monsignor gone, and the three strongmen 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 Donning Republic, won an indivisible of liberty, equality, fraternity, or death, Monsignor's house had been first sequesterated 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 Monsignor's house and had marked it with the tricolor and were drinking brandy in its state apartments. A place of business in London like Telsen's place of business in Paris would soon have driven the house out of its mind and into the Gazette. For what would staid British responsibility and respectability have said to orange trees in boxes in a bank courtyard and even to a cupid over the counter? Yet such things were. Telsen'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 provocation. Yet a French Telsen's could get on with these things exceedingly well and as long as the time celled together no man had taken fright at them and drawn out his money. What money would be drawn out of Telsen's henceforth and what would lie there lost and forgotten? What plate and jewels would tarnish in Telsen's hiding places while the depositors rusted in prisons and when they should have violently perished and how many accounts with Telsen'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 Lurie 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 honest and courageous face there was a deeper shade than the pendant lamp could throw or any object in the room distortedly 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 like strong rude ivy. A chance 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 colonnade was extensive standing for carriages where indeed some carriages of the Monseigneur yet stood. Against two of the pillars were fastened two great flaring flambeau 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 neighboring Smithy or other workshop. Rising and looking out of window at these harmless objects Mr. Lurie 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 in the strong gate there came the usual night home of the city with now and then an indescribable ring in it weird and unearthly as if some unwanted sounds of a terrible nature were going up to heaven. Thank God said Mr. Lurie clasping his hands that no one near and dear to me is in this dreadful town tonight. 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 eruption into the courtyard as he had expected and he heard the great gate clash again and all was quiet. 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. Lucy and her father. Lucy with her arms stretched out to him and with that old look of earnestness so concentrated and intensified that it seemed as though it had been stamped on her face expressly to give force and power to it in this one passage of her life. What is this? cried Mr. Lurie, breathless and confused. What is the matter? Lucy, Minette, what has happened? What has brought you here? What is it? With the look fixed upon him in her paleness and wildness she panted out in his arms imploringly. Oh my dear friend, my husband. Your husband, Lucy? 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 generosity 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 bell of the great gate rang again and a loud noise of feet and voices came pouring into the courtyard. What is that noise? said the doctor, turning towards the window. Don't look, cried Mr. Laurie. Don't look out, Minette, for your life. Don't touch the blind. The doctor turned with his hand upon the fascinating 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, whom knowing me to have been a prisoner 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 Lucy so. What is that noise? His hand was again upon the window. Don't look, cried Mr. Laurie, absolutely desperate. No Lucy, 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, Lucy, my child, if ever you were brave and serviceable 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 tonight. You cannot possibly stir out. I say this because what I must bid you to do for Charles' 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 father 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 doctor 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 40 or 50 in all. The people in possession of the house had led 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 flapped 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 mustaches 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 where 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 dying 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 color. And as the frantic wielders of these weapons snatched them from the stream of sparks and tore away into the streets, the same red hue was red in their frenzied eyes. Eyes which any unbrutalized beholder would have given 20 years of life to petrify with a well-directed gun. All of this was seen in a moment as the vision of a drowning man or of any human creature at any very great pass could see a world if it were there. They drew back from the window and the doctor looked for explanation in his friend's ashy face. They are, Mr. Laurie whispered the words, glancing fearfully round at the locked room, murdering the prisoners. If you are short 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. Dr. Minette pressed his hand, hasten bare-headed out of the room and was in the courtyard when Mr. Laurie regained the blind. His streaming white hair, his remarkable face and the impetuous confidence of his manner as he put the weapons aside like water carried him in an instant to the heart of the concourse at the stone. For a few moments there was a pause and a hurry and a murmur and the unintelligible sound of his voice. And then Mr. Laurie saw him, surrounded by all and in the midst of a line of 20 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, roam for the Bastille prisoner in front there, save the prisoner every mond at La Force, and a thousand answering shouts. He closed the lattice again with a fluttering heart, closed the window in the curtain, hasten to Lucy and told her that her father was assisted by the people and gone in search of her husband. He found her child and Miss Prost 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. Lucy had, by that time, fallen into a stupor on the floor at his feet, clinging to his hand. Miss Prost had laid the child down on his own bed and her head had gradually fallen on the pillow beside her pretty charge. Oh, the long, long night with the moans of the poor wife and oh, 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 eruption was repeated and the grindstone whirled and sputtered. What is it? cried Lucy, affrighted. Hush, the soldier's swords are sharpened there, said Mr. Laurie. The place is national property now and used as a kind of armory, 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 cautiously 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 pavement by the side of the grindstone and looking about him with a vacant air. Shortly, this worn out murderer described in the imperfect light one of the carriages of Monsignor and staggering to that gorgeous vehicle, climbed in at the door and shut himself up to take his rest on its dainty cushions. The great grindstone, Earth, had turned when Mr. Laurie looked out again and the sun was red on the courtyard, but the lesser grindstone stood alone there in the calm morning air with a red upon it that the sun had never given and would never take away. End of chapter. Book III, Chapter III of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Richard Reiman, TheShadow. One of the first considerations which arose in the business mind of Mr. Laurie, when business hours came round, was this, that he had no right to imperil telsons by sheltering the wife of an emigrant prisoner under the bank roof. His own possessions, safety, life, he would have hazarded for Lucy and her child without a moment's demur, 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 shopping 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 telsons, Mr. Laurie advised with Lucy. 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. Laurie went out in quest of such a lodging and found a suitable one high up in a removed by street where the closed blinds and all the other windows of a high melancholy square of buildings marked deserted homes. To this lodging, he had once removed Lucy and her child and Ms. Prost, giving them what comfort he could and much more than he had himself. He left Jerry with them as a friend of his. He left Jerry with them as a figure to fill a doorway that would bear considerable knocking on the head and return 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 considering what to do next when he heard a foot upon the stair. In a few moments, a man stood in his presence who with a keenly observant look at him addressed him by his name. Your servant, said Mr. Laurie, 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. Laurie said, you come from Dr. Minette? Yes, I come from Dr. Minette. And what says he? What does he send me? Defarge gave into his anxious hand an open scrap of paper. 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. Laurie, joyfully relieved 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. Laurie put on his hat and they went down into the courtyard. There they found two women, one knitting. Madam Defarge, joyfully said Mr. Laurie, who had left her in exactly the same attitude some 17 years ago. It is she, observed her husband. Does Madam go with us? Inquired Mr. Laurie, seeing that she moved as they moved. Yes, that she may be able to recognize the faces and know the persons it is for their safety. Beginning to be struck by Defarge's manner, Mr. Laurie 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 delmissile, were admitted by Jerry, and found Lucy weeping alone. She was thrown into a transport by the tidings Mr. Laurie 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 passionate, loving, thankful, womanly action, but the hand made no response, dropped cold and heavy and took to its knitting again. There was something in its touch that gave Lucy a check. She stopped in the act of putting the note in her bosom and with her hands yet at her neck looked terrified at Madame Defarge. Madame Defarge met the lifted eyebrows and forehead with a cold, impassive stare. My dear, said Mr. Laurie, striking into 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 identify them. I believe, said Mr. Laurie, rather halting in his reassuring words as the stony manner of all the three impressed 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, Lucy, said Mr. Laurie, doing all he could to propitiate, by tone and manner, have the dear child here and our good prose. Our good prose, Defarge, is an English lady and knows no fringe. The lady in question, whose rooted conviction that she was more than a match for any foreigner, was not to be shaken 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 nitty needle at little Lucy as if it were the finger of fate. Yes, madame, answered Mr. Laurie, 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 him, we may go. But the suppressed manner had enough of menace in it, not visible and presented, but indistinct and withheld, to alarm Lucy 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 Madame 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 others. Madame Defarge received it as a compliment and looked at her husband. Defarge, who had been uneasily biting his thumbnail and looking at her, collected his face into a sterner expression. What is it that your husband says in that little letter? Ask Madame Defarge with a lowering smile. Influence? He says something touching influence? That my father, said Lucy, hurriedly taking the paper from her breast, but with her alarmed eyes on her questioner 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 Lucy most earnestly, I implore you to have pity on me and not to exercise any power that you possess against my innocent husband, but to use it in his behalf. Oh, 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, hunger, 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 Lucy. 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 Lucy, said Mr. Laurie 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. My tut, said Mr. Laurie, what is this despondency in the brave little breast? A shadow indeed, no substance in it, Lucy. 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. End of chapter. Book three, chapter four of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. This Libra Box recording is in the public domain. Recording by Richard Reiman, audiblyspeaking.com. Calm in storm. Dr. 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 Lucy was so well concealed from her that not until long afterwards, when France and she were far apart, did she know that 1,100 defenseless 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 murdered. To Mr. Laurie, the doctor communicated under an injunction 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 the 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 18 years a secret and unaccused prisoner in the Bastille that one of the bodies so sitting in judgment had risen and identified him and that this man was the farch. That hereupon he had ascertained through the registers 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 lavished on himself as a notable sufferer under the overthrown system, it had been accorded to him to have Charles Darne brought before the lawless court and examined. That he seemed on the point of being at once released when the tide in his favor met with some unexplained check, not intelligible to the doctor, which led to a few words of secret conference. That the man sitting as president had then informed Dr. Manette that the prisoner must remain in custody but should for his sake be held in violet in safe custody. That immediately on a signal, the prisoner was removed to the interior of the prison again, but that he, the doctor, had then so strongly pleaded for permission to remain and assured 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 savage 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 company 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 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 62 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, Dr. Minette. And when Jarvis Lorry saw the kindled eyes, the resolute face, the calm, strong-looking 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 influence so wisely that he was soon the inspecting physician of three prisons and among them of La Force. He could now assure Lucy that her husband was no longer confined alone but was mixed with the general body of prisoners. He saw her husband weakly 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 immigrants who were known to have made friends or permanent connections abroad. This new life of the doctors was an anxious life, no doubt. Still, the sagacious Mr. Lori 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, deprivation and weakness. Now that this was changed and he knew himself to be invested through that old trial with forces to which they both looked for Charles' ultimate safety and deliverance, he became so far exalted by the change that he took the lead in direction and required them as the weak to trust him as the strong. The preceding relative positions of himself and Lucy were reversed, yet only as the liveliest gratitude and affection could reverse them, for he could have had no pride in rendering some service to her who had rendered so much to him. All curious to see, thought Mr. Lori 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 trying 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. 300,000 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 equally on hill and plain, on rock in gravel and alluvial mud, under the bright sky of the south and under the clouds of the north, in fell and forest, in the vineyards and the olive grounds and among the crop grass and the stubble of the corn, along the fruitful banks of the broad rivers and in the sand of the seashore. 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 winds 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 gray. 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 capital and 40 or 50,000 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 offense and could obtain 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 gray. It imparted a peculiar delicacy to the complexion. It was the national razor which shaved close. Who kissed the Guillotine looked through the little window and sneezed into the sack. It was the sign of the regeneration of the human race. It superseded the cross. 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. 22 friends of high public mark, 21 living and one dead, it had locked the heads off in one morning in as many minutes. The name of the strong man of old scripture 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 brew belonging to them, the doctor walked with a steady head, confident in his power, cautiously persistent in his end, never doubting that he would save Lucy'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 violently drowned by night and prisoners were shot in lines and squares under the southern wintery sun. Still the doctor walked among the terrors with a steady head, no man better known than he in Paris at that day, no man in a stranger situation. Silent, humane, indispensable in hospital and prison using his art equally among assassins and victims, he was a man apart. In the exercise of his skill, the appearance and the story of the Bastille captive removed him from all other men. He was not suspected or brought in question any more than if he had indeed been recalled to life some 18 years before or were a spirit moving among mortals. End of chapter. Book three, chapter five of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Richard Reimann, audiblyspeaking.com. The Wood Sawyer. One year and three months. During all that time, Lucy was never sure from hour to hour but that the guillotine would strike off her husband's head next day. Every day through the stony streets, the tumbrels now jolted heavily, filled with condemned, lovely girls, bright women, brown-haired, black-haired and gray, youths, stalwart men and old, gentle-born and peasant-born, all red wine for la guillotine, all daily brought into light from the dark cellars of the 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, oh 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 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 San 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 husband had been there. Everything had its appointed place and its appointed time. Little Lucy she taught as regularly 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 morning 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 color and the old and intent expression was a constant, not an occasional thing. Otherwise she remained very pretty and comely. Sometimes at night on kissing her father, she would burst into the grief she had repressed all day and would say that her sole reliance under heaven was on him. He always resolutely answered, nothing can happen to him without my knowledge and I know that I can save him Lucy. 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 afternoon. 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. Oh, show me the place, my father and I will go there every day. From that time in all weathers she waited there two hours. As the clock struck two, she was there and at four she turned resignedly away. When it was not too wet or inclement for her child to be with her, they went together. At other times, she was alone, but she never missed a single day. It was the dark and dirty corner of a small winding street. The hovel of a cutter of wood into lengths for burning was the only house at that end. All else was wall. On the third day of her being there, he noticed her. Good day, citizeness. Good day, citizen. This mode of address was now prescribed by decree. It had been 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-soyer who was a little man with a redundancy of gesture. He had once been a mender of roads, cast a glance at the prison, pointed at the prison and putting his 10 fingers before his face to represent bars, peeped through them jockeously. But it's not my business, said he and went on sighing 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, child, too. Your mother, is it not my little citizeness? Do I say yes, mama? Whispered little Lucy, 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. La, la, la, la, la, la, la. And off her head comes. Now a child. Pickle, pickle, pickle, pickle. And off its head comes. All the family. Lucy 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. Then, fourth, to secure his goodwill, 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 and 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 winter, Lucy passed two hours of every day at this place, and every day on leaving it, she kissed the prison wall. Her husband saw her, so she learned from her father, it might be once in five or six times, it might be twice or thrice running, it might be not for a week or a fortnight together. It was enough that 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, decorated with little pikes, and with little red caps stuck upon them, also with tricolored ribbons. Also with the standard inscription, tricolored letters were the favorite, republic, one and indivisible, liberty, equality, fraternity or death. The miserable shop of the wood-soyer 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 inappropriate difficulty. On his house top, he displayed pike and cap as a good citizen must, and in a window he had stationed his saw inscribed as little sock guillotine, for the great sharp female was by that time popularly canonized. His shop was shut and he was not there, which was a relief to Lucy 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-soyer, hand in hand with the vengeance. There could not be fewer than 500 people, and they were dancing like 5,000 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 and 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 redcaps and coarse woolen rags, but as they filled the place and stopped to dance about Lucy, some ghastly apparition of a dance figure gone raving mad or rose 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 together. Then the ring broke and in separate rings of two and four, they turned and turned until they all stopped at once. They 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 stealing 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 carmen yaw. As it passed, leaving Lucy 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. Oh, my father! For he stood before her when she lifted out 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 highest shelving roof. I do so, father, and I send him my soul with it. You cannot see him, my poor dear? 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 shadow 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 tomorrow. For tomorrow? 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 tomorrow and removed to the conciergeery. I have timely information. You are not afraid? She could scarcely answer. I trust in you. Do so implicitly. Your suspense has nearly ended, my darling. He shall be restored to you within a few hours. I have encompassed him with every protection. I must see Laurie. He stopped. There was a heavy lumbering of wheels within hearing. They both knew too well what it meant. One, two, three. Three tumbles faring away with their dread loads over the hushing snow. I must see Laurie, the doctor repeated, turning her another way. The staunch old gentleman was still in his trust, had never left it. He and his books were in frequent requisition as to property confiscated and made national. What he could say for the owners, he saved. No better man living to hold fast by what Telsons had in keeping and to hold his peace. A murky red and yellow sky and a rising mist from the sun denoted the approach of darkness. It was almost dark when they arrived at the bank. The stately residence of Monsignor was altogether blighted and deserted. Above a heap of dust and ashes in the court ran the letters national property. Republic won and indivisible. Liberty, equality, fraternity or death. Who could that be with Mr. Laurie, the owner of the writing coat upon the chair who must not be seen? From whom newly arrived did he come out agitated and surprised to take his favorite 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, remove to the conciergery and summon for tomorrow. End of chapter. Book three, chapter six of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Richard Reiman, audiblyspeaking.com. Triumph. The 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 jailers of the various prisons to their prisoners. The standard jailer joke was, come out and listen to the evening piper, you inside there. Charles Evrimand called Darnay. So at last began the evening piper 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 Evrimand called Darnay, had reason to know the usage. He had seen hundreds pass away so. His bloated jailer 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 23 names but only 20 were responded to for one of the prisoners so summoned had died in jail 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 creature 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 Forvitz and a little concert for that evening. They crowded to the grates and shed tears there but 20 places in the projected entertainments had to be refilled 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. Similarly though with the subtle difference a species of fervor or intoxication known without doubt to have led some persons to brave the guillotine unnecessarily and to die by it was not mere boastfulness but a wild infection of the wildly shaken public mind. In seasons of pestilence some of us will have a secret attraction to the disease a terrible passing inclination to die of it and all of us have like wonders hidden in our breasts only needing circumstances to evoke them. The passage to the concierge area was short and dark the night in its vermin haunted cells was long and cold. Next day 15 prisoners were put to the bar before Charles Darnay's name was called. All the 15 were condemned and the trials of the whole occupied an hour and a half. Charles Evremond called Darnay was at length arraigned. His judges sat upon the bench and feathered hats but the rough red cap and tri-colored cockade was the headdress otherwise prevailing. Looking at the jury and the turbulent audience he might have thought that the usual order of things was reversed and that the felons were trying the honest men. The lowest, cruelest and worst populace of a city never without its quantity of low, cruel and bad were the directing spirits of the scene noisily commenting, applauding, disapproving, anticipating and precipitating the result without a check. Of the men the greater part were armed in various ways of the women some wore knives, some daggers, some ate and drank as they looked on, many knitted. Among these last was one with the 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 met since his arrival at the barrier, but whom he directly remembered as the farge. 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 Dr. Manette in his usual quiet dress. As well as the prisoner could see he and Mr. Laurie were the only men there unconnected with the tribunal who wore their usual clothes and had not assumed the coarse garb of the Carmen y'all. Charles Evrimand called Darnay was accused by the public prosecutor as an immigrant whose life was forfeit to the Republic under the decree which banished all immigrants 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 and 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 immigrant then? What did he call himself? Not an immigrant 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 immigrant 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 Oberladen people of France. What proof had he of this? He handed in the names of two witnesses, Theophile Gabel 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. Lucy Manette, only daughter of Dr. 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 where the people moved that tears immediately rolled down several ferocious countenances which had been glaring at the prisoner a moment before as if with impatience to pluck him out into the streets and kill him. On these few steps of his dangerous way, Charles Darnay had set his foot according to Dr. Manette's reiterated instructions. 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 because he had no means of living in France, save those he had resigned. Whereas in England, he lived by giving instruction in the French language and literature. He had returned when he did on the pressing and written in treaty of a French citizen who represented that his life was endangered 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 president 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 accused 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 Gavel was called to confirm it and did so. Citizen Gavel hinted with infinite delicacy and politeness that in the pressure of business imposed by the multitude of enemies of the Republic with which it had to deal, he had been slightly overlooked in his prison of the Abbey. 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 juries declaring themselves satisfied that the accusation against him was answered as to himself by the surrender of the citizen Evrimand called Darnay. Dr. Manette was next questioned. His high personal popularity and the clearness of his answers made a great impression. But as he proceeded, as he showed that the accused was his first friend on his release from his long 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 favor with the aristocrat government there, he had actually been tried for his life by it as the foe of England and friend of the United States. As 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 mature Laurie, an English gentleman then in their presence 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 jury man voted aloud and individually. The populace set up a shout of applause. All the voices were in the prisoner's favor 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 all the three with the second predominating. No sooner was the acquittal pronounced, then tears were shed as freely as blood at another time and such fraternal embraces were bestowed upon the prisoner by as many of both sexes as could rush at him that after his long and unwholesome confinement, he was in danger of fainting from exhaustion. Nonetheless, 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 for as much 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 24 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 Dr. Minette emerged from the gate, there was a great crowd about it in which there seemed to be every face he had seen in court except two for which he looked in vain. On his coming out, the concourse made at him a new weeping, embracing and shouting all by turns and altogether 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 in which they had taken either out of the court itself or one of its rooms or passages. Over a 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 doctors and treaties 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 tumble 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 color in winding and tramping through them as they had reddened 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 carmagnale. Then they elevated 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 carmagnale absorbed them, everyone, and whirled them away. After grasping the doctor's hand as he stood victorious and proud before him, after grasping the hand of Mr. Lori who came panting in breathless from his struggle against the waterspout of the carmagnale, after kissing little Lucy who was lifted up to clasp her arms around his neck and after embracing the ever zealous and faithful cross who lifted her, he took his wife in his arms and carried her up to their rooms. Lucy, my own, I am safe. Oh, 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 forehead 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. End of CHAPTER Book III. CHAPTER VII. OF A TALE OF TWO CITIES. BY CHARLES STICKENS. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Richard Griman, audiblyspeaking.com. 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 malice. 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 beginning 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 superiority to this woman's weakness which was wonderful to see. No garret, no shoemaking, no 105 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 offense to the people but because they were not rich and Charles throughout his imprisonment 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 citizen and citizeness who acted as porters at the courtyard gate rendered them occasional service and Jerry almost wholly transferred to them by Mr. Laurie had become their daily retainer and had his bed there every night. It was an ordinance of the Republic, one and indivisible of liberty, equality, fraternity or death that on the door or doorpost of every house, the name of every inmate must be legibly inscribed in letters of a certain size at a certain convenient height from the ground. Mr. Jerry Cruncher's name therefore duly embellished the doorpost down below and as the afternoon shadows deepen, the owner of that name himself appeared from overlooking a painter whom Dr. Minette had employed to add to the list the name of Charles Evrymond called Darnay. In the universal fear and distrust that darkened the time, all the usual harmless ways of life were changed. In the doctor's little household, as in very many others, the articles of daily consumption that were wanted were purchased every evening in small quantities and at various small shops. To avoid attracting notice and to give as little occasion as possible for talk and envy was the general desire. For some months past, Ms. Prost 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 purchases as were needful. Although Ms. Prost through her long association with the 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 bargain 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 Ms. Prost whose eyes were red with felicity. If you are ready, I am. Jerry Horsley professed himself at Ms. Prost'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 Ms. Prost, and we shall have a precious time of it. We want wine among the rest. Nice toasts these red heads will be drinking 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 oldens. Who's he? said Ms. Prost. Mr. Cruncher with some diffidence explained himself as meaning old nicks. Ha! said Ms. Prost. 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 Lucy. Yes, yes, yes, I'll be cautious, said Ms. Prost. But I may say among ourselves that I do hope there will be no oniony and tobacco-y smotherings in the form of embracings all round going on in the streets. Now, Lady Bird, never you stir from that fire till I come back. Take care of your dear husband you have recovered and don't move your pretty head from his shoulder as you have it now till you see me again. May I ask a question, Dr. Minet, 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 Ms. Prost. Hush, dear, again, Lucy remonstrated. Well, my sweet, said Ms. Prost, nodding her head emphatically, the short and the long of it is that I am a subject of his most gracious majesty, King George III, Ms. Prost's curtsied at the name. And as such, my maxim is confound their politics, frustrate their neighbor's tricks, on him our hopes we fix, God save the king. Mr. Cruncher, in an access of loyalty, growlingly repeated the words after Ms. Prost, like somebody at church. I am glad you have so much of the Englishmen in you, though I wish you had never taken that cold in your voice, said Ms. Prost approvingly. But the question, Dr. Minet, is there, it was the good creature's way to effect 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. Hi ho, hum, said Ms. Prost, 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 Solomon used to say. Now, Mr. Cruncher, don't you move, Lady Bird. They went out, leaving Lucy and her husband, her father, and the child by a bright fire. Mr. Lore was expected back presently from the banking house. Ms. Prost had lighted the lamp, but had put it aside in a corner that they might enjoy the firelight undisturbed. Little Lucy 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 Lucy 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 disordered state you are in. The least thing, nothing, startles you. You, your father's daughter. I thought, my father, said Lucy, 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 intervening outer rooms, and opened it. A rude clattering of feet over the floor and four rough men in red caps, armed with sabers and pistols, entered the room. The citizen Evrimand, called Darnay, said the first. Who seeks him? answered Darnay. I seek him. We seek him. I know you, Evrimand. I saw you before the tribunal today. You are again the prisoner of the Republic. The force 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 conciergeery and we'll know tomorrow. You are summoned for tomorrow. Dr. Manette, who misvisitation had so turned into stone that he stood with the lamp in his hand, as if he were a statue made to hold it. Moved after these words were spoken, put the lamp down and confronting the speaker and taking him not urgently by the loose front of his red woolen 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 San Antoine. This citizen, pointing out the second who had entered, is from San Antoine. The citizen here indicated, nodded his head and added, he is accused by San 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. Every month 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 San 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 San Antoine with a strange look. You will be answered tomorrow. Now I am dumb. End of chapter. Book three, chapter eight of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Richard Reiman, oddlyspeaking.com. A hand at cards. Happily unconscious of the new calamity at home, Miss Prost threaded her way along the narrow streets and crossed the river by the bridge of the Potnif, reckoning 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 and to 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. Better for him that his beard had never grown or the national razors shaved him close. Having purchased a few small articles of grocery and a measure of oil for the lamp, Miss Prost befought herself of the wine they wanted. After peeping into several wine shops, she stopped at the sign of the good Republican 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 Prost resorted to the good Republican Brutus of antiquity attended by her Cavalier. Slightly observant of the smoky lights of the people, pipe and mouth, plain with limp cards and yellow dominoes, of the one bare-breasted, bare-armed, soot-begrined workmen 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 popular high-shouldered chaggy black Spencer look 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 another man in a corner and rose to depart. In going he had to face Miss Prost. No sooner did he face her than Miss Prost 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. Everybody 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 Republican, the woman evidently English. What was said in this disappointing anti-climax by the disciples of the good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, except that it was something very valuable and loud, would have been as much Hebrew or Chaldean to Miss Prost 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 Prost 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 Prost to scream, speaking in a vexed abrupt voice though in a low tone and in English. Oh Solomon, do you Solomon? cried Miss Prost, clasping her hands again. After not setting eyes upon you or hearing 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 Prost, bursting into tears. Have I ever been so hard with you that you ask me such a cruel question? That 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 Prost, shaking her loving and dejected head at her by no means affectionate brother, said through 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 Prost, exploring the depths of her reticule through her tears with great difficulty, 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 Prost. To give me such a greeting and show me no affection. There, confounded, there, said Solomon, making a dab at Miss Prost's lips with his own. Now are you content? Miss Prost only shook her head and wept in silence. If you expect me to be surprised, said her brother Solomon. I am not surprised. I knew you were here. I know of most people who are here. If you really don't want to endanger my existence, which I have to 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 Prost, 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 Prost. Far rather would I never see you again, dear Solomon, though I have ever loved you truly and ever shall. Say but one affectionate word to me and tell me there is nothing angry or estranged between us and I will detain you no longer. Good Miss Prost, as if the estrangement between them had come of any culpability of hers. As if Mr. Laurie had not known it for a fact years ago in the quiet corner of 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, hoarsely and unexpectedly interposed with the following singular question. I sigh, might I ask the favor, 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 Prost likewise, that wasn'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, to other ones was one syllable. I know you, you was a spy, witness at the Bailey. What in the name of the father of lies, own father to yourself, was you called at that time? Bar said, said another voice, striking in. That's the name for a thousand pound, cried Jerry. The speaker who struck in was Sidney Carton. He had his hands behind him under the skirts of his writing coat and he stood at Mr. Cruncher's elbow as negligently as he might've stood at the old Bailey itself. Don't be alarmed, my dear Miss Prost. I arrived at Mr. Laurie'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 can't word of the time for a spy under the jailers. The spy who was pale turned paler and asked him how he dared. I'll tell you, said Sidney. I lighted on you, Mr. Barsad, coming out of the prison of the conciergeery while I was contemplating the walls an hour or more ago. You have a face to be remembered and I remember face as well. Made curious by seeing you in that connection and having a reason 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 and sat near you. I had no difficulty introducing from your unreserved conversation and the rumor openly going about among your admirers the nature of your calling. And gradually what I had done at random seemed to shape itself into a purpose, Mr. Barsad. What purpose, the spy asked. It would be troublesome and might be dangerous to explain in the street. Could you favor me in confidence with some minutes of your company at the office of Telsen'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 powerfully 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 practiced eyes 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 doing. Come down, Mr. Barsad, exclaimed Sidney. Don't be ungrateful. But for my great respect for your sister, I might not have let 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, unprotected. And as your escort knows Mr. Barsad, I will invite him to Mr. Lori'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 Sidney's arm and looked up in his face, imploring him to do no hurt to Solomon, there was a braced purpose in the arm and a kind of inspiration in the eyes which not only contradicted his light manner but changed and raised the man. She was too much occupied then with fears for the brother who so little deserved her affection and with Sidney'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. Lori's which was within a few minutes walk. John Barsad or Solomon Pross walked at his side. Mr. Lori 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 gentleman from Telsons 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 served said Sidney, Mr. 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, observed Carton coolly, praise it down. As he took a chair himself, he supplied the link that Mr. Lori wanted by saying to him with a frown, witness at that trial. Mr. Lori immediately remembered and regarded his new visitor with an undisguised look of abhorrence. Mr. Barsad has been recognized by Miss Pross as the affectionate brother you have heard of, said Sidney, and has acknowledged the relationship. I pass to worse news. Darnay has been arrested again. Struck with consternation, the old gentleman exclaimed, What did you tell me? I left him safe and free within these two hours and I'm 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 Sidney, and I have it from Mr. Barsad's communication to a friend and brother's sheep over a bottle of wine that the arrest 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. Laurie's business eye read in the speaker's face that it was loss of time to dwell upon the point. Confused but sensible that something might depend on his presence of mind, he commanded himself and was silently attentive. Now I trust, said Sidney to him, that the name and influence of Dr. Manette may stand him in his good stead tomorrow. You said he would be before the tribunal again tomorrow, Mr. Barsad. Yes, I believe so. In his good stead tomorrow as today, but it may not be so. I own to you I am shaken, Mr. Laurie, by Dr. Manette not having had the power to prevent this arrest. He may not have known of it beforehand, said Mr. Laurie, but that very circumstance would be alarming when we remember how identified he is with his son-in-law. That's true, Mr. Laurie acknowledged, with his troubled hand at his chin and his troubled eyes on carton. In short, said Sidney, 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. Anyone carried home by the people today may be condemned tomorrow. Now the stake I have resolved to play for, in case of the worst, is a friend in the conciergery. And the friend I purpose to myself 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. Laurie, you know what a brute I am. I wish you'd give me a little brandy. It was put before him and he drank off a glassful, drank off another glassful, pushed the bottle thoughtfully away. Mr. Barsad, he went on in the tone of the one who really 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 subordination 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 formerly 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 government, 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 ply, returned the spy somewhat uneasily. I play my ace, denunciation of Mr. Barsad to the nearest 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 Randy 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 Sidney Carton knew nothing of, thrown out of his honorable employment in England through too much unsuccessful hard swearing there, not because he was not wanted there. Our English reasons for wanting our superiority to secrecy in spies are a 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 San Antoine and Defarge's wine shop, had received from the Latchwell police such heads of information concerning Dr. Minnet's imprisonment, release and history, as should serve him for an introduction to familiar conversation with the Defarges and tried them on Madame Defarge and had broken down with them signally. He always remembered with fearing trembling that that terrible woman had knitted when he talked with her and had looked ominously at him as her fingers moved. He had seen her in the section of San Antoine over and over again produce her knitted registers and denounced people whose lives the guillotine then surely swallowed up. He knew as everyone 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 tug-of-versation and treachery and furtherance of the reigning terror a word might bring it down upon him. Once denounced and on such grave grounds as had just now been suggested to his mind he foresaw that the dreadful woman of whose unrelenting 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 Sidney, with the greatest composure. Do you play? I think, sir, said the spy in the meanest manner as he turned to Mr. Laurie. 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 somebody. 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 Garten, taking the answer on himself and looking at his watch without any scruple in a very few minutes. I should have hoped, gentlemen, both, said the spy, always striving to hook Mr. Laurie 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 Sidney 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 demeanor, received such a check from the inscrutability 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 heir of contemplating cards, and indeed, now I think again, I have a stronger impression that I have another good card here, not yet enumerated, that friend and fellow sheep who spoke of himself as pasturing in the country prisons, who was he? French, you don't know him, said the spy quickly. French, repeated Carton, music, and not appearing to notice him at all, though he echoed his word. Well, he may be, is I assure you, said the spy, though it is not important. 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, said the 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, disguised but the same man, we had that man before us at the Old Bailey. Now, there you are hasty, sir, said Barsad, with a 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 partner of mine, has been dead several years. I attended him in his last illness. He was buried in London, at the Church of St. Pancras in the Fields. His unpopularity with the blaggard multitude at the moment prevented my following his remains, but I helped to lay him in his coffin. Here, Mr. Laurie 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, extraordinary 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 unfounded assumption yours is. I will lay before you a certificate of Cly's burial, which I happened to have carried in my pocketbook, with the 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. Laurie 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 tessiturn and ironbound visage. So you put him in his coffin? I did. Who took him out of it? Barsad leaned back at his chair and stammered. What do you mean? I mean, said Mr. Cruncher, that he were 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 piving stones and earth in that there coffin. Don't go and tell me that you buried Cly. It was a take-in. Me and two more knows it. How do you know it? What's that to you? Eek, odd, growled Mr. Cruncher. It's you I've got old grudge again, is it, with your shameful impositions upon tridesmen? I catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a guinea. Mr. Carton, who with Mr. Laurie 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 present time is inconvenient for explaining. What I stand to is that he knows well what that there Cly was never in that there coffin. Let him say he was in so much as a word of one syllable 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. Huh, I see one thing, said Carton. I hold another card, Mr. Barsett. 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. Ooh, a strong card, a certain guillotine card. Do you play? No, return 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 liberality. I'd catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a guinea. The sheep of the prisons turned from him to Sydney Carton 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. Asked 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 soak in others. Now what do you want with me? Not very much. You are a turnkey at the conciergery? 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 conciergery? I am sometimes. You can be when you choose. I can pass in and out when I choose. City carton filled another glass with brandy, poured it slowly out upon the hearth and watched it as it dropped. It being all spent, he said, rising, so far we have spoken before these two because it was as well that the merits of the cards should not rest solely between you and me. Come into the dark room here and let us have one final word alone. End of chapter. Book three, chapter nine of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Richard Reiman, audiblyspeaking.com. The game made. While Sidney Carton and the sheep of the prisons were in the adjoining dark room, speaking so low that not a sound was heard, Mr. Laurie 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 50 of those limbs and were trying them all. He examined his fingernails with a very questionable closeness of attention and whenever Mr. Laurie'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, attended on perfect openness of character. Jerry, said Mr. Laurie, 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, agricultural character. My mind misgives me much, said Mr. Laurie, angrily shaking a forefinger at him, that you have used the respectable and great house of Telsons as a blind and that you have had an unlawful occupation of an infamous description. If you have, don't expect me to befriend you when you get back to England. If you have, don't expect me to keep your secret. Telsons shall not be imposed upon. I hope, sir, pleaded the abashed Mr. Cruncher, that a gentleman like yourself while I've had the honor of odd-jobbing till I'm gray at it, would think twice about harming of me, even if it was so. I don't say it is, but even if it was, and which it is to be took into account, that if it was, it wouldn't even then be all on one side. There'd be two sides to it. There might be medical doctors at the present hour of picking up their guineas where the honest tridesmen 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 Telsons and a cocky in their medical eyes that that tridesmen on the sly are going in and going out to their own carriages. Ah, equally like smoke, if not more so. Well, that would be imposing too on Telsons, for you cannot sars the goose and not the gander. And here's Mrs. Cruncher, or at least what this was in the old England times, and would be tomorrow if cause given, a flopping again the business to that degree as it's ruinating, start ruinating. Whereas then medical doctors' wives don't flop, catch them at it. Or if they flop, their floppings go in favor of more patients, and how can you rightly have one without to other? Then, what with undertakers and what with parish clerks and what with sextants and what with private watchmen, all avaricious and all in it, a man wouldn't get much by it even if it was so. And what little a man did get would never prosper with him, Mr. Laurie. 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 was so. Ah, cried Mr. Laurie, 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 was so, which I don't say it is. Don't prevaricate, said Mr. Laurie. No, I will not, sir, returned Mr. Cruncher as if nothing were further from his thoughts or practice, which I don't say it is. What 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 grown up to be a man. What will Aaron you message you, general like Job you, till your heels is where your head is, if such should be your wishes? If it was so, which I still don't say it is, for I will not prevaricate to you, sir, let that there boy keep his father's place and take care of his mother. Don't blow upon that boy's father. Do not do it, sir, and let that father go into the line of the regular digging and make amends for what he would have undug if it was so, by digging of him in with a will and with convictions, respect in the future, keeping of him safe. That, Mr. Laurie, said Mr. Cruncher, wiping his forehead with his arm, as an announcement that he had arrived at the peroration of his discourse, is what I would respectfully offer to you, sir. A man don't see all this here going on dreadful round him in the way of subjects without heads, dear me, plentiful enough for to bring the price down to Porterich and hardly that, without having his serious thoughts of things. And these here would be mine if it was so, in treating of you for to bear in mind that what I said just now, I up and said in a good cause, when I might have kept it back. That at least is true, said Mr. Laurie. 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 Sidney Carton and the spy returned from the dark room. Thank you, 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. Laurie. When they were alone, Mr. Laurie asked him what he had done. Not much. If it should go ill with the prisoner, I have ensured access to him once. Mr. Laurie'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. Laurie, if it should go ill before the tribunal will not save him. I never said it would. Mr. Laurie's eyes gradually sought the fire. His sympathy with his darling and the heavy disappointment of his second arrest gradually weakened them. He was an old man now, overborn 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 usual manner, there was a true feeling in respect, both in his tone and in his touch, that Mr. Laurie, 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 Port Darne, 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 worst to convey to him the means of anticipating the sentence. Mr. Laurie 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 tonight. 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. Laurie'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 hillside on a wild bright day and he lifted his foot to put back one of the little flaming logs, which was tumbling forward. He wore the white riding coat in 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. Laurie. 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. Laurie's eyes were again attracted to his face, taking note of the wasted air which clouded the naturally handsome features and having the expression of prisoners' faces fresh in his mind, he was strongly reminded of that expression. And your duties here have drawn to an end, sir, said Carton, turning to him. Yes, as I was telling you last night when Lucy came in so unexpectedly, I have at length done all that I can do here. I hope 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 78th year. You have been useful all your life, steadily and constantly 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 feel at 78. How many people will miss you when you leave it empty? A solitary old bachelor answered Mr. Laurie, 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 tonight, 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 78 years would be 78 heavy curses, would they not? You say truly, Mr. Carton, I think they would be. Sidney 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. Laurie answered, 20 years back, yes, at this time of my life, no. For as I dropped 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 when 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. Laurie, 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, I am sure, said Mr. Laurie. 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 tomorrow? 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. Laurie did so and they went downstairs and out in the streets. A few minutes later, brought them to Mr. Laurie'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. Turn this way, must have trod on these stones often. Let me follow in her steps. It was 10 o'clock at night when he stood before the prison 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 and going by. For the man, I'd him inquisitively. Good night, citizen. How goes the Republic? You mean the guillotine, not ill? 63 today. We shall mount to a hundred soon. Samson and his men complain sometimes of being exhausted. He is so droll, that Samson, such a barber. Do you often go to see him? Shave? Always, every day. What a barber. You ever seen him at work? Never. Go and see him when he has a good batch. Figure this to yourself, citizen. He shaved the 63 today in less than two pipes. Less than two pipes, word of honor. As the grinning little man held out the pipe he was smoking, to explain how he timed the executioner, Carton was so sensible of a rising desire to strike the life out of him that 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. Sidney 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 shop which the owner was closing with his own hands. A small, dim crooked shop kept in a tortuous uphill 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. Shhh, the chemist whistled softly as he read it. Hi, hi, hi. Sidney 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, counted out the money for them, and deliberately left the shop. There is nothing more to do, said he, glancing upward at the moon until tomorrow. 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, sayeth 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 natural sorrow rising in him for the 63 who had been that day put to death, and for tomorrow's victims then awaiting their doom in the prisons, and still of tomorrow's and tomorrow'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 repeated them and went on. With a solemn interest in the lighted windows where the people were going to rest, forgetful through a few calm hours of the horrors surrounding them. In the towers of the churches where no prayers were said, for the popular revulsion had even traveled that length of self-destruction from years of priestly imposters, plunderers, and profligates. In the distant burial places, reserved as they rode upon the gates for eternal sleep in the abounding jails, and in the streets along which the 60s 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 and coaches were liable to be suspected, and gentility hit its head in red nightcaps and put on heavy shoes and trudged. But the theaters were all well-filled and the people board cheerfully out as he passed and went chatting home. At one of the theater 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 delivered 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 cert 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 color 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 consideration of all his poor blindnesses and errors ended in the words, I am the resurrection and the life. Mr. Laurie was already out when he got back, and it was easy to surmise where the good old man was gone. Sydney carton dragged 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 a stir and a buzz when the black sheep whom many fell away from in dread pressed him into an obscure corner among the crowd. Mr. Laurie was there, and Dr. Manette was there. She was there, sitting beside her father. When her husband was brought in, she turned to look upon him, so sustaining, so encouraging, so full of admiring love and pitting tenderness, yet so courageous for his sake that it called the healthy blood into his face, brightened 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 reasonable 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 revolution 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 before, and tomorrow 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 life-thirsting, cannibal-looking, bloody-minded juryman, the Jacques III of San Antoine, the whole jury as a jury of dogs impaneled to try the deer. Every eye then turned to the five judges and the public prosecutor. No favorable leaning in that quarter today. A fell, uncompromising, murderous business meaning there. Every eye then sought some other eye in the crowd and gleamed at it approvingly and hence nodded at one another before bending forward with a strained attention. Charles Evrimand called Darnay, released yesterday, reaccused and retaken yesterday. Indictment delivered to him last night, suspected and denounced enemy of the Republic. Aristocrat, one of a family of tyrants, one of a race proscribed, for that they had used their abolished privileges to the infamous oppression of the people. Charles Evrimand called Darnay, in right of such prescription, absolutely dead in law. To this effect, in as few or fewer words, the public prosecutor. The president asked, was the accused openly denounced or secretly? Openly, president. By whom? Three voices. Ernest Defarge, wine vendor of San Antoine. Good. Therese Defarge, his wife. Good. Alexandre Manette, physician. A great uproar took place in the court and in the midst of it, Dr. Manette was seen pale and trembling, standing where he had been seated. President, I indignantly protest to you that this is a forgery and a fraud. You 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 denounced 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 sacrifice her. Listen to what is to follow. In the meanwhile, be silent. Frantic acclamations were again raised. Dr. Manette sat down with his eyes looking around and his lips trembling, his daughter drew close to him. The craving man on a 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 story 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 best deal citizen? 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 canineer that day 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 commendations 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 best deal 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 105 North Tower. I knew it from himself. He knew himself by no other name than 105 North Tower when he made shoes under my care. As I served my gun that day, I resolved when the place shall fall to examine that cell. It falls. I mount to the cell with a fellow citizen who was one of the jury directed by a jailer. 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 business to examine some specimens of the writing of Dr. Minette. This is the writing of Dr. Minette. I confide this paper in the writing of Dr. Minette to the hands of the president. Let it be read. In a dead silence and stillness, the prisoner under trial, looking lovingly at his wife, his wife only looking from him to look with solicitude at her father, Dr. Minette keeping his eyes fixed on the reader, Madam Defarge never 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. End of Chapter. Book III. CHAPTER X OF A TALE OF TWO CITIES by Charles Dickens. This Librebox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Richard Reimann, audibly speaking, dot com. THE SUBSTANCE OF THE SHADOW I, Alexandre Minette, 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 secret it in the wall of the chimney where I have slowly and laboriously made a place of concealment for it. Some pitting hand may find it there when I and my sorrows are dust. These words are formed by the rusty iron point with which I write with difficulty in scrapings of soot and charcoal from the chimney mixed with blood in the last month of the tenth year of my captivity. Hope has quite departed from my breast. I know from terrible warnings I have noted in myself that my reason will not long remain unimpaired, but I solemnly declare that I am at this time in the possession of my right mind, that my memory is exact and circumstantial, and that 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 moonlit night in the third week of December, I think the twenty-second of the month, in the year 1757, I was walking on a retired part of the quay by the Sain for the refreshment of the frosty air at an hour's distance from my place of residence in the street of the School of Medicine when a carriage came along behind me, driven very fast. As I stood aside to let that carriage pass, apprehensive 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 rain in his horses and the same voice called to me by 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 up about my own age or rather younger and that they were greatly alight in stature, manner, voice, and as far as I could see, face two. You are Dr. Manette, said one. I am. Dr. 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 Dr. 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 followed in the hope of overtaking you. Will you please to enter the carriage? The manner of both was imperious and they both moved as these words were spoken, so as to place me between themselves and the carriage door. They were armed. I was not. Gentlemen, said I. Pardon me, but I usually inquire who does me the honor 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 second. Doctor, your clients are people of condition. As to the nature of the case, our confidence in your skill assures us that you will ascertain it for yourself better than we can describe it. Enough. Will you please to enter the carriage? I could do nothing but comply and I entered it in silence. 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 everything 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 distance 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 particular 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 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 hackerchiefs. I noticed that these bonds were all portions of a gentleman's dress. On one of them, which was a fringe scarf for a dress of ceremony, I saw the armario 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 suffocation. 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 husband, 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 moments 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, 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 provided. As it is, time must be lost. There are no medicines to be obtained in this lonely place. The elder brother looked to the younger, who said haughtily, there is a case of medicines here, and brought it from a closet and put it on the table. 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? Ask the younger brother. You seem assure 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 intended to repeat it after a while, and as it was necessary to watch its influence, I then sat down by the side of the bed. There was a timid and suppressed woman in attendance, wife of the man downstairs, who had retreated into a corner. The house was damp and decayed, indifferently furnished, evidently recently occupied and temporarily used. Some thick old hangings had been nailed up before the windows to deton the sound of the shrieks. They continued to be uttered in their regular succession, with the cry, my husband, my father, and my brother, the counting up to twelve, and hush. The frenzy was so violent that I had not unfastened 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 tranquilized 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, faggots 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 17 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 sued him to let me move his hand away. The wound was a sword thrust, received from 20 to 24 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 brother, 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, mature, said I? A crazy 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 humanity 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 spoken, and they now slowly move to me. Doctor, they are very proud these nobles, but we common 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 sisters 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 tenet of his. We were all tenets 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 bar and the shutters 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 miserable 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 latent in the people somewhere, but I had never seen it break out until I saw it in the dying boy. Never, the last doctor, my sister married. He was ailing at the time poor fellow and she married her lover that she might tend to 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 our husband's 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 husband 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 gentlemen's all negligent indifference, the peasant's 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 the ground all night, quieting the frogs in order that their nobles 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 bosom. Nothing human could have held life in the boy, but his determination to tell all his wrong. Nothing human could have held life in the boy, but his determination to tell all his wrong. He forced back the gathering 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, of where 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 with a sword in hand. Where is the loft window? It was somewhere here. The room was darkening to his sight. The world was narrowing 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 himself, 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 invested for the moment with extraordinary power, he raised himself completely, obliging me to rise too, for I could not have still supported him. Mark Key, said the boy, turned to him with his eyes open 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 summon 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 by 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 in the dress she had torn. It was then that I knew her condition to be that of one in whom the first expectations of being a mother have arisen and it was then that I lost the little hope I had had of her. Is she dead? asked the Marquis, whom I will still describe as the elder brother coming booted into the room from his horse. Not dead, said I, but like to die. What strength there is in these common bodies, he said, looking down at her with some curiosity. There is prodigious strength, I answered him, in sorrow 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 Heinz, I recommended that your age 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 answering. Do you honor me with your attention, Doctor? Monsieur, said I, in my profession the communications of patients are always received in confidence. I was guarded in my answer for I was troubled in my mind 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 underground 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 spoken between me and those brothers. She lingered for a week. Towards the last I could understand some few syllables that she said to me by 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 until 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 brothers, 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 brothers' 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 downstairs, impatient to ride away. I had heard them alone at the bedside, striking their boots with their riding-whips and loitering up and down. At last she is dead, said the elder when I went in. She is dead, said I. I congratulate you, my brother, for 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 cannot 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 decided that day to write privately to the minister, stating the nature of the two cases to which I had been summoned and the place to which I had gone, in effect, stating all the circumstances. I knew what court influence was and what the immunities of the nobles were, and I 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 others 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 letter 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 presented herself to me as the wife of the Marquis Saint-Evry Monde. I connected the title by which the boy had addressed the elder 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 sister living, and her greatest desire was to help that sister. I could tell her nothing, but that there was such a sister. Beyond 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 today. 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 a man's I can. He will never prosper in his inheritance otherwise. I have a presumptument 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 is little beyond the worth of a few jewels. I will make it the first charge of his life to bestow, with the compassion and lamenting of his dead mother on this injured family, if the sister can be discovered. She kissed the boy and said caressing him, it is for thine own dear's sake, that will 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, delivered it myself that day. That night, the last night of the year, towards nine o'clock, a man in a black dress rang at my gate, demanded to see me, and softly followed my servant, Ernest Defarge, a youth, upstairs. When my servant came into the room, where I sat with my wife, oh 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 Saint Angeray, 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 marquee 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, denounced to the times when all these things shall be answered for. I denounced them to heaven and to earth. A terrible sound arose when the reading of this document was done. A sound of craving and eagerness that had nothing articulate in it but blood. The narrative called up the most eventful 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 auditory to show how the Defarges had not made the paper public with the other captured Bastille memorials born in procession, and it kept it biding their time. Little need to show that this detested family name had long been unathematized by San Antoine and was wrought into the fatal register. The man never trod ground whose virtues and services would have sustained him in that place that day against such denunciation. And all the worse for the doomed man that the denouncer was a well-known citizen, his own attached friend, the father of his wife. One of the frenzied aspirations of the populace was for imitations of the questionable public virtues of antiquity and for sacrifices and self-immolations on the people's altar. Therefore, when the president said else had 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 fervor, not a touch of human sympathy. Much influence around him has that doctor, murmured 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 aristocrat, an enemy of the Republic, a notorious oppressor of the people. Back to the conciergery and death within four and twenty hours. End of chapter. Book 3, chapter 11 of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Richard Reiman, audiblyspeaking.com Dusk. The 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 courts emptying itself by many passages had not ceased when Lucy 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, oh good citizens, if you would have so much compassion for us, there was but a jailer left along with two of the four men who had taken him last night and Barsad. The people had all poured out to the show in the streets. Barsad proposed to the rest, let 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 leaning 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 bosom. 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 by. 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 darnate 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 ring 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 always vain endeavor to discharge my poor mother's trust that first brought my fatal presence near you. Good could never come of such evil. A happier ending 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 prisoner's 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. Laurie were with her. His arm trembled 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 later tenderly down in a coach. Her father and their old friend got into it, and he took a seat beside the driver. When they arrived at the gateway where he had paused in the dark, not many hours before, to picture 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 Lucy, springing up and throwing her arms passionately around him in a burst of grief. Now that you have come, I think you will do something to help Mama, something to save Papa. Oh, 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 afterwards and told her grandchildren when she was a handsome old lady that she had heard him say, a life you love. When he had gone out into the next room he turned suddenly on Mr. Lori and her father, who were following and said to the latter, You had great influence, but yesterday, Dr. Manette, let it at least be tried. These judges and all the men in power are very friendly to you and very recognizant of your services. 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 tomorrow 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 effort. It would cost nothing to lay down if it were not. I will go, said Dr. Manette, to the prosecutor and the president straight, and I will go to others whom it is better not to name. I will write to 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 forlorn are 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, Dr. 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. Lory's at nine, shall I hear what you have done either from our friend or from yourself? Yes. May you prosper. Mr. Lory followed Sidney to the outer door and touching him on the shoulder as he was going away caused him to turn. I have no hope, said Mr. Lory in a low and sorrowful whisper. Nor have I. If any one of these men or all of these men were disposed to spare him, which is a large supposition, for what is this life for 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 ax in that sound. Mr. Lory 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 Dr. Minet in this idea, because I felt that it might one day be consolatory to her. Otherwise she might think his life was wantonly thrown away or wasted, and that might trouble her. Yes, yes, yes, returned Mr. Lory 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 Carton. And walked with a settled step downstairs. 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 consequences. His first impression was confirmed. It is best, he said, finally resolved that these people should know there is such a man as I hear. And he turned his face towards San Antoine. Defarge had described himself that day as the keeper of a wine shop in the San 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, Carton 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. Laurie'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 towards San Antoine, he stopped at a shop window where there was a mirror and slightly altered the disordered arrangement of his loose cravat and his coat collar and his wild hair. This done, he went on direct to Defarges and went in. There happened to be no customer in the shop but Jacques III 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 Defarges 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 Defarges 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 Defarges returned to her counter to get the wine and as he took up a Jacobin journal and feigned to pour over it puzzling out its meaning, he heard her say, I swear to you, like every monde, Defarges brought him the wine and gave him good evening. How? Good evening. Oh, good evening, citizen, filling his glass. Ah, and good wine, I drink to the Republic. Defarges went back to the counter and said, Certainly a little like. Madame sternly retorted. I tell you a good deal like. Jacques III 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 tomorrow. Carton followed the lines and words of his paper with a slow forefinger and with a studious and absorbed face. They were all leaving 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 III. Why stop? There is great force in that. Why stop? Well, well, reasoned Defarge, but one must stop somewhere. After all, the question is still where. An extermination, said Madame. Magnificent croak, Jacques III. 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 today. You have observed his face when the paper was read. I have observed his face, repeated Madame, contemptuously 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 deprecatory 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 today, 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 paper, and to let it fall was a rattle on the ledge before her, as if the axe had dropped. The citizeness is superb, croaked the jury man. 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, wrathfully. 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 today, 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 seashore, and that peasant family, so injured by the two Evrimon brothers, as that Bastille paper describes, is my family. Defarge, that sister of the mortally wounded boy upon the ground, was my sister. That husband was my 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 madam. But don't tell me. Both her hears 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. Madam 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. Laurie's room again, where he found the old gentleman walking to and fro in restless anxiety. He said he had been with Lucy until just now, Anne 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. Laurie waited until ten, but Dr. Manette not returning, and he being unwilling to leave Lucy any longer, he was arranged that he should go back to her and come to the banking house again at midnight. In the meanwhile, Carton would wait alone by the fire for the doctor. He waited and waited, and the clock struck twelve, but Dr. Manette did not come back. Mr. Laurie 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 anyone 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 become of us if those shoes are not done tonight? 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 before the fire, with a promise that he should have his work presently, he sank into the chair and brooded over the embers and shed tears. As if all that had happened since the Garrett time were a momentary fancy or a dream, Mr. Laurie 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 moment, 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. Laurie. 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 entangling 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. Laurie nodded his consent. He opened it and exclaimed, Thank God! What is it? asked Mr. Laurie 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. Laurie held it open in his hand, gazing in his earnest face. Keep it for me until tomorrow. I shall see him tomorrow, 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 Dr. Minette 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 precaution 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 reason to think will be. They are not in danger. They are in great danger. They are in danger of denunciation by Madame Defarge. I know it from her own lips. I have overheard words of that woman's tonight, which have presented their danger to me in strong colors. I have lost no time, and since then I have seen the spy. He confirms me. He knows that a wood-soyer living by the prison wall is under the control of the Defarges and has been rehearsed by Madame Defarge as to his having seen her, he never mentioned Lucy's name, making signs and signals to prisoners. It is easy to foresee that the pretense will be the common one, a prison plot, and that it will involve her life and perhaps her childs and perhaps her fathers, for both will 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 tomorrow, probably not until two or three days afterwards, more probably a week afterwards. You know, it is a capital crime to mourn for or sympathize 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 traveling to the sea coast as quickly as the journey can be made. Your preparations have been completed for some days to return to England. Early tomorrow, have your horses ready so that they may be in starting trim at two o'clock in the afternoon. It shall be done. His manner was so fervent and inspiring that Mr. Laurie 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 tonight what you know of her danger as involving her child and her father. Dwell upon that for she would lay her own fair head beside her husband's cheerfully. He faltered for an instant and then went on as before. For the sake of her child and her father, press upon her the necessity of leaving Paris with them and you at that hour. Tell her 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 arrangements 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 circumstances. You have my certificate in your hand with the rest, you know, and will reserve my place. Wait for nothing but to have my place occupied and then for England. Why then, said Mr. Laurie, 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 having 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 tomorrow. 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, goodbye. 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 moningly be sought to have. He walked on the other side of it and protected it to the courtyard of the house where the afflicted heart, so heavy in the memorable time when he had revealed his own desolate heart to it, out watched the awful night. He entered the courtyard and remained there for a few moments 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. End of chapter. Book 3, chapter 13, of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Richard Griman, audiblyspeaking.com. 52. In the black prison of the Conciergery, the doomed of the day awaited their fate. They were in number as the weeks of the year. 52 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. Before their blood ran into the blood spilled yesterday, the blood that was to mingle with theirs tomorrow was already set apart. Two score and 12 were told off, from the farmer general of 70, whose riches could not buy his life, to the seamstress of 20, 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 tribunal. 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 turbulent 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 condemnation, he had traveled thus far on his last way. Being allowed to purchase the means of writing and light, he sat down to write until such time as the prison lamps should be extinguished. He wrote a long letter to Lucy 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 plain 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 string 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. Laurie 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 unaccountably released and light of heart he was with Lucy 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 oblivion and he awoke in the somber 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 52 heads were to fall. And now while he was composed 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 no eyes directed by his will obtruded themselves over and over again countless times neither were they connected with fear he was conscious of no fear rather they originated in a strange 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 forever ten gone forever eleven gone forever twelve coming on to pass away after a hard contest with that eccentric action of thought which at 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 forever he had been apprised that the final hour was three and he knew he would be summoned sometime earlier in as much as the tumbrels 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 the force he heard one struck away from him without surprise the hour had measured like most other hours devoutly thankful to heaven for his recovered self-possession he thought there is but another now and turned to walk again footsteps in the stone passage outside the door he stopped the key 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 misdoubted 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 of unearth 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 rung his hand I bring you a request from her what is it a most earnest pressing an emphatic entreaty addressed 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 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 madness and remain here change that cravat from 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 appear 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 accomplished it never can be done it has been attempted and has always failed I implore you not to add your death to the bitterness of mine do I ask you my dear Darnay to pass the door 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 standing 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 comprehend this when you see it you do remember them I know it is not in your nature to forget them he was drawing his hand from his breast the prisoner chanting 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 right 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 vapor is that he asked vapor 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 disordered the prisoner made an effort to rally his attention as he looked at Carton with clouded eyes and with an altered manner of breathing Carton his hand again in his breast looks 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 unintelligible 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 faintly struggled with the man who had come to lay down his life for him but within a minute or so he was stretched insensible on the ground quickly but with hands as true to the purpose as his heart was Carton dressed himself in the clothes the prisoner had laid aside combed back his hair and tied it with the ribbon the prisoner had worn then he softly called enter there come 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 52 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 cartons 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 yourself to the courtyard you know of place him yourself in the carriage show him yourself to Mr. Lori tell him yourself to give him no restorative but air and to remember my words of last night and his promise of last night and drive away the spy withdrew and cartons seated himself at the table resting his forehead on his hands the spy returned immediately with two men oh then said one of them contemplating the fallen figure so afflicted to find that his friend has drawn a prize in the lottery of San 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 every monde said the spy in a warning voice I know it well answer carton be careful of my friend I intrigue you and leave me come then my children said varsad 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 unusual 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 jailer with a list in his hand looked in merely saying follow me every monde and he followed into a large dark room at a distance it was a dark winter day and what with the shadows 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 52 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 color and large widely open patient eyes rose from the seat where he had observed her sitting and came to speak to him sit as in every monde 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 forgot what you were accused of plots though they just have a nose that I am innocent of any is it likely who would think of plotting with a poor little weak creature like me the forelorn's smile with which she said it so touched him that tears started from his eyes I am not afraid to die citizen ever monde 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 every bond such a poor weak little creature as the last thing on earth that his heart was to warm and soften to it warmed and soften to this pitiable girl I heard you were released citizen ever monde I hoped it was true it was but I was again taken and condemned if I may ride with you citizen ever monde will you let me hold your hand I am not afraid but I am little in weak and it will give me more courage as the patient eyes were lifted to his face he saw a sudden 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 oh 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 falling in that same hour of the early afternoon on the barrier with a crowd about it when a coach going out of Paris drives out to be examined who goes here whom have we within papers the papers are handed out and read alexandre minnet physician french which is he this is he this helpless in articulately murmuring wandering 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 ah many suffer with it lucy his daughter french which is she this is she apparently it must be lucy the wife of every mond is it not it is ah every mond has an astagnation elsewhere lucy her child english this is she she and no other kiss me child of every mond now thou has kissed a good republican something new in thy family remember it uh 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 represented that he is not in strong health and has separated sadly from a friend who is under the displeasure of the republic is that all it is not a great deal that 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 questions it is jarvis lorry who has alighted and stands with his hand on the coach door replying to a group of officials they leisurely walk around 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 postillions a good journey 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 insensible traveler are we not going too slowly can they not be induced to go faster asks lucy 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 pursued houses and twos and threes pass by us solitary farms ruinous buildings die 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 sloths there the agony of our impatience is then so great that in our wild alarm and hurry we are forgetting out and running hiding doing anything but stopping out of the open country in again among ruinous buildings solitary farms die works tanneries and the like cottages and 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 leisurely the new postillions follow sucking and plating the lashes of their whips leisurely the old postillions count their money make wrong additions and arrive at dissatisfied results all the time our over fraught hearts are beating at a rate that would far outstrip the fastest gallop of the fastest horses ever fold at length the new postillions 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 postillions exchange speech with animated gesticulation and the horses are pulled up almost on their haunches we are pursued oh within the carriage there speak then what is it asks Mr. Laurie looking out at window how many did they say I do not understand you at the last post how many to the guillotine today 52 I said so a brave number my fellow citizen here would have it 42 10 more heads are worth having the guillotine goes handsomely I love it high forward whoop the night comes on dark he moves more he is beginning to revive and to speak intelligibly he thinks they are still together he asks him by his name what he has in his hand oh 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 end of chapter book 3 chapter 14 of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens this LibriVox recording is in the public domain recording by Richard Reiman audibly speaking.com the knitting done in that same juncture of time when the 52 awaited their fate madam Defarge held darkly ominous council with the vengeance and shock three of the revolutionary jury not in the wine shop did madam Defarge confer with these ministers but in the shed of the wood Sawyer hurst a mender of roads the Sawyer himself did not participate in the conference but abided at a little distance like an outer satellite who was not to speak until required or to offer an opinion until invited but our Defarge, said jock three is undoubtedly a good Republican, eh? there is no better the voluble vengeance protested in her shrill notes in France these little vengeance, said madam 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 weaknesses and he is so weak as to relent towards this doctor it is a great pity, croaked jock three dubiously shaking 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 madam 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 Evrymon people are to be exterminated and the wife and child must follow the husband and father she has a fine head for it, croaked jock three I have seen blue eyes and golden hair there and they look charming when Samson held them up ogre that he was he spoke like an epicure madam Defarge cast down her eyes and reflected a little the child also, observed jock three with a meditative enjoyment of his words has golden hair and blue eyes and we seldom have a child there it is a pretty sight in a word, said madam 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 jock three no one must escape we have not half enough as it is we ought to have six score a day in a word, madam 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 woodsoyer who held her in the respect and himself in the submission of mortal fear advanced with his hand to his red cap touching those signals little citizen said, madam Defarge, sternly that she made to the prisoners you are ready to bear witness to them this very day I, I, why not cry the soyer every day in all weathers from two to four always signaling 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 an incidental imitation of some view of the great diversity of signals that he had never seen clearly flots, said Jacques III transparently there is no doubt of the jury inquired madam Defarge letting her eyes turn to him with a gloomy smile we lie upon the patriotic jury, dear citizeness I answer for my fellow jurymen now let me see, said madam Defarge pondering again yet once more can I spare this doctor to my husband I have no feeling either way can I spare him he would count as one head observed Jacques III in a low voice we really have not had heads enough it would be a pity I think he was signaling with her when I saw her argued madam 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 III vied with each other in their fervent protestations that she was the most admirable and marvelous of witnesses the little citizen not to be outdone declared her to be a celestial witness he must take his chance said madam Defarge no I cannot spare him you are engaged at three o'clock you are going to see the batch of today executed you the question was addressed to the woodsoyer 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 anything prevented him from enjoying the pleasure of smoking his afternoon pipe in the contemplation of the droll national barber he was so very demonstrative herein that he might have been suspected perhaps was by the dark eyes that looked contemptuously at him out of madam Defarge's head of having his small individual fears for his own personal safety every hour in the day I said madam am equally engaged at the same place after it is over say at eight tonight come you to me in San Antoine and we will give information against these people at my section the woodsoyer said he would be proud and flattered to attend the citizeness the citizeness looking at him he became embarrassed evaded her glance as a small dog would have done retreated among his wood and hid his confusion over the handle of his saw madam Defarge beckoned the jurymen and the vengeance 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 I might cherish cried the vengeance and embraced her take you my knitting said madam 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 today I willingly obey the orders of my chief said the vengeance with alacrity and kissing her cheek you will not be late I shall be there before the commencement and before the cumbrols arrive be sure you are there my soul said the vengeance calling after her for she had already turned into the street before the cumbrols arrive madam 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 under 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 Tigris 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 punishment because they were her natural enemies and her prey and as such had no right to live to appeal to her was made hopeless by her having no 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 tomorrow would she have gone to it with any softer feeling than a fierce desire to change places with the man who sent her there such a heart Madame Defarge carried under her rough robe carelessly worn it was a becoming robe enough in a certain weird way and her dark hair looked rich under her coarse red cap lying hidden in her bosom was a loaded pistol lying hidden at her waist was a sharpened dagger thus accoutered 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 barefoot and barelegged on the brown sea sand Madame Defarge took her way along the streets now when the journey of the traveling coach at that very moment waiting for the completion of its load had been planned out last night the difficulty of taking Miss Frost in it had much engaged Mr. Laurie'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 Frost and Jerry who were at liberty to leave the city should leave it at three o'clock in the lightest wheel conveyance known to that period unencumbered with luggage they would soon overtake the coach and passing it and preceding it on the road would order its horses in advance and greatly facilitate its progress during the precious hours of the night when delay was the most to be dreaded seeing in this arrangement the hope of rendering real service in that pressing emergency Miss Frost hailed it with joy she and Jerry had beheld the coach start had known who it was that Solomon brought had passed some 10 minutes in tortures of suspense and were now concluding their arrangements to follow the coach even as Madame Defarge 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 Frost whose agitation was so great that she could hardly speak or stand or move or live what do you think of our not starting from this courtyard another carriage having already gone from here today it might awaken suspicion my opinion Miss return Mr. Cruncher is as you're right likewise what I'll stand by you right or wrong I am so distracted with fear and hope for our precious creatures said Miss Frost wildly crying that I am incapable of forming any plan are you capable of forming any plan my dear good Mr. Cruncher respect in a future sphere of life Miss return Mr. Cruncher I hope so respect in any present use of this year blessed old head of mine I think not would you do me the favor miss to take notice of two promises and wows what it is my wishes for to record in this year crisis oh for gracious sake right Miss Frost still wildly crying 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 of this never no more will I do never no more I am quite sure Mr. Cruncher return Miss Frost 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 return Jerry it shall not be named to you second then poor things well out of this and never no more will I interfere with Mrs. Cruncher's flopping never no more whatever housekeeping arrangement that may be said Miss Frost 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 superintendents oh my poor darlings I go so far as to say Miss moreover preceded Mr. Cruncher with the 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 what my opinions respect and flopping has undergone a change and that what I only hope with all my heart as Mrs. Cruncher may be a flopping at the present time there there there I hope she is my dear man cry the distracted Miss Frost and I hope she finds it answering her expectations FORBID IT preceded Mr. Cruncher with additional solemnity additional slowness and additional tendency to hold forth and hold out as anything what I have ever said or done should be visited on my earnest wishes for them poor creatures now forbid it as we shouldn't all flop if it was anyways convenient to get him out of this here dismal risk for bitterness what I say for bid it this was Mr. Cruncher's conclusion after all protracted but vain endeavor to find a better one and still Madam Defarge pursuing her way along the streets came nearer and nearer if we ever get back to our native land said Miss Frost you may rely upon my telling Mrs. Cruncher as much as I may be able to remember and understand 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 Madam Defarge pursuing her way along the streets came nearer and nearer if you were to go before said Miss Frost and stopped 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 Frost Mr. Cruncher was so bewildered that he could think of no locality but Temple Bar alas Temple Bar was hundreds of miles away and Madam Defarge was drawing very near indeed by the cathedral door said Miss Frost 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 Frost go to the posting house straight and make that change I am doubtful said Mr. Cruncher hesitating and shaking his head about leaving of you you see we don't know what may happen heaven knows we don't return Miss Frost but have no fear for me take me in at the cathedral at three o'clock or as near 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 exhortium and Miss Frost's two hands and quite agonized in treaty 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 Frost the necessity of composing her appearance so that it should attract no special notice in the streets was another relief she looked at her watch and it was 20 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 peeping from behind every open door in them Miss Frost 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 Madam Defarge by strange stern ways and through much staining blood those feet had come to meet that water Madam Defarge looked coldly at her and said the wife of every moaned where is she? it flashed upon Miss Frost'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 Lucy had occupied Madam Defarge's dark eyes followed her through this rapid movement and rested on her when it was finished Miss Frost 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 Madam Defarge with her eyes every inch you might from your appearance be the wife of Lucifer said Miss Frost in her breathing nevertheless you shall not get the better of me I am an English woman Madam Defarge looked at her scornfully but still with something of Miss Frost's own perception that they too were at bay she saw a tight hard wiry woman before her as Mr. Laurie had seen in the same figure a woman with a strong hand in the years gone by she knew full well that Miss Frost was the family's devoted friend Miss Frost knew full well that Madam Defarge was the family's malevolent enemy on my way under said Madam Defarge with a slight movement of her hand towards the fatal spot where they reserved my chair and my knitting for me I have come to make my compliments to her in passing I wish to see her I know that your intentions are evil said Miss Frost and you may depend upon it I'll hold my own against them each spoke in her own language neither understood the other's words both were very watchful and intent to deduce from look and manner what the unintelligible words meant it will do her no good to keep herself concealed from me at this moment said Madam 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 Frost and I was an English fore poster they shouldn't lose a splinter of me no you wicked foreign woman I am your match Madam Defarge was not likely to follow these idiomatic remarks in detail but she so far understood them as to perceive that she was set at naught woman imbecile and pig-like said Madam 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 Frost 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 Madam Defarge had not moved from the spot where she stood when Miss Frost first became aware of her but she now advanced one step I am a Briton said Miss Frost I am desperate I don't care an English two pence 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 Frost 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 Frost 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 Madam Defarge so little comprehended as to mistake for weakness she laughed you poor wretch what are you worth I addressed myself to that doctor then she raised her voice and called out citizen doctor wife of every maund child of every maund any person but this miserable fool answer the citizeness Defarge perhaps the following silence perhaps some latent disclosure in the expression of Miss Frost's face perhaps a sudden misgiving apart from either suggestion whispered to Madam 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 Frost who understood the request as perfectly as Madam Defarge understood the answer if they are not in that room they are gone and can be pursued and brought back said Madam Defarge to herself as long as you don't know whether they are in that room or not you are uncertain what to do said Miss Frost to herself and you shall not know that if I can prevent your knowing that and know that or not know that you shall not leave here while I can hold you I have been in the states from the first nothing has stopped me I will tear you to pieces but I will have you from that door said Madam 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 bodily strength to keep you here while every minute you are here is worth a hundred thousand guineats to my darling said Miss Frost Madam Defarge made out the door Miss Frost on the instinct of the moment seized her around the waist in both her arms and held her tight it was in vain for Madam Defarge to struggle and to strike Miss Frost 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 Madam Defarge buffeted and tore her face but Miss Frost with her head down held her around the waist and clung to her with more than the hold of a drowning woman soon Madam Defarge's hands ceased to strike and felt at her encircled waist it is under my arm said Miss Frost 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 Madam Defarge's hands were at her bosom Miss Frost 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 Frost 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 gripping 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 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 surprised by the question and by her aspect I don't hear you said Miss Frost what do you say it was in vain for Mr. Cruncher to repeat what he said Miss Frost could not hear him so I'll nod my head thought Mr. Cruncher amazed at all events you'll see that and she did is there any noise in the streets now asked Miss Frost 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 what's come to her I feel said Miss Frost as if there had been a flash and a crash and that crash was the last thing I should ever hear in this life blessed if she ain't in a queer condition said Mr. Cruncher more and more disturbed what can she have been taken to keep her courage up Hark there's the role of them dreadful carts you can hear that miss I can hear said Miss Frost seeing that he spoke to her nothing oh 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 anymore as long as my life lasts if she don't hear the role 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 end of chapter book 3 chapter 15 of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens this LibriVox recording is in the public domain recording by Richard Reiman audiblyspeaking.com the footsteps die out forever along the Paris streets the death carts rumble hollow and harsh six tumbles carry the day's wine to la guillotine all the devouring and insatiate monsters imagined since imagination could record itself are fused in the one realization 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 under conditions more certain than those that have produced this horror crush humanity out of shape once more under similar hammers and it will twist itself into the same tortured forms so the same seed of rapacious license and oppression over again and it will surely yield the same fruit according to its kind six tumbles roll along the streets change these back again to what they were thou powerful enchanter time and they shall be seen to be the carriages of absolute monarchs the equipages of feudal nobles the toilettes of flaring Jezebel's 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 transformations if thou be changed into this shape by the will of god say the seers to the enchanted in the wise arabian stories then remain so but if thou wear this form through mere passing conjuration then resume thy former aspect changeless and hopeless the tumbles roll along as the somber wheels of the six carts go round they seem to plow up a long crooked furrow among the populace in the streets ridges of faces are thrown to this side and to that and the plows 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 tumbles here in the air the inmate has visitors to see the sight then he points his finger with something of the complacency of a curator or authorized 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 tumbles 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 theaters 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 the breast of the tumbles and faces are often turned up to some of them and they are asked some question it would seem to be always the same question where it is always followed by a press of people towards the third cart the horsemen of rest 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 tumbrel 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 tumbrels 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 as he sacrificed me when his face clears as he looks into the third which is every mond says a man behind him that at the back there with his hand in the girls yes the man cries down every mond to the guillotine all aristocrats down every mond hush hush the spy intrigues him timidly and why not citizen he is going to pay the forfeit it will be paid in five minutes more let him be at peace but the man continuing to exclaim down every mond the face of every mond is for a moment turned towards him every mond then sees the spy and looks attentively at him and goes his way the clocks are on the stroke of three and the furrow plowed 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 plow 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 knitting on one of the foremost chairs stands the vengeance looking about for her friend to raise she cries in her shrill tones who has seen her to raise the forge she never missed before says a knitting woman of the sisterhood now nor will she miss now cries the vengeance petulantly to raise louder the woman recommends aye louder vengeance much louder and still she will scarcely hear the louder yet vengeance with a little oath or so added and yet it will hardly bring her send other women up and down to seek her lingering somewhere and yet although the messengers have done dread deeds it is questionable whether of their own wills they will go far enough to find her bag fortune cries the vengeance stamping her foot in the chair and here are the combrows and every man will be dispatched in a wink and she not here see her knitting in my hand and her empty chair ready for a cry with dexation and disappointment as the vengeance descends from her elevation to do it the combrows begin to discharge their loads the ministers of songy a teen are robed and ready crash a head is held up and the knitting women who scarcely lifted their eyes to look at it a moment ago when it could think and speak count one the second combrow empties and moves on the third comes up crash and the knitting women never faltering or pausing in their work count two the supposed every man descends and the seamstress is lifted out next after him he has not relinquished her patient hand in getting out but still holds it as he promised he gently places her with her back to the crashing engine that constantly wears 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 today 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 option 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 the 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 universal 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 myself 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 hungry and in all ways to suffer less she may live a long time she may even live to be old but 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 knitting women count 22 I am the resurrection and the life sayeth 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 23 they said of him about the city that night that it was the peacefulest man's face ever beheld there many added that he looked sublime and prophetic one of the most remarkable sufferers by the same acts 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 jury men the judge long ranks of the new oppressors who have risen on the destruction of the old perishing by this retributive instrument before it shall cease out of its present use I see a beautiful city and a brilliant people rising from this abyss and in their struggles to be truly free in their triumphs and defeats through long 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 itself 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 the child upon her bosom who bears my name I see her father aged and bent but otherwise 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 honored 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 foremost of just judges and honored 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 defigurement 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 end of chapter and end of a tale of two cities by Charles Dickens