Defarge repeated his words.
"It is a lady's shoe," answered the shoemaker.
"And the maker's name?"
"One Hundred and Five, North Tower."
"Dr. Manette," said Mr. Lorry, looking steadfastly at him, "do you
remember nothing of me? Do you remember nothing of Defarge--your old
servant?"
As the Bastille captive of many years gazed at them, marks of
intelligence forced themselves through the mist that had fallen on him.
They were fainter; they were gone, but they had been there. The young
lady moved forward, with tears streaming from her eyes, and kissed him.
He took up her golden hair, and looked at it; then drew from his breast
a folded rag, and opened it carefully. It contained a little quantity of
hair. He took the girl's hair into his hand again.
"It is the same! How can it be? She had a fear of my going that night.
_Was it you?_" He turned upon her with frightful suddenness. But his
vigour swiftly died out, and he gloomily shook his head. "No, no, no! It
can't be!"
She fell on her knees and clasped his neck.
"If you hear in my voice any resemblance to a voice that was once sweet
music to your ears, weep for it--weep for it! Thank God!" she cried. "I
feel his sacred tears upon my face! Leave us here," she said. And, as
the darkness closed in, they left father and daughter together.
They came back at night. A coach stood outside the courtyard, and the
lately released prisoner, in scared, blank wonder, began the journey
that was to end in England and rest.
_II.--The Jackal_
In the dimly-lighted passages of the Old Bailey, Dr. Manette, his
daughter, and Mr. Lorry stood by Mr. Charles Darnay--just acquitted on a
charge of high treason--congratulating him on his escape from death.
It was not difficult to recognise in Dr. Manette, intellectual of face
and upright in bearing, the shoemaker of the garret in Paris. He and his
daughter had been unwilling witnesses for the prosecution, called to
give evidence that might be distorted into corroboration of a paid spy's
falsehoods as to Darnay's dealings with the French king.
Darnay kissed Lucie Manette's hand fervently and gratefully, and warmly
thanked his counsel, Mr. Stryver. As he watched them go, a person who
had been leaning against the wall stepped up to him. It was Mr. Carton,
a barrister, who had sat throughout the trial with his whole attention
seemingly concentrated upon the ceiling of the court. Everybody had been
struck with the extraordinary resemblance, cleverly used by the
defending counsel to confound a witness, between Mr. Carton and Mr.
Darnay. Mr. Carton was shabbily dressed, and did not appear to be quite
sober.
"This must be a strange sight to you," said Carton, with a laugh.
"I hardly seem yet," returned Darnay, "to belong to this world again."
"Then why the devil don't you dine?"
He led him to a tavern, where Darnay recruited his strength with a good,
plain dinner. Carton drank, but ate nothing.
"Now your dinner is done," Carton presently said, "why don't you give
your toast?"
"What toast?"
"Why, it's on the tip of your tongue."
"Miss Manette, then!"
Carton drank the toast, and flung his glass over his shoulder against
the wall, where it shivered in pieces.
After Darnay had gone, Carton drank and slept till ten o'clock, and then
walked to the chambers of Mr. Stryver. Mr. Stryver was a glib man, and
an unscrupulous, and a bold, and was fast shouldering his way to a
lucrative practice; but it had been noted that he had not the striking
and necessary faculty of extracting evidence from a heap of statements.
A remarkable improvement, however, came upon him as to this. Sydney
Carton, idlest and most unpromising of men, was his great ally. What the
two drank together would have floated a king's ship.
Stryver never had a case in hand but what Carton was there, with his
hands in his pockets, staring at the ceiling. At last it began to get
about that, although Sydney Carton would never be a lion, he was an
amazingly good jackal, and that he rendered service to Stryver in that
humble capacity. Folding wet towels on his head in a manner hideous to
behold, the jackal began the "boiling down" of cases, while Stryver
reclined before the fire. Each had bottles and glasses ready to his
hand. The work was not done until the clocks were striking three.
Climbing to a high chamber in a well of houses, Carton threw himself
down in his clothes on a neglected bed. Sadly, sadly the sun rose. It
rose upon no sadder sight than the man of good abilities and good
emotions, incapable of his own help and his own happiness, sensible of
the blight upon him, and resigning himself to let it eat him away.
_III.--The Loadstone Rock_
"Dear Dr. Manette," said Charles Darnay, "I love your daughter fondly,
devotedly. If ever there were love in the world, I love her!"
Dr. Manette turned towards him in his chair, but did not look at him or
raise his eyes.
"Have you spoken to Lucie?" he asked.
"No."
The doctor looked up; a struggle was evidently in his face--a struggle
with that look he still sometimes wore, with a tendency in it to dark
doubt and dread.
"If Lucie should ever tell me," he said, "that you are essential to her
perfect happiness, I will give her to you."
"Your confidence in me," answered Darnay, relieved, "ought to be
returned with full confidence on my part. I am, as you know, like
yourself, a voluntary exile from France. The name I bear at present is
not my own. I wish to tell you what that is, and why I am in England."
"Stop!"
The doctor laid his two hands on Darnay's lips.
"Tell me when I ask you, not now. Go! God bless you!"
On a day shortly before the marriage, while Lucie was sitting at her
work alone, Sydney Carton entered.
"I fear you are not well, Mr. Carton," she said, looking up at him.
"No; but the life I lead is not conducive to health."
"Is it not--forgive me--a pity to live no better life?"
"It is too late for that." He covered her eyes with his hand. "Will you
hear me?" he continued. "Since I have known you, I have been troubled by
a remorse that I thought would never reproach me again. A dream, all a
dream, that ends in nothing; but let me carry through the rest of my
misdirected life the remembrance that I opened my heart to you, last of
all the world."
"Mr. Carton," she answered, after an agitated pause, "I promise to
respect your secret."
"God bless you! My last application is this, that you will believe that
for you, and for any dear to you, I would do anything. Oh, Miss Manette,
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!" and left her.
A wonderful corner for echoes was the quiet street-corner near Soho
Square, where Dr. Manette lived with his daughter and her husband. But
Lucie heard in the echoes none but friendly and soothing sounds. Her
husband's step was strong and prosperous among them; her father's firm
and equal. The time came when a little Lucie lay on her bosom. But there
were other echoes that rumbled menacingly in the distance, with a sound
as of a great storm in France, with a dreadful sea rising.
It was August of the year 1792. Charles Darnay talked in a low voice
with Mr. Lorry in Tellson's Bank. The bank had a branch in Paris, and
the London establishment was the headquarters of the aristocratic
emigrants who had fled from France.
"And do you really go to Paris to-night?" asked Darnay.
"I do. You can have no conception of the peril in which our books and
papers over yonder are involved, and the getting them out of harm's way
is in the power of scarcely anyone but myself."
As Mr. Lorry spoke a letter was laid before him. Darnay saw the
direction--it was to himself. "To Monsieur heretofore the Marquis St.
Evrémonde." Horrified at the oppression and cruelty of his family
towards the people, Darnay had left his native country and had never
used the title that had, some years before, fallen to him by
inheritance. He had told his secret to Dr. Manette on the wedding
morning, and to none other.
"I know the man," he said.
"Will you take charge of the letter and deliver it?" asked Mr. Lorry.
"I will."
When alone, Darnay opened the letter. It was from the steward of his
French estate. The man had been charged with acting for an emigrant
against the people. It was in vain he had urged that by the marquis's
instructions he had acted for the people--had remitted all rents and
imposts. The only response was that he had acted for an emigrant.
Nothing but the marquis's personal testimony could save him from
execution.
Could he resist his old servant's appeal? He knew the peril of it, but
his honour was at stake; he must go. That evening he wrote two letters
explaining his purpose, one to Lucie, one to the doctor. On the next
night he went out, pretending he would be back by-and-by. The two
letters he left with the trusty porter to be delivered before midnight;
and, with a heavy heart, leaving all that was dear on earth behind him,
he journeyed on--drawn, like the mariner in the old story, to the
Loadstone Rock.
_IV.--The Track of a Storm_
In the buildings of Tellson's Bank in Paris, Mr. Lorry sat by a wood
fire (it was early September, but the blighted year was prematurely
cold), and on his honest face there was a deeper shade than the pendant
lamp could throw--a shade of horror. By him sat Dr. Manette; Lucie and
her child were in an inner room. They had hastened after Darnay to
Paris. Dr. Manette knew that as a Bastille prisoner he bore a charmed
life in revolutionary France, and that if Darnay was in danger he could
help him. Darnay was indeed in danger. He had been arrested as an
aristocrat and an enemy of the Republic.
From the streets there came the usual night hum of the city, with now
and then an indescribable ring in it, weird and unearthly, as if some
unwonted sounds of a terrible nature were going up to Heaven.
A loud noise of feet and voices came pouring into the courtyard. Mr.
Lorry put his hand on the doctor's arm, and they looked out.
A throng of men and women crowded round a grindstone. Turning madly at
its double handle were two men, whose faces were more horrible and cruel
than the visages of the wildest savages. The eye could not detect one
creature in the surrounding group free from the smear of blood.
Shouldering one another to get next at the sharpening-stone were men
with the stain all over their limbs and bodies; hatchets, knives,
bayonets, swords, all were red with it.
"They are murdering the prisoners," whispered Mr. Lorry.
Dr. Manette hastened out of the room, and down into the courtyard. There
was a pause, a murmur, and the sound of his voice. Then Mr. Lorry saw
him, surrounded by all, hurried out with cries of "Live the Bastille
prisoner! Help for the Bastille prisoner's kindred in La Force!"
It was long ere he returned. He had presented himself at the prison
before the self-appointed tribunal that was consigning the prisoners to
massacre, and had announced himself as a victim of the Bastille. One
member of the tribunal had identified him; the member was Defarge. He
had pleaded hard for his son-in-law's life, and had been informed that
the prisoner must remain in custody; but should, for the doctor's sake,
be held in safe custody.
For fifteen months Charles Darnay remained in prison. During all that
time Lucie was never sure but that her husband's head would be struck
off next day. When at length arraigned as an emigrant whose life was
forfeit to the Republic, he pleaded that he had come back to save a
citizen's life. That night he sat by the fire with his family, a free
man. Lucie at last was at ease.
"What is that?" she cried suddenly.
There was a knock at the door; four armed men in red caps entered the
room.
"Evrémonde," said the first, "you are again the prisoner of the
Republic!"
"Why?" he asked, with his wife and child clinging to him.
"You will know to-morrow."
"One word," entreated the doctor, "who has denounced him?"
"The Citizen Defarge, and another."
"What other?"
"Citizen," said the man, with a strange look, "you will be answered
to-morrow."
_V.--Condemned_
The news that Darnay had been again arrested was brought to Mr. Lorry
later in the evening, and the man who brought it was Sydney Carton. He
had come to Paris, he said, on business; his business was now completed,
he was about to return, and he had obtained his leave to pass.
"Darnay," he said, "cannot escape condemnation this time."
"I fear not," answered Mr. Lorry.
"I have found," continued Carton, "that the Old Bailey spy who charged
Darnay with high treason years ago is now in the service of the Republic
and is a turnkey at the prison of the Conciergerie where Darnay is
confined. By threatening to denounce him as a spy of Pitt, I have
secured that I shall gain access to Darnay in the prison if the trial
should go against him."
"But access to him," said Mr. Lorry, "will not save him."
"I never said it would."
Mr. Lorry looked at him mystified, and once more noted his strange
resemblance to the man whose fate was to be decided on the morrow.
Carton stood next day in an obscure corner among the crowd when Charles
Evrémonde, called Darnay, appeared again before the judges.
"Who denounces the accused?" asked the president.
"Ernest Defarge, wine-vendor."
"Good."
"Alexandre Manette, physician."
"President," cried the doctor, pale and trembling, "I indignantly
protest to you."
"Citizen Manette, be silent! Call Citizen Defarge."
Rapidly Defarge told his story. He had been among the leaders in the
taking of the Bastille. When the citadel had fallen, he had gone to the
cell One Hundred and Five, North Tower, and had searched it. In a hole
in the chimney he had found a paper in the handwriting of Dr. Manette.
"Let it be read," said the president.
In this paper Dr. Manette had written the history of his imprisonment.
In the year 1757 he had been taken secretly by two nobles to visit two
poor people who were on the point of death. One was a woman whom one of
the nobles had forcibly carried off from her husband; the other, her
brother, whom the seducer had mortally wounded. The doctor had come too
late; both the woman and her brother died. The doctor refused a fee,
and, to relieve his mind, wrote privately to the government stating the
circumstances of the crime. One night he was called out of his home on a
false pretext, and taken to the Bastille.
The nobles were the Marquis de St. Evrémonde and his brother; and the
Marquis was the father of Charles Darnay. A terrible sound arose in the
court when the reading was done. The voting of the jury was unanimous,
and at every vote there was a roar. Death in twenty-four hours!
That night Carton again came to Mr. Lorry. Between the two men, as they
spoke, a figure on a chair rocked itself to and fro, moaning. It was Dr.
Manette.
"He and Lucie and her child must leave Paris to-morrow," said Carton.
"They are in danger of being denounced. It is a capital crime to mourn
for, or sympathise with, a victim of the guillotine. Be ready to start
at two o'clock to-morrow afternoon. See them into their seats; take your
own seat. The moment I come to you, take me in, and drive away.
"It shall be done."
Carton turned to the couch where Lucie lay unconscious, prostrated with
utter grief.
He bent down, touched her face with his lips, and murmured some words.
Little Lucie told them afterwards that she heard him say, "A life you
love."
_VI.--The Guillotine_
In the black prison of the Conciergerie, the doomed of the day awaited
their fate. Fifty-two persons were to roll that afternoon on the
life-tide of the city to the boundless, everlasting sea.
The hours went on as Darnay walked to and fro in his cell, and the
clocks struck the numbers he would never hear again. The final hour, he
knew, was three, and he expected to be summoned at two. The clocks
struck one. "There is but another now," he thought.
He heard footsteps. The door was opened, and there stood before him,
quiet, intent, and smiling, Sydney Carton.
"Darnay," he said, "I bring you a request from your wife."
"What is it?"
"There is no time--you must comply. Take off your boots and coat, and
put on mine."
"Carton, there is no escaping from this place. It is madness."
"Do I ask you to escape?" said Carton, forcing the changes upon him.
"Now sit at the table and write what I dictate."
"To whom do I address it?"
"To no one."
"If you remember," said Carton, dictating, "the words that passed
between us long ago, you will comprehend this when you see it. I am
thankful that the time has come when I can prove them." Carton's hand
was withdrawn from his breast, and slowly and softly moved down the
writer's face. For a few seconds Darnay struggled faintly, Carton's hand
held firmly at his nostrils; then he fell senseless to the ground.
Carton called quietly to the turnkey, who looked in and went again as
Carton was putting the paper in Darnay's breast. He came back with two
men. They raised the unconscious figure and carried it 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. Presently his door opened, and a
gaoler looked in, merely saying: "Follow me," whereupon Carton followed
him into a dark room. As he stood by the wall in a dim corner, a young
woman, with a slight, girlish figure, came to speak to him.
"Citizen Evrémonde," she said, "I am a poor little seamstress, who was
with you in La Force."
He murmured an answer.
"I heard you were released."
"I was, and was taken again and condemned."
"If I may ride with you, will you let me hold your hand?"
As the patient eyes were lifted to his face, he saw a sudden doubt in
them.
"Are you dying for him?" she whispered. "Oh, you will let me hold your
hand?"
"Hush! Yes, my poor sister, to the last."
That afternoon a coach going out of Paris drove up to the Barrier.
"Papers!" demanded the guard. The papers are handed out and read.
"Alexandre Manette, Lucie Manette, her child. Jarvis Lorry, banker,
English. Sydney Carton, advocate, English. Which is he?"
He lies here, in a corner, apparently in a swoon. He is in bad health.
"Behold your papers, countersigned."
"One can depart, citizen?"
"One can depart."
The ministers of Sainte Guillotin are robed and ready. Crash!--and the
women who sit with their knitting in front of the guillotine count one.
Crash!--and the women count two.
The supposed Evrémonde descends with the seamstress from the tumbril,
and joins the fast-thinning throng of victims before the crashing engine
that constantly whirrs up and falls. The spare hand does not tremble as
he grasps it. She goes next before him--is gone. The knitting women
count twenty-two.
The murmuring of many voices, the pressing on of many footsteps in the
outskirts of the crowd, so that it swells forward like one great heave
of water, all flashes away. Twenty-three.
They said of him about the city that night that it was the peacefulest
man's face ever beheld there. Had he given utterance to his thoughts at
the foot of the scaffold, they would have been these:
"I see the lives for which I lay down my life, peaceful, useful,
prosperous, and happy in that England which I shall see no more. I see
her with a child upon her bosom, who bears my name. I see that I hold a
sanctuary in their hearts, and in the hearts of their descendants,
generations hence.
"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."
* * * * *