English
Alargecaskofwinehadbeendroppedandbroken,inthestreet.
Theaccidenthadhappenedingettingitoutofacart;thecaskhadtumbledoutwitharun,thehoopshadburst,anditlayonthestonesjustoutsidethedoorofthewine-shop,shatteredlikeawalnut-shell.
Allthepeoplewithinreachhadsuspendedtheirbusiness,ortheiridleness,toruntothespotanddrinkthewine.
Therough,irregularstonesofthestreet,pointingeveryway,anddesigned,onemighthavethought,expresslytolamealllivingcreaturesthatapproachedthem,haddammeditintolittlepools;theseweresurrounded,eachbyitsownjostlinggrouporcrowd,accordingtoitssize.
Somemenkneeleddown,madescoopsoftheirtwohandsjoined,andsipped,ortriedtohelpwomen,whobentovertheirshoulders,tosip,beforethewinehadallrunoutbetweentheirfingers.
Others,menandwomen,dippedinthepuddleswithlittlemugsofmutilatedearthenware,orevenwithhandkerchiefsfromwomen’sheads,whichweresqueezeddryintoinfants’mouths;othersmadesmallmud-embankments,tostemthewineasitran;others,directedbylookers-onupathighwindows,dartedhereandthere,tocutofflittlestreamsofwinethatstartedawayinnewdirections;othersdevotedthemselvestothesoddenandlee-dyedpiecesofthecask,licking,andevenchampingthemoisterwine-rottedfragmentswitheagerrelish.
Therewasnodrainagetocarryoffthewine,andnotonlydiditallgettakenup,butsomuchmudgottakenupalongwithit,thattheremighthavebeenascavengerinthestreet,ifanybodyacquaintedwithitcouldhavebelievedinsuchamiraculouspresence.
Ashrillsoundoflaughterandofamusedvoices—voicesofmen,women,andchildren—resoundedinthestreetwhilethiswinegamelasted.
Therewaslittleroughnessinthesport,andmuchplayfulness.
Therewasaspecialcompanionshipinit,anobservableinclinationonthepartofeveryonetojoinsomeotherone,whichled,especiallyamongtheluckierorlighter-hearted,tofrolicsomeembraces,drinkingofhealths,shakingofhands,andevenjoiningofhandsanddancing,adozentogether.
Whenthewinewasgone,andtheplaceswhereithadbeenmostabundantwererakedintoagridiron-patternbyfingers,thesedemonstrationsceased,assuddenlyastheyhadbrokenout.
Themanwhohadlefthissawstickinginthefirewoodhewascutting,setitinmotionagain;thewomenwhohadleftonadoor-stepthelittlepotofhotashes,atwhichshehadbeentryingtosoftenthepaininherownstarvedfingersandtoes,orinthoseofherchild,returnedtoit;menwithbarearms,mattedlocks,andcadaverousfaces,whohademergedintothewinterlightfromcellars,movedaway,todescendagain;andagloomgatheredonthescenethatappearedmorenaturaltoitthansunshine.
Thewinewasredwine,andhadstainedthegroundofthenarrowstreetinthesuburbofSaintAntoine,inParis,whereitwasspilled.
Ithadstainedmanyhands,too,andmanyfaces,andmanynakedfeet,andmanywoodenshoes.
Thehandsofthemanwhosawedthewood,leftredmarksonthebillets;andtheforeheadofthewomanwhonursedherbaby,wasstainedwiththestainoftheoldragshewoundaboutherheadagain.
Thosewhohadbeengreedywiththestavesofthecask,hadacquiredatigerishsmearaboutthemouth;andonetalljokersobesmirched,hisheadmoreoutofalongsqualidbagofanightcapthaninit,scrawleduponawallwithhisfingerdippedinmuddywine-lees—BLOOD.
Thetimewastocome,whenthatwinetoowouldbespilledonthestreet-stones,andwhenthestainofitwouldbereduponmanythere.
AndnowthatthecloudsettledonSaintAntoine,whichamomentarygleamhaddrivenfromhissacredcountenance,thedarknessofitwasheavy-cold,dirt,sickness,ignorance,andwant,werethelordsinwaitingonthesaintlypresence-noblesofgreatpowerallofthem;but,mostespeciallythelast.
Samplesofapeoplethathadundergoneaterriblegrindingandregrindinginthemill,andcertainlynotinthefabulousmillwhichgroundoldpeopleyoung,shiveredateverycorner,passedinandoutateverydoorway,lookedfromeverywindow,flutteredineveryvestigeofagarmentthatthewindshook.
Themillwhichhadworkedthemdown,wasthemillthatgrindsyoungpeopleold;thechildrenhadancientfacesandgravevoices;anduponthem,anduponthegrownfaces,andploughedintoeveryfurrowofageandcomingupafresh,wasthesigh,Hunger.Itwasprevalenteverywhere.
Hungerwaspushedoutofthetallhouses,inthewretchedclothingthathunguponpolesandlines;Hungerwaspatchedintothemwithstrawandragandwoodandpaper;Hungerwasrepeatedineveryfragmentofthesmallmodicumoffirewoodthatthemansawedoff;Hungerstareddownfromthesmokelesschimneys,andstartedupfromthefilthystreetthathadnooffal,amongitsrefuse,ofanythingtoeat.
Hungerwastheinscriptiononthebaker’sshelves,writtenineverysmallloafofhisscantystockofbadbread;atthesausage-shop,ineverydead-dogpreparationthatwasofferedforsale.
Hungerrattleditsdrybonesamongtheroastingchestnutsintheturnedcylinder;Hungerwasshredintoatomicsineveryfarthingporringerofhuskychipsofpotato,friedwithsomereluctantdropsofoil.
Itsabidingplacewasinallthingsfittedtoit.
Anarrowwindingstreet,fullofoffenceandstench,withothernarrowwindingstreetsdiverging,allpeopledbyragsandnightcaps,andallsmellingofragsandnightcaps,andallvisiblethingswithabroodinglookuponthemthatlookedill.
Inthehuntedairofthepeopletherewasyetsomewild-beastthoughtofthepossibilityofturningatbay.
Depressedandslinkingthoughtheywere,eyesoffirewerenotwantingamongthem;norcompressedlips,whitewithwhattheysuppressed;norforeheadsknittedintothelikenessofthegallows-ropetheymusedaboutenduring,orinflicting.
Thetradesigns(andtheywerealmostasmanyastheshops)were,all,grimillustrationsofWant.
Thebutcherandtheporkmanpaintedup,onlytheleanestscragsofmeat;thebaker,thecoarsestofmeagreloaves.
Thepeoplerudelypicturedasdrinkinginthewine-shops,croakedovertheirscantymeasuresofthinwineandbeer,andweregloweringlyconfidentialtogether.
Nothingwasrepresentedinaflourishingcondition,savetoolsandweapons;but,thecutler’sknivesandaxesweresharpandbright,thesmith’shammerswereheavy,andthegunmaker’sstockwasmurderous.
Thecripplingstonesofthepavement,withtheirmanylittlereservoirsofmudandwater,hadnofootways,butbrokeoffabruptlyatthedoors.
Thekennel,tomakeamends,randownthemiddleofthestreet—whenitranatall:whichwasonlyafterheavyrains,andthenitran,bymanyeccentricfits,intothehouses.
Acrossthestreets,atwideintervals,oneclumsylampwasslungbyaropeandpulley;atnight,whenthelamplighterhadletthesedown,andlighted,andhoistedthemagain,afeeblegroveofdimwicksswunginasicklymanneroverhead,asiftheywereatsea.
Indeedtheywereatsea,andtheshipandcrewwereinperiloftempest.
For,thetimewastocome,whenthegauntscarecrowsofthatregionshouldhavewatchedthelamplighter,intheiridlenessandhunger,solong,astoconceivetheideaofimprovingonhismethod,andhaulingupmenbythoseropesandpulleys,toflareuponthedarknessoftheircondition.
But,thetimewasnotcomeyet;andeverywindthatblewoverFranceshooktheragsofthescarecrowsinvain,forthebirds,fineofsongandfeather,tooknowarning.
Thewine-shopwasacornershop,betterthanmostothersinitsappearanceanddegree,andthemasterofthewine-shophadstoodoutsideit,inayellowwaistcoatandgreenbreeches,lookingonatthestruggleforthelostwine.
“It’snotmyaffair,”saidhe,withafinalshrugoftheshoulders.“Thepeoplefromthemarketdidit.Utthembringanother.”
There,hiseyeshappeningtocatchthetalljokerwritinguphisjoke,hecalledtohimacrosstheway:
“Say,then,myGaspard,whatdoyoudothere?”
Thefellowpointedtohisjokewithimmensesignificance,asisoftenthewaywithhistribe.Itmisseditsmark,andcompletelyfailed,asisoftenthewaywithhistribetoo.
“Whatnow?Areyouasubjectforthemadhospital?”
saidthewine-shopkeeper,crossingtheroad,andobliteratingthejestwithahandfulofmud,pickedupforthepurpose,andsmearedoverit.
“Whydoyouwriteinthepublicstreets?
Isthere—tellmethou—istherenootherplacetowritesuchwordsin?”
Inhisexpostulationhedroppedhiscleanerhand(perhapsaccidentally,perhapsnot)uponthejoker’sheart.
Thejokerrappeditwithhisown,tookanimblespringupward,andcamedowninafantasticdancingattitude,withoneofhisstainedshoesjerkedoffhisfootintohishand,andheldout.
Ajokerofanextremely,nottosaywolfishlypracticalcharacter,helooked,underthosecircumstances.
“Putiton,putiton,”saidtheother.“Callwine,wine;andfinishthere.”
Withthatadvice,hewipedhissoiledhanduponthejoker’sdress,suchasitwas—quitedeliberately,ashavingdirtiedthehandonhisaccount;andthenrecrossedtheroadandenteredthewine-shop.
Thiswine-shopkeeperwasabull-necked,martial-lookingmanofthirty,andheshouldhavebeenofahottemperament,for,althoughitwasabitterday,heworenocoat,butcarriedoneslungoverhisshoulder.
Hisshirt-sleeveswererolledup,too,andhisbrownarmswerebaretotheelbows.
Neitherdidhewearanythingmoreonhisheadthanhisowncrisply-curlingshortdarkhair.
Hewasadarkmanaltogether,withgoodeyesandagoodboldbreadthbetweenthem.
Good-humouredlookingonthewhole,butimplacable-looking,too;evidentlyamanofastrongresolutionandasetpurpose;amannotdesirabletobemet,rushingdownanarrowpasswithagulfoneitherside,fornothingwouldturntheman.
MadameDefarge,hiswife,satintheshopbehindthecounterashecamein.
MadameDefargewasastoutwomanofabouthisownage,withawatchfuleyethatseldomseemedtolookatanything,alargehandheavilyringed,asteadyface,strongfeatures,andgreatcomposureofmanner.
TherewasacharacteraboutMadameDefarge,fromwhichonemighthavepredicatedthatshedidnotoftenmakemistakesagainstherselfinanyofthereckoningsoverwhichshepresided.
MadameDefargebeingsensitivetocold,waswrappedinfur,andhadaquantityofbrightshawltwinedaboutherhead,thoughnottotheconcealmentofherlargeearrings.
Herknittingwasbeforeher,butshehadlaiditdowntopickherteethwithatoothpick.
Thusengaged,withherrightelbowsupportedbyherlefthand,MadameDefargesaidnothingwhenherlordcamein,butcoughedjustonegrainofcough.
This,incombinationwiththeliftingofherdarklydefinedeyebrowsoverhertoothpickbythebreadthofaline,suggestedtoherhusbandthathewoulddowelltolookroundtheshopamongthecustomers,foranynewcustomerwhohaddroppedinwhilehesteppedovertheway.
Thewine-shopkeeperaccordinglyrolledhiseyesabout,untiltheyresteduponanelderlygentlemanandayounglady,whowereseatedinacorner.
Othercompanywerethere:twoplayingcards,twoplayingdominoes,threestandingbythecounterlengtheningoutashortsupplyofwine.
Ashepassedbehindthecounter,hetooknoticethattheelderlygentlemansaidinalooktotheyounglady,“Thisisourman.”
“WhatthedevildoYOUdointhatgalleythere?”saidMonsieurDefargetohimself;“Idon’tknowyou.”
But,hefeignednottonoticethetwostrangers,andfellintodiscoursewiththetriumvirateofcustomerswhoweredrinkingatthecounter.
“Howgoesit,Jacques?”saidoneofthesethreetoMonsieurDefarge.“Isallthespiltwineswallowed?”
“Everydrop,Jacques,”answeredMonsieurDefarge.
WhenthisinterchangeofChristiannamewaseffected,MadameDefarge,pickingherteethwithhertoothpick,coughedanothergrainofcough,andraisedhereyebrowsbythebreadthofanotherline.
“Itisnotoften,”saidthesecondofthethree,addressingMonsieurDefarge,“thatmanyofthesemiserablebeastsknowthetasteofwine,orofanythingbutblackbreadanddeath.Isitnotso,Jacques?”
“Itisso,Jacques,”MonsieurDefargereturned.
AtthissecondinterchangeoftheChristianname,MadameDefarge,stillusinghertoothpickwithprofoundcomposure,coughedanothergrainofcough,andraisedhereyebrowsbythebreadthofanotherline.
Thelastofthethreenowsaidhissay,asheputdownhisemptydrinkingvesselandsmackedhislips.
“Ah!Somuchtheworse!Abittertasteitisthatsuchpoorcattlealwayshaveintheirmouths,andhardlivestheylive,Jacques.AmIright,Jacques?”
“Youareright,Jacques,”wastheresponseofMonsieurDefarge.
ThisthirdinterchangeoftheChristiannamewascompletedatthemomentwhenMadameDefargeputhertoothpickby,kepthereyebrowsup,andslightlyrustledinherseat.
“Holdthen!True!”mutteredherhusband.“Gentlemen—mywife!”
ThethreecustomerspulledofftheirhatstoMadameDefarge,withthreeflourishes.
Sheacknowledgedtheirhomagebybendingherhead,andgivingthemaquicklook.
Thensheglancedinacasualmannerroundthewine-shop,tookupherknittingwithgreatapparentcalmnessandreposeofspirit,andbecameabsorbedinit.
“Gentlemen,”saidherhusband,whohadkepthisbrighteyeobservantlyuponher,“goodday.
Thechamber,furnishedbachelor-fashion,thatyouwishedtosee,andwereinquiringforwhenIsteppedout,isonthefifthfloor.
Thedoorwayofthestaircasegivesonthelittlecourtyardclosetothelefthere,”pointingwithhishand,“neartothewindowofmyestablishment.
But,nowthatIremember,oneofyouhasalreadybeenthere,andcanshowtheway.Gentlemen,adieu!”
Theypaidfortheirwine,andlefttheplace.TheeyesofMonsieurDefargewerestudyinghiswifeatherknittingwhentheelderlygentlemanadvancedfromhiscorner,andbeggedthefavourofaword.
“Willingly,sir,”saidMonsieurDefarge,andquietlysteppedwithhimtothedoor.
Theirconferencewasveryshort,butverydecided.
Almostatthefirstword,MonsieurDefargestartedandbecamedeeplyattentive.
Ithadnotlastedaminute,whenhenoddedandwentout.
Thegentlemanthenbeckonedtotheyounglady,andthey,too,wentout.
MadameDefargeknittedwithnimblefingersandsteadyeyebrows,andsawnothing.
Mr.JarvisLorryandMissManette,emergingfromthewine-shopthus,joinedMonsieurDefargeinthedoorwaytowhichhehaddirectedhisowncompanyjustbefore.
Itopenedfromastinkinglittleblackcourtyard,andwasthegeneralpublicentrancetoagreatpileofhouses,inhabitedbyagreatnumberofpeople.
Inthegloomytile-pavedentrytothegloomytile-pavedstaircase,MonsieurDefargebentdownononekneetothechildofhisoldmaster,andputherhandtohislips.
Itwasagentleaction,butnotatallgentlydone;averyremarkabletransformationhadcomeoverhiminafewseconds.
Hehadnogood-humourinhisface,noranyopennessofaspectleft,buthadbecomeasecret,angry,dangerousman.
“Itisveryhigh;itisalittledifficult.Bettertobeginslowly.”Thus,MonsieurDefarge,inastemvoice,toMr.Lorry,astheybeganascendingthestairs.
“Ishealone?”thelatterwhispered.
“Alone!Godhelphim,whoshouldbewithhim!”saidtheother,inthesamelowvoice.
“Ishealwaysalone,then?”
“Yes.”
“Ofhisowndesire?”
“Ofhisownnecessity.Ashewas,whenIfirstsawhimaftertheyfoundmeanddemandedtoknowifIwouldtakehim,and,atmyperilbediscreet—ashewasthen,soheisnow.”
“Heisgreatlychanged?”
“Changed!”
Thekeeperofthewine-shopstoppedtostrikethewallwithhishand,andmutteratremendouscurse.
Nodirectanswercouldhavebeenhalfsoforcible.
Mr.Lorry’sspiritsgrewheavierandheavier,asheandhistwocompanionsascendedhigherandhigher.
Suchastaircase,withitsaccessories,intheolderandmorecrowdedpartsofParis,wouldbebadenoughnow;but,atthattime,itwasvileindeedtounaccustomedandunhardenedsenses.
Everylittlehabitationwithinthegreatfoulnestofonehighbuilding—thatistosay,theroomorroomswithineverydoorthatopenedonthegeneralstaircase—leftitsownheapofrefuseonitsownlanding,besidesflingingotherrefusefromitsownwindows.
Theuncontrollableandhopelessmassofdecompositionsoengendered,wouldhavepollutedtheair,evenifpovertyanddeprivationhadnotloadeditwiththeirintangibleimpurities;thetwobadsourcescombinedmadeitalmostinsupportable.
Throughsuchanatmosphere,byasteepdarkshaftofdirtandpoison,thewaylay.
Yieldingtohisowndisturbanceofmind,andtohisyoungcompanion’sagitation,whichbecamegreatereveryinstant,Mr.JarvisLorrytwicestoppedtorest.
Eachofthesestoppageswasmadeatadolefulgrating,bywhichanylanguishinggoodairsthatwereleftuncorrupted,seemedtoescape,andallspoiltandsicklyvapoursseemedtocrawlin.
Throughtherustedbars,tastes,ratherthanglimpses,werecaughtofthejumbledneighbourhood;andnothingwithinrange,nearerorlowerthanthesummitsofthetwogreattowersofNotre-Dame,hadanypromiseonitofhealthylifeorwholesomeaspirations.
Atlast,thetopofthestaircasewasgained,andtheystoppedforthethirdtime.
Therewasyetanupperstaircase,ofasteeperinclinationandofcontracteddimensions,tobeascended,beforethegarretstorywasreached.
Thekeeperofthewine-shop,alwaysgoingalittleinadvance,andalwaysgoingonthesidewhichMr.Lorrytook,asthoughhedreadedtobeaskedanyquestionbytheyounglady,turnedhimselfabouthere,and,carefullyfeelinginthepocketsofthecoathecarriedoverhisshoulder,tookoutakey.
“Thedoorislockedthen,myfriend?”saidMr.Lorry,surprised.
“Ay.Yes,”wasthegrimreplyofMonsieurDefarge.
“Youthinkitnecessarytokeeptheunfortunategentlemansoretired?”
“Ithinkitnecessarytoturnthekey.”MonsieurDefargewhispereditcloserinhisear,andfrownedheavily.
“Why?”
“Why!Becausehehaslivedsolong,lockedup,thathewouldbefrightened-rave-tearhimselftopieces-die-cometoIknownotwhatharm—ifhisdoorwasleftopen.”
“Isitpossible!”exclaimedMr.Lorry.
“Isitpossible!”repeatedDefarge,bitterly.“Yes.
Andabeautifulworldwelivein,whenitISpossible,andwhenmanyothersuchthingsarepossible,andnotonlypossible,butdone—done,seeyou!—underthatskythere,everyday.LonglivetheDevil.Letusgoon.”
Thisdialoguehadbeenheldinsoverylowawhisper,thatnotawordofithadreachedtheyounglady’sears.
But,bythistimeshetrembledundersuchstrongemotion,andherfaceexpressedsuchdeepanxiety,and,aboveall,suchdreadandterror,thatMr.Lorryfeltitincumbentonhimtospeakawordortwoofreassurance.
“Courage,dearmiss!Courage!Business!
Theworstwillbeoverinamoment;itisbutpassingtheroom-door,andtheworstisover.
Then,allthegoodyoubringtohim,alltherelief,allthehappinessyoubringtohim,begin.
Letourgoodfriendhere,assistyouonthatside.That’swell,friendDefarge.Come,now.Business,business!”
Theywentupslowlyandsoftly.Thestaircasewasshort,andtheyweresoonatthetop.
There,asithadanabruptturninit,theycameallatonceinsightofthreemen,whoseheadswerebentdownclosetogetheratthesideofadoor,andwhowereintentlylookingintotheroomtowhichthedoorbelonged,throughsomechinksorholesinthewall.
Onhearingfootstepscloseathand,thesethreeturned,androse,andshowedthemselvestobethethreeofonenamewhohadbeendrinkinginthewine-shop.
“Iforgottheminthesurpriseofyourvisit,”explainedMonsieurDefarge.“Leaveus,goodboys;wehavebusinesshere.”
Thethreeglidedby,andwentsilentlydown.
Thereappearingtobenootherdooronthatfloor,andthekeeperofthewine-shopgoingstraighttothisonewhentheywereleftalone,Mr.Lorryaskedhiminawhisper,withalittleanger:
“DoyoumakeashowofMonsieurManette?”
“Ishowhim,inthewayyouhaveseen,toachosenfew.”
“Isthatwell?”
“Ithinkitiswell.”
“Whoarethefew?Howdoyouchoosethem?”
“Ichoosethemasrealmen,ofmyname—Jacquesismyname—towhomthesightislikelytodogood.Enough;youareEnglish;thatisanotherthing.Staythere,ifyouplease,alittlemoment.”
Withanadmonitorygesturetokeepthemback,hestooped,andlookedinthroughthecreviceinthewall.
Soonraisinghisheadagain,hestrucktwiceorthriceuponthedoor—evidentlywithnootherobjectthantomakeanoisethere.
Withthesameintention,hedrewthekeyacrossit,threeorfourtimes,beforeheputitclumsilyintothelock,andturneditasheavilyashecould.
Thedoorslowlyopenedinwardunderhishand,andhelookedintotheroomandsaidsomething.Afaintvoiceansweredsomething.
Littlemorethanasinglesyllablecouldhavebeenspokenoneitherside.
Helookedbackoverhisshoulder,andbeckonedthemtoenter.Mr.Lorrygothisarmsecurelyroundthedaughter’swaist,andheldher;forhefeltthatshewassinking.
“A-a-a-business,business!”heurged,withamoisturethatwasnotofbusinessshiningonhischeek.“Comein,comein!”
“Iamafraidofit,”sheanswered,shuddering.
“Ofit?What?”
“Imeanofhim.Ofmyfather.”
Renderedinamannerdesperate,byherstateandbythebeckoningoftheirconductor,hedrewoverhisneckthearmthatshookuponhisshoulder,liftedheralittle,andhurriedherintotheroom.
Hesatherdownjustwithinthedoor,andheldher,clingingtohim.
Defargedrewoutthekey,closedthedoor,lockeditontheinside,tookoutthekeyagain,andhelditinhishand.
Allthishedid,methodically,andwithasloudandharshanaccompanimentofnoiseashecouldmake.
Finally,hewalkedacrosstheroomwithameasuredtreadtowherethewindowwas.Hestoppedthere,andfacedround.
Thegarret,builttobeadepositoryforfirewoodandthelike,wasdimanddark:for,thewindowofdormershape,wasintruthadoorintheroof,withalittlecraneoveritforthehoistingupofstoresfromthestreet:unglazed,andclosingupthemiddleintwopieces,likeanyotherdoorofFrenchconstruction.
Toexcludethecold,onehalfofthisdoorwasfastclosed,andtheotherwasopenedbutaverylittleway.
Suchascantyportionoflightwasadmittedthroughthesemeans,thatitwasdifficult,onfirstcomingin,toseeanything;andlonghabitalonecouldhaveslowlyformedinanyone,theabilitytodoanyworkrequiringnicetyinsuchobscurity.
Yet,workofthatkindwasbeingdoneinthegarret;for,withhisbacktowardsthedoor,andhisfacetowardsthewindowwherethekeeperofthewine-shopstoodlookingathim,awhite-hairedmansatonalowbench,stoopingforwardandverybusy,makingshoes.
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