English
MadameDefargeandmonsieurherhusbandreturnedamicablytothebosomofSaintAntoine,whileaspeckinabluecaptoiledthroughthedarkness,andthroughthedust,anddownthewearymilesofavenuebythewayside,slowlytendingtowardsthatpointofthecompasswherethechateauofMonsieurtheMarquis,nowinhisgrave,listenedtothewhisperingtrees.
Suchampleleisurehadthestonefaces,now,forlisteningtothetreesandtothefountain,thatthefewvillagescarecrowswho,intheirquestforherbstoeatandfragmentsofdeadsticktoburn,strayedwithinsightofthegreatstonecourtyardandterracestaircase,haditborneinupontheirstarvedfancythattheexpressionofthefaceswasaltered.
Arumourjustlivedinthevillage—hadafaintandbareexistencethere,asitspeoplehad—thatwhentheknifestruckhome,thefaceschanged,fromfacesofpridetofacesofangerandpain;also,thatwhenthatdanglingfigurewashauledupfortyfeetabovethefountain,theychangedagain,andboreacruellookofbeingavenged,whichtheywouldhenceforthbearforever.
Inthestonefaceoverthegreatwindowofthebed-chamberwherethemurderwasdone,twofinedintswerepointedoutinthesculpturednose,whicheverybodyrecognised,andwhichnobodyhadseenofold;andonthescarceoccasionswhentwoorthreeraggedpeasantsemergedfromthecrowdtotakeahurriedpeepatMonsieurtheMarquispetrified,askinnyfingerwouldnothavepointedtoitforaminute,beforetheyallstartedawayamongthemossandleaves,likethemorefortunatehareswhocouldfindalivingthere.
Chateauandhut,stonefaceanddanglingfigure,theredstainonthestonefloor,andthepurewaterinthevillagewell—thousandsofacresofland—awholeprovinceofFrance—allFranceitself—layunderthenightsky,concentratedintoafainthair-breadthline.
Sodoesawholeworld,withallitsgreatnessesandlittlenesses,lieinatwinklingstar.
Andasmerehumanknowledgecansplitarayoflightandanalysethemannerofitscomposition,so,sublimerintelligencesmayreadinthefeebleshiningofthisearthofours,everythoughtandact,everyviceandvirtue,ofeveryresponsiblecreatureonit.
TheDefarges,husbandandwife,camelumberingunderthestarlight,intheirpublicvehicle,tothatgateofPariswhereuntotheirjourneynaturallytended.
Therewastheusualstoppageatthebarrierguardhouse,andtheusuallanternscameglancingforthfortheusualexaminationandinquiry.
MonsieurDefargealighted;knowingoneortwoofthesoldierythere,andoneofthepolice.
Thelatterhewasintimatewith,andaffectionatelyembraced.
WhenSaintAntoinehadagainenfoldedtheDefargesinhisduskywings,andthey,havingfinallyalightedneartheSaint’sboundaries,werepickingtheirwayonfootthroughtheblackmudandoffalofhisstreets,MadameDefargespoketoherhusband:
“Saythen,myfriend;whatdidJacquesofthepolicetellthee?”
“Verylittleto-night,butallheknows.Thereisanotherspycommissionedforourquarter.Theremaybemanymore,forallthathecansay,butheknowsofone.”
“Ehwell!”saidMadameDefarge,raisinghereyebrowswithacoolbusinessair.“Itisnecessarytoregisterhim.Howdotheycallthatman?”
“HeisEnglish.”
“Somuchthebetter.Hisname?”
“Barsad,”saidDefarge,makingitFrenchbypronunciation.But,hehadbeensocarefultogetitaccurately,thathethenspeltitwithperfectcorrectness.
“Barsad,”repeatedmadame.“Good.Christianname?”
“John.”
“JohnBarsad,”repeatedmadame,aftermurmuringitoncetoherself.“Good.Hisappearance;isitknown?”
“Age,aboutfortyyears;height,aboutfivefeetnine;blackhair;complexiondark;generally,ratherhandsomevisage;eyesdark,facethin,long,andsallow;noseaquiline,butnotstraight,havingapeculiarinclinationtowardstheleftcheek;expression,therefore,sinister.”
“Ehmyfaith.Itisaportrait!”saidmadame,laughing.“Heshallberegisteredto-morrow.”
Theyturnedintothewine-shop,whichwasclosed(foritwasmidnight),andwhereMadameDefargeimmediatelytookherpostatherdesk,countedthesmallmoneysthathadbeentakenduringherabsence,examinedthestock,wentthroughtheentriesinthebook,madeotherentriesofherown,checkedtheservingmanineverypossibleway,andfinallydismissedhimtobed.
Thensheturnedoutthecontentsofthebowlofmoneyforthesecondtime,andbeganknottingthemupinherhandkerchief,inachainofseparateknots,forsafekeepingthroughthenight.
Allthiswhile,Defarge,withhispipeinhismouth,walkedupanddown,complacentlyadmiring,butneverinterfering;inwhichcondition,indeed,astothebusinessandhisdomesticaffairs,hewalkedupanddownthroughlife.
Thenightwashot,andtheshop,closeshutandsurroundedbysofoulaneighbourhood,wasill-smelling.
MonsieurDefarge’solfactorysensewasbynomeansdelicate,butthestockofwinesmeltmuchstrongerthanitevertasted,andsodidthestockofrumandbrandyandaniseed.
Hewhiffedthecompoundofscentsaway,asheputdownhissmoked-outpipe.
“Youarefatigued,”saidmadame,raisingherglanceassheknottedthemoney.“Thereareonlytheusualodours.”
“Iamalittletired,”herhusbandacknowledged.
“Youarealittledepressed,too,”saidmadame,whosequickeyeshadneverbeensointentontheaccounts,buttheyhadhadarayortwoforhim.“Oh,themen,themen!”
“Butmydear!”beganDefarge.
“Butmydear!”repeatedmadame,noddingfirmly;“butmydear!Youarefaintofheartto-night,mydear!”
“Well,then,”saidDefarge,asifathoughtwerewrungoutofhisbreast,“itISalongtime.”
“Itisalongtime,”repeatedhiswife;“andwhenisitnotalongtime?Vengeanceandretributionrequirealongtime;itistherule.”
“ItdoesnottakealongtimetostrikeamanwithLightning,”saidDefarge.
“Howlong,”demandedmadame,composedly,“doesittaketomakeandstorethelightning?Tellme.”
Defargeraisedhisheadthoughtfully,asifthereweresomethinginthattoo.
“Itdoesnottakealongtime,”saidmadame,“foranearthquaketoswallowatown.Ehwell!Tellmehowlongittakestopreparetheearthquake?”
“Alongtime,Isuppose,”saidDefarge.
“Butwhenitisready,ittakesplace,andgrindstopieceseverythingbeforeit.Inthemeantime,itisalwayspreparing,thoughitisnotseenorheard.Thatisyourconsolation.Keepit.”
Shetiedaknotwithflashingeyes,asifitthrottledafoe.
“Itellthee,”saidmadame,extendingherrighthand,foremphasis,“thatalthoughitisalongtimeontheroad,itisontheroadandcoming.
Itelltheeitneverretreats,andneverstops.Itelltheeitisalwaysadvancing.
LookaroundandconsidertheEvesofalltheworldthatweknow,considerthefacesofalltheworldthatweknow,considertherageanddiscontenttowhichtheJacquerieaddressesitselfwithmoreandmoreofcertaintyeveryhour.Cansuchthingslast?Bah!Imockyou.”
“Mybravewife,”returnedDefarge,standingbeforeherwithhisheadalittlebent,andhishandsclaspedathisback,likeadocileandattentivepupilbeforehiscatechist,“Idonotquestionallthis.
Butithaslastedalongtime,anditispossible—youknowwell,mywife,itispossible—thatitmaynotcome,duringourlives.”
“Ehwell!Howthen?”demandedmadame,tyinganotherknot,asiftherewereanotherenemystrangled.
“Well!”saidDefarge,withahalfcomplainingandhalfapologeticshrug.“Weshallnotseethetriumph.”
“Weshallhavehelpedit,”returnedmadame,withherextendedhandinstrongaction.“Nothingthatwedo,isdoneinvain.
Ibelieve,withallmysoul,thatweshallseethetriumph.
Butevenifnot,evenifIknewcertainlynot,showmetheneckofanaristocratandtyrant,andstillIwould—”
Thenmadame,withherteethset,tiedaveryterribleknotindeed.
“Hold!”criedDefarge,reddeningalittleasifhefeltchargedwithcowardice;“Itoo,mydear,willstopatnothing.”
“Yes!Butitisyourweaknessthatyousometimesneedtoseeyourvictimandyouropportunity,tosustainyou.Sustainyourselfwithoutthat.
Whenthetimecomes,letlooseatigerandadevil;butwaitforthetimewiththetigerandthedevilchained—notshown—yetalwaysready.”
Madameenforcedtheconclusionofthispieceofadvicebystrikingherlittlecounterwithherchainofmoneyasifsheknockeditsbrainsout,andthengatheringtheheavyhandkerchiefunderherarminaserenemanner,andobservingthatitwastimetogotobed.
Nextnoontidesawtheadmirablewomaninherusualplaceinthewine-shop,knittingawayassiduously.
Aroselaybesideher,andifshenowandthenglancedattheflower,itwaswithnoinfractionofherusualpreoccupiedair.
Therewereafewcustomers,drinkingornotdrinking,standingorseated,sprinkledabout.
Thedaywasveryhot,andheapsofflies,whowereextendingtheirinquisitiveandadventurousperquisitionsintoalltheglutinouslittleglassesnearmadame,felldeadatthebottom.
Theirdeceasemadenoimpressionontheotherfliesoutpromenading,wholookedattheminthecoolestmanner(asiftheythemselveswereelephants,orsomethingasfarremoved),untiltheymetthesamefate.
Curioustoconsiderhowheedlessfliesare!
—perhapstheythoughtasmuchatCourtthatsunnysummerday.
AfigureenteringatthedoorthrewashadowonMadameDefargewhichshefelttobeanewone.Shelaiddownherknitting,andbegantopinherroseinherhead-dress,beforeshelookedatthefigure.
Itwascurious.ThemomentMadameDefargetookuptherose,thecustomersceasedtalking,andbegangraduallytodropoutofthewine-shop.
“Goodday,madame,”saidthenew-comer.
“Goodday,monsieur.”
Shesaiditaloud,butaddedtoherself,assheresumedherknitting:“Hah!
Goodday,ageaboutforty,heightaboutfivefeetnine,blackhair,generallyratherhandsomevisage,complexiondark,eyesdark,thin,longandsallowface,aquilinenosebutnotstraight,havingapeculiarinclinationtowardstheleftcheekwhichimpartsasinisterexpression!Goodday,oneandall!”
“Havethegoodnesstogivemealittleglassofoldcognac,andamouthfulofcoolfreshwater,madame.”
Madamecompliedwithapoliteair.
“Marvellouscognacthis,madame!”
Itwasthefirsttimeithadeverbeensocomplemented,andMadameDefargeknewenoughofitsantecedentstoknowbetter.
Shesaid,however,thatthecognacwasflattered,andtookupherknitting.
Thevisitorwatchedherfingersforafewmoments,andtooktheopportunityofobservingtheplaceingeneral.
“Youknitwithgreatskill,madame.”
“Iamaccustomedtoit.”
“Aprettypatterntoo!”
“YOUthinkso?”saidmadame,lookingathimwithasmile.
“Decidedly.Mayoneaskwhatitisfor?”
“Pastime,”saidmadame,stilllookingathimwithasmilewhileherfingersmovednimbly.
“Notforuse?”
“Thatdepends.Imayfindauseforitoneday.IfIdo—Well,”saidmadame,drawingabreathandnoddingherheadwithastemkindofcoquetry,“I’lluseit!”
Itwasremarkable;but,thetasteofSaintAntoineseemedtobedecidedlyopposedtoaroseonthehead-dressofMadameDefarge.
Twomenhadenteredseparately,andhadbeenabouttoorderdrink,when,catchingsightofthatnovelty,theyfaltered,madeapretenceoflookingaboutasifforsomefriendwhowasnotthere,andwentaway.
Nor,ofthosewhohadbeentherewhenthisvisitorentered,wasthereoneleft.Theyhadalldroppedoff.
Thespyhadkepthiseyesopen,buthadbeenabletodetectnosign.
Theyhadloungedawayinapoverty-stricken,purposeless,accidentalmanner,quitenaturalandunimpeachable.
“JOHN,”thoughtmadame,checkingoffherworkasherfingersknitted,andhereyeslookedatthestranger.“Staylongenough,andIshallknit`BARSAD’beforeyougo.”
“Youhaveahusband,madame?”
“Ihave.”
“Children?”
“Nochildren.”
“Businessseemsbad?”
“Businessisverybad;thepeoplearesopoor.”
“Ah,theunfortunate,miserablepeople!Sooppressed,too—asyousay.”
“AsYOUsay,”madameretorted,correctinghim,anddeftlyknittinganextrasomethingintohisnamethatbodedhimnogood.
“Pardonme;certainlyitwasIwhosaidso,butyounaturallythinkso.Ofcourse.”
“Ithink?”returnedmadame,inahighvoice.
“Iandmyhusbandhaveenoughtodotokeepthiswine-shopopen,withoutthinking.Allwethink,here,ishowtolive.
ThatisthesubjectWEthinkof,anditgivesus,frommorningtonight,enoughtothinkabout,withoutembarrassingourheadsconcerningothers.Ithinkforothers?No,no.”
Thespy,whowastheretopickupanycrumbshecouldfindormake,didnotallowhisbaffledstatetoexpressitselfinhissinisterface;but,stoodwithanairofgossipinggallantry,leaninghiselbowonMadameDefarge’slittlecounter,andoccasionallysippinghiscognac.
“Abadbusinessthis,madame,ofGaspard’sexecution.Ah!thepoorGaspard!”Withasighofgreatcompassion.
“Myfaith!”returnedmadame,coollyandlightly,“ifpeopleuseknivesforsuchpurposes,theyhavetopayforit.Heknewbeforehandwhatthepriceofhisluxurywas;hehaspaidtheprice.”
“Ibelieve,”saidthespy,droppinghissoftvoicetoatonethatinvitedconfidence,andexpressinganinjuredrevolutionarysusceptibilityineverymuscleofhiswickedface:“Ibelievethereismuchcompassionandangerinthisneighbourhood,touchingthepoorfellow?Betweenourselves.”
“Isthere?”askedmadame,vacantly.
“Istherenot?”
”—Hereismyhusband!”saidMadameDefarge.
Asthekeeperofthewine-shopenteredatthedoor,thespysalutedhimbytouchinghishat,andsaying,withanengagingsmile,“Goodday,Jacques!”Defargestoppedshort,andstaredathim.
“Goodday,Jacques!”thespyrepeated;withnotquitesomuchconfidence,orquitesoeasyasmileunderthestare.
“Youdeceiveyourself,monsieur,”returnedthekeeperofthewine-shop.“Youmistakemeforanother.Thatisnotmyname.IamErnestDefarge.”
“Itisallthesame,”saidthespy,airily,butdiscomfitedtoo:“goodday!”
“Goodday!”answeredDefarge,drily.
“Iwassayingtomadame,withwhomIhadthepleasureofchattingwhenyouentered,thattheytellmethereis—andnowonder!
—muchsympathyandangerinSaintAntoine,touchingtheunhappyfateofpoorGaspard.”
“Noonehastoldmeso,”saidDefarge,shakinghishead.“Iknownothingofit.”
Havingsaidit,hepassedbehindthelittlecounter,andstoodwithhishandonthebackofhiswife’schair,lookingoverthatbarrieratthepersontowhomtheywerebothopposed,andwhomeitherofthemwouldhaveshotwiththegreatestsatisfaction.
Thespy,wellusedtohisbusiness,didnotchangehisunconsciousattitude,butdrainedhislittleglassofcognac,tookasipoffreshwater,andaskedforanotherglassofcognac.
MadameDefargepoureditoutforhim,tooktoherknittingagain,andhummedalittlesongoverit.
“Youseemtoknowthisquarterwell;thatistosay,betterthanIdo?”observedDefarge.
“Notatall,butIhopetoknowitbetter.Iamsoprofoundlyinterestedinitsmiserableinhabitants.”
“Hah!”mutteredDefarge.
“Thepleasureofconversingwithyou,MonsieurDefarge,recallstome,”pursuedthespy,“thatIhavethehonourofcherishingsomeinterestingassociationswithyourname.”
“Indeed!”saidDefarge,withmuchindifference.
“Yes,indeed.WhenDoctorManettewasreleased,you,hisolddomestic,hadthechargeofhim,Iknow.Hewasdeliveredtoyou.YouseeIaminformedofthecircumstances?”
“Suchisthefact,certainly,”saidDefarge.
Hehadhaditconveyedtohim,inanaccidentaltouchofhiswife’selbowassheknittedandwarbled,thathewoulddobesttoanswer,butalwayswithbrevity.
“Itwastoyou,”saidthespy,“thathisdaughtercame;anditwasfromyourcarethathisdaughtertookhim,accompaniedbyaneatbrownmonsieur;howishecalled?
—inalittlewig—Lorry—ofthebankofTellsonandCompany—overtoEngland.”
“Suchisthefact,”repeatedDefarge.
“Veryinterestingremembrances!”saidthespy.“IhaveknownDoctorManetteandhisdaughter,inEngland.”
“Yes?”saidDefarge.
“Youdon’thearmuchaboutthemnow?”saidthespy.
“No,”saidDefarge.
“Ineffect,”madamestruckin,lookingupfromherworkandherlittlesong,“weneverhearaboutthem.
Wereceivedthenewsoftheirsafearrival,andperhapsanotherletter,orperhapstwo;but,sincethen,theyhavegraduallytakentheirroadinlife—we,ours—andwehaveheldnocorrespondence.”
“Perfectlyso,madame,”repliedthespy.“Sheisgoingtobemarried.”
“Going?”echoedmadame.“Shewasprettyenoughtohavebeenmarriedlongago.YouEnglisharecold,itseemstome.”
“Oh!YouknowIamEnglish.”
“Iperceiveyourtongueis,”returnedmadame;“andwhatthetongueis,Isupposethemanis.”
Hedidnottaketheidentificationasacompliment;buthemadethebestofit,andturneditoffwithalaugh.Aftersippinghiscognactotheend,headded:
“Yes,MissManetteisgoingtobemarried.
ButnottoanEnglishman;toonewho,likeherself,isFrenchbybirth.
AndspeakingofGaspard(ah,poorGaspard!Itwascruel,cruel!)
,itisacuriousthingthatsheisgoingtomarrythenephewofMonsieurtheMarquis,forwhomGaspardwasexaltedtothatheightofsomanyfeet;inotherwords,thepresentMarquis.
ButhelivesunknowninEngland,heisnoMarquisthere;heisMr.CharlesDarnay.
D’Aulnaisisthenameofhismother’sfamily.”
MadameDefargeknittedsteadily,buttheintelligencehadapalpableeffectuponherhusband.
Dowhathewould,behindthelittlecounter,astothestrikingofalightandthelightingofhispipe,hewastroubled,andhishandwasnottrustworthy.
Thespywouldhavebeennospyifhehadfailedtoseeit,ortorecorditinhismind.
Havingmade,atleast,thisonehit,whateveritmightprovetobeworth,andnocustomerscomingintohelphimtoanyother,Mr.Barsadpaidforwhathehaddrunk,andtookhisleave:takingoccasiontosay,inagenteelmanner,beforehedeparted,thathelookedforwardtothepleasureofseeingMonsieurandMadameDefargeagain.
ForsomeminutesafterhehademergedintotheouterpresenceofSaintAntoine,thehusbandandwiferemainedexactlyashehadleftthem,lestheshouldcomeback.
“Canitbetrue,”saidDefarge,inalowvoice,lookingdownathiswifeashestoodsmokingwithhishandonthebackofherchair:“whathehassaidofMa’amselleManette?”
“Ashehassaidit,”returnedmadame,liftinghereyebrowsalittle,“itisprobablyfalse.Butitmaybetrue.”
“Ifitis—”Defargebegan,andstopped.
“Ifitis?”repeatedhiswife.
”—Andifitdoescome,whilewelivetoseeittriumph—Ihope,forhersake,DestinywillkeepherhusbandoutofFrance.”
“Herhusband’sdestiny,”saidMadameDefarge,withherusualcomposure,“willtakehimwhereheistogo,andwillleadhimtotheendthatistoendhim.ThatisallIknow.”
“Butitisverystrange—now,atleast,isitnotverystrange”—saidDefarge,ratherpleadingwithhiswifetoinducehertoadmitit,“that,afteralloursympathyforMonsieurherfather,andherself,herhusband’snameshouldbeproscribedunderyourhandatthismoment,bythesideofthatinfernaldog’swhohasjustleftus?”
“Strangerthingsthanthatwillhappenwhenitdoescome,”answeredmadame.“Ihavethembothhere,ofacertainty;andtheyarebothherefortheirmerits;thatisenough.”
Sheroiledupherknittingwhenshehadsaidthosewords,andpresentlytooktheroseoutofthehandkerchiefthatwaswoundaboutherhead.
EitherSaintAntoinehadaninstinctivesensethattheobjectionabledecorationwasgone,orSaintAntoinewasonthewatchforitsdisappearance;howbeit,theSainttookcouragetoloungein,veryshortlyafterwards,andthewine-shoprecovereditshabitualaspect.
Intheevening,atwhichseasonofallothersSaintAntoineturnedhimselfinsideout,andsatondoor-stepsandwindow-ledges,andcametothecornersofvilestreetsandcourts,forabreathofair,MadameDefargewithherworkinherhandwasaccustomedtopassfromplacetoplaceandfromgrouptogroup:aMissionary—thereweremanylikeher—suchastheworldwilldowellnevertobreedagain.
Allthewomenknitted.
Theyknittedworthlessthings;but,themechanicalworkwasamechanicalsubstituteforeatinganddrinking;thehandsmovedforthejawsandthedigestiveapparatus:ifthebonyfingershadbeenstill,thestomachswouldhavebeenmorefamine-pinched.
But,asthefingerswent,theeyeswent,andthethoughts.
AndasMadameDefargemovedonfromgrouptogroup,allthreewentquickerandfierceramongeverylittleknotofwomenthatshehadspokenwith,andleftbehind.
Herhusbandsmokedathisdoor,lookingafterherwithadmiration.“Agreatwoman,”saidhe,“astrongwoman,agrandwoman,afrightfullygrandwoman!”
Darknessclosedaround,andthencametheringingofchurchbellsandthedistantbeatingofthemilitarydrumsinthePalaceCourtyard,asthewomensatknitting,knitting.Darknessencompassedthem.
Anotherdarknesswasclosinginassurely,whenthechurchbells,thenringingpleasantlyinmanyanairysteepleoverFrance,shouldbemeltedintothunderingcannon;whenthemilitarydrumsshouldbebeatingtodrownawretchedvoice,thatnightallpotentasthevoiceofPowerandPlenty,FreedomandLife.
Somuchwasclosinginaboutthewomenwhosatknitting,knitting,thattheytheirveryselveswereclosinginaroundastructureyetunbuilt,wheretheyweretositknitting,knitting,countingdroppingheads.
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