《A Tale of Two Cities》 Book3 CHAPTER
IX The Game Made
by Charles Dickens
WHILE Sydney Carton and
the Sheep of the prisons were in the adjoining dark room, speaking so low that not a sound
was heard, Mr. Lorry looked at Jerry in considerable doubt and mistrust. That honest
tradesman's manner of receiving the look, did not inspire confidence; he changed the leg
on which he rested, as often as if he had fifty of those limbs, and were trying them all;
he examined his finger-nails with a very questionable closeness of attention; and whenever
Mr. Lorry's eye caught his, he was taken with that peculiar kind of short cough requiring
the hollow of a hand before it, which is seldom, if ever, known to be an infirmity
attendant on perfect openness of character.
`Jerry,' said Mr. Lorry. `Come here.'
Mr. Cruncher came forward sideways, with one of his shoulders in advance of him.
`What have you been, besides a messenger?'
After some cogitation, accompanied with an intent look at his patron, Mr. Cruncher
conceived the luminous idea of replying, `Agricultooral character.'
`My mind misgives me much,' said Mr. Lorry, angrily shaking a forefinger at him, `that you
have used the respectable and great house of Tellson's 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. Tellson's shall not be imposed upon.'
`I hope, sir,' pleaded the abashed Mr. Cruncher, `that a gentleman like yourself wot I've
had the honour of odd jobbing till I'm grey at it, would think twice about harming
of me, even if it wos,--so I don't say it is, but even if it wos. And which it is to be
took into account that if it wos, it wouldn't, even then, be all o' one side. There'd be
two sides to it. There might be medical doctors at the present hour, a picking up their
guineas where a honest tradesman don't pick up his fardens--fardens! no, nor yet his half
fardens--half fardens! no, nor yet his quarter--a banking away like smoke at Tellson's,
and a cocking their medical eyes at that tradesman on the sly, a going in and going out to
their own carriages--ah! equally like smoke, if not more so. Well, that 'ud be imposing,
too, on Tellson's. For you cannot sarse the goose and not the gander. And here's Mrs.
Cruncher, or leastways
wos in the Old England times, and would be to-morrow, if cause given, a floppin' again the
business to that degree as is ruinating stark ruinating! Whereas them medical doctors'
wives don't flop--catch 'em at it! Or, if they flop, their floppings goes in favour of
more patients, and how can you rightly have one without the t'other? Then, wot with
undertakers, and wot with parish clerks, and wot with sextons, and wot with private
watchmen (all awaricious and all in it), a man wouldn't get much by it, even if it wos so.
And wot little a man did get, would never prosper with him, Mr. Lorry. He'd never have no
good of it; he'd want all along to be out of the line, if he could see his way out, being
once in--even if it wos so.'
`Ugh!' cried Mr. Lorry, rather relenting, nevertheless. `I am shocked at the sight of
you.'
`Now, what I would humbly offer to you, sir,' pursued Mr. Cruncher, `even if it wos so,
which I don't say it is---'
`Don't prevaricate,' said Mr. Lorry.
`No, I will not, sir,' returned Mr. Cruncher, as if nothing were further from his thoughts
or practice--`which I don't say it is--wot I would humbly offer to you, sir, would be
this. Upon that there stool, at that there Bar, sets that there boy of mine, brought up
and growed up to be a man, wot will errand you, message you, general-light-job you, till
your heels is where your head is, if such should be your wishes. If it wos so, which I
still don't say it is (for I will not prewaricate to you, sir), let that there boy keep
his 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 reg'lar diggin', and make amends for what he would have un-dug--if it
wos so--by diggin' of 'em in with a will, and with conwictions respectin' the futur'
keepin' of 'em safe. That, Mr. Lorry,' said Mr. Cruncher, wiping his forehead with his
arm, as an announcement that he had arrived at the peroration of his discourse, `is wot I
would respectfully offer to you, sir. A man don't see all this here a goin' on dreadful
round him, in the way of Subjects without heads, dear me, plentiful enough fur to bring
the price down to porterage and hardly that, without havin' his serious thoughts of
things. And these here
would be mine, if it wos so, entreatin' of you fur to bear in mind that wot I said just
now, I up and said in the good cause when I might have kep' it back.'
`That at least is true,' said Mr. Lorry. `Say no more now. It may be that I shall yet
stand your friend, if you deserve it, and, repent in action--not in words. I want no more
Mr. Cruncher knuckled his forehead, as Sydney Carton and the spy returned from the dark
room. `Adieu, Mr. Barsad,' said the former; `our arrangement thus made, you have nothing
to fear from me.'
He sat down in a chair on the hearth, over against Mr. Lorry. When they were alone, Mr.
Lorry asked him what he had done?
`Not much. If it should go ill with the prisone I have ensured access to him, Once.'
Mr. Lorry's countenance fell.
`It is all I could do,' said Carton. `To propose too much, would be to put this man's head
under the axe, and, as he himself said, nothing worse could happen to him if he were
denounced. It was obviously the weakness of the position. There is no help for it.'
`But access to him,' said Mr. Lorry, `if it should go ill before the Tribunal, will not
save him.'
`I never said it would.'
Mr. Lorry's eyes gradually sought the fire; his sympathy with his darling, and the heavy
disappointment of this second arrest, gradually weakened them; he was an old man now,
overborne with anxiety of late, and his tears fell.
`You are a good man and a true friend,' said Carton, in an altered voice. `Forgive me if I
notice that you are affected. I could not see my father weep, and sit by, careless. And I
could not respect your sorrow more, if you, were my father. You are free from that
misfortune, however.
Though he said the last words, with a slip into his usual manner, there was a true feeling
and respect both in his tone and in his touch, that Mr. Lorry, who had never seen the
better side of him, was wholly unprepared for. He gave him his hand, and Carton gently
pressed it.
`To return to poor Darnay,' said Carton. `Don't tell Her of this interview, or this
arrangement. It would not enable Her to go to see him. She might think it was contrived,
in case of the worst, to convey to him the means of anticipating the sentence.'
Mr. Lorry had not thought of that, and he looked quickly at Carton to see if it were in
his mind. It seemed to be; he returned the look, and evidently understood it.
`She might think a thousand things,' Carton said, `and any of them would only add to her
trouble. Don't speak of me to her. As I said to you when I first came, I had better not
see her. I can put my hand out, to do any little helpful work for her that my hand can
find to do, without that. You are going to her, I hope? She must be very desolate
to-night.
`I am going now, directly.'
`I am glad of that. She has such a strong attachment to you and reliance on you. How does
she look?'
`Anxious and unhappy, but very beautiful.' `Ah!'
It was a long, grieving sound, like a sigh--almost like a sob. It attracted Mr. Lorry's
eyes to Cartons face, which was turned to the fire. A light, or a shade (the old gentleman
could not have said which), passed from it as swiftly as a change will sweep over a
hill-side on a wild bright day, and he lifted his foot to put back one of the little
flaming logs, which was tumbling forward. He wore the white riding-coat and topboots, then
in vogue, and the light of the fire touching their light surfaces made him look very pale,
with his long brown hair, all untrimmed, hanging loose about him. His indifference to fire
was sufficiently remarkable to elicit a word of remonstrance from Mr. Lorry; his boot was
still upon the hot embers of the flaming log, when it had broken under the weight of his
foot.
`I forgot it,' he said.
Mr. Lorry's eyes were again attracted to his face. Taking note of the wasted air which
clouded the naturally 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 Lucie came in so unexpectedly, I have at length
done all that I can do here. I hoped to have left them in perfect safety, and then to have
quitted Pass. I have my Leave to Pass. I was ready to go.'
They were both silent.
`Yours is a long life to look back upon, sir?' said Carton, wistfully.
`I am in my seventy-eighth year.'
`You have been useful all your life; steadily and 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 fill at seventy-eight. How many people will miss you when you leave
it empty!'
`A solitary old bachelor,' answered Mr. Lorry, shaking his head. `There is nobody to weep
for me.'
`How can you say that? Wouldn't She weep for you? Wouldn't her chi!d?'
`Yes, yes, thank God. I didn't quite mean what I said.'
`It is a thing to thank God for; is it not?'
`Surely, surely.'
`If you could say, with truth, to your own solitary heart, to-night, "I have secured
to myself the love and attachment, the gratitude or respect, of no human creature; I have
won myself a tender place in no regard; I have done nothing good or serviceable to be
remembered by!" your seventy-eight years would be seventy-eight heavy curses; would
they not?'
`You say truly, Mr. Carton; I think they would he.
Sydney turned his eyes again upon the fire, and, after a silence of a few moments, said:
`I should like to ask you:--Does your childhood seem far off? Do the days when you sat at
your mother's knee, seem days of very long ago?'
Responding to his softened manner, Mr. Lorry answered: `Twenty years back, yes; at this
time of my life, no. For, as I draw closer and closer to the end, I travel in the circle,
nearer and nearer to the beginning. It seems to be one of the kind smoothings and
preparings of the way. My heart is touched now, by many remembrances that had long fallen
asleep, of my pretty young mother (and I so old!), and by many associations of the days
when what we call the World was not so real with me, and my faults were not confirmed in
me.'
`I understand the feeling!' exclaimed Carton, with a bright flush. `And you are the better
for it?'
`I hope so.
Carton terminated the conversation here, by rising to help him on with his outer coat;
`but you,' said Mr. Lorry, reverting to the theme, `you are young.'
`Yes,' said Carton. `I am not old, but my young way was never the way to age. Enough of
me.
`And of me, I am sure,' said Mr. Lorry. `Are you going out?'
`I'll walk with you to her gate. You know my vagabond and restless habits. If I should
prowl about the streets a long time, don't be uneasy; I shall reappear in the morning. You
go to the Court to-morrow?'
Yes, unhappily.'
`I shall be there, but only as one of the crowd. My Spy will find a place for me. Take my
arm, sir.'
Mr. Lorry did so, and they went down-stairs and out in the streets. A few minutes brought
them to Mr. Lorry's destination. Carton left him there; but lingered at a little distance,
and turned back to the gate again when it was shut, and touched it. He had heard of her
going to the prison every day. `She came out here,' he said, looking about him, `turned
this way, must have trod on these stones often. Let me follow in her steps.
It was ten o'clock at night when he stood before the 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 in going by; for, the man eyed him
inquisitively.
`Good night, citizen.'
`How goes the Republic?'
`You mean the Guillotine. Not ill. Sixty-three to-day. We shall mount to a hundred soon.
Samson and his men complain sometimes, of being exhausted. Ha, ha, ha! He is so droll,
that Samson. Such a Barber!'
`Do you often go to see him---'
`Shave? Always. Every day. What a barber! You have seen him at work?'
`Never.'
`Go and see him when he has a good batch. Figure this to yourself citizen; he shaved the
sixty-three to-day, in less than two pipes! Less than two pipes. Word of honour!'
As the grinning little man held out the pipe he was 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!'
Sydney had not gone far out of sight, when he stopped in the middle of the street under a
glimmering lamp, and wrote with his pencil on a scrap of paper. Then, traversing with the
decided step of one who remembered the way well, several dark and dirty streets--much
dirtier than usual, for the best public thoroughfares remained uncleansed in those times
of terror--he stopped at a chemist's shop, which the owner was closing with his own hands.
A small, dim, crooked shop, kept in a tortuous, up-hill thoroughfares, by a small, dim,
crooked man.
Giving this citizen, too, good night, as he confronted him at his counter, he laid the
scrap of paper before him. `Whew!' the chemist whistled softly, as he read it. `Hi! hi!
hi!'
Sydney Carton took no heed, and the chemist said:
`For you, citizen?'
`For me.
`You will be careful to keep them separate, citizen? You know the consequences of mixing
them?'
`Perfectly.'
Certain small packets were made and given to him. He put them, one by one, in the breast
of his inner coat, 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 to-morrow. I can't
sleep.
It was not a reckless manner, the manner in which he said these words aloud under the
fast-sailing clouds, nor was it more expressive of negligence than defiance. It was the
settled manner of a tired man, who had wandered and struggled and got lost, but who at
length struck into his road and saw its end.
Long ago, when he had been famous among his earliest competitors as a youth of great
promise, he had followed his father to the grave. His mother had died, years before. These
solemn words, which had been read at his father's grave, arose in his mind as he went down
the dark streets, among the heavy shadows, with the moon and the clouds sailing on high
above him. `I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me,
though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall
never die.'
In a city dominated by the axe, alone at night, with natural sorrow rising in him for the
sixty-three who had been that day put to death, and for to-morrow's victims then awaiting
their doom in the prisons, and still of to-morrow's and 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 travelled that
length of self-destruction from years of priestly impostors, plunderers, and profligates;
in the distant burial-places, reserved, as they wrote upon the gates, for Eternal Sleep;
in the abounding gaols; and in the streets along which the sixties rolled to a death which
had become so common and material, that no sorrowful story of a haunting Spirit ever arose
among the people out of all the working of the Guillotine; with a solemn interest in the
whole life and death of the city settling down to its short nightly pause in fury; Sydney
Carton crossed the Seine again for the lighter streets.
Few coaches were abroad, for riders in coaches were liable to lie suspected, and gentility
hid its head in red nightcaps, and put on heavy shoes, and trudged. But, the theatres were
all well filled, and the people poured cheerfully out as he passed, and went chatting
home. At one of the theatre doors, there was a little girl with a mother, looking for a
way across the street through the mud. He carried the child over, and before the timid arm
was loosed from his neck asked her for a kiss.
`I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he
were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die.'
Now, that the streets were quiet, and the night wore on, the words were in the echoes of
his feet, and were in the air. Perfectly calm and steady, he sometimes repeated them to
himself as he walked; but, he heard them always.
The night wore out, and, as he stood upon the bridge listening to the water as it splashed
the river-walls of the Island of Paris, where the picturesque confusion of houses and
cathedral shone bright in the light of the moon, the day came coldly, looking like a dead
face out of the sky. Then, the night, with the moon and the stars, turned pale and died,
and for a little while it seemed as if Creation were 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 certain, was like a congenial friend, in the
morning stillness. He walked by the stream, far from the houses, and in the light arid
warmth of the sun fell asleep on the bank. When he awoke and was afoot again, he lingered
there yet a little longer, watching an eddy that turned and turned purposeless, until the
stream absorbed it, and carried it on to the sea.--`Like me!'
A trading-boat, with a sail of the softened colour of a dead leaf, then glided into his
view, floated by him, and died away. As its silent track in the water disappeared, the
prayer that had broken up out of his heart for a merciful consideration of all his poor
blindnesses and errors, ended in the words, `I am the resurrection and the life.'
Mr. Lorry was already out when he got back, and it was easy to surmise where the good old
man was gone. Sydney Carton drank nothing but a little coffee, ate some bread, and, having
washed and changed to refresh himself, went out to the place of trial.
The court was all astir and a-buzz, when the black sheep--whom many fell away from in
dread--pressed him into an obscure corner among the crowd. Mr. Lorry was there, and Doctor
Manette was there. She was there, sitting beside her father.
When her husband was brought in, she turned a look upon him, so sustaining, so
encouraging, so full of admiring love and pitying 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 to-morrow and the day after. Eager and prominent among
them, one man with a craving face, and his fingers perpetually hovering about his lips,
whose appearance gave great satisfaction to the spectators. A life-thirsting, cannibal
looking, bloody-minded juryman, the Jacques Three of St. Antoine. The whole jury, as a
jury of dogs empannelled to try the deer.
Every eye then turned to the five judges and the public prosecutor. No favourable leaning
in that quarter to-day. A fell, uncompromising, murderous business-meaning there. Every
eye then sought some other eye in the crowd, and gleamed at it approvingly; and heads
nodded at one another, before bending forward with a strained attention.
Charles Evrémonde,
called Darnay. Released yesterday. Re-accused 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 Evrémonde, called Darnay, in right of such proscription,
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 St. Antoine.'
`Good.'
`Thérèse Defarge, his wife.'
`Good.'
`Alexandre Manette, physician.'
A great uproar took place in the court, and in the midst of it, Doctor Manette was seen,
pale and trembling, 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 denounce
the husband of my child!
`Citizen Manette, be tranquil. To fail in submission to the authority of the Tribunal
would be to put yourself out of Law. As to what is dearer to you than life, nothing can be
so dear to a good citizen as the Republic.'
Loud acclamations hailed this rebuke. The President rang his bell, and with warmth
resumed.
`If the Republic should demand of you the sacrifice of your child herself you would have
no duty but to sacrifice her Listen to what is to follow. In the meanwhile, be silent!'
Frantic acclamations were again raised. Doctor Manette sat down, with his eyes looking
around, and his lips trembling; his daughter drew closer to him. The craving man on the
jury rubbed his hands together, and restored the usual hand to his mouth.
Defarge was produced, when the court was quiet enough to admit of his being heard, and
rapidly expounded the 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 Bastille, 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 cannonier that day there, and you were among the first to enter
the accursed fortress when it fell. Patriots, I speak the truth!'
It was The Vengeance who, amidst the warm 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 Bastille, citizen.'
`I knew,' said Defarge, looking down at his wife, who stood at the bottom of the steps on
which he was raised, looking steadily up at him; `I knew that this prisoner, of whom I
speak, had been confined in a cell known as One Hundred and Five, North Tower. I knew it
from himself. He knew himself by no other name than One Hundred and Five, North Tower,
when he made shoes under my care. As I serve my gun that day, I resolve, when the place
shall fall, to examine that cell. It falls. I mount to the cell, with a fellow-citizen who
is one of the Jury, directed by a gaoler. I examine it, very closely. In a hole in the
chimney, where a stone has been worked out and replaced, I find a written paper. This is
that written paper. I have made it my business to examine some specimens of the writing of
Doctor Manette. This is the writing of Doctor Manette. I confide this paper, in the
writing of Doctor Manette, to the hands of the President.
`Let it be read.'
In a dead silence and stillness--the prisoner under trial looking lovingly at his wife,
his wife only looking from him to look with solicitude at her father, Doctor Manette
keeping his eyes fixed on the reader, Madame Defarge never taking hers from the prisoner,
Defarge never taking his from his feasting wile, and all the other eyes there intent upon
the Doctor, who saw none of them--the paper was read, as follows. |
