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“Citizen Defarge,” said he to Darnay’s conductor, as he took a slip of paper to write on. “Is this the emigrant Evremonde?”
“Without doubt. Where is your wife, Evremonde?” “In England.” “Without doubt. You are consigned, Evremonde, to the prison of La Force.” “Just Heaven!” exclaimed Darnay. “Under what law, and for what offence?”
“Emigrants have no rights, Evremonde,” 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.”
“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 Doctor 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 Saint
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 labourer in working clothes should be going to work.
The “sharp female newly-born, and called La Guillotine,” 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?
In the instinctive association of prisoners with shameful crime and disgrace, the new-comer recoiled from this company. But the crowning unreality of his long unreal ride, was, their 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.
“In the name of the assembled companions in misfortune,” said a gentleman of courtly appearance and address, coming forward, “I have the honour 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 impertinence elsewhere, but it is not so here, to ask your name and condition?”
wandering fancy wandered through the mind of the prisoner leaning against the wall opposite to him, that this gaoler was so unwholesomely bloated, both in face and person, as to look like a man who had been drowned and filled with water.
I am a subject of His Most Gracious Majesty King George the Third;” Miss Pross curtseyed at the name; “and as such, my maxim is, Confound their politics, Frustrate their knavish tricks, On him our hopes we fix, God save the King!”
“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 Saint Antoine. This citizen,” pointing out the second who had entered, “is from Saint Antoine.”
“He is accused by Saint Antoine.” “Of what?” asked the Doctor.
“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 Saint Antoine, with a strange look, “you will be answered to-morrow. Now, I am dumb!”
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, for the National Razor shaved him close.
“No. But I’ll swear it was a name of two syllables.” “Indeed?” “Yes. T’other one’s 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?” “Barsad,” said another voice, striking in.
Sheep was a cant word of the time for a spy, under the gaolers. The spy, who was pale, turned paler, and asked him how he dared—
No man’s life here is worth purchase. Any one carried home by the people to-day, may be condemned tomorrow.
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.
“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!”
The whole jury, as a jury of dogs empannelled to try the deer.
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.” “Therese Defarge, his wife.” “Good.” “Alexandre Manette, physician.”
“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.
“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!”
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.
I, Alexandre Manette, 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 secrete it in the wall of the chimney, where I have slowly and laboriously made a place of concealment for it. Some pitying 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
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“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.
“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.
