A Tale of Two Cities

VIII. A Hand at Cards

Happily unconscious of the new calamity at home, Miss Pross threaded herway along the narrow streets and crossed the river by the bridge of thePont-Neuf, reckoning in her mind the number of indispensable purchasesshe had to make. Mr. Cruncher, with the basket, walked at her side. Theyboth looked to the right and to the left into most of the shops theypassed, had a wary eye for all gregarious assemblages of people, andturned out of their road to avoid any very excited group of talkers. Itwas a raw evening, and the misty river, blurred to the eye with blazinglights and to the ear with harsh noises, showed where the barges werestationed in which the smiths worked, making guns for the Army of theRepublic. Woe to the man who played tricks with _that_ Army, or gotundeserved promotion in it! Better for him that his beard had nevergrown, for the National Razor shaved him close.

Having purchased a few small articles of grocery, and a measure of oilfor the lamp, Miss Pross bethought herself of the wine they wanted.After peeping into several wine-shops, she stopped at the sign of theGood Republican Brutus of Antiquity, not far from the National Palace,once (and twice) the Tuileries, where the aspect of things rathertook her fancy. It had a quieter look than any other place of the samedescription they had passed, and, though red with patriotic caps, wasnot so red as the rest. Sounding Mr. Cruncher, and finding him of heropinion, Miss Pross resorted to the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity,attended by her cavalier.

Slightly observant of the smoky lights; of the people, pipe in mouth,playing with limp cards and yellow dominoes; of the one bare-breasted,bare-armed, soot-begrimed workman reading a journal aloud, and ofthe others listening to him; of the weapons worn, or laid aside to beresumed; of the two or three customers fallen forward asleep, who in thepopular high-shouldered shaggy black spencer looked, in that attitude,like slumbering bears or dogs; the two outlandish customers approachedthe counter, and showed what they wanted.

As their wine was measuring out, a man parted from another man in acorner, and rose to depart. In going, he had to face Miss Pross. Nosooner did he face her, than Miss Pross uttered a scream, and clappedher hands.

In a moment, the whole company were on their feet. That somebody wasassassinated by somebody vindicating a difference of opinion was thelikeliest occurrence. Everybody looked to see somebody fall, but onlysaw a man and a woman standing staring at each other; the man with allthe outward aspect of a Frenchman and a thorough Republican; the woman,evidently English.

What was said in this disappointing anti-climax, by the disciples of theGood Republican Brutus of Antiquity, except that it was something veryvoluble and loud, would have been as so much Hebrew or Chaldean to MissPross and her protector, though they had been all ears. But, they had noears for anything in their surprise. For, it must be recorded, thatnot only was Miss Pross lost in amazement and agitation, but,Mr. Cruncher--though it seemed on his own separate and individualaccount--was in a state of the greatest wonder.

”What is the matter?” said the man who had caused Miss Pross to scream;speaking in a vexed, abrupt voice (though in a low tone), and inEnglish.

”Oh, Solomon, dear Solomon!” cried Miss Pross, clapping her hands again.”After not setting eyes upon you or hearing of you for so long a time,do I find you here!”

”Don't call me Solomon. Do you want to be the death of me?” asked theman, in a furtive, frightened way.

”Brother, brother!” cried Miss Pross, bursting into tears. ”Have I everbeen so hard with you that you ask me such a cruel question?”

”Then hold your meddlesome tongue,” said Solomon, ”and come out, if youwant to speak to me. Pay for your wine, and come out. Who's this man?”

Miss Pross, shaking her loving and dejected head at her by no meansaffectionate brother, said through her tears, ”Mr. Cruncher.”

”Let him come out too,” said Solomon. ”Does he think me a ghost?”

Apparently, Mr. Cruncher did, to judge from his looks. He said not aword, however, and Miss Pross, exploring the depths of her reticulethrough her tears with great difficulty paid for her wine. As she didso, Solomon turned to the followers of the Good Republican Brutusof Antiquity, and offered a few words of explanation in the Frenchlanguage, which caused them all to relapse into their former places andpursuits.

”Now,” said Solomon, stopping at the dark street corner, ”what do youwant?”

”How dreadfully unkind in a brother nothing has ever turned my love awayfrom!” cried Miss Pross, ”to give me such a greeting, and show me noaffection.”

”There. Confound it! There,” said Solomon, making a dab at Miss Pross'slips with his own. ”Now are you content?”

Miss Pross only shook her head and wept in silence.

”If you expect me to be surprised,” said her brother Solomon, ”I am notsurprised; I knew you were here; I know of most people who are here. Ifyou really don't want to endanger my existence--which I half believe youdo--go your ways as soon as possible, and let me go mine. I am busy. Iam an official.”

”My English brother Solomon,” mourned Miss Pross, casting up hertear-fraught eyes, ”that had the makings in him of one of the best andgreatest of men in his native country, an official among foreigners, andsuch foreigners! I would almost sooner have seen the dear boy lying inhis--”

”I said so!” cried her brother, interrupting. ”I knew it. You want to bethe death of me. I shall be rendered Suspected, by my own sister. Justas I am getting on!”

”The gracious and merciful Heavens forbid!” cried Miss Pross. ”Farrather would I never see you again, dear Solomon, though I have everloved you truly, and ever shall. Say but one affectionate word to me,and tell me there is nothing angry or estranged between us, and I willdetain you no longer.”

Good Miss Pross! As if the estrangement between them had come of anyculpability of hers. As if Mr. Lorry had not known it for a fact, yearsago, in the quiet corner in Soho, that this precious brother had spenther money and left her!

He was saying the affectionate word, however, with a far more grudgingcondescension and patronage than he could have shown if their relativemerits and positions had been reversed (which is invariably the case,all the world over), when Mr. Cruncher, touching him on the shoulder,hoarsely and unexpectedly interposed with the following singularquestion:

”I say! Might I ask the favour? As to whether your name is John Solomon,or Solomon John?”

The official turned towards him with sudden distrust. He had notpreviously uttered a word.

”Come!” said Mr. Cruncher. ”Speak out, you know.” (Which, by the way,was more than he could do himself.) ”John Solomon, or Solomon John? Shecalls you Solomon, and she must know, being your sister. And _I_ knowyou're John, you know. Which of the two goes first? And regarding thatname of Pross, likewise. That warn't your name over the water.”

”What do you mean?”

”Well, I don't know all I mean, for I can't call to mind what your namewas, over the water.”

”No?”

”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--witnessat the Bailey. What, in the name of the Father of Lies, own father toyourself, was you called at that time?”

”Barsad,” said another voice, striking in.

”That's the name for a thousand pound!” cried Jerry.

The speaker who struck in, was Sydney Carton. He had his hands behindhim under the skirts of his riding-coat, and he stood at Mr. Cruncher'selbow as negligently as he might have stood at the Old Bailey itself.

”Don't be alarmed, my dear Miss Pross. I arrived at Mr. Lorry's, to hissurprise, yesterday evening; we agreed that I would not present myselfelsewhere until all was well, or unless I could be useful; I presentmyself here, to beg a little talk with your brother. I wish you had abetter employed brother than Mr. Barsad. I wish for your sake Mr. Barsadwas not a Sheep of the Prisons.”

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--

”I'll tell you,” said Sydney. ”I lighted on you, Mr. Barsad, coming outof the prison of the Conciergerie while I was contemplating the walls,an hour or more ago. You have a face to be remembered, and I rememberfaces well. Made curious by seeing you in that connection, and havinga reason, to which you are no stranger, for associating you withthe misfortunes of a friend now very unfortunate, I walked in yourdirection. I walked into the wine-shop here, close after you, andsat near you. I had no difficulty in deducing from your unreservedconversation, and the rumour openly going about among your admirers, thenature of your calling. And gradually, what I had done at random, seemedto shape itself into a purpose, Mr. Barsad.”

”What purpose?” the spy asked.

”It would be troublesome, and might be dangerous, to explain in thestreet. Could you favour me, in confidence, with some minutes of yourcompany--at the office of Tellson's Bank, for instance?”

”Under a threat?”

”Oh! Did I say that?”

”Then, why should I go there?”

”Really, Mr. Barsad, I can't say, if you can't.”

”Do you mean that you won't say, sir?” the spy irresolutely asked.

”You apprehend me very clearly, Mr. Barsad. I won't.”

Carton's negligent recklessness of manner came powerfully in aid of hisquickness and skill, in such a business as he had in his secret mind,and with such a man as he had to do with. His practised eye saw it, andmade the most of it.

”Now, I told you so,” said the spy, casting a reproachful look at hissister; ”if any trouble comes of this, it's your doing.”

”Come, come, Mr. Barsad!” exclaimed Sydney. ”Don't be ungrateful.But for my great respect for your sister, I might not have led up sopleasantly to a little proposal that I wish to make for our mutualsatisfaction. Do you go with me to the Bank?”

”I'll hear what you have got to say. Yes, I'll go with you.”

”I propose that we first conduct your sister safely to the corner of herown street. Let me take your arm, Miss Pross. This is not a good city,at this time, for you to be out in, unprotected; and as your escortknows Mr. Barsad, I will invite him to Mr. Lorry's with us. Are weready? Come then!”

Miss Pross recalled soon afterwards, and to the end of her liferemembered, that as she pressed her hands on Sydney's arm and looked upin his face, imploring him to do no hurt to Solomon, there was a bracedpurpose in the arm and a kind of inspiration in the eyes, which not onlycontradicted his light manner, but changed and raised the man. She wastoo much occupied then with fears for the brother who so little deservedher affection, and with Sydney's friendly reassurances, adequately toheed what she observed.

They left her at the corner of the street, and Carton led the way to Mr.Lorry's, which was within a few minutes' walk. John Barsad, or SolomonPross, walked at his side.

Mr. Lorry had just finished his dinner, and was sitting before a cheerylittle log or two of fire--perhaps looking into their blaze for thepicture of that younger elderly gentleman from Tellson's, who had lookedinto the red coals at the Royal George at Dover, now a good many yearsago. He turned his head as they entered, and showed the surprise withwhich he saw a stranger.

”Miss Pross's brother, sir,” said Sydney. ”Mr. Barsad.”

”Barsad?” repeated the old gentleman, ”Barsad? I have an associationwith the name--and with the face.”

”I told you you had a remarkable face, Mr. Barsad,” observed Carton,coolly. ”Pray sit down.”

As he took a chair himself, he supplied the link that Mr. Lorry wanted,by saying to him with a frown, ”Witness at that trial.” Mr. Lorryimmediately remembered, and regarded his new visitor with an undisguisedlook of abhorrence.

”Mr. Barsad has been recognised by Miss Pross as the affectionatebrother you have heard of,” said Sydney, ”and has acknowledged therelationship. I pass to worse news. Darnay has been arrested again.”

Struck with consternation, the old gentleman exclaimed, ”What do youtell me! I left him safe and free within these two hours, and am aboutto return to him!”

”Arrested for all that. When was it done, Mr. Barsad?”

”Just now, if at all.”

”Mr. Barsad is the best authority possible, sir,” said Sydney, ”and Ihave it from Mr. Barsad's communication to a friend and brother Sheepover a bottle of wine, that the arrest has taken place. He left themessengers at the gate, and saw them admitted by the porter. There is noearthly doubt that he is retaken.”

Mr. Lorry's business eye read in the speaker's face that it was lossof time to dwell upon the point. Confused, but sensible that somethingmight depend on his presence of mind, he commanded himself, and wassilently attentive.

”Now, I trust,” said Sydney to him, ”that the name and influence ofDoctor Manette may stand him in as good stead to-morrow--you said hewould be before the Tribunal again to-morrow, Mr. Barsad?--”

”Yes; I believe so.”

”--In as good stead to-morrow as to-day. But it may not be so. I ownto you, I am shaken, Mr. Lorry, by Doctor Manette's not having had thepower to prevent this arrest.”

”He may not have known of it beforehand,” said Mr. Lorry.

”But that very circumstance would be alarming, when we remember howidentified he is with his son-in-law.”

”That's true,” Mr. Lorry acknowledged, with his troubled hand at hischin, and his troubled eyes on Carton.

”In short,” said Sydney, ”this is a desperate time, when desperate gamesare played for desperate stakes. Let the Doctor play the winning game; Iwill play the losing one. No man's life here is worth purchase. Any onecarried home by the people to-day, may be condemned tomorrow. Now, thestake I have resolved to play for, in case of the worst, is a friendin the Conciergerie. And the friend I purpose to myself to win, is Mr.Barsad.”

”You need have good cards, sir,” said the spy.

”I'll run them over. I'll see what I hold,--Mr. Lorry, you know what abrute I am; I wish you'd give me a little brandy.”

It was put before him, and he drank off a glassful--drank off anotherglassful--pushed the bottle thoughtfully away.

”Mr. Barsad,” he went on, in the tone of one who really was lookingover a hand at cards: ”Sheep of the prisons, emissary of Republicancommittees, now turnkey, now prisoner, always spy and secret informer,so much the more valuable here for being English that an Englishmanis less open to suspicion of subornation in those characters than aFrenchman, represents himself to his employers under a false name.That's a very good card. Mr. Barsad, now in the employ of the republicanFrench government, was formerly in the employ of the aristocraticEnglish government, the enemy of France and freedom. That's an excellentcard. Inference clear as day in this region of suspicion, that Mr.Barsad, still in the pay of the aristocratic English government, is thespy of Pitt, the treacherous foe of the Republic crouching in its bosom,the English traitor and agent of all mischief so much spoken of and sodifficult to find. That's a card not to be beaten. Have you followed myhand, Mr. Barsad?”

”Not to understand your play,” returned the spy, somewhat uneasily.

”I play my Ace, Denunciation of Mr. Barsad to the nearest SectionCommittee. Look over your hand, Mr. Barsad, and see what you have. Don'thurry.”

He drew the bottle near, poured out another glassful of brandy, anddrank it off. He saw that the spy was fearful of his drinking himselfinto a fit state for the immediate denunciation of him. Seeing it, hepoured out and drank another glassful.

”Look over your hand carefully, Mr. Barsad. Take time.”

It was a poorer hand than he suspected. Mr. Barsad saw losing cardsin it that Sydney Carton knew nothing of. Thrown out of his honourableemployment in England, through too much unsuccessful hard swearingthere--not because he was not wanted there; our English reasons forvaunting our superiority to secrecy and spies are of very moderndate--he knew that he had crossed the Channel, and accepted service inFrance: first, as a tempter and an eavesdropper among his own countrymenthere: gradually, as a tempter and an eavesdropper among the natives. Heknew that under the overthrown government he had been a spy upon SaintAntoine and Defarge's wine-shop; had received from the watchful policesuch heads of information concerning Doctor Manette's imprisonment,release, and history, as should serve him for an introduction tofamiliar conversation with the Defarges; and tried them on MadameDefarge, and had broken down with them signally. He always rememberedwith fear and trembling, that that terrible woman had knitted when hetalked with her, and had looked ominously at him as her fingers moved.He had since seen her, in the Section of Saint Antoine, over and overagain produce her knitted registers, and denounce people whose lives theguillotine then surely swallowed up. He knew, as every one employed ashe was did, that he was never safe; that flight was impossible; thathe was tied fast under the shadow of the axe; and that in spite ofhis utmost tergiversation and treachery in furtherance of the reigningterror, a word might bring it down upon him. Once denounced, and on suchgrave grounds as had just now been suggested to his mind, he foresawthat the dreadful woman of whose unrelenting character he had seen manyproofs, would produce against him that fatal register, and would quashhis last chance of life. Besides that all secret men are men soonterrified, here were surely cards enough of one black suit, to justifythe holder in growing rather livid as he turned them over.

”You scarcely seem to like your hand,” said Sydney, with the greatestcomposure. ”Do you play?”

”I think, sir,” said the spy, in the meanest manner, as he turned to Mr.Lorry, ”I may appeal to a gentleman of your years and benevolence, toput it to this other gentleman, so much your junior, whether he canunder any circumstances reconcile it to his station to play that Aceof which he has spoken. I admit that _I_ am a spy, and that it isconsidered a discreditable station--though it must be filled bysomebody; but this gentleman is no spy, and why should he so demeanhimself as to make himself one?”

”I play my Ace, Mr. Barsad,” said Carton, taking the answer on himself,and looking at his watch, ”without any scruple, in a very few minutes.”

”I should have hoped, gentlemen both,” said the spy, always striving tohook Mr. Lorry into the discussion, ”that your respect for my sister--”

”I could not better testify my respect for your sister than by finallyrelieving her of her brother,” said Sydney Carton.

”You think not, sir?”

”I have thoroughly made up my mind about it.”

The smooth manner of the spy, curiously in dissonance with hisostentatiously rough dress, and probably with his usual demeanour,received such a check from the inscrutability of Carton,--who was amystery to wiser and honester men than he,--that it faltered here andfailed him. While he was at a loss, Carton said, resuming his former airof contemplating cards:

”And indeed, now I think again, I have a strong impression that Ihave another good card here, not yet enumerated. That friend andfellow-Sheep, who spoke of himself as pasturing in the country prisons;who was he?”

”French. You don't know him,” said the spy, quickly.

”French, eh?” repeated Carton, musing, and not appearing to notice himat all, though he echoed his word. ”Well; he may be.”

”Is, I assure you,” said the spy; ”though it's not important.”

”Though it's not important,” repeated Carton, in the same mechanicalway--”though it's not important--No, it's not important. No. Yet I knowthe face.”

”I think not. I am sure not. It can't be,” said the spy.

”It-can't-be,” muttered Sydney Carton, retrospectively, and idling hisglass (which fortunately was a small one) again. ”Can't-be. Spoke goodFrench. Yet like a foreigner, I thought?”

”Provincial,” said the spy.

”No. Foreign!” cried Carton, striking his open hand on the table, as alight broke clearly on his mind. ”Cly! Disguised, but the same man. Wehad that man before us at the Old Bailey.”

”Now, there you are hasty, sir,” said Barsad, with a smile that gave hisaquiline nose an extra inclination to one side; ”there you really giveme an advantage over you. Cly (who I will unreservedly admit, at thisdistance of time, was a partner of mine) has been dead several years. Iattended him in his last illness. He was buried in London, at the churchof Saint Pancras-in-the-Fields. His unpopularity with the blackguardmultitude at the moment prevented my following his remains, but I helpedto lay him in his coffin.”

Here, Mr. Lorry became aware, from where he sat, of a most remarkablegoblin shadow on the wall. Tracing it to its source, he discovered itto be caused by a sudden extraordinary rising and stiffening of all therisen and stiff hair on Mr. Cruncher's head.

”Let us be reasonable,” said the spy, ”and let us be fair. To show youhow mistaken you are, and what an unfounded assumption yours is, I willlay before you a certificate of Cly's burial, which I happened to havecarried in my pocket-book,” with a hurried hand he produced and openedit, ”ever since. There it is. Oh, look at it, look at it! You may takeit in your hand; it's no forgery.”

Here, Mr. Lorry perceived the reflection on the wall to elongate, andMr. Cruncher rose and stepped forward. His hair could not have been moreviolently on end, if it had been that moment dressed by the Cow with thecrumpled horn in the house that Jack built.

Unseen by the spy, Mr. Cruncher stood at his side, and touched him onthe shoulder like a ghostly bailiff.

”That there Roger Cly, master,” said Mr. Cruncher, with a taciturn andiron-bound visage. ”So _you_ put him in his coffin?”

”I did.”

”Who took him out of it?”

Barsad leaned back in his chair, and stammered, ”What do you mean?”

”I mean,” said Mr. Cruncher, ”that he warn't never in it. No! Not he!I'll have my head took off, if he was ever in it.”

The spy looked round at the two gentlemen; they both looked inunspeakable astonishment at Jerry.

”I tell you,” said Jerry, ”that you buried paving-stones and earth inthat there coffin. Don't go and tell me that you buried Cly. It was atake in. Me and two more knows it.”

”How do you know it?”

”What's that to you? Ecod!” growled Mr. Cruncher, ”it's you I have got aold grudge again, is it, with your shameful impositions upon tradesmen!I'd catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a guinea.”

Sydney Carton, who, with Mr. Lorry, had been lost in amazement atthis turn of the business, here requested Mr. Cruncher to moderate andexplain himself.

”At another time, sir,” he returned, evasively, ”the present time isill-conwenient for explainin'. What I stand to, is, that he knows wellwot that there Cly was never in that there coffin. Let him say he was,in so much as a word of one syllable, and I'll either catch hold of histhroat and choke him for half a guinea;” Mr. Cruncher dwelt upon this asquite a liberal offer; ”or I'll out and announce him.”

”Humph! I see one thing,” said Carton. ”I hold another card, Mr. Barsad.Impossible, here in raging Paris, with Suspicion filling the air, foryou to outlive denunciation, when you are in communication with anotheraristocratic spy of the same antecedents as yourself, who, moreover, hasthe mystery about him of having feigned death and come to life again!A plot in the prisons, of the foreigner against the Republic. A strongcard--a certain Guillotine card! Do you play?”

”No!” returned the spy. ”I throw up. I confess that we were so unpopularwith the outrageous mob, that I only got away from England at the riskof being ducked to death, and that Cly was so ferreted up and down, thathe never would have got away at all but for that sham. Though how thisman knows it was a sham, is a wonder of wonders to me.”

”Never you trouble your head about this man,” retorted the contentiousMr. Cruncher; ”you'll have trouble enough with giving your attention tothat gentleman. And look here! Once more!”--Mr. Cruncher could notbe restrained from making rather an ostentatious parade of hisliberality--”I'd catch hold of your throat and choke you for half aguinea.”

The Sheep of the prisons turned from him to Sydney Carton, and said,with more decision, ”It has come to a point. I go on duty soon, andcan't overstay my time. You told me you had a proposal; what is it?Now, it is of no use asking too much of me. Ask me to do anything in myoffice, putting my head in great extra danger, and I had better trust mylife to the chances of a refusal than the chances of consent. In short,I should make that choice. You talk of desperation. We are all desperatehere. Remember! I may denounce you if I think proper, and I can swear myway through stone walls, and so can others. Now, what do you want withme?”

”Not very much. You are a turnkey at the Conciergerie?”

”I tell you once for all, there is no such thing as an escape possible,”said the spy, firmly.

”Why need you tell me what I have not asked? You are a turnkey at theConciergerie?”

”I am sometimes.”

”You can be when you choose?”

”I can pass in and out when I choose.”

Sydney Carton filled another glass with brandy, poured it slowly outupon the hearth, and watched it as it dropped. It being all spent, hesaid, rising:

”So far, we have spoken before these two, because it was as well thatthe merits of the cards should not rest solely between you and me. Comeinto the dark room here, and let us have one final word alone.”