IX. The Game Made
While Sydney Carton and the Sheep of the prisons were in the adjoiningdark room, speaking so low that not a sound was heard, Mr. Lorry lookedat Jerry in considerable doubt and mistrust. That honest tradesman'smanner of receiving the look, did not inspire confidence; he changed theleg 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 veryquestionable closeness of attention; and whenever Mr. Lorry's eye caughthis, he was taken with that peculiar kind of short cough requiring thehollow of a hand before it, which is seldom, if ever, known to be aninfirmity attendant on perfect openness of character.
"Jerry," said Mr. Lorry. "Come here."
Mr. Cruncher came forward sideways, with one of his shoulders in advanceof 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, "Agicultooralcharacter."
"My mind misgives me much," said Mr. Lorry, angrily shaking a forefingerat him, "that you have used the respectable and great house of Tellson'sas a blind, and that you have had an unlawful occupation of an infamousdescription. If you have, don't expect me to befriend you when youget 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 likeyourself 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 itis, but even if it wos. And which it is to be took into account that ifit wos, it wouldn't, even then, be all o' one side. There'd be two sidesto it. There might be medical doctors at the present hour, a pickingup their guineas where a honest tradesman don't pick up hisfardens--fardens! no, nor yet his half fardens--half fardens! no, noryet his quarter--a banking away like smoke at Tellson's, and a cockingtheir medical eyes at that tradesman on the sly, a going in and goingout 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 thegoose and not the gander. And here's Mrs. Cruncher, or leastways wosin the Old England times, and would be to-morrow, if cause given,a floppin' again the business to that degree as is ruinating--starkruinating! Whereas them medical doctors' wives don't flop--catch 'em atit! Or, if they flop, their floppings goes in favour of more patients,and how can you rightly have one without t'other? Then, wot withundertakers, and wot with parish clerks, and wot with sextons, and wotwith private watchmen (all awaricious and all in it), a man wouldn't getmuch by it, even if it wos so. And wot little a man did get, would neverprosper with him, Mr. Lorry. He'd never have no good of it; he'd wantall along to be out of the line, if he, could see his way out, beingonce in--even if it wos so."
"Ugh!" cried Mr. Lorry, rather relenting, nevertheless, "I am shocked atthe 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. Crunches as if nothing werefurther from his thoughts or practice--"which I don't say it is--wot Iwould humbly offer to you, sir, would be this. Upon that there stool, atthat there Bar, sets that there boy of mine, brought up and growed up tobe a man, wot will errand you, message you, general-light-job you, tillyour heels is where your head is, if such should be your wishes. If itwos so, which I still don't say it is (for I will not prewaricate toyou, sir), let that there boy keep his father's place, and take care ofhis mother; don't blow upon that boy's father--do not do it, sir--andlet that father go into the line of the reg'lar diggin', and make amendsfor what he would have undug--if it wos so--by diggin' of 'em in witha will, and with conwictions respectin' the futur' keepin' of 'em safe.That, Mr. Lorry," said Mr. Cruncher, wiping his forehead with hisarm, as an announcement that he had arrived at the peroration of hisdiscourse, "is wot I would respectfully offer to you, sir. A man don'tsee all this here a goin' on dreadful round him, in the way of Subjectswithout heads, dear me, plentiful enough fur to bring the price downto porterage and hardly that, without havin' his serious thoughts ofthings. And these here would be mine, if it wos so, entreatin' of youfur to bear in mind that wot I said just now, I up and said in the goodcause when I might have kep' it back."
"That at least is true," said Mr. Lorry. "Say no more now. It may bethat I shall yet stand your friend, if you deserve it, and repent inaction--not in words. I want no more words."
Mr. Cruncher knuckled his forehead, as Sydney Carton and the spyreturned from the dark room. "Adieu, Mr. Barsad," said the former; "ourarrangement thus made, you have nothing to fear from me."
He sat down in a chair on the hearth, over against Mr. Lorry. When theywere alone, Mr. Lorry asked him what he had done?
"Not much. If it should go ill with the prisoner, I have ensured accessto him, once."
Mr. Lorry's countenance fell.
"It is all I could do," said Carton. "To propose too much, would beto put this man's head under the axe, and, as he himself said, nothingworse could happen to him if he were denounced. It was obviously theweakness of the position. There is no help for it."
"But access to him," said Mr. Lorry, "if it should go ill before theTribunal, will not save him."
"I never said it would."
Mr. Lorry's eyes gradually sought the fire; his sympathy with hisdarling, and the heavy disappointment of his second arrest, graduallyweakened 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 alteredvoice. "Forgive me if I notice that you are affected. I could not see myfather weep, and sit by, careless. And I could not respect yoursorrow 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, therewas 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 whollyunprepared for. He gave him his hand, and Carton gently pressed it.
"To return to poor Darnay," said Carton. "Don't tell Her of thisinterview, or this arrangement. It would not enable Her to go to seehim. She might think it was contrived, in case of the worse, to conveyto him the means of anticipating the sentence."
Mr. Lorry had not thought of that, and he looked quickly at Carton tosee if it were in his mind. It seemed to be; he returned the look, andevidently understood it.
"She might think a thousand things," Carton said, "and any of them wouldonly add to her trouble. Don't speak of me to her. As I said to you whenI first came, I had better not see her. I can put my hand out, to do anylittle 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 relianceon 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. Itattracted Mr. Lorry's eyes to Carton's face, which was turned to thefire. 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 awild bright day, and he lifted his foot to put back one of the littleflaming logs, which was tumbling forward. He wore the white riding-coatand top-boots, then in vogue, and the light of the fire touching theirlight surfaces made him look very pale, with his long brown hair,all untrimmed, hanging loose about him. His indifference to fire wassufficiently remarkable to elicit a word of remonstrance from Mr. Lorry;his boot was still upon the hot embers of the flaming log, when it hadbroken under the weight of his foot.
"I forgot it," he said.
Mr. Lorry's eyes were again attracted to his face. Taking note of thewasted air which clouded the naturally handsome features, and havingthe expression of prisone
rs' faces fresh in his mind, he was stronglyreminded of that expression.
"And your duties here have drawn to an end, sir?" said Carton, turningto him.
"Yes. As I was telling you last night when Lucie came in sounexpectedly, I have at length done all that I can do here. I hoped tohave left them in perfect safety, and then to have quitted Paris. I havemy 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, Imay say that I was a man of business when a boy."
"See what a place you fill at seventy-eight. How many people will missyou when you leave it empty!"
"A solitary old bachelor," answered Mr. Lorry, shaking his head. "Thereis nobody to weep for me."
"How can you say that? Wouldn't She weep for you? Wouldn't her child?"
"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 orrespect, of no human creature; I have won myself a tender place in noregard; I have done nothing good or serviceable to be remembered by!'your seventy-eight years would be seventy-eight heavy curses; would theynot?"
"You say truly, Mr. Carton; I think they would be."
Sydney turned his eyes again upon the fire, and, after a silence of afew moments, said:
"I should like to ask you:--Does your childhood seem far off? Do thedays 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 drawcloser and closer to the end, I travel in the circle, nearer andnearer to the beginning. It seems to be one of the kind smoothings andpreparings of the way. My heart is touched now, by many remembrancesthat 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 notso real with me, and my faults were not confirmed in me."
"I understand the feeling!" exclaimed Carton, with a bright flush. "Andyou are the better for it?"
"I hope so."
Carton terminated the conversation here, by rising to help him on withhis outer coat; "But you," said Mr. Lorry, reverting to the theme, "youare young."
"Yes," said Carton. "I am not old, but my young way was never the way toage. 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 restlesshabits. If I should prowl about the streets a long time, don't beuneasy; 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 aplace for me. Take my arm, sir."
Mr. Lorry did so, and they went down-stairs and out in the streets. Afew minutes brought them to Mr. Lorry's destination. Carton left himthere; but lingered at a little distance, and turned back to the gateagain when it was shut, and touched it. He had heard of her going tothe 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 inher 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, havingclosed his shop, was smoking his pipe at his shop-door.
"Good night, citizen," said Sydney Carton, pausing in going by; for, theman eyed him inquisitively.
"Good night, citizen."
"How goes the Republic?"
"You mean the Guillotine. Not ill. Sixty-three to-day. We shall mountto a hundred soon. Samson and his men complain sometimes, of beingexhausted. 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! Lessthan two pipes. Word of honour!"
As the grinning little man held out the pipe he was smoking, to explainhow he timed the executioner, Carton was so sensible of a rising desireto strike the life out of him, that he turned away.
"But you are not English," said the wood-sawyer, "though you wearEnglish 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 afterhim. "And take a pipe with you!"
Sydney had not gone far out of sight, when he stopped in the middle ofthe street under a glimmering lamp, and wrote with his pencil on a scrapof paper. Then, traversing with the decided step of one who rememberedthe way well, several dark and dirty streets--much dirtier than usual,for the best public thoroughfares remained uncleansed in those times ofterror--he stopped at a chemist's shop, which the owner was closing withhis own hands. A small, dim, crooked shop, kept in a tortuous, up-hillthoroughfare, by a small, dim, crooked man.
Giving this citizen, too, good night, as he confronted him at hiscounter, he laid the scrap of paper before him. "Whew!" the chemistwhistled 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 theconsequences of mixing them?"
"Perfectly."
Certain small packets were made and given to him. He put them, one byone, 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 wordsaloud under the fast-sailing clouds, nor was it more expressive ofnegligence than defiance. It was the settled manner of a tired man, whohad wandered and struggled and got lost, but who at length struck intohis road and saw its end.
Long ago, when he had been famous among his earliest competitors as ayouth of great promise, he had followed his father to the grave. Hismother had died, years before. These solemn words, which had beenread at his father's grave, arose in his mind as he went down the darkstreets, among the heavy shadows, with the moon and the clouds sailingon 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: andwhosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die."
In a city dominated by the axe, alone at night, with natural sorrowrising 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 to-morrow's, the chain of association thatbrought 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 andwent on.
With a solemn interest in the lighted windows where the people weregoing to rest, forgetful through a few calm hours of the horrorssurrounding them; in the towers of the churches, where no prayerswere said, for the popular revulsion had even travelled that lengthof self-destruction from years of priestly impostors, plunderers, andprofligates; in the distant burial-places, reserved, as they wrote uponthe gates, for Eternal Sleep; in the abounding gaols; and in the streetsalong which the sixties rolled to a death which had become so common andmaterial, that no sorrowful story of a haunting Spirit ever ar
ose amongthe people out of all the working of the Guillotine; with a solemninterest in the whole life and death of the city settling down to itsshort nightly pause in fury; Sydney Carton crossed the Seine again forthe lighter streets.
Few coaches were abroad, for riders in coaches were liable to besuspected, and gentility hid its head in red nightcaps, and put on heavyshoes, and trudged. But, the theatres were all well filled, and thepeople poured cheerfully out as he passed, and went chatting home. Atone of the theatre doors, there was a little girl with a mother, lookingfor 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 believethin me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth andbelieveth in me, shall never die."
Now, that the streets were quiet, and the night wore on, the wordswere in the echoes of his feet, and were in the air. Perfectly calmand steady, he sometimes repeated them to himself as he walked; but, heheard them always.
The night wore out, and, as he stood upon the bridge listening to thewater as it splashed the river-walls of the Island of Paris, where thepicturesque confusion of houses and cathedral shone bright in the lightof the moon, the day came coldly, looking like a dead face out of thesky. 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 toDeath's dominion.
But, the glorious sun, rising, seemed to strike those words, that burdenof the night, straight and warm to his heart in its long bright rays.And looking along them, with reverently shaded eyes, a bridge of lightappeared to span the air between him and the sun, while the riversparkled under it.
The strong tide, so swift, so deep, and certain, was like a congenialfriend, in the morning stillness. He walked by the stream, far from thehouses, and in the light and warmth of the sun fell asleep on thebank. When he awoke and was afoot again, he lingered there yet a littlelonger, watching an eddy that turned and turned purposeless, until thestream 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, thenglided into his view, floated by him, and died away. As its silent trackin the water disappeared, the prayer that had broken up out of his heartfor 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 surmisewhere the good old man was gone. Sydney Carton drank nothing but alittle coffee, ate some bread, and, having washed and changed to refreshhimself, went out to the place of trial.
The court was all astir and a-buzz, when the black sheep--whom many fellaway 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, sosustaining, so encouraging, so full of admiring love and pityingtenderness, yet so courageous for his sake, that it called the healthyblood into his face, brightened his glance, and animated his heart. Ifthere had been any eyes to notice the influence of her look, on SydneyCarton, 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 havebeen no such Revolution, if all laws, forms, and ceremonies, had notfirst been so monstrously abused, that the suicidal vengeance of theRevolution was to scatter them all to the winds.
Every eye was turned to the jury. The same determined patriots and goodrepublicans as yesterday and the day before, and to-morrow and the dayafter. Eager and prominent among them, one man with a craving face, andhis fingers perpetually hovering about his lips, whose appearancegave 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 eyein the crowd, and gleamed at it approvingly; and heads nodded at oneanother, before bending forward with a strained attention.
Charles Evremonde, called Darnay. Released yesterday. Reaccused andretaken yesterday. Indictment delivered to him last night. Suspected andDenounced enemy of the Republic, Aristocrat, one of a family of tyrants,one of a race proscribed, for that they had used their abolishedprivileges to the infamous oppression of the people. Charles Evremonde,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."
"Therese Defarge, his wife."
"Good."
"Alexandre Manette, physician."
A great uproar took place in the court, and in the midst of it, DoctorManette was seen, pale and trembling, standing where he had been seated.
"President, I indignantly protest to you that this is a forgery anda fraud. You know the accused to be the husband of my daughter. Mydaughter, and those dear to her, are far dearer to me than my life. Whoand where is the false conspirator who says that I denounce the husbandof my child!"
"Citizen Manette, be tranquil. To fail in submission to the authority ofthe Tribunal would be to put yourself out of Law. As to what is dearerto you than life, nothing can be so dear to a good citizen as theRepublic."
Loud acclamations hailed this rebuke. The President rang his bell, andwith warmth resumed.
"If the Republic should demand of you the sacrifice of your childherself, you would have no duty but to sacrifice her. Listen to what isto follow. In the meanwhile, be silent!"
Frantic acclamations were again raised. Doctor Manette sat down, withhis eyes looking around, and his lips trembling; his daughter drewcloser 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 hisbeing heard, and rapidly expounded the story of the imprisonment, and ofhis 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 thebest patriots there. Why not say so? You were a cannonier that daythere, and you were among the first to enter the accursed fortress whenit 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, TheVengeance, 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 thebottom 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 cellknown as One Hundred and Five, North Tower. I knew it from himself. Heknew 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 tothe cell, with a fellow-citizen who is one of the Jury, directed by agaoler. I examine it, very closely. In a hole in the chimney, where astone has been worked out and replaced, I find a written paper. This isthat written paper. I have made it my business to examine some specimensof 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 ofthe President."
"Let it be read."
In a dead silence and stillness--the prisoner under trial lookinglovingly at his wife, his wife only looking from him to look withsolicitude at her father, Doctor Manette keeping his eyes fixed on thereader, Madame Defarge never taking hers from the prisoner, Defargenever taking his from his feasting wife, and all the other eyes thereintent upon the Doctor, who saw none of them--the paper was read, asfollows.