XIII. Fifty-two
In the black prison of the Conciergerie, the doomed of the day awaitedtheir fate. They were in number as the weeks of the year. Fifty-two wereto roll that afternoon on the life-tide of the city to the boundlesseverlasting sea. Before their cells were quit of them, new occupantswere appointed; before their blood ran into the blood spilled yesterday,the blood that was to mingle with theirs to-morrow was already setapart.
Two score and twelve were told off. From the farmer-general of seventy,whose riches could not buy his life, to the seamstress of twenty, whosepoverty and obscurity could not save her. Physical diseases, engenderedin the vices and neglects of men, will seize on victims of all degrees;and the frightful moral disorder, born of unspeakable suffering,intolerable oppression, and heartless indifference, smote equallywithout distinction.
Charles Darnay, alone in a cell, had sustained himself with noflattering delusion since he came to it from the Tribunal. In every lineof the narrative he had heard, he had heard his condemnation. He hadfully comprehended that no personal influence could possibly save him,that he was virtually sentenced by the millions, and that units couldavail him nothing.
Nevertheless, it was not easy, with the face of his beloved wife freshbefore him, to compose his mind to what it must bear. His hold on lifewas strong, and it was very, very hard, to loosen; by gradual effortsand degrees unclosed a little here, it clenched the tighter there; andwhen he brought his strength to bear on that hand and it yielded,this was closed again. There was a hurry, too, in all his thoughts,a turbulent and heated working of his heart, that contended againstresignation. If, for a moment, he did feel resigned, then his wife andchild who had to live after him, seemed to protest and to make it aselfish thing.
But, all this was at first. Before long, the consideration that therewas no disgrace in the fate he must meet, and that numbers went the sameroad wrongfully, and trod it firmly every day, sprang up to stimulatehim. Next followed the thought that much of the future peace of mindenjoyable by the dear ones, depended on his quiet fortitude. So,by degrees he calmed into the better state, when he could raise histhoughts much higher, and draw comfort down.
Before it had set in dark on the night of his condemnation, he hadtravelled thus far on his last way. Being allowed to purchase the meansof writing, and a light, he sat down to write until such time as theprison lamps should be extinguished.
He wrote a long letter to Lucie, showing her that he had known nothingof her father's imprisonment, until he had heard of it from herself,and that he had been as ignorant as she of his father's and uncle'sresponsibility for that misery, until the paper had been read. He hadalready explained to her that his concealment from herself of the namehe had relinquished, was the one condition--fully intelligible now--thather father had attached to their betrothal, and was the one promise hehad still exacted on the morning of their marriage. He entreated her,for her father's sake, never to seek to know whether her father hadbecome oblivious of the existence of the paper, or had had it recalledto him (for the moment, or for good), by the story of the Tower, onthat old Sunday under the dear old plane-tree in the garden. If he hadpreserved any definite remembrance of it, there could be no doubt thathe had supposed it destroyed with the Bastille, when he had found nomention of it among the relics of prisoners which the populace haddiscovered there, and which had been described to all the world. Hebesought her--though he added that he knew it was needless--to consoleher father, by impressing him through every tender means she could thinkof, with the truth that he had done nothing for which he could justlyreproach himself, but had uniformly forgotten himself for their jointsakes. Next to her preservation of his own last grateful love andblessing, and her overcoming of her sorrow, to devote herself to theirdear child, he adjured her, as they would meet in Heaven, to comfort herfather.
To her father himself, he wrote in the same strain; but, he told herfather that he expressly confided his wife and child to his care. Andhe told him this, very strongly, with the hope of rousing him from anydespondency or dangerous retrospect towards which he foresaw he might betending.
To Mr. Lorry, he commended them all, and explained his worldly affairs.That done, with many added sentences of grateful friendship and warmattachment, all was done. He never thought of Carton. His mind was sofull of the others, that he never once thought of him.
He had time to finish these letters before the lights were put out. Whenhe lay down on his straw bed, he thought he had done with this world.
But, it beckoned him back in his sleep, and showed itself in shiningforms. Free and happy, back in the old house in Soho (though it hadnothing in it like the real house), unaccountably released and light ofheart, he was with Lucie again, and she told him it was all a dream, andhe had never gone away. A pause of forgetfulness, and then he had evensuffered, and had come back to her, dead and at peace, and yet therewas no difference in him. Another pause of oblivion, and he awoke in thesombre morning, unconscious where he was or what had happened, until itflashed upon his mind, "this is the day of my death!"
Thus, had he come through the hours, to the day when the fifty-two headswere to fall. And now, while he was composed, and hoped that he couldmeet the end with quiet heroism, a new action began in his wakingthoughts, which was very difficult to master.
He had never seen the instrument that was to terminate his life. Howhigh it was from the ground, how many steps it had, where he would bestood, how he would be touched, whether the touching hands would be dyedred, which way his face would be turned, whether he would be the first,or might be the last: these and many similar questions, in nowisedirected by his will, obtruded themselves over and over again, countlesstimes. Neither were they connected with fear: he was conscious of nofear. Rather, they originated in a strange besetting desire to know whatto do when the time came; a desire gigantically disproportionate to thefew swift moments to which it referred; a wondering that was more likethe wondering of some other spirit within his, than his own.
The hours went on as he walked to and fro, and the clocks struck thenumbers he would never hear again. Nine gone for ever, ten gone forever, eleven gone for ever, twelve coming on to pass away. After a hardcontest with that eccentric action of thought which had last perplexedhim, he had got the better of it. He walked up and down, softlyrepeating their names to himself. The worst of the strife was over.He could walk up and down, free from distracting fancies, praying forhimself and for them.
Twelve gone for ever.
He had been apprised that the final hour was Three, and he knew he wouldbe summoned some time earlier, inasmuch as the tumbrils jolted heavilyand slowly through the streets. Therefore, he resolved to keep Twobefore his mind, as the hour, and so to strengthen himself in theinterval that he might be able, after that time, to strengthen others.
Walking regularly to and fro with his arms folded on his breast, a verydifferent man from the prisoner, who had walked to and fro at La Force,he heard One struck away from him, without surprise. The hour hadmeasured like most other hours. Devoutly thankful to Heaven for hisrecovered self-possession, he thought, "There is but another now," andturned to walk again.
Footsteps in the stone passage outside the door. He stopped.
The key was put in the lock, and turned. Before the door was opened, oras it opened, a man said in a low voice, in English: "He has never seenme here; I have kept out of his way. Go you in alone; I wait near. Loseno time!"
The door was quickly opened and closed, and there stood before himface to face, quiet, intent upon him, with the light of a smile on hisfeatures, and a cautionary finger on his lip, Sydney Carton.
There was something so bright and remarkable in his look, that, for thefirst moment, the prisoner misdoubted him to be an apparition of his ownimagining. But, he spoke, and it was his voice; he took the prisoner'shand, and it was his real grasp.
"Of all the people upon earth, you least expected to see me?" he said.
"I could not believe it to be you. I can scar
cely believe it now. Youare not"--the apprehension came suddenly into his mind--"a prisoner?"
"No. I am accidentally possessed of a power over one of the keepershere, and in virtue of it I stand before you. I come from her--yourwife, dear Darnay."
The prisoner wrung his hand.
"I bring you a request from her."
"What is it?"
"A most earnest, pressing, and emphatic entreaty, addressed to youin the most pathetic tones of the voice so dear to you, that you wellremember."
The prisoner turned his face partly aside.
"You have no time to ask me why I bring it, or what it means; I haveno time to tell you. You must comply with it--take off those boots youwear, and draw on these of mine."
There was a chair against the wall of the cell, behind the prisoner.Carton, pressing forward, had already, with the speed of lightning, gothim down into it, and stood over him, barefoot.
"Draw on these boots of mine. Put your hands to them; put your will tothem. Quick!"
"Carton, there is no escaping from this place; it never can be done. Youwill only die with me. It is madness."
"It would be madness if I asked you to escape; but do I? When I ask youto pass out at that door, tell me it is madness and remain here. Changethat cravat for this of mine, that coat for this of mine. While you doit, let me take this ribbon from your hair, and shake out your hair likethis of mine!"
With wonderful quickness, and with a strength both of will and action,that appeared quite supernatural, he forced all these changes upon him.The prisoner was like a young child in his hands.
"Carton! Dear Carton! It is madness. It cannot be accomplished, it nevercan be done, it has been attempted, and has always failed. I implore younot to add your death to the bitterness of mine."
"Do I ask you, my dear Darnay, to pass the door? When I ask that,refuse. There are pen and ink and paper on this table. Is your handsteady enough to write?"
"It was when you came in."
"Steady it again, and write what I shall dictate. Quick, friend, quick!"
Pressing his hand to his bewildered head, Darnay sat down at the table.Carton, with his right hand in his breast, stood close beside him.
"Write exactly as I speak."
"To whom do I address it?"
"To no one." Carton still had his hand in his breast.
"Do I date it?"
"No."
The prisoner looked up, at each question. Carton, standing over him withhis hand in his breast, looked down.
"'If you remember,'" said Carton, dictating, "'the words that passedbetween us, long ago, you will readily comprehend this when you see it.You do remember them, I know. It is not in your nature to forget them.'"
He was drawing his hand from his breast; the prisoner chancing to lookup in his hurried wonder as he wrote, the hand stopped, closing uponsomething.
"Have you written 'forget them'?" Carton asked.
"I have. Is that a weapon in your hand?"
"No; I am not armed."
"What is it in your hand?"
"You shall know directly. Write on; there are but a few words more." Hedictated again. "'I am thankful that the time has come, when I can provethem. That I do so is no subject for regret or grief.'" As he said thesewords with his eyes fixed on the writer, his hand slowly and softlymoved down close to the writer's face.
The pen dropped from Darnay's fingers on the table, and he looked abouthim vacantly.
"What vapour is that?" he asked.
"Vapour?"
"Something that crossed me?"
"I am conscious of nothing; there can be nothing here. Take up the penand finish. Hurry, hurry!"
As if his memory were impaired, or his faculties disordered, theprisoner made an effort to rally his attention. As he looked at Cartonwith clouded eyes and with an altered manner of breathing, Carton--hishand again in his breast--looked steadily at him.
"Hurry, hurry!"
The prisoner bent over the paper, once more.
"'If it had been otherwise;'" Carton's hand was again watchfully andsoftly stealing down; "'I never should have used the longer opportunity.If it had been otherwise;'" the hand was at the prisoner's face; "'Ishould but have had so much the more to answer for. If it had beenotherwise--'" Carton looked at the pen and saw it was trailing off intounintelligible signs.
Carton's hand moved back to his breast no more. The prisoner sprang upwith a reproachful look, but Carton's hand was close and firm at hisnostrils, and Carton's left arm caught him round the waist. For a fewseconds he faintly struggled with the man who had come to lay down hislife for him; but, within a minute or so, he was stretched insensible onthe ground.
Quickly, but with hands as true to the purpose as his heart was, Cartondressed himself in the clothes the prisoner had laid aside, combed backhis hair, and tied it with the ribbon the prisoner had worn. Then, hesoftly called, "Enter there! Come in!" and the Spy presented himself.
"You see?" said Carton, looking up, as he kneeled on one knee beside theinsensible figure, putting the paper in the breast: "is your hazard verygreat?"
"Mr. Carton," the Spy answered, with a timid snap of his fingers, "myhazard is not _that_, in the thick of business here, if you are true tothe whole of your bargain."
"Don't fear me. I will be true to the death."
"You must be, Mr. Carton, if the tale of fifty-two is to be right. Beingmade right by you in that dress, I shall have no fear."
"Have no fear! I shall soon be out of the way of harming you, and therest will soon be far from here, please God! Now, get assistance andtake me to the coach."
"You?" said the Spy nervously.
"Him, man, with whom I have exchanged. You go out at the gate by whichyou brought me in?"
"Of course."
"I was weak and faint when you brought me in, and I am fainter now youtake me out. The parting interview has overpowered me. Such a thing hashappened here, often, and too often. Your life is in your own hands.Quick! Call assistance!"
"You swear not to betray me?" said the trembling Spy, as he paused for alast moment.
"Man, man!" returned Carton, stamping his foot; "have I sworn by nosolemn vow already, to go through with this, that you waste the preciousmoments now? Take him yourself to the courtyard you know of, placehim yourself in the carriage, show him yourself to Mr. Lorry, tell himyourself to give him no restorative but air, and to remember my words oflast night, and his promise of last night, and drive away!"
The Spy withdrew, and Carton seated himself at the table, resting hisforehead on his hands. The Spy returned immediately, with two men.
"How, then?" said one of them, contemplating the fallen figure. "Soafflicted to find that his friend has drawn a prize in the lottery ofSainte Guillotine?"
"A good patriot," said the other, "could hardly have been more afflictedif the Aristocrat had drawn a blank."
They raised the unconscious figure, placed it on a litter they hadbrought to the door, and bent to carry it away.
"The time is short, Evremonde," said the Spy, in a warning voice.
"I know it well," answered Carton. "Be careful of my friend, I entreatyou, and leave me."
"Come, then, my children," said Barsad. "Lift him, and come away!"
The door closed, and Carton was left alone. Straining his powers oflistening to the utmost, he listened for any sound that might denotesuspicion or alarm. There was none. Keys turned, doors clashed,footsteps passed along distant passages: no cry was raised, or hurrymade, that seemed unusual. Breathing more freely in a little while, hesat down at the table, and listened again until the clock struck Two.
Sounds that he was not afraid of, for he divined their meaning, thenbegan to be audible. Several doors were opened in succession, andfinally his own. A gaoler, with a list in his hand, looked in, merelysaying, "Follow me, Evremonde!" and he followed into a large dark room,at a distance. It was a dark winter day, and what with the shadowswithin, and what with the shadows without, he could but di
mly discernthe others who were brought there to have their arms bound. Some werestanding; some seated. Some were lamenting, and in restless motion;but, these were few. The great majority were silent and still, lookingfixedly at the ground.
As he stood by the wall in a dim corner, while some of the fifty-twowere brought in after him, one man stopped in passing, to embrace him,as having a knowledge of him. It thrilled him with a great dread ofdiscovery; but the man went on. A very few moments after that, a youngwoman, with a slight girlish form, a sweet spare face in which there wasno vestige of colour, and large widely opened patient eyes, rose fromthe seat where he had observed her sitting, and came to speak to him.
"Citizen Evremonde," she said, touching him with her cold hand. "I am apoor little seamstress, who was with you in La Force."
He murmured for answer: "True. I forget what you were accused of?"
"Plots. Though the just Heaven knows that I am innocent of any. Is itlikely? Who would think of plotting with a poor little weak creaturelike me?"
The forlorn smile with which she said it, so touched him, that tearsstarted from his eyes.
"I am not afraid to die, Citizen Evremonde, but I have done nothing. Iam not unwilling to die, if the Republic which is to do so much goodto us poor, will profit by my death; but I do not know how that can be,Citizen Evremonde. Such a poor weak little creature!"
As the last thing on earth that his heart was to warm and soften to, itwarmed and softened to this pitiable girl.
"I heard you were released, Citizen Evremonde. I hoped it was true?"
"It was. But, I was again taken and condemned."
"If I may ride with you, Citizen Evremonde, will you let me hold yourhand? I am not afraid, but I am little and weak, and it will give memore courage."
As the patient eyes were lifted to his face, he saw a sudden doubt inthem, and then astonishment. He pressed the work-worn, hunger-worn youngfingers, and touched his lips.
"Are you dying for him?" she whispered.
"And his wife and child. Hush! Yes."
"O you will let me hold your brave hand, stranger?"
"Hush! Yes, my poor sister; to the last."
*****
The same shadows that are falling on the prison, are falling, in thatsame hour of the early afternoon, on the Barrier with the crowd aboutit, when a coach going out of Paris drives up to be examined.
"Who goes here? Whom have we within? Papers!"
The papers are handed out, and read.
"Alexandre Manette. Physician. French. Which is he?"
This is he; this helpless, inarticulately murmuring, wandering old manpointed out.
"Apparently the Citizen-Doctor is not in his right mind? TheRevolution-fever will have been too much for him?"
Greatly too much for him.
"Hah! Many suffer with it. Lucie. His daughter. French. Which is she?"
This is she.
"Apparently it must be. Lucie, the wife of Evremonde; is it not?"
It is.
"Hah! Evremonde has an assignation elsewhere. Lucie, her child. English.This is she?"
She and no other.
"Kiss me, child of Evremonde. Now, thou hast kissed a good Republican;something new in thy family; remember it! Sydney Carton. Advocate.English. Which is he?"
He lies here, in this corner of the carriage. He, too, is pointed out.
"Apparently the English advocate is in a swoon?"
It is hoped he will recover in the fresher air. It is represented thathe is not in strong health, and has separated sadly from a friend who isunder the displeasure of the Republic.
"Is that all? It is not a great deal, that! Many are under thedispleasure of the Republic, and must look out at the little window.Jarvis Lorry. Banker. English. Which is he?"
"I am he. Necessarily, being the last."
It is Jarvis Lorry who has replied to all the previous questions. Itis Jarvis Lorry who has alighted and stands with his hand on the coachdoor, replying to a group of officials. They leisurely walk round thecarriage and leisurely mount the box, to look at what little luggage itcarries on the roof; the country-people hanging about, press nearer tothe coach doors and greedily stare in; a little child, carried by itsmother, has its short arm held out for it, that it may touch the wife ofan aristocrat who has gone to the Guillotine.
"Behold your papers, Jarvis Lorry, countersigned."
"One can depart, citizen?"
"One can depart. Forward, my postilions! A good journey!"
"I salute you, citizens.--And the first danger passed!"
These are again the words of Jarvis Lorry, as he clasps his hands, andlooks upward. There is terror in the carriage, there is weeping, thereis the heavy breathing of the insensible traveller.
"Are we not going too slowly? Can they not be induced to go faster?"asks Lucie, clinging to the old man.
"It would seem like flight, my darling. I must not urge them too much;it would rouse suspicion."
"Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued!"
"The road is clear, my dearest. So far, we are not pursued."
Houses in twos and threes pass by us, solitary farms, ruinous buildings,dye-works, tanneries, and the like, open country, avenues of leaflesstrees. The hard uneven pavement is under us, the soft deep mud is oneither side. Sometimes, we strike into the skirting mud, to avoid thestones that clatter us and shake us; sometimes, we stick in ruts andsloughs there. The agony of our impatience is then so great, that in ourwild alarm and hurry we are for getting out and running--hiding--doinganything but stopping.
Out of the open country, in again among ruinous buildings, solitaryfarms, dye-works, tanneries, and the like, cottages in twos and threes,avenues of leafless trees. Have these men deceived us, and taken us backby another road? Is not this the same place twice over? Thank Heaven,no. A village. Look back, look back, and see if we are pursued! Hush!the posting-house.
Leisurely, our four horses are taken out; leisurely, the coach stands inthe little street, bereft of horses, and with no likelihood upon itof ever moving again; leisurely, the new horses come into visibleexistence, one by one; leisurely, the new postilions follow, sucking andplaiting the lashes of their whips; leisurely, the old postilions counttheir money, make wrong additions, and arrive at dissatisfied results.All the time, our overfraught hearts are beating at a rate that wouldfar outstrip the fastest gallop of the fastest horses ever foaled.
At length the new postilions are in their saddles, and the old are leftbehind. We are through the village, up the hill, and down the hill, andon the low watery grounds. Suddenly, the postilions exchange speech withanimated gesticulation, and the horses are pulled up, almost on theirhaunches. We are pursued?
"Ho! Within the carriage there. Speak then!"
"What is it?" asks Mr. Lorry, looking out at window.
"How many did they say?"
"I do not understand you."
"--At the last post. How many to the Guillotine to-day?"
"Fifty-two."
"I said so! A brave number! My fellow-citizen here would have itforty-two; ten more heads are worth having. The Guillotine goeshandsomely. I love it. Hi forward. Whoop!"
The night comes on dark. He moves more; he is beginning to revive, andto speak intelligibly; he thinks they are still together; he asks him,by his name, what he has in his hand. O pity us, kind Heaven, and helpus! Look out, look out, and see if we are pursued.
The wind is rushing after us, and the clouds are flying after us, andthe moon is plunging after us, and the whole wild night is in pursuit ofus; but, so far, we are pursued by nothing else.