body of prisoners; he saw her husband weekly, | of imprisoned widowhood and misery to turn it and brought sweet messages to her straight from gray. his lips; sometimes her husband himself sent a letter to her (though never by the Doctor's hand), but she was not permitted to write to him; for among the many wild suspicions of plots in the prisons, the wildest of all pointed at emigrants who were known to have made friends or permanent connections abroad. This new life of the Doctor's was an anxious life, no doubt; still the sagacious Mr. Lorry saw that there was a new sustaining pride in it. Nothing unbecoming tinged the pride; it was a natural and worthy one; but he observed it as a curiosity. The Doctor knew that up to that time his imprisonment had been associated in the minds of his daughter and his friend with his personal affliction, deprivation, and weakness. Now that this was changed, and he knew himself to be invested through that old trial with forces to which they both looked for Charles's ultimate safety and deliverance, he became so far exalted by the change, that he took the lead and direction, and required them, as the weak, to trust to him as the strong. The preceding relative positions of himself and Lucie were reversed, yet only as the liveliest gratitude and affection could reverse them, for he could have had no pride but in rendering some service to her who had rendered so much to him. "All curious to see," thought Mr. Lorry, in his amiably shrewd way, "but all natural and right; so take the lead, my dear friend, and keep it; it couldn't be in better hands." But though the Doctor tried hard, and never ceased trying, to get Charles Darnay set at liberty, or at least to get him brought to trial, the public current of the time set too strong and fast for him. The new Era began; the king was tried, doomed, and beheaded; the Republic of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, declared for victory or death against the world in arms; the black flag waved night and day from the great towers of Notre-Dame; three hundred thousand men, summoned to rise against the tyrants of the earth, rose from all the varying soils of France, as if the dragons' teeth had been sown broadcast, and had yieldel fruit equally on hill and plain, on rock in gravel and alluvial mud, under the bright sky of the South and under the clouds of the North, in fell and forest, in the vineyards and the olivegroun is and among the cropped grass and the stubble of the corn, along the fruitful banks of the broad rivers, and in the sand of the seashore. What private solicitude could rear itself against the deluge of the Year One of Liberty-che deluge rising from below, not falling froin above, and with the windows of Heaven shut, not opened! There was no pause, no pity, no peace, no interval of relenting rest, no measurement of time. Though days and nights circled as regulurly as when time was young, and the evening and the morning were the first day, other count of time there was none. Hold of it was lost in the raging fever of a nation, as it is in the fever of one patient. Now, breaking the unnatural silence of a whole city, the executioner showed the people the head of the king-and now it seemed almost in the same breath, the head of his fair wife which had had eight weary months And yet, observing the strange law of contradiction which obtains in all such cases, the time was long, while it flamed by so fast. A revolutionary tribunal in the capital, and forty or fifty thousand revolutionary committees all over the land; a law of the Suspected, which struck away all security for liberty or life, and delivered over any good and innocent person to any bad and guilty one; prisons gorged with people who had committed no offense, and could obtain no hearing; these things became the established order and nature of appointed things, and seemed to be ancient usage before there were many weeks old. Above all, one hideous figure grew as familiar as if it had been before the general gaze from the foundations of the world-the figure of the sharp female called La Guillotine. It was the popular theme for jests; it was the best cure for headache, it infallibly prevented hair from turning gray, it imparted a peculiar delicacy to the complexion: who kissed La Guillotine, looked through the little window and sneezed into the sack. It was the sign of the regeneration of the human race. It superseded the Cross. Models of it were worn on breasts from which the Cross was discarded, and it was bowed down to and believed in where the Cross was denied. It sheared off heads so many that it, and the ground it most polluted, were a rotten red. It was taken to pieces, like a toy-puzzle for a young Devil, and was put together again where the occasion wanted it. It hushed the eloquent, struck down the powerful, abolished the beautiful and good. Twenty-two friends of high public mark, twenty-one living and one dead, it had lopped the heads off, in one morning, in as many minutes. The name of the strong man of Old Scripture had descended to the chief functionary who worked it; but so armed, he was stronger than his namesake, and blinder, and tore away the gates of God's own Temple every day. Among these terrors, and the brood belonging to them, the Doctor walked with a steady head: confident in his power, cautiously persistent in his end, never doubting that he would save Lucie's husband at last. Yet the current of the time swept by so strong and deep, and carried the time away so fiercely, that Charles had lain in prison one year and three months when the Doctor was thus steady and confident. So much more wicked and distracted had the Revolution grown in that December month that the rivers of the South were encumbered with the bodies of the violently drowned by night, and prisoners were shot in lines and squares under the southern wintry sun. Still, the Doctor walked among the terrors with a steady head. No man better known than he in Paris at that day; no man in a stranger situation. Silent, humane, indispensable in hospital and prison, using his art equally among assassins and victims, he was a man apart. In the exercise of his skill the appearance and the story of the Bastile Captive removed him from all other men. He was not suspected or brought in question any more than if he had indeed been recalled to life some eighteen years before, or were a Spirit moving among mortals. CHAPTER V. THE WOOD-SAWYER. ONE year and three months. During all that time Lucie was never sure, from hour to hour, but that the Guillotine would strike off her husband's head next day. Every day, through the stony streets, the tumbrils now jolted heavily, filled with Condemned. Lovely girls; bright women, brown-haired, black-haired, and gray; youths; stalwart men and old; gentle born and peasant born; all red wine for La Guillotine, all daily brought into light from the dark cellars of the loathsome prisons, and carried to her through the streets to slake her devouring thirst. Liberty, equality, fraternity, or death-the last much the easiest to bestow, O Guillotine! If the suddenness of her calamity and the whirling wheels of the time had stunned the Doctor's daughter into awaiting the result in idle despair, it would not have been with her as it was with many. But from the hour when she had taken the white head to her fresh young bosom in the garret of Saint Antoine she had been true to her duties. She was truest to them in the season of trial, as all the quietly loyal and good will always be. As soon as they were established in their new residence, and her father had entered on the routine of his avocations, she arranged the little household as exactly as if her husband had been there. Every thing had its appointed place and its appointed time. Little Lucie she taught as regularly as if they had all been united in their English home. The slight devices with which she cheated herself into the show of a belief that they would soon be reunited-the little preparations for his speedy return, the setting aside of his chair and his books-these, and the solemn prayer at night for one dear prisoner especially, among the many unhappy souls in prison and the shadow of death-were almost the only outspoken reliefs of her heavy mind. From that time, in all weathers, she waited there two hours. As the clock struck two she was there, and at four she turned resignedly away. When it was not too wet or inclement for her child to be with her, they went together; at other times she was alone; but she never missed a single day. It was the dark and dirty corner of a small winding street. The hovel of a cutter of wood into lengths for burning was the only house at that end; all else was wall. On the third day of her being there he noticed her. 'Good-day, citizeness." 66 "Good-day, citizen." This mode of address was now prescribed by decree. It had been established voluntarily some time ago, among the more thorough patriots; but was now law for every body. "Walking here again, citizeness?" "You see me, citizen!" The wood-sawyer, who was a little man with a redundancy of gesture (he had once been a mender of roads), cast a glance at the prison, pointed at the prison, and putting his ten fingers before his face to represent bars, peeped through them jocosely. "But it's not my business," said he, and went on sawing his wood. Next day he was looking out for her, and accosted her the moment she appeared. "What! walking here again, citizeness ?" "Yes, citizen.” "Ah! a child too! Your mother, is it not, my little citizeness ?" "Do I say yes, mamma?" whispered little Lucie, drawing close to her. "Yes, dearest." "Yes, citizen.” "Ah! But it's not my business. My work is my business. See my saw! I call it my Little Guillotine. La, la, la; La, la, la! And off his head comes !" The billet fell as he spoke, and he threw it into a basket. She did not greatly alter in appearance. The plain dark dresses, akin to mourning dresses, "I call myself the Samson of the fire-wood which she and her child wore, were as neat and guillotine. See here again! Loo, loo, loo; as well attended to as the brighter clothes of Loo, loo, loo! And off her head comes! Now, happy days. She lost her color, and the old in- a child. Tickle, tickle; Pickle, pickle! And tent expression was a constant, not an occa-off its head comes. All the family!" sional, thing; otherwise, she remained very pretty and comely. Sometimes, at night, on kissing her father, she would burst into the grief she had repressed all day, and would say that her sole reliance, under Heaven, was on him. He always resolutely answered, "Nothing can happen to him without my knowledge, and I know that I can save him, Lucie." They had not made the round of their changed life many weeks, when her father said to her, on coming home one evening: "My dear, there is an upper window in the prison, to which Charles can sometimes gain access at three in the afternoon. When he can get to it which depends on many uncertainties and incidents-he might see you in the street, he thinks, if you stood in a certain place that I can show you. But you will not be able to see him, my poor child; and even if you could, it would be unsafe for you to make a sign of recognition." "Oh show me the place, my father, and I will go there every day!" Lucie shuddered as he threw two more billets into his basket; but it was impossible to be there while the wood-sawyer was at work and not be in his sight. Thenceforth, to secure his goodwill, she always spoke to him first, and often gave him drink-money, which he readily received. He was an inquisitive fellow, and sometimes when she had quite forgotten him in gazing at the prison roofs and grates, and in lifting her heart up to her husband, she would come to herself to find him looking at her, with his knee on his bench and his saw stopped in its work. "But it's not my business!" he would generally say at those times, and would briskly fall to his sawing again. In all weathers, in the snow and frost of winter, in the bitter winds of spring, in the hot sunshine of summer, in the rains of autumn, and again in the snow and frost of winter, Lucie passed two hours of every day at this place; and every day, on leaving it, she kissed the prison wall. Her husband saw her (so she learned "I CALL MYSELF THE SAMSON OF THE FIRE-WOOD GUILLOTINE." from her father) it might be once in five or six times it might be twice or thrice running: it might be not for a week or a fortnight together. It was enough that he could and did see her when the chances served, and on that possibility she would have waited out the day, seven days a week. These occupations brought her round to the December month, wherein her father walked among the terrors with a steady head. On a lightly-snowing afternoon she arrived at the usual corner. It was a day of some wild rejoicing and a festival. She had seen the houses, as she came along, decorated with little pikes, and with little red caps stuck upon them; also, with tricolored ribbons; also, with the standard inscription (tricolored letters were the favorite), Republic One and Indivisible. Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death! his "Little Sainte Guillotine"-for the great sharp female was by that time popularly canonized. His shop was shut and he was not there, which was a relief to Lucie and left her quite alone. But he was not far off, for presently she heard a troubled movement and a shouting coming along which filled her with fear. A moment afterward, and a throng of people came pouring round the corner by the prison wall, in the midst of whom was the wood-sawyer hand-inhand with The Vengeance. There could not be fewer than five hundred people, and they were dancing like five thousand demons. There was no other music than their own singing. They danced to the popular Revolution song, keeping a ferocious time that was like a gnashing of teeth in unison. Men and women danced together, women danced together, men danced The miserable shop of the wood-sawyer was together, as hazard had brought them together. so small that its whole surface furnished very At first they were a mere storm of coarse red indifferent space for this legend. He had got caps and coarse woolen rags; but as they filled somebody to scrawl it up for him, however, who the place, and stopped to dance about Lucie, had squeezed Death in with most inappropri- some ghastly apparition of a dance-figure gone ate difficulty. On his house-top he displayed raving mad arose among them. They advanced, pike and cap, as a good citizen must, and in a retreated, struck at one another's hands, clutchwindow he had stationed his saw, inscribed as, ed at one another's heads, spun round alone, 4 within a few hours; I have encompassed him with every protection. I must see Lorry." He stopped. There was a heavy lumbering of wheels within hearing. They both knew too well what it meant. One. Two. Three. Three tumbrils faring away with their dread loads over the hushing snow. "I must see Lorry," the Doctor repeated, turning her another way. The stanch old gentleman was still in his trust; had never left it. He and his books were frequent requisition as to property confiscated and made national. What he could save for the owners he saved. No better man living to hold fast by what Tellson's had in keeping, and to hold his peace. caught one another and spun round in pairs, This was the Carmagnole. As it passed, leaving Lucie frightened and bewildered in the door-way of the wood-sawyer's house, the feathery snow fell as quietly and lay as white and soft as if it had never been. A murky red and yellow sky, and a rising mist from the Seine, denoted the approach of darkness. It was almost dark when they arrived at the Bank. "House! The law smites you!" had been officially said to the stately residence of Monseigneur; and under the little hammer that had struck in that name it had opened and begun to fall asunder. The costly fittings were all removed, the windows were gone, and the great staircase was being packed off piecemeal. Above the heap of dust and ashes in the court ran the letters: National Property. Republic One and Indivisible. Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death. Who could that be with Mr. Lorry-the own "Oh, my father!" for he stood before her when she lifted up the eyes she had moment-er of the riding-coat upon the chair-who must arily darkened with her hand; "such a cruel, bad sight!" "I know, my dear, I know. I have seen it many times. Don't be frightened! Not one of them would harm you." "I am not frightened for myself, my father. But when I think of my husband, and the mercies of these people—” "We will set him above their mercies very soon. I left him climbing to the window, and came to tell you. There is no one here to see. You may kiss your hand toward that highest shelving roof." "I do so, father, and I send him my Soul with it!" "You can not see him, my poor dear?" "No, father," said Lucie, yearning and weeping as she kissed her hand, "no." A footstep in the snow. Madame Defarge. "I salute you, citizeness," from the Doctor. "I salute you, citizen." This in passing. Nothing more. Madame Defarge gone, like a shadow over the white road. "Give me your arm, my love. Pass from here with an air of cheerfulness and courage, for his sake. That was well done"-they had left the spot "it shall not be in vain. Charles is summoned for to-morrow." "For to-morrow!" "There is no time to lose. I am well prepared, but there are precautions to be taken that could not be taken until he was actually summoned before the Tribunal. He has not received the notice yet, but I know that he will presently be summoned for to-morrow, and removed to the Conciergerie; I have timely information. You are not afraid?" She could scarcely answer, "I trust in you." "Do so, implicitly. Your suspense is nearly ended, my darling; he shall be restored to you not be seen? From whom newly arrived did he come out, agitated and surprised, to take his favorite in his arms? To whom did he appear to repeat her faltering words, when, raising his voice and turning his head toward the door of the room from which he had issued, he said, "Removed to the Conciergerie, and summoned for to-morrow?" CHAPTER VI. TRIUMPH. THE dread Tribunal of five Judges, Public Prosecutor, and determined Jury, sat every day. Their lists went forth every evening, and were read out by the jailers of the various prisons to their prisoners. The standard jailer-joke was, "Come out and listen to the Evening Paper you inside there!" "Charles Evrémonde, called Darnay !" So, at last, began the Evening Paper at La Force. When a name was called, its owner stepped apart into a spot reserved for those who were announced as being thus fatally recorded. Charles Evrémonde, called Darnay, had reason to know the usage; he had seen hundreds pass away so. His bloated jailer, who wore spectacles to read with, glanced over them to assure himself that he had taken his place, and went through the list, making a similar short pause at each name. There were twenty-three names, but only twenty were responded to; for one of the prisoners so summoned had died in jail and been forgotten, and two had been already guillotined and forgotten. The list was read in the vaulted chamber where Darnay had seen the associated prisoners on the night of his arrival. Every one of those had perished in the massacre; every human creature he had since cared for and parted with had died on the scaffold. There were hurried words of farewell and kindness, but the parting was soon over. It was the incident of every day, and the society of La Force were engaged in the preparation of some games of forfeits and a little concert for that evening. They crowded to the grates and shed tears there; but twenty places in the projected entertainments had to be refilled, and the time was, at best, short to the lock-up hour, when the common rooms and corridors would be delivered over to the great dogs who kept watch there through the night. The prisoners were far from insensible or unfeeling; their ways arose out of the condition of the time. Similarly, though with a subtle difference, a species of fervor or intoxication, known, without doubt, to have led some persons to brave the guillotine unnecessarily, and to die by it, was not mere boastfulness, but a wild infection of the wildly shaken public mind. In seasons of pestilence, some of us will have a secret attraction to the disease-a terrible passing inclination to die of it. And all of us have like wonders hidden in our breasts only needing circumstances to evoke them. The passage to the Conciergerie was short and dark; the night in its vermin-haunted cells was long and cold. Next day fifteen prisoners were put to the bar before Charles Darnay's name was called. All the fifteen were con demned, and the trials of the whole occupied an hour and a half. "Charles Evrémonde, called Darnay," was at length arraigned. His Judges sat upon the Bench in feathered hats; but the rough red cap and tricolored cockade was the head-dress otherwise prevailing. Looking at the Jury and the turbulent audience, he might have thought that the usual order of things was reversed, and that the felons were trying the honest men. The lowest, cruelest, and worst populace of a city, never without its quantity of low, cruel, and bad, were the directing spirits of the scene: noisily commenting, applauding, disapproving, anticipating, and precipitating the result, without a check. Of the men, the greater part were armed in various ways; of the women, some wore knives, some daggers, some ate and drank as they looked on, many knitted. Among these last was one, with a spare piece of knitting under her arm as she worked. She was in a front row by the side of a man whom he had never seen since his arrival at the Barrier, but whom he directly remembered as Defarge. He noticed that she once or twice whispered in his ear, and that she seemed to be his wife; but what he most noticed in the two figures was, that, although they were posted as close to himself as they could be, they never looked toward him. They seemed to be waiting for something with a dogged determination, and they looked at the Jury, but at nothing else. Under the President sat Doctor Manette, in his usual quiet dress. As well as the prisoner could see, he and Mr. Lorry were the only men there, unconnected with the Tribunal, who wore their usual clothes, and had not assumed the coarse garb of the Carmagnole. Charles Evrémonde, called Darnay, was accused by the public prosecutor as an aristocrat and an emigrant, whose life was forfeit to the Republic, under the decree which banished all emigrants on pain of Death. It was nothing that the decree bore date since his return to France. There he was, and there was the decree; he had been taken in France, and his head was demanded. "Take off his head!" cried the audience. "An enemy to the Republic!" The President rang his bell to silence those cries, and asked the prisoner whether it was not true that he had lived many years in England? Undoubtedly it was. Was he not an emigrant then? What did he call himself? Not an emigrant, he hoped, within the sense and spirit of the law. Why not? the President desired to know. Because he had voluntarily relinquished a title that was distasteful to him, and a station that was distasteful to him, and had left his country-he submitted before the word emigrant in its present acceptation by the Tribunal was in use-to live by his own industry in England, rather than on the industry of the overladen people of France. What proof had he of this? He handed in the names of two witnesses: Theophile Gabelle and Alexandre Manette. But he had married in England? the President reminded him. |