* * *
The same shadows that are falling on the prison, are falling, in that same hour of the early afternoon, on the Barrier with the crowd about it, 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 man pointed out.
«Apparently the Citizen-Doctor is not in his right mind? The Revolution-fever will have been too much for him?»
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 that he is not in strong health, and has separated sadly from a friend who is under the displeasure of the Republic.
«Is that all? It is not a great deal, that! Many are under the displeasure 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. It is Jarvis Lorry who has alighted and stands with his hand on the coach door, replying to a group of officials. They leisurely walk round the carriage and leisurely mount the box, to look at what little luggage it carries on the roof; the country-people hanging about, press nearer to the coach doors and greedily stare in; a little child, carried by its mother, has its short arm held out for it, that it may touch the wife of an aristocrat who has gone to the Guillotine.
XIV
The Knitting Done
In that same juncture of time when the Fifty-Two awaited their fate Madame Defarge held darkly ominous council with The Vengeance and Jacques Three of the Revolutionary Jury. Not in the wine-shop did Madame Defarge confer with these ministers, but in the shed of the wood-sawyer, erst a mender of roads. The sawyer himself did not participate in the conference, but abided at a little distance, like an outer satellite who was not to speak until required, or to offer an opinion until invited.
«But our Defarge,» said Jacques Three, «is undoubtedly a good Republican? Eh?»
«There is no better,» the voluble Vengeance protested in her shrill notes, «in France.»
«Peace, little Vengeance,» said Madame Defarge, laying her hand with a slight frown on her lieutenant's lips, «hear me speak. My husband, fellow-citizen, is a good Republican and a bold man; he has deserved well of the Republic, and possesses its confidence. But my husband has his weaknesses, and he is so weak as to relent towards this Doctor.»
«It is a great pity,» croaked Jacques Three, dubiously shaking his head, with his cruel fingers at his hungry mouth; «it is not quite like a good citizen; it is a thing to regret.»
«See you,» said madame, «I care nothing for this Doctor, I. He may wear his head or lose it, for any interest I have in him; it is all one to me. But, the Evremonde people are to be exterminated, and the wife and child must follow the husband and father.»
«She has a fine head for it,» croaked Jacques Three. «I have seen blue eyes and golden hair there, and they looked charming when Samson held them up.» Ogre that he was, he spoke like an epicure.