arms, and carried her up to their rooms.
“Lucie! My own! I am safe.”
“O dearest Charles, let me thank God for this on my knees as I
have prayed to Him.”
They all reverently bowed their heads and hearts. When she
was again in his arms, he said to her— “And now speak to your
father, dearest. No other man in all this France could have done
what he has done for me.”
She laid her head upon her father’s breast, as she had laid his
poor head on her own breast, long, long ago. He was happy in the
return he had made her, he was recompensed for his suffering, he
was proud of his strength. “You must not be weak, my darling,” he
remonstrated; “don’t tremble so. I have saved him.”
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Chapter XXXVII
A KNOCK AT THE DOOR
Ihave saved him.” It was not another of the dreams in which
he had often come back; he was really here. And yet his wife
trembled, and a vague but heavy fear was upon her.
All the air round was so thick and dark, the people were so
passionately revengeful and fitful, the innocent were so constantly
put to death on vague suspicion and black malice, it was so
impossible to forget that many as blameless as her husband and as
dear to others as he was to her, every day shared the fate from
which he had been clutched, that her heart could not be as
lightened of its load as she felt it ought to be. The shadows of the
wintry afternoon were beginning to fall, and even now the
dreadful carts were rolling through the streets. Her mind pursued
them, looking for him among the condemned; and then she clung
closer to his real presence and trembled more.
Her father, cheering her, showed a compassionate superiority
to this woman’s weakness, which was wonderful to see. No garret,
no shoemaking, no One Hundred and Five, North Tower, now! He
had accomplished the task he had set himself, his promise was
redeemed, he had saved Charles. Let them all lean upon him.
Their housekeeping was of a very frugal kind: not only because
that was the safest way of life, involving the least offence to the
people, but because they were not rich, and Charles, throughout
his imprisonment, had had to pay heavily for his bad food, and for
his guard, and towards the living of the poorer prisoners. Partly on
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this account, and partly to avoid a domestic spy, they kept no
servant; the citizen and citizeness who acted as porters at the
court-yard gate, rendered them occasional service; and Jerry
(almost wholly transferred to them by Mr. Lorry) had become
their daily retainer, and had his bed there every night.
It was an ordinance of the Republic One and Indivisible, of
Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, that on the door or doorpost of every house, the name of every inmate must be legibly
inscribed in letters of a certain size, at a certain convenient height
from the ground. Mr. Jerry Cruncher’s name, therefore, duly
embellished the door-post down below; and, as the afternoon
shadows deepened, the owner of that name himself appeared,
from overlooking a painter whom Doctor Manette had employed
to add to the list the name of Charles Evremonde, called Darnay.
In the universal fear and distrust that darkened the time, all the
usual harmless ways of life were changed. In the Doctor’s little
household, as in very many others, the articles of daily
consumption that were wanted were purchased every evening, in
small quantities and at various small shops. To avoid attracting
notice, and to give as little occasion as possible for talk and envy,
was the general desire.
For some months past, Miss Pross and Mr. Cruncher had
discharged the office of purveyors; the former carrying the money;
the latter, the basket. Every afternoon at about the time when the
public lamps were lighted, they fared forth on this duty, and made
and brought home such purchases as were needful. Although Miss
Pross, through her long associations with a French family, might
have known as much of their language as of her own, if she had
had a mind, she had no mind in that direction; consequently she
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knew no more of that “nonsense” (as she was pleased to call it)
than Mr. Cruncher did. So her manner of marketing was to plump
a noun-substantive at the head of a shop-keeper without any
introduction in the nature of an article, and, if it happened not to
be the name of the thing she wanted, to look round for that thing,
lay hold of it, and hold on by it until the bargain was concluded.
She always made a bargain for it, by holding up, as a statement of
its just price, one finger less than the merchant held up, whatever
his number might be.
“Now, Mr. Cruncher,” said Miss Pross, whose eyes were red
with felicity; “if you are ready, I am.”
Jerry hoarsely professed himself at Miss Pross’s service. He had
worn all his rust off long ago, but nothing would file his spiky head
down.
“There’s all manner of things wanted,” said Miss Pross, “and
we shall have a precious time of it. We want wine, among the rest.
Nice toasts these Redheads will be drinking, wherever we buy it.”
“It will be much the same to your knowledge, miss, I should
think,” retorted Jerry, “whether they drink your health or the Old
Un’s.”
“Who’s he?” said Miss Pross.
Mr. Cruncher, with some diffidence, explained himself as
meaning “Old Nick’s.”
“Ha!” said Miss Pross, “it doesn’t need an interpreter to explain
the meaning of these creatures. They have but one, and it’s
Midnight Murder, and Mischief.” “Hush, dear! Pray, pray, be
cautious!” cried Lucie.
“Yes, yes, yes, I’ll be cautious,” said Miss Pross; “but I may say
among ourselves, that I do hope there will be no oniony and
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tobaccoy smotherings in the form of embracings all round, going
on in the streets. Now, Ladybird, never you stir from that fire till I
come back! Take care of the dear husband you have recovered,
and don’t move your pretty head from his shoulder as you have it
now, till you see me again! May I ask a question, Doctor Manette,
before I go?”
“I think you may take that liberty,” the Doctor answered,
smiling.
“For gracious sake, don’t talk about Liberty; we have quite
enough of that,” said Miss Pross.
“Hush, dear! Again?” Lucie remonstrated.
“Well, my sweet,” said Miss Pross, nodding her head
emphatically, “the short and the long of it is, that I am a subject of
His Most Gracious Majesty King George the Third”; Miss Pross
curtseyed at the name; “and as such, my maxim is, Confound their
politics, Frustrate their knavish tricks, On him our hopes we fix,
God save the King!”
Mr. Cruncher in an access of loyalty, growlingly repeated the
words after Miss Pross, like somebody at church.
“I am glad you have so much of the Englishman in you, though
I wish you had never taken that cold in your voice,” said Miss
Pross, approvingly. “But the question, Doctor Manette. Is there”—
it was the good creature’s way to affect to make light of anything
that was a great anxiety with them all, and to come at it in this
chance manner—“is there any prospect yet, of our getting out of
this place?”
“I fear not yet. It would be dangerous for Charles yet.”
“Heigh-ho-hum!” said Miss Pross, cheerfully repressing a sigh
as she glanced at her darling’s golden hair in the light of the fire,
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“then we must have patience and wait; that’s all. We must hold up
our heads and fight low, as my brother Solomon used to say. Now,
Mr. Cruncher!—Don’t you move, Ladybird!”
They went out, leaving Lucie, and her husband, her father and
the child, by a bright fire. Mr. Lorry was expected back presently
from the Banking House. Miss Pross had lighted the lamp, but had
put it aside in a corner, that they might enjoy the fire-light
undisturbed. Little Lucie sat by her grandfather with her hands
clasped through his arm: and he, in a tone not rising much above a
whisper, began to tell her a story of a great and powerful Fairy
who had opened a prison wall and let out a captive who had once
done the Fairy a service. All was subdued and quiet, and Lucie
was more at ease than she had been.
“What is that?” she cried, all at once.
“My dear!” said her father, stopping in his story, and laying his
hand on hers, “command yourself. What a disordered state you
are in! The least thing—nothing—startles you! You, your father’s
daughter!”
“I thought, my father,” said Lucie, excusing herself. with a pale
face and in a faltering voice, “that I heard strange feet upon the
stairs.”
“My love, the staircase is as still as Death.”
As he said the word, a blow was struck upon the door.
“Oh father, father. What can this be! Hide Charles. Save him!”
“My child,” said the Doctor, rising, and laying his hand upon
her shoulder, “I have saved him. What weakness is this, my dear!
Let me go to the door.”
He took the lamp in his hand, crossed the two intervening outer
rooms, and opened it. A rude clattering of feet over the floor, and
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four rough men in red caps, armed with sabres and pistols,
entered the room.
“The Citizen Evremonde, called Darnay,” said the first.
“Who seeks him?” answered Darnay.
“I seek him. We seek him. I know you, Evremonde; I saw you
before the Tribunal today. You are again the prisoner of the
Republic.”
The four surrounded him where he stood with his wife and
child clinging to him.
“Tell me how and why I am again a prisoner?”
“It is enough that you return straight to the Conciergerie, and
will know tomorrow. You are summoned for tomorrow.”
Dr. Manette, whom this visitation had so turned into stone, that
he stood with the lamp in his hand, as if he were a statue made to
hold it, moved after these words were spoken, put the lamp down,
and confronting the speaker, and taking him, not ungently, by the
loose front of his red woollen shirt, said:
“You know him, you have said. Do you know me?”
“Yes, I know you, Citizen Doctor.”
“We all know you, Citizen Doctor,” said the other three.
He looked abstractedly from one to another, and said, in a
lower voice, after a pause:
“Will you answer this question to me then? How does this
happen?”
“Citizen Doctor,” said the first, reluctantly, “he has been
denounced to the Section of Saint Antoine. This citizen,” pointing
out the second who had entered, “is from Saint Antoine.”
The citizen here indicated nodded his head, and added:
“He is accused by Saint Antoine.”
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“Of what?” asked the Doctor.
“Citizen Doctor,” said the first, with his former reluctance, “ask
no more. If the Republic demands sacrifices from you, without
doubt you as a good patriot will be happy to make them. The
Republic goes before all. The People is supreme. Evremonde, we
are pressed.”
“One word,” the Doctor entreated. “Will you tell me who
denounced him?”
“It is against rule,” answered the first; “but you can ask Him of
Saint Antoine here.”
The Doctor turned his eyes upon that man. Who moved
uneasily on his feet, rubbed his beard a little, and at length said:
“Well! Truly it is against rule. But he is denounced—and
gravely—by the Citizen and Citizeness Defarge. And by one
other.”
“What other?”
“Do you ask, Citizen Doctor?”
“Yes.”
“Then,” said he of Saint Antoine, with a strange look, “you will
be answered tomorrow. Now, I am dumb!”
Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics
A Tale of Two Cities
Chapter XXXVIII
A HAND AT CARDS
Happily unconscious of the new calamity at home, Miss
Pross threaded her way along the narrow streets and
crossed the river by the bridge of the Pont-Neuf,
reckoning in her mind the number of indispensable purchases she
had to make. Mr. Cruncher, with the basket, walked at her side.
They both looked to the right and to the left into most of the shops
they passed, had a wary eye for all gregarious assemblages of
people, and turned out of their road to avoid any very excited
group of talkers. It was a raw evening, and the misty river, blurred
to the eye with blazing lights and to the ear with harsh noises,
showed where the barges were stationed in which the smiths
worked, making guns for the Army of the Republic. Woe to the
man who played tricks with that Army, or got undeserved
promotion in it! Better for him that his beard had never grown, for
the National Razor shaved him close.
Having purchased a few small articles of grocery, and a
measure of oil for the lamp, Miss Pross bethought herself of the
wine they wanted. After peeping into several wine-shops, she
stopped at the sign of The Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity,
not far from the National Palace, once (and twice) the Tuileries,
where the aspect of things rather took her fancy. It had a quieter
look than any other place of the same description they had passed,
and though red with patriotic caps, was not so red as the rest.
Sounding Mr. Cruncher, and finding him of her opinion, Miss
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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 of the others listening to him; of the weapons
worn, or laid aside to be resumed; of the two or three customers
fallen forward asleep, who in the popular high-shouldered shaggy
black spencer looked, in that attitude, like slumbering bears or
dogs; the two outlandish customers approached the counter, and
showed what they wanted.
As their wine was measuring out, a man parted from another
man in a corner, and rose to depart. In going, he had to face Miss
Pross. No sooner did he face her, than Miss Pross uttered a
scream, and clapped her hands.
In a moment, the whole company were on their feet. That
somebody was assassinated by somebody vindicating a difference
of opinion was the likeliest occurrence. Everybody looked to see
somebody fall, but only saw a man and a woman standing staring
at each other; the man with all the 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 The Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, except that it was
something very voluble and loud, would have been as so much
Hebrew or Chaldean to Miss Pross and her protector, though they
had been all ears. But, they had no ears for anything in their
surprise. For, it must be recorded, that not only was Miss Pross
lost in amazement and agitation, but, Mr. Cruncher—though it
seemed on his own separate and individual account—was in a
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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 in English.
“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 the man, in a furtive, frightened way.
