friendship and warm attachment, all was done. He never thought
of Carton. His mind was so full of the others, that he never once
thought of him.
He had time to finish these letters before the lights were put
out. When he 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
shining forms. Free and happy, back in the old house in Soho
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(though it had nothing in it like the real house), unaccountably
released and light of heart, he was with Lucie again, and she told
him it was all a dream, and he had never gone away. A pause of
forgetfulness, and then he had even suffered, and had come back
to her, dead and at peace, and yet there was no difference in him.
Another pause of oblivion, and he awoke in the sombre morning,
unconscious where he was or what had happened, until it flashed
upon his mind, “this is the day of my death!”
Thus, had he come through the hours, to the day when the fifty-
two heads were to fall. And now, while he was composed, and
hoped that he could meet the end with quiet heroism, a new action
began in his waking thoughts, which was very difficult to master.
He had never seen the instrument that was to terminate his life.
How high it was from the ground, how many steps it had, where
he would be stood, how he would be touched, whether the
touching hands would be dyed red, which way his face would be
turned, whether he would be the first, or might be the last: these
and many similar questions, in no wise directed by his will,
obtruded themselves over and over again, countless times. Neither
were they connected with fear: he was conscious of no fear.
Rather, they originated in a strange besetting desire to know what
to do when the time came; a desire gigantically disproportionate to
the few swift moments to which it referred; a wondering that was
more like the wondering of some other spirit within his, than his
own.
The hours went on as he walked to and fro, and the clocks
struck the numbers he would never hear again. Nine gone for
ever, ten gone for ever, eleven gone for ever, twelve coming on to
pass away. After a hard contest with the eccentric action of
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thought which had last perplexed him, he had got the better of it.
He walked up and down softly repeating their names to himself.
The worst of the strife was over. He could walk up and down, free
from distracting fancies, praying for himself and for them.
Twelve gone for ever.
He had been apprised that the final hour was Three, and he
knew he would be summoned some time earlier. inasmuch as the
tumbrils jolted heavily and slowly through the streets. Therefore,
he resolved to keep Two before his mind, as the hour, and so to
strengthen himself in the interval that he might be able, after that
time. to strengthen others.
Walking regularly to and fro with his arms folded on his breast,
a very different man from the prisoner, who had walked to and fro
at La Force, he heard One struck away from him, without
surprise. The hour had measured like most other hours. Devoutly
thankful to Heaven for his recovered self-possession, he thought,
“There is but another now,” and turned 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, or as it opened, a man said in a low voice, in English: “He
has never seen me here; I have kept out of his way. Go you in
alone; I wait near. Lose no time!”
The door was quickly opened and closed, and there stood
before him face to face, quiet, intent upon him, with the light of a
smile on his features, and a cautionary finger on his lip, Sydney
Carton.
There was something so bright and remarkable in his look, that,
for the moment, the prisoner misdoubted him to be an apparition
of his own imagining. But, he spoke, and it was his voice; he took
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the prisoner’s hand, 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 scarcely believe it now.
You are not”—the apprehension came suddenly into his mind—“a
prisoner?”
“No. I am accidentally possessed of a power over one of the
keepers here, and in virtue of it I stand before you. I come from
her—your wife, 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
you in the most pathetic tones of the voice so dear to you, that you
well remember.”
The prisoner turned his face partly aside.
“You have no time to ask me why I bring it, or what it means; I
have no time to tell you. You must comply with it—take off those
boots you wear, 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, got him down into it, and stood over him, barefoot.
“Draw on these boots of mine. Put your hands to them; put
your will to them. Quick!”
“Carton, there is no escaping from this place; it never can be
done. You will only die with me. It is madness.”
“It would be madness if I asked you to escape; but do I? When I
ask you to pass out at that door, tell me it is madness and remain
here. Change that cravat for this of mine, that coat for this of mine.
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While you do it. let me take this ribbon from your hair, and shake
out your hair like this 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 never can be done, it has been attempted, and
has always failed. I implore you not 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
hand steady 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 with his hand in his breast, looked down.
“‘If you remember,’” said Carton, dictating, “‘the words that
passed between us, long ago, you will readily comprehend this
when you see it. You do remember them, I know. It is not in your
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nature to forget them.’” He was drawing his hand from his breast;
the prisoner chancing to look up in his hurried wonder as he
wrote, the hand stopped, closing upon something.
“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.” He dictated again. “‘I am thankful that the time has come,
when I can prove them. That I do so is no subject for regret or
grief.’” As he said these words with his eyes fixed on the writer, his
hand slowly and softly moved down close to the writer’s face.
The pen dropped from Darnay’s fingers on the table, and he
looked about him 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 pen and finish. Hurry, hurry!”
As if his memory were impaired, or his faculties disordered, the
prisoner made an effort to rally his attention. As he looked at
Carton with clouded eyes and with an altered manner of
breathing, Carton—his hand 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
and softly stealing down; “‘I never should have used the longer
opportunity. If it had been otherwise’”; the hand was at the
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prisoner’s face; “‘I should but have had so much the more to
answer for. If it had been otherwise—,’” Carton looked at the pen
and saw it was trailing off into unintelligible signs.
Carton’s hand moved back to his breast no more. The prisoner
sprang up with a reproachful look, but Carton’s hand was close
and firm to his nostrils, and Carton’s left arm caught him round
the waist. For a few seconds he faintly struggled with the man who
had come to lay down his life for him; but, within a minute or so,
he was stretched insensible on the ground.
Quickly, but with his hands as true to the purpose as his heart
was, Carton dressed himself in the clothes the prisoner had laid
aside, combed back his hair, and tied it with the ribbon the
prisoner had worn. Then, he softly called, “Enter there! Come in!”
and the Spy presented himself.
“You see?” said Carton, looking up, as he kneeled on one knee
beside the insensible figure, putting the paper in the breast; “is
your hazard very great?”
“M. Carton,” the Spy answered, with a timid snap of his fingers,
“my hazard is not that, in the thick of business here, if you are true
to the 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.
Being made 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 the rest will soon be far from here, please God! Now, get
assistance and take me to the coach.”
“You?” said the Spy nervously.
“Him, man, with whom I have exchanged. You go out at the
gate by which you brought me in?”
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“Of course.”
“I was weak and faint when you brought me in, and I am fainter
now you take me out. The parting interview has overpowered me.
Such a thing has happened 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 a last moment.
“Man, man!” returned Carton, stamping his foot; “have I sworn
by no solemn vow already, to go through with this, that you waste
the precious moments now? Take him yourself to the court-yard
you know of , place him yourself in the carriage, show him yourself
to Mr. Lorry, tell him yourself to give him no restorative but air,
and to remember my words of last night, and his promise of last
night, and drive away!”
The Spy withdrew, and Carton seated himself at the table,
resting his forehead on his hands. The Spy returned immediately,
with two men.
“How then?” said one of them, contemplating the fallen figure.
“So afflicted to find that his friend has drawn a prize in the lottery
of Sainte Guillotine?”
“A good patriot,” said the other, “could hardly have been more
afflicted if the Aristocrat had drawn a blank.”
They raised the unconscious figure, placed it on a litter they
had brought 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
entreat you, and leave me.”
“Come, then, my children,” said Barsad. “Lift him, and come
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away!”
The door closed, and Carton was left alone. Straining his
powers of listening to the utmost, he listened for any sound that
might denote suspicion or alarm. There was none. Keys turned,
doors clashed, footsteps passed along distant passages: no cry was
raised, or hurry made, that seemed unusual. Breathing more
freely in a little while, he sat down at the table, and listened again
until the clock struck Two.
Sounds that he was not afraid of , for he divined their meaning,
then began to be audible. Several doors were opened in
succession, and finally his own. A gaoler, with a list in his hand,
looked in, merely saying, “Follow me, Evremonde!” and he
followed him into a large dark room, at a distance. It was a dark
winter day, and what with the shadows within, and what with the
shadows without, he could but dimly discern the others who were
brought there to have their arms bound. Some were standing;
some seated. Some were lamenting, and in restless motion; but,
these were few. The great majority were silent and still, looking
fixedly at the ground.
As he stood by the wall in a dim corner, while some of the fifty-
two were 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 of discovery; but the man went on. A very few
moments after that, a young woman, with a slight girlish form, a
sweet spare face in which there was no vestige of colour, and large
widely opened patient eyes, rose from the 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 a poor little seamstress, who was with you in La
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Force.”
He murmured for answer: “True. I forget what you were
accused of ?”
“Plots. Though the just Heaven knows I am innocent of any. Is
it likely? Who would think of plotting with a poor little weak
creature like me?”
The forlorn smile with which she said it, so touched him, that
tears started from his eyes.
“I am not afraid to die, Citizen Evremonde, but I have done
nothing. I am not unwilling to die, if the Republic which is to do so
much good to 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, it warmed 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
your hand? I am not afraid, but I am little and weak, and it will
give me more courage.”
As the patient eyes were lifted to his face, he saw a sudden
