fect composure. It is the daughter of your father who is my business here. For my sake then, be merciful to my husband. For my child's sake, she will put her hands together and pray you to be merciful. We are more afraid of you than of these others. Madame Defarge received it as a compliment and looked at her husband. Defarge, who had been uneasily biting his thumbnail and looking at her, collected his face into a sterner expression. What is it that your husband says in that little letter? Ask Madame Defarge with a lowering smile. Influence? He says something touching influence? That my father, said Lucy, hurriedly taking the paper from her breast, but with her alarmed eyes on her questioner and not on it, has much influence around him. Surely it will release him, said Madame Defarge. Let it do so. As a wife and mother, cried Lucy most earnestly, I implore you to have pity on me and not to exercise any power that you possess against my innocent husband, but to use it in his behalf. Oh, sister woman, think of me as a wife and mother. Madame Defarge looked coldly as ever at the suppliant and said, turning to her friend, the vengeance. The wives and mothers we have been used to see since we were as little as this child and much less have not been greatly considered. We have known their husbands and fathers laid in prison and kept from them, often enough. All our lives we have seen our sister women suffer in themselves and in their children. Poverty, nakedness, hunger, thirst, sickness, misery, oppression and neglect of all kinds. We have seen nothing else, returned the vengeance. We have borne this a long time, said Madame Defarge, turning her eyes again upon Lucy. Judge you, is it likely that the trouble of one wife and mother would be much to us now? She resumed her knitting and went out. The vengeance followed. Defarge went last and closed the door. Courage, my dear Lucy, said Mr. Laurie as he raised her. Courage, courage, so far all goes well with us, much, much better than it has of late gone with many poor souls. Cheer up and have a thankful heart. I am not thankless, I hope, but that dreadful woman seems to throw a shadow on me and on all my hopes. My tut, said Mr. Laurie, what is this despondency in the brave little breast? A shadow indeed, no substance in it, Lucy. But the shadow of the manner of these Defarges was dark upon himself for all that and in his secret mind it troubled him greatly. End of chapter. Book three, chapter four of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. This Libra Box recording is in the public domain. Recording by Richard Reiman, audiblyspeaking.com. Calm in storm. Dr. Manette did not return until the morning of the fourth day of his absence. So much of what had happened in that dreadful time as could be kept from the knowledge of Lucy was so well concealed from her that not until long afterwards, when France and she were far apart, did she know that 1,100 defenseless prisoners of both sexes and all ages had been killed by the populace, that four days and nights had been darkened by this deed of horror and that the air around her had been tainted by the slain. She only knew that there had been an attack upon the prisons, that all political prisoners had been in danger and that some had been dragged out by the crowd and murdered. To Mr. Laurie, the doctor communicated under an injunction of secrecy on which he had no need to dwell that the crowd had taken him through a scene of carnage to the prison of the force. That in the prison he had found a self-appointed tribunal sitting before which the prisoners were brought singly and by which they were rapidly ordered to be put forth to be massacred or to be released or in a few cases to be sent back to their cells. That presented by his conductors to this tribunal. He had announced himself by name and profession as having been for 18 years a secret and unaccused prisoner in the Bastille that one of the bodies so sitting in judgment had risen and identified him and that this man was the farch. That hereupon he had ascertained through the registers on the table that his son-in-law was among the living prisoners and had pleaded hard to the tribunal of whom some members were asleep and some awake, some dirty with murder and some clean, some sober and some not, for his life and liberty. That in the first frantic greetings lavished on himself as a notable sufferer under the overthrown system, it had been accorded to him to have Charles Darne brought before the lawless court and examined. That he seemed on the point of being at once released when the tide in his favor met with some unexplained check, not intelligible to the doctor, which led to a few words of secret conference. That the man sitting as president had then informed Dr. Manette that the prisoner must remain in custody but should for his sake be held in violet in safe custody. That immediately on a signal, the prisoner was removed to the interior of the prison again, but that he, the doctor, had then so strongly pleaded for permission to remain and assured himself that his son-in-law was, through no malice or mischance, delivered to the concourse whose murderous yells outside the gate had often drowned the proceedings that he had obtained the permission and had remained in that hall of blood until the danger was over. The sights he had seen there with brief snatches of food and sleep by intervals shall remain untold. The mad joy over the prisoners who were saved had astounded him scarcely less than the mad ferocity against those who were cut to pieces. One prisoner there was, he said, who had been discharged into the street free but at whom a mistaken savage had thrust a pike as he passed out. Being besought to go to him and dress the wound, the doctor had passed out at the same gate and had found him in the arms of a company of Samaritans who were seated on the bodies of their victims. With an inconsistency as monstrous as anything in this awful nightmare, they had helped the healer and tended the wounded man with the gentlest solicitude, had made a litter for him and escorted him carefully from the spot, had then caught up their weapons and plunged anew into butchery so dreadful that the doctor had covered his eyes with his hands and swooned away in the midst of it. As Mr. Lorry received these confidences and as he watched the face of his friend now 62 years of age, a misgiving arose within him that such dread experiences would revive the old danger. But he had never seen his friend in his present aspect. He had never at all known him in his present character. For the first time, the doctor felt now that his suffering was strength and power. For the first time he felt that in that sharp fire he had slowly forged the iron which could break the prison door of his daughter's husband and deliver him. It all tended to a good end, my friend. It was not mere waste and ruin. As my beloved child was helpful in restoring me to myself, I will be helpful now in restoring the dearest part of herself to her. By the aid of heaven I will do it. Thus, Dr. Minette. And when Jarvis Lorry saw the kindled eyes, the resolute face, the calm, strong-looking bearing of the man whose life always seemed to him to have been stopped like a clock for so many years and then set going again with an energy which had lain dormant during the cessation of its usefulness, he believed. Greater things than the doctor had at that time to contend with would have yielded before his persevering purpose. While he kept himself in his place as a physician whose business was with all degrees of mankind, bond and free, rich and poor, bad and good, he used his personal influence so wisely that he was soon the inspecting physician of three prisons and among them of La Force. He could now assure Lucy that her husband was no longer confined alone but was mixed with the general body of prisoners. He saw her husband weakly and brought sweet messages to her straight from 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 immigrants who were known to have made friends or permanent connections abroad. This new life of the doctors was an anxious life, no doubt. Still, the sagacious Mr. Lori 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' ultimate safety and deliverance, he became so far exalted by the change that he took the lead in direction and required them as the weak to trust him as the strong. The preceding relative positions of himself and Lucy were reversed, yet only as the liveliest gratitude and affection could reverse them, for he could have had no pride in rendering some service to her who had rendered so much to him. All curious to see, thought Mr. Lori 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. 300,000 men summoned to rise against the tyrants of the earth rose from all the varying soils of France as if the dragon's teeth had been sown broadcast and had yielded 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 olive grounds and among the crop 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, the deluge rising from below, not falling from above and with the winds 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 regularly as when time was young and the evening and 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 of imprisoned widowhood and misery to turn it gray. 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 40 or 50,000 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 they 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 the hair from turning gray. It imparted a peculiar delicacy to the complexion. It was the national razor which shaved close. Who kissed the 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 when the occasion wanted it. It hushed the eloquent, struck down the powerful, abolished the beautiful and good. 22 friends of high public mark, 21 living and one dead, it had locked 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 brew 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 Lucy'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 wintery 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 Bastille 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 18 years before or were a spirit moving among mortals. End of chapter. Book three, chapter five of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Richard Reimann, audiblyspeaking.com. The Wood Sawyer. One year and three months. During all that time, Lucy 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 tumbrels 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, oh 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 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 San 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. Everything had its appointed place and its appointed time. Little Lucy 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. She did not greatly alter in appearance. The plain dark dresses, akin to morning dresses, which she and her child wore were as neat and as well attended to as the brighter clothes of happy days. She lost her color and the old and intent expression was a constant, not an occasional 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 Lucy. 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. 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. 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 everybody. Walking here again, citizeness. You see me, citizen? The wood-soyer 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 10 fingers before his face to represent bars, peeped through them jockeously. But it's not my business, said he and went on sighing 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, child, too. Your mother, is it not my little citizeness? Do I say yes, mama? Whispered little Lucy, drawing close to her. Yes, dearest. Yes, citizen. Ah, but it's not my business. My work is my business. See my saw.  La, la, la, la, la, la.  The billet fell as he spoke, and he threw it into a basket. I call myself the Samson of the Firewood guillotine. See here again. La, la, la, la, la, la, la.  Now a child. Pickle, pickle, pickle, pickle.  All the family. Lucy 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. Then, fourth, 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 and gazing at the prison roof 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, Lucy 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 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. The miserable shop of the wood-soyer was so small that its whole surface furnished very indifferent space for this legend. He had got somebody to scrawl it up for him, however, who had squeezed death in with most inappropriate difficulty. On his house top, he displayed pike and cap as a good citizen must, and in a window he had stationed his saw inscribed as little sock 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 Lucy 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 afterwards and a throng of people came pouring round the corner by the prison wall, in the midst of whom was the wood-soyer, hand in hand with the vengeance. There could not be fewer than 500 people, and they were dancing like 5,000 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 and unison. Men and women danced together, women danced together, men danced together as hazard had brought them together. At first they were a mere storm of coarse redcaps and coarse woolen rags, but as they filled the place and stopped to dance about Lucy, some ghastly apparition of a dance figure gone raving mad or rose among them. They advanced, retreated, struck at one another's hands, clutched at one another's heads, spun round alone, caught one another and spun round in pairs, until many of them dropped. While those were down, the rest linked hand in hand and all spun round together. Then the ring broke and in separate rings of two and four, they turned and turned until they all stopped at once. They began again, struck, clutched and tore, and then reversed the spin and all spun round another way.  No fight could have been half so terrible as this dance. It was so emphatically a fallen sport, a something once innocent delivered over to all devilry. A healthy pastime changed into a means of angering the blood, bewildering the senses and stealing the heart. Such grace as was visible in it made it the uglier, showing how warped and perverted all things good by nature were become. The maidenly bosom bared to this, the pretty almost child's head thus distracted, the delicate foot mincing in this slough of blood and dirt were types of the disjointed time. This was the carmen yaw. As it passed, leaving Lucy frightened and bewildered in the doorway of the wood sawyer's house, the feathery snow fell as quietly and lay as white and soft as if it had never been. Oh, my father! For he stood before her when she lifted out the eyes she had momentarily 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 I came to tell you, there is no one here to see.  I do so, father, and I send him my soul with it. You cannot see him, my poor dear? No. A footstep in the snow, Madame Defarge. I salute you, citizeness, from the doctor. I salute you, citizen, this in passing, nothing more.  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 tomorrow. For tomorrow? 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 tomorrow and removed to the conciergeery. I have timely information. You are not afraid? She could scarcely answer. I trust in you. Do so implicitly. Your suspense has nearly ended, my darling. He shall be restored to you within a few hours. I have encompassed him with every protection. I must see Laurie. He stopped. There was a heavy lumbering of wheels within hearing. They both knew too well what it meant. One, two, three. Three tumbles faring away with their dread loads over the hushing snow. I must see Laurie, the doctor repeated, turning her another way. The staunch old gentleman was still in his trust, had never left it. He and his books were in frequent requisition as to property confiscated and made national. What he could say for the owners, he saved. No better man living to hold fast by what Telsons had in keeping and to hold his peace. A murky red and yellow sky and a rising mist from the sun denoted the approach of darkness. It was almost dark when they arrived at the bank. The stately residence of Monsignor was altogether blighted and deserted. Above a heap of dust and ashes in the court ran the letters national property. Republic won and indivisible. Liberty, equality, fraternity or death. Who could that be with Mr. Laurie, the owner of the writing coat upon the chair who must 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 towards the door of the room from which he had issued? He said, remove to the conciergery and summon for tomorrow. End of chapter. Book three, chapter six of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Richard Reiman, audiblyspeaking.com. 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 piper, you inside there. Charles Evrimand called Darnay. So at last began the evening piper 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 Evrimand 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 23 names but only 20 were responded to for one of the prisoners so summoned had died in jail and been forgotten and two had already been 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 Forvitz and a little concert for that evening. They crowded to the grates and shed tears there but 20 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 the 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 concierge area was short and dark the night in its vermin haunted cells was long and cold. Next day 15 prisoners were put to the bar before Charles Darnay's name was called. All the 15 were condemned and the trials of the whole occupied an hour and a half. Charles Evremond called Darnay was at length arraigned. His judges sat upon the bench and feathered hats but the rough red cap and tri-colored cockade was the headdress 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 the 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 met since his arrival at the barrier, but whom he directly remembered as the farge. 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 towards 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 Dr. Manette in his usual quiet dress. As well as the prisoner could see he and Mr. Laurie were the only men there unconnected with the tribunal who wore their usual clothes and had not assumed the coarse garb of the Carmen y'all. Charles Evrimand called Darnay was accused by the public prosecutor as an immigrant whose life was forfeit to the Republic under the decree which banished all immigrants 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.  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 immigrant then? What did he call himself? Not an immigrant 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 immigrant in the present acceptation by the tribunal was in use to live by his own industry in England rather than on the industry of the Oberladen people of France. What proof had he of this? He handed in the names of two witnesses, Theophile Gabel and Alexandre Manette. But he had married in England, the president reminded him. True, but not an English woman. A citizeness of France? Yes, by birth. Her name and family. Lucy Manette, only daughter of Dr. Manette, the good physician who sits there. This answer had a happy effect upon the audience. Cries in exaltation of the well-known good physician rent the hall. So capriciously where the people moved that tears immediately rolled down several ferocious countenances which had been glaring at the prisoner a moment before as if with impatience to pluck him out into the streets and kill him. On these few steps of his dangerous way, Charles Darnay had set his foot according to Dr. Manette's reiterated instructions. The same cautious counsel directed every step that lay before him and had prepared every inch of his road. The president asked why had he returned to France when he did and not sooner? He had not returned sooner, he replied, simply because he had no means of living in France, save those he had resigned. Whereas in England, he lived by giving instruction in the French language and literature. He had returned when he did on the pressing and written in treaty of a French citizen who represented that his life was endangered by his absence. He had come back to save a citizen's life and to bear his testimony at whatever personal hazard to the truth was that criminal in the eyes of the Republic? The populace cried enthusiastically, no, and the president rang his bell to quiet them, which it did not for they continued to cry no until they left off of their own will. The president required the name of that citizen. The accused explained that the citizen was his first witness. He also referred with confidence to the citizen's letter which had been taken from him at the barrier, but which he did not doubt would be found among the papers then before the president. The doctor had taken care that it should be there, had assured him that it would be there and at this stage of the proceedings it was produced and read. Citizen Gavel was called to confirm it and did so. Citizen Gavel hinted with infinite delicacy and politeness that in the pressure of business imposed by the multitude of enemies of the Republic with which it had to deal, he had been slightly overlooked in his prison of the Abbey. In fact, had rather passed out of the tribunal's patriotic remembrance until three days ago when he had been summoned before it and had been set at liberty on the juries declaring themselves satisfied that the accusation against him was answered as to himself by the surrender of the citizen Evrimand called Darnay. Dr. Manette was next questioned. His high personal popularity and the clearness of his answers made a great impression. But as he proceeded, as he showed that the accused was his first friend on his release from his long imprisonment, that the accused had remained in England always faithful and devoted to his daughter and himself in their exile. That so far from being in favor with the aristocrat government there, he had actually been tried for his life by it as the foe of England and friend of the United States. As he brought these circumstances into view with the greatest discretion and with the straightforward force of truth and earnestness, the jury and the populace became one. At last, when he appealed by name to mature Laurie, an English gentleman then in their presence who like himself had been a witness on that English trial and could corroborate his account of it, the jury declared that they had heard enough and that they were ready with their votes if the president were content to receive them. At every vote, the jury man voted aloud and individually. The populace set up a shout of applause. All the voices were in the prisoner's favor and the president declared him free. Then began one of those extraordinary scenes with which the populace sometimes gratified their fickleness or their better impulses towards generosity and mercy or which they regarded as some set off against their swollen account of cruel rage. No man can decide now to which of these motives such extraordinary scenes were referable. It is probable to a blending all the three with the second predominating. No sooner was the acquittal pronounced, then tears were shed as freely as blood at another time and such fraternal embraces were bestowed upon the prisoner by as many of both sexes as could rush at him that after his long and unwholesome confinement, he was in danger of fainting from exhaustion. Nonetheless, he knew very well that the very same people carried by another current would have rushed at him with the very same intensity to rend him to pieces and strew him over the streets. His removal to make way for other accused persons who were to be tried rescued him from these caresses for the moment. Five were to be tried together next as enemies of the Republic for as much as they had not assisted it by word or deed. So quick was the tribunal to compensate itself and the nation for a chance lost that these five came down to him before he left the place condemned to die within 24 hours. The first of them told him so with the customary prison sign of death, a raised finger and they all added in words, long live the Republic. The five had had it is true, no audience to lengthen their proceedings for when he and Dr. Minette emerged from the gate, there was a great crowd about it in which there seemed to be every face he had seen in court except two for which he looked in vain. On his coming out, the concourse made at him a new weeping, embracing and shouting all by turns and altogether until the very tide of the river on the bank of which the mad scene was acted seemed to run mad like the people on the shore. They put him into a great chair they had among them in which they had taken either out of the court itself or one of its rooms or passages. Over a chair, they had thrown a red flag and to the back of it, they had bound a pike with a red cap on its top. In this car of triumph, not even the doctors and treaties could prevent his being carried to his home on men's shoulders with a confused sea of red caps heaving about him and casting up to sight from the stormy deep, such wrecks of faces that he more than once misdoubted his mind being in confusion and that he was in the tumble on his way to the guillotine. In wild dreamlike procession, embracing whom they met and pointing him out, they carried him on, reddening the snowy streets with the prevailing Republican color in winding and tramping through them as they had reddened them below the snow with a deeper dye, they carried him thus into the courtyard of the building where he lived.  As he held her to his heart and turned her beautiful head between his face and the brawling crowd so that his tears and her lips might come together unseen, a few of the people fell to dancing. Instantly, all the rest fell to dancing and the courtyard overflowed with the carmagnale. Then they elevated into the vacant chair a young woman from the crowd to be carried as the goddess of liberty and then swelling and overflowing out into the adjacent streets and along the river's bank and over the bridge, the carmagnale absorbed them, everyone, and whirled them away. After grasping the doctor's hand as he stood victorious and proud before him, after grasping the hand of Mr. Lori who came panting in breathless from his struggle against the waterspout of the carmagnale, after kissing little Lucy who was lifted up to clasp her arms around his neck and after embracing the ever zealous and faithful cross who lifted her, he took his wife in his arms and carried her up to their rooms. Lucy, my own, I am safe. Oh, 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.  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. End of CHAPTER Book III. CHAPTER VII. OF A TALE OF TWO CITIES. BY CHARLES STICKENS. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Richard Griman, audiblyspeaking.com. A knock at the door. I have 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 105 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 offense to the people but because they were not rich and Charles throughout his imprisonment had to pay heavily for his bad food and for his guard and towards the living of the poorer prisoners. Partly on this account and partly to avoid a domestic spy, they kept no servant. The citizen and citizeness who acted as porters at the courtyard gate rendered them occasional service and Jerry almost wholly transferred to them by Mr. Laurie 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 doorpost down below and as the afternoon shadows deepen, the owner of that name himself appeared from overlooking a painter whom Dr. Minette had employed to add to the list the name of Charles Evrymond 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, Ms. Prost 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 Ms. Prost through her long association with the 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 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 shopkeeper 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 Ms. Prost whose eyes were red with felicity. If you are ready, I am. Jerry Horsley professed himself at Ms. Prost's service.  There's all manner of things wanted, said Ms. Prost, and we shall have a precious time of it. We want wine among the rest. Nice toasts these red heads 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 oldens. Who's he? said Ms. Prost. Mr. Cruncher with some diffidence explained himself as meaning old nicks. Ha! said Ms. Prost. 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 Lucy. Yes, yes, yes, I'll be cautious, said Ms. Prost. But I may say among ourselves that I do hope there will be no oniony and tobacco-y smotherings in the form of embracings all round going on in the streets.  Take care of your 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, Dr. Minet, 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 Ms. Prost. Hush, dear, again, Lucy remonstrated. Well, my sweet, said Ms. Prost, nodding her head emphatically, the short and the long of it is that I am a subject of his most gracious majesty, King George III, Ms. Prost's curtsied at the name. And as such, my maxim is confound their politics, frustrate their neighbor's tricks, on him our hopes we fix, God save the king. Mr. Cruncher, in an access of loyalty, growlingly repeated the words after Ms. Prost, like somebody at church. I am glad you have so much of the Englishmen in you, though I wish you had never taken that cold in your voice, said Ms. Prost approvingly. But the question, Dr. Minet, is there, it was the good creature's way to effect 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. Hi ho, hum, said Ms. Prost, cheerfully repressing a sigh, as she glanced at her darling's golden hair in the light of the fire. 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, Lady Bird.  Ms. Prost had lighted the lamp, but had put it aside in a corner that they might enjoy the firelight undisturbed. Little Lucy 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 Lucy 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 Lucy, 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.  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 four rough men in red caps, armed with sabers and pistols, entered the room. The citizen Evrimand, called Darnay, said the first. Who seeks him? answered Darnay. I seek him. We seek him. I know you, Evrimand. I saw you before the tribunal today. You are again the prisoner of the Republic. The force surrounded him, where he stood with his wife and child clinging to him. Tell me how and why am I again a prisoner? It is enough that you return straight to the conciergeery and we'll know tomorrow. You are summoned for tomorrow. Dr. Manette, who misvisitation 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 urgently by the loose front of his red woolen 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 his question to me then? How does this happen? Citizen doctor, said the first reluctantly. He has been denounced to the section of San Antoine. This citizen, pointing out the second who had entered, is from San Antoine. The citizen here indicated, nodded his head and added, he is accused by San Antoine. 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. Every month 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 San 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 San Antoine with a strange look. You will be answered tomorrow. Now I am dumb. End of chapter. Book three, chapter eight of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Richard Reiman, oddlyspeaking.com. A hand at cards. Happily unconscious of the new calamity at home, Miss Prost threaded her way along the narrow streets and crossed the river by the bridge of the Potnif, 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 and to 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 or the national razors shaved him close. Having purchased a few small articles of grocery and a measure of oil for the lamp, Miss Prost befought 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 Prost resorted to the good Republican Brutus of antiquity attended by her Cavalier. Slightly observant of the smoky lights of the people, pipe and mouth, plain with limp cards and yellow dominoes, of the one bare-breasted, bare-armed, soot-begrined workmen 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 chaggy black Spencer look 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 Prost. No sooner did he face her than Miss Prost 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 valuable and loud, would have been as much Hebrew or Chaldean to Miss Prost 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 Prost lost in amazement and agitation, but Mr. Cruncher, though it seemed on his own separate and individual account was in a state of the greatest wonder. What is the matter, said the man who had caused Miss Prost to scream, speaking in a vexed abrupt voice though in a low tone and in English. Oh Solomon, do you Solomon? cried Miss Prost, clasping her hands again. After not setting eyes upon you or hearing 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. Brother, brother. cried Miss Prost, bursting into tears.  That hold your meddlesome tongue, said Solomon, and come out if you want to speak to me. Pay for your wine and come out. Who's this man? Miss Prost, shaking her loving and dejected head at her by no means affectionate brother, said through tears, Mr. Cruncher. Let him come out too, said Solomon. Does he think me a ghost? Apparently, Mr. Cruncher did to judge from his looks. He said not a word, however, and Miss Prost, exploring the depths of her reticule through her tears with great difficulty, paid for her wine. As she did so, Solomon turned to the followers of the good Republican Brutus of Antiquity and offered a few words of explanation in the French language, which caused them all to relapse into their former places and pursuits. Now, said Solomon, stopping at the dark street corner. What do you want? How dreadfully unkind in a brother nothing has ever turned my love away from. cried Miss Prost. To give me such a greeting and show me no affection. There, confounded, there, said Solomon, making a dab at Miss Prost's lips with his own. Now are you content? Miss Prost only shook her head and wept in silence. If you expect me to be surprised, said her brother Solomon. I am not surprised. I knew you were here. I know of most people who are here. If you really don't want to endanger my existence, which I have to believe you do, go your ways as soon as possible and let me go mine. I am busy. I am an official. My English brother Solomon, mourned Miss Prost, casting up her tear-fraught eyes, that had the makings in him of one of the best and greatest of men in his native country, an official among foreigners and such foreigners. I would almost sooner have seen the dear boy lying in his. I said so, cried her brother, interrupting. I knew it. You want to be the death of me. I shall be rendered suspected by my own sister, just as I am getting on. The gracious and merciful heavens forbid, cried Miss Prost.  Say but one affectionate word to me and tell me there is nothing angry or estranged between us and I will detain you no longer. Good Miss Prost, as if the estrangement between them had come of any culpability of hers. As if Mr. Laurie had not known it for a fact years ago in the quiet corner of Soho, that this precious brother had spent her money and left her. He was saying the affectionate word, however, with a far more grudging condescension and patronage than he could have shown if their relative merits and positions had been reversed, which is invariably the case all the world over. When Mr. Cruncher, touching him on the shoulder, hoarsely and unexpectedly interposed with the following singular question. I sigh, might I ask the favor, as to whether your name is John Solomon or Solomon John. The official turned towards him with sudden distrust. He had not previously uttered a word. Come, said Mr. Cruncher, speak out, you know. Which, by the way, was more than he could do himself. John Solomon or Solomon John? She calls you Solomon and she must know being your sister and I know you're John, you know. Which of the two goes first? And regarding that name of Prost likewise, that wasn't your name over the water. What do you mean? Well, I don't know all I mean, for I can't call to mind what your name was over the water. No, no, but I'll swear it was a name of two syllables. Indeed, yes, to other ones was one syllable. I know you, you was a spy, witness at the Bailey. What in the name of the father of lies, own father to yourself, was you called at that time? Bar said, said another voice, striking in. That's the name for a thousand pound, cried Jerry. The speaker who struck in was Sidney Carton. He had his hands behind him under the skirts of his writing coat and he stood at Mr. Cruncher's elbow as negligently as he might've stood at the old Bailey itself. Don't be alarmed, my dear Miss Prost. I arrived at Mr. Laurie's to his surprise yesterday evening. We agreed that I would not present myself elsewhere until all was well or unless I could be useful. I present myself here to beg a little talk with your brother. I wish you had a better employed brother than Mr. Barsad. I wish for your sake, Mr. Barsad was not a sheep of the prisons. Sheep was a can't word of the time for a spy under the jailers. The spy who was pale turned paler and asked him how he dared. I'll tell you, said Sidney. I lighted on you, Mr. Barsad, coming out of the prison of the conciergeery while I was contemplating the walls an hour or more ago. You have a face to be remembered and I remember face as well. Made curious by seeing you in that connection and having a reason to which you are no stranger for associating you with the misfortunes of a friend now very unfortunate. I walked in your direction. I walked into the wine shop here and sat near you. I had no difficulty introducing from your unreserved conversation and the rumor openly going about among your admirers the nature of your calling. And gradually what I had done at random seemed to shape itself into a purpose, Mr. Barsad. What purpose, the spy asked. It would be troublesome and might be dangerous to explain in the street. Could you favor me in confidence with some minutes of your company at the office of Telsen's bank, for instance? Under a threat? Oh, did I say that? Then why should I go there? Really, Mr. Barsad, I can't say if you can't. Do you mean that you won't say, sir? The spy irresolutely asked. You apprehend me very clearly, Mr. Barsad. I won't. Carton's negligent recklessness of manner came powerfully in aid of his quickness and skill in such a business as he had in his secret mind and with such a man as he had to do with. His practiced eyes saw it and made the most of it.  If any trouble comes of this, it's your doing. Come down, Mr. Barsad, exclaimed Sidney. Don't be ungrateful. But for my great respect for your sister, I might not have let up so pleasantly to a little proposal that I wish to make for our mutual satisfaction. Do you go with me to the bank? I'll hear what you have got to say. Yes, I'll go with you. I propose that we first conduct your sister safely to the corner of her own street. Let me take your arm, Miss Pross. This is not a good city at this time for you to be out in, unprotected. And as your escort knows Mr. Barsad, I will invite him to Mr. Lori's with us. Are we ready? Come then. Miss Pross recalled soon afterwards and to the end of her life remembered that as she pressed her hands on Sidney's arm and looked up in his face, imploring him to do no hurt to Solomon, there was a braced purpose in the arm and a kind of inspiration in the eyes which not only contradicted his light manner but changed and raised the man. She was too much occupied then with fears for the brother who so little deserved her affection and with Sidney's friendly reassurances adequately to heed what she observed. They left her at the corner of the street and Carton led the way to Mr. Lori's which was within a few minutes walk. John Barsad or Solomon Pross walked at his side. Mr. Lori had just finished his dinner and was sitting before a cheery little log or two of fire, perhaps looking into their blaze for the picture of that younger elderly gentleman from Telsons who had looked into the red coals at the Royal George at Dover, now a good many years ago. He turned his head as they entered and showed the surprise with which he saw a stranger. Miss Pross's brother served said Sidney, Mr. Barsad. Repeated the old gentleman, Barsad, I have an association with the name and with the face.  As he took a chair himself, he supplied the link that Mr. Lori wanted by saying to him with a frown, witness at that trial. Mr. Lori immediately remembered and regarded his new visitor with an undisguised look of abhorrence. Mr. Barsad has been recognized by Miss Pross as the affectionate brother you have heard of, said Sidney, and has acknowledged the relationship. I pass to worse news. Darnay has been arrested again. Struck with consternation, the old gentleman exclaimed, What did you tell me? I left him safe and free within these two hours and I'm about to return to him. Arrested for all that. When was it done, Mr. Barsad? Just now, if at all. Mr. Barsad is the best authority possible, sir, said Sidney, and I have it from Mr. Barsad's communication to a friend and brother's sheep over a bottle of wine that the arrest has taken place. He left the messengers at the gate and saw them admitted by the porter. There is no earthly doubt that he is retaken. Mr. Laurie's business eye read in the speaker's face that it was loss of time to dwell upon the point. Confused but sensible that something might depend on his presence of mind, he commanded himself and was silently attentive. Now I trust, said Sidney to him, that the name and influence of Dr. Manette may stand him in his good stead tomorrow. You said he would be before the tribunal again tomorrow, Mr. Barsad. Yes, I believe so. In his good stead tomorrow as today, but it may not be so. I own to you I am shaken, Mr. Laurie, by Dr. Manette not having had the power to prevent this arrest. He may not have known of it beforehand, said Mr. Laurie, but that very circumstance would be alarming when we remember how identified he is with his son-in-law.  In short, said Sidney, this is a desperate time when desperate games are played for desperate stakes. Let the doctor play the winning game. I will play the losing one. No man's life here is worth purchase. Anyone carried home by the people today may be condemned tomorrow. Now the stake I have resolved to play for, in case of the worst, is a friend in the conciergery. And the friend I purpose to myself to win is Mr. Barsad. You need have good cards, sir, said the spy. I'll run them over. I'll see what I hold. Mr. Laurie, you know what a brute I am. I wish you'd give me a little brandy. It was put before him and he drank off a glassful, drank off another glassful, pushed the bottle thoughtfully away. Mr. Barsad, he went on in the tone of the one who really was looking over a hand at cards. Sheep of the prisons, emissary of Republican committees, now turnkey, now prisoner, always spy and secret informer. So much the more valuable here for being English that an Englishman is less open to suspicion of subordination in those characters than a Frenchman, represents himself to his employers under a false name. That's a very good card. Mr. Barsad, now in the employ of the Republican French government, was formerly in the employ of the aristocratic English government, the enemy of France and freedom. That's an excellent card. Inference, clear as day in this region of suspicion that Mr. Barsad, still in the pay of the aristocratic English government, is the spy of Pitt, the treacherous foe of the Republic, crouching in its bosom, the English traitor and agent of all mischief, so much spoken of and so difficult to find. That's a card not to be beaten. Have you followed my hand, Mr. Barsad? Not to understand your ply, returned the spy somewhat uneasily. I play my ace, denunciation of Mr. Barsad to the nearest section committee. Look over your hand, Mr. Barsad, and see what you have. Don't hurry. He drew the bottle near, poured out another glassful of Randy and drank it off. He saw that the spy was fearful of his drinking himself into a fit state for the immediate denunciation of him. Seeing it, he poured out and drank another glassful. Look over your hand carefully, Mr. Barsad. Take time. It was a poorer hand than he suspected. Mr. Barsad saw losing cards in it that Sidney Carton knew nothing of, thrown out of his honorable employment in England through too much unsuccessful hard swearing there, not because he was not wanted there. Our English reasons for wanting our superiority to secrecy in spies are a very modern date. He knew that he had crossed the channel and accepted service in France, first as a tempter and an eavesdropper among his own countrymen there. Gradually, as a tempter and an eavesdropper among the natives. He knew that under the overthrown government, he had been a spy upon San Antoine and Defarge's wine shop, had received from the Latchwell police such heads of information concerning Dr. Minnet's imprisonment, release and history, as should serve him for an introduction to familiar conversation with the Defarges and tried them on Madame Defarge and had broken down with them signally. He always remembered with fearing trembling that that terrible woman had knitted when he talked with her and had looked ominously at him as her fingers moved. He had seen her in the section of San Antoine over and over again produce her knitted registers and denounced people whose lives the guillotine then surely swallowed up. He knew as everyone employed as he was did that he was never safe, that flight was impossible, that he was tied fast under the shadow of the axe and that in spite of his utmost tug-of-versation and treachery and furtherance of the reigning terror a word might bring it down upon him. Once denounced and on such grave grounds as had just now been suggested to his mind he foresaw that the dreadful woman of whose unrelenting character he had seen many proofs would produce against him that fatal register and would quash his last chance of life. Besides that, all secret men are men soon terrified. Here were surely cards enough of one black suit to justify the holder in growing rather livid as he turned them over. You scarcely seem to like your hand, said Sidney, with the greatest composure. Do you play? I think, sir, said the spy in the meanest manner as he turned to Mr. Laurie. I may appeal to a gentleman of your years and benevolence to put it to this other gentleman so much your junior, whether he can, under any circumstances, reconcile it to his station to play that ace of which he has spoken. I admit that I am a spy and that it is considered a discreditable station though it must be filled by somebody. But this gentleman is no spy and why should he so demean himself as to make himself one? I play my ace, Mr. Barsad, said Garten, taking the answer on himself and looking at his watch without any scruple in a very few minutes. I should have hoped, gentlemen, both, said the spy, always striving to hook Mr. Laurie into the discussion that your respect for my sister, I could not better testify my respect for your sister than by finally relieving her of her brother, said Sidney Carton. You think not, sir? I have thoroughly made up my mind about it. The smooth manner of the spy, curiously in dissonance with his ostentatiously rough dress and probably with his usual demeanor, received such a check from the inscrutability of Carton who was a mystery to wiser and honester men than he that it faltered here and failed him. While he was at a loss, Carton said, resuming his former heir of contemplating cards, and indeed, now I think again, I have a stronger impression that I have another good card here, not yet enumerated, that friend and fellow sheep who spoke of himself as pasturing in the country prisons, who was he? French, you don't know him, said the spy quickly. French, repeated Carton, music, and not appearing to notice him at all, though he echoed his word. Well, he may be, is I assure you, said the spy, though it is not important. Though it's not important, repeated Carton, in the same mechanical way. Though it's not important. No, it's not important. No, yet I know the face. I think not, I am sure not. It can't be, said the spy. It can't be, muttered, said the Carton, retrospectively and idling his glass, which fortunately was a small one, again. Can't be, spoke good French, yet like a foreigner, I thought. Provincial, said the spy. No, foreign, cried Carton, striking his open hand on the table, as a light broke clearly on his mind. Cly, disguised but the same man, we had that man before us at the Old Bailey.  There you really give me an advantage over you. Cly, who I will unreservedly admit at this distance of time, was a partner of mine, has been dead several years. I attended him in his last illness. He was buried in London, at the Church of St. Pancras in the Fields. His unpopularity with the blaggard multitude at the moment prevented my following his remains, but I helped to lay him in his coffin. Here, Mr. Laurie became aware from where he sat of a most remarkable goblin shadow on the wall. Tracing it to its source, he discovered it to be caused by a sudden, extraordinary rising and stiffening of all the risen and stiff hair on Mr. Cruncher's head. Let us be reasonable, said the spy, and let us be fair to show you how mistaken you are and what an unfounded assumption yours is. I will lay before you a certificate of Cly's burial, which I happened to have carried in my pocketbook, with the hurried hand he produced and opened it ever since. There it is. Oh, look at it, look at it. You may take it in your hand. It's no forgery. Here, Mr. Laurie perceived the reflection on the wall to elongate, and Mr. Cruncher rose and stepped forward. His hair could not have been more violently on end if it had been that moment dressed by the cow with the crumpled horn in the house that Jack built. Unseen by the spy, Mr. Cruncher stood at his side and touched him on the shoulder like a ghostly bailiff. That there, Roger Cly, master, said Mr. Cruncher with a tessiturn and ironbound visage. So you put him in his coffin? I did. Who took him out of it? Barsad leaned back at his chair and stammered. What do you mean? I mean, said Mr. Cruncher, that he were never in it. No, not he. I'll have my head took off if he was ever in it. The spy looked round at the two gentlemen. They both looked in unspeakable astonishment at Jerry.   It was a take-in. Me and two more knows it. How do you know it? What's that to you? Eek, odd, growled Mr. Cruncher. It's you I've got old grudge again, is it, with your shameful impositions upon tridesmen? I catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a guinea. Mr. Carton, who with Mr. Laurie had been lost in amazement at this turn of the business, here requested Mr. Cruncher to moderate and explain himself. At another time, sir, he returned evasively. The present time is inconvenient for explaining. What I stand to is that he knows well what that there Cly was never in that there coffin. Let him say he was in so much as a word of one syllable and I'll either catch hold of his throat and choke him for half a guinea. Mr. Cruncher dwelt upon this as quite a liberal offer or I'll out and announce him. Huh, I see one thing, said Carton. I hold another card, Mr. Barsett. Impossible here in raging Paris with suspicion filling the air for you to outlive denunciation when you are in communication with another aristocratic spy of the same antecedents as yourself, who moreover has the mystery about him of having feigned death and come to life again. A plot in the prisons of the foreigner against the republic. Ooh, a strong card, a certain guillotine card. Do you play? No, return the spy.  I confess that we were so unpopular with the outrageous mob that I only got away from England at the risk of being ducked to death and that Cly was so ferreted up and down that he never would have got away at all, but for that sham, though how this man knows it was a sham is a wonder of wonders to me.  You'll have trouble enough with giving your attention to that gentleman. And look here, once more, Mr. Cruncher could not be restrained from making rather an ostentatious parade of his liberality. I'd catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a guinea. The sheep of the prisons turned from him to Sydney Carton and said with more decision, it has come to a point. I go on duty soon and can't overstay my time.  Now it is of no use asking too much of me. Asked me to do anything in my office, putting my head in great extra danger and I had better trust my life to the chances of a refusal than the chances of consent. In short, I should make that choice. You talk of desperation. We are all desperate here. Remember, I may denounce you if I think proper and I can swear my way through stone walls and soak in others. Now what do you want with me? Not very much.  I tell you once for all, there is no such thing as an escape possible, said the spy firmly. Why need you tell me what I have not asked?  I am sometimes. You can be when you choose. I can pass in and out when I choose. City carton filled another glass with brandy, poured it slowly out upon the hearth and watched it as it dropped. It being all spent, he said, rising, so far we have spoken before these two because it was as well that the merits of the cards should not rest solely between you and me. Come into the dark room here and let us have one final word alone. End of chapter. Book three, chapter nine of A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Richard Reiman, audiblyspeaking.com. The game made. While Sidney Carton and the sheep of the prisons were in the adjoining dark room, speaking so low that not a sound was heard, Mr. Laurie looked at Jerry in considerable doubt and mistrust. That honest tradesman's manner of receiving the look did not inspire confidence. He changed the leg on which he rested, as often as if he had 50 of those limbs and were trying them all. He examined his fingernails with a very questionable closeness of attention and whenever Mr. Laurie's eye caught his, he was taken with that peculiar kind of short cough requiring the hollow of a hand before it, which is seldom, if ever known to be an infirmity, attended on perfect openness of character. Jerry, said Mr. Laurie, come here. Mr. Cruncher came forward sideways with one of his shoulders in advance of him. What have you been besides a messenger? After some cogitation accompanied with an intent look at his patron, Mr. Cruncher conceived the luminous idea of replying, agricultural character. My mind misgives me much, said Mr. Laurie, angrily shaking a forefinger at him, that you have used the respectable and great house of Telsons as a blind and that you have had an unlawful occupation of an infamous description. If you have, don't expect me to befriend you when you get back to England. If you have, don't expect me to keep your secret. Telsons shall not be imposed upon. I hope, sir, pleaded the abashed Mr. Cruncher, that a gentleman like yourself while I've had the honor of odd-jobbing till I'm gray at it, would think twice about harming of me, even if it was so. I don't say it is, but even if it was, and which it is to be took into account, that if it was, it wouldn't even then be all on one side. There'd be two sides to it. There might be medical doctors at the present hour of picking up their guineas where the honest tridesmen don't pick up his fardens. Fardens, no, nor yet his half fardens, half fardens. No, nor yet his quarter, a banking away like smoke at Telsons and a cocky in their medical eyes that that tridesmen on the sly are going in and going out to their own carriages. Ah, equally like smoke, if not more so. Well, that would be imposing too on Telsons, for you cannot sars the goose and not the gander. And here's Mrs. Cruncher, or at least what this was in the old England times, and would be tomorrow if cause given, a flopping again the business to that degree as it's ruinating, start ruinating. Whereas then medical doctors' wives don't flop, catch them at it. Or if they flop, their floppings go in favor of more patients, and how can you rightly have one without to other? Then, what with undertakers and what with parish clerks and what with sextants and what with private watchmen, all avaricious and all in it, a man wouldn't get much by it even if it was so. And what little a man did get would never prosper with him, Mr. Laurie. He'd never have no good of it. He'd want all along to be out of the line if he could see his way out, being once in, even if it was so. Ah, cried Mr. Laurie, rather relenting nevertheless. I am shocked at the sight of you. Now, what I would humbly offer to you, sir, pursued Mr. Cruncher, even if it was so, which I don't say it is. Don't prevaricate, said Mr. Laurie. No, I will not, sir, returned Mr. Cruncher as if nothing were further from his thoughts or practice, which I don't say it is. What I would humbly offer to you, sir, would be this. Upon that there stool at that there bar, sets that there boy of mine, brought up and grown up to be a man.  If it was so, which I still don't say it is, for I will not prevaricate to you, sir, let that there boy keep his father's place and take care of his mother. Don't blow upon that boy's father. Do not do it, sir, and let that father go into the line of the regular digging and make amends for what he would have undug if it was so, by digging of him in with a will and with convictions, respect in the future, keeping of him safe. That, Mr. Laurie, said Mr. Cruncher, wiping his forehead with his arm, as an announcement that he had arrived at the peroration of his discourse, is what I would respectfully offer to you, sir. A man don't see all this here going on dreadful round him in the way of subjects without heads, dear me, plentiful enough for to bring the price down to Porterich and hardly that, without having his serious thoughts of things. And these here would be mine if it was so, in treating of you for to bear in mind that what I said just now, I up and said in a good cause, when I might have kept it back. That at least is true, said Mr. Laurie. Say no more now. It may be that I shall yet stand your friend if you deserve it and repent in action, not in words. I want no more words. Mr. Cruncher knuckled his forehead as Sidney Carton and the spy returned from the dark room. Thank you, Mr. Barsad, said the former. Our arrangement thus made, you have nothing to fear from me. He sat down in a chair on the hearth over against Mr. Laurie. When they were alone, Mr. Laurie asked him what he had done. Not much. If it should go ill with the prisoner, I have ensured access to him once. Mr. Laurie's countenance fell. It is all I could do, said Carton. To propose too much would be to put this man's head under the axe. And as he himself said, nothing worse could happen to him if he were denounced. It was obviously the weakness of the position. There is no help for it. But access to him, said Mr. Laurie, if it should go ill before the tribunal will not save him. I never said it would. Mr. Laurie's eyes gradually sought the fire. His sympathy with his darling and the heavy disappointment of his second arrest gradually weakened them. He was an old man now, overborn with anxiety of late and his tears fell. You are a good man and a true friend, said Carton, in an altered voice. Forgive me if I notice that you are affected. I could not see my father weep and sit by, careless. And I could not respect your sorrow more if you were my father. You are free from that misfortune, however. Though he said the last words with a slip into his usual manner, there was a true feeling in respect, both in his tone and in his touch, that Mr. Laurie, who had never seen the better side of him, was wholly unprepared for. He gave him his hand and Carton gently pressed it. To return to Port Darne, said Carton, don't tell her of this interview or this arrangement. It would not enable her to go to see him. She might think it was contrived in case of the worst to convey to him the means of anticipating the sentence. Mr. Laurie had not thought of that and he looked quickly at Carton to see if it were in his mind. It seemed to be he returned the look and evidently understood it. She might think a thousand things, Carton said, and any of them would only add to her trouble. Don't speak of me to her. As I said to you when I first came, I had better not see her. I can put my hand out to do any little helpful work for her that my hand can find to do without that. You are going to her, I hope. She must be very desolate tonight. I am going now, directly. I am glad of that. She has such a strong attachment to you and reliance on you. How does she look? Anxious and unhappy, but very beautiful. Ah. It was a long grieving sound, like a sigh, almost like a sob. It attracted Mr. Laurie's eyes to Carton's face, which was turned to the fire. A light or a shade, the old gentleman could not have said which, passed from it as swiftly as a change will sweep over a hillside on a wild bright day and he lifted his foot to put back one of the little flaming logs, which was tumbling forward. He wore the white riding coat in top boots, then in vogue, and the light of the fire touching their light surfaces made him look very pale with his long brown hair, all untrimmed, hanging loose about him. His indifference to fire was sufficiently remarkable to elicit a word of remonstrance from Mr. Laurie. His boot was still upon the hot embers of the flaming log when it had broken under the weight of his foot. I forgot it, he said. Mr. Laurie's eyes were again attracted to his face, taking note of the wasted air which clouded the naturally handsome features and having the expression of prisoners' faces fresh in his mind, he was strongly reminded of that expression. And your duties here have drawn to an end, sir, said Carton, turning to him. Yes, as I was telling you last night when Lucy came in so unexpectedly, I have at length done all that I can do here. I hope to have left them in perfect safety and then to have quitted Paris. I have my leave to pass. I was ready to go. They were both silent. Yours is a long life to look back upon, sir, said Carton, wistfully. I am in my 78th year. You have been useful all your life, steadily and constantly occupied, trusted, respected, and looked up to. I have been a man of business ever since I have been a man. Indeed, I may say that I was a man of business when a boy. See what a place you feel at 78. How many people will miss you when you leave it empty? A solitary old bachelor answered Mr. Laurie, shaking his head, there is nobody to weep for me. How can you say that? Wouldn't she weep for you? Wouldn't her child? Yes, yes, thank God. I didn't quite mean what I said. It is a thing to thank God for, is it not? Surely, surely, if you could say with truth to your own solitary heart tonight, I have secured to myself the love and attachment, the gratitude or respect of no human creature. I have won myself a tender place in no regard. I have done nothing good or serviceable to be remembered by. Your 78 years would be 78 heavy curses, would they not? You say truly, Mr. Carton, I think they would be.  Do the days when you sat at your mother's knee seem days of very long ago?  For as I dropped closer and closer to the end, I travel in the circle, nearer and nearer to the beginning. It seems to be one of the kind smoothings and preparings of the way. My heart is touched now by many remembrances that had long fallen asleep of my pretty young mother when I so old and by many associations of the days when what we call the world was not so real with me and my faults were not confirmed in me. I understand the feeling, exclaimed Carton, with a bright flush, and you are the better for it? I hope so. Carton terminated the conversation here by rising to help him on with his outer coat. But you, said Mr. Laurie, reverting to the theme, you are young. Yes, said Carton, I am not old, but my young way was never the way to age, enough of me, I am sure, said Mr. Laurie. Are you going out? I'll walk with you to her gate. You know my vagabond and restless habits.  I shall reappear in the morning. You go to the court tomorrow? Yes, unhappily. I shall be there, but only as one of the crowd. My spy will find a place for me. Take my arm, sir. Mr. Laurie did so and they went downstairs and out in the streets. A few minutes later, brought them to Mr. Laurie's destination. Carton left him there, but lingered at a little distance and turned back to the gate again when it was shut and touched it. He had heard of her going to the prison every day. She came out here, he said, looking about him. Turn this way, must have trod on these stones often. Let me follow in her steps. It was 10 o'clock at night when he stood before the prison of La Force, where she had stood hundreds of times. A little wood Sawyer, having closed his shop, was smoking his pipe at his shop door. Good night, citizen, said Sydney Carton, pausing and going by. For the man, I'd him inquisitively. Good night, citizen. How goes the Republic? You mean the guillotine, not ill? 63 today. We shall mount to a hundred soon. Samson and his men complain sometimes of being exhausted. He is so droll, that Samson, such a barber. Do you often go to see him? Shave? Always, every day. What a barber. You ever seen him at work? Never. Go and see him when he has a good batch. Figure this to yourself, citizen. He shaved the 63 today in less than two pipes. Less than two pipes, word of honor. As the grinning little man held out the pipe he was smoking, to explain how he timed the executioner, Carton was so sensible of a rising desire to strike the life out of him that he turned away. But you are not English, said the wood Sawyer, though you wear English dress. Yes, said Carton, pausing again and answering over his shoulder.  I am an old student here. Aha, a perfect Frenchman. Good night, Englishman. Good night, citizen. But go and see that droll dog the little man persisted, calling after him, and take a pipe with you. Sidney had not gone far out of sight when he stopped in the middle of the street under a glimmering lamp and wrote with his pencil on a scrap of paper. Then traversing with the decided step of one who remembered the way well, several dark and dirty streets, much dirtier than usual for the best public thoroughfares, remained uncleansed in those times of terror. He stopped at a chemist shop which the owner was closing with his own hands. A small, dim crooked shop kept in a tortuous uphill thoroughfare by a small, dim, crooked man. Giving this citizen too good night as he confronted him at his counter, he laid the scrap of paper before him. Shhh, the chemist whistled softly as he read it. Hi, hi, hi. Sidney Carton took no heed and the chemist said, for you, citizen, for me. You will be careful to keep them separate, citizen. You know the consequences of mixing them. Perfectly. Certain small packets were made and given to him. He put them one by one in the breast of his inner coat, counted out the money for them, and deliberately left the shop. There is nothing more to do, said he, glancing upward at the moon until tomorrow. I can't sleep. It was not a reckless manner, the manner in which he said these words aloud under the fast sailing clouds, nor was it more expressive of negligence than defiance. It was the settled manner of a tired man who had wandered and struggled and got lost, but who at length struck into his road and saw its end. Long ago, when he had been famous among his earliest competitors, as a youth of great promise, he had followed his father to the grave.  These solemn words, which had been read at his father's grave, arose in his mind as he went down the dark streets among the heavy shadows, with the moon and the clouds, sailing on high above him. I am the resurrection and the life, sayeth the Lord. He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. And whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die. In a city dominated by the axe alone at night, with natural sorrow rising in him for the 63 who had been that day put to death, and for tomorrow's victims then awaiting their doom in the prisons, and still of tomorrow's and tomorrow's, the chain of association that brought the words home like a rusty old ship's anchor from the deep might have been easily found. He did not seek it, but repeated them and went on. With a solemn interest in the lighted windows where the people were going to rest, forgetful through a few calm hours of the horrors surrounding them. In the towers of the churches where no prayers were said, for the popular revulsion had even traveled that length of self-destruction from years of priestly imposters, plunderers, and profligates. In the distant burial places, reserved as they rode upon the gates for eternal sleep in the abounding jails, and in the streets along which the 60s rolled to a death which had become so common and material that no sorrowful story of a haunting spirit ever arose among the people out of all the working of the guillotine. With a solemn interest in the whole life and death of the city, settling down to its short nightly pause in fury, Sydney Carton crossed the Seine again for the lighter streets. Few coaches were abroad, for riders and coaches were liable to be suspected, and gentility hit its head in red nightcaps and put on heavy shoes and trudged. But the theaters were all well-filled and the people board cheerfully out as he passed and went chatting home. At one of the theater doors, there was a little girl with a mother looking for a way across the street through the mud. He carried the child over and before the timid arm was loosed from his neck, asked her for a kiss. I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord. He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live, and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die. Now that the streets were quiet and the night wore on, the words were in the echoes of his feet and were in the air. Perfectly calm and steady, he sometimes repeated them to himself as he walked, but he heard them always. The night wore out and as he stood upon the bridge, listening to the water as it splashed the river walls of the island of Paris, where the picturesque confusion of houses and cathedral shone bright in the light of the moon, the day came coldly, looking like a dead face out of the sky. Then the night with the moon and the stars turned pale and died, and for a little while, it seemed as if creation were delivered over to death's dominion. But the glorious sun, rising, seemed to strike those words, that burden of the night, straight and warm to his heart in its long bright rays. And looking along them with reverently shaded eyes, a bridge of light appeared to span the air between him and the sun, while the river sparkled under it. The strong tide so swift, so deep, and cert was like a congenial friend in the morning stillness. He walked by the stream far from the houses, and in the light and warmth of the sun, fell asleep on the bank. When he awoke and was afoot again, he lingered there yet a little longer, watching an eddy that turned and turned purposeless until the stream absorbed it and carried it on to the sea, like me. A trading boat with a sail of the softened color of a dead leaf, then glided into his view, floated by him and died away. As its silent track in the water disappeared, the prayer that had broken up out of his heart for a merciful consideration of all his poor blindnesses and errors ended in the words, I am the resurrection and the life. Mr. Laurie was already out when he got back, and it was easy to surmise where the good old man was gone. Sydney carton dragged nothing but a little coffee, ate some bread, and having washed and changed to refresh himself, went out to the place of trial. The court was all a stir and a buzz when the black sheep whom many fell away from in dread pressed him into an obscure corner among the crowd. Mr. Laurie was there, and Dr. Manette was there. She was there, sitting beside her father. When her husband was brought in, she turned to look upon him, so sustaining, so encouraging, so full of admiring love and pitting tenderness, yet so courageous for his sake that it called the healthy blood into his face, brightened his glance, and animated his heart. If there had been any eyes to notice the influence of her look on Sydney carton, it would have been seen to be the same influence exactly. Before that unjust tribunal, there was little or no order of procedure ensuring to any accused person any reasonable hearing. There could have been no such revolution if all laws, forms, and ceremonies had not first been so monstrously abused that the suicidal vengeance of the revolution was to scatter them all to the winds. Every eye was turned to the jury. The same determined Patriots and good Republicans as yesterday and the day before, and tomorrow and the day after. Eager and prominent among them, one man with a craving face and his fingers perpetually hovering about his lips, whose appearance gave great satisfaction to the spectators. A life-thirsting, cannibal-looking, bloody-minded juryman, the Jacques III of San Antoine, the whole jury as a jury of dogs impaneled to try the deer. Every eye then turned to the five judges and the public prosecutor. No favorable leaning in that quarter today. A fell, uncompromising, murderous business meaning there. Every eye then sought some other eye in the crowd and gleamed at it approvingly and hence nodded at one another before bending forward with a strained attention. Charles Evrimand called Darnay, released yesterday, reaccused and retaken yesterday. Indictment delivered to him last night, suspected and denounced enemy of the Republic. Aristocrat, one of a family of tyrants, one of a race proscribed, for that they had used their abolished privileges to the infamous oppression of the people. Charles Evrimand called Darnay, in right of such prescription, absolutely dead in law. To this effect, in as few or fewer words, the public prosecutor. The president asked, was the accused openly denounced or secretly? Openly, president. By whom? Three voices. Ernest Defarge, wine vendor of San Antoine. Good. Therese Defarge, his wife. Good. Alexandre Manette, physician. A great uproar took place in the court and in the midst of it, Dr. Manette was seen pale and trembling, standing where he had been seated. President, I indignantly protest to you that this is a forgery and a fraud. You know the accused to be the husband of my daughter. My daughter and those dear to her are far dearer to me than my life. Who and where is the false conspirator who says that I denounced the husband of my child? Citizen Manette, be tranquil. To fail in submission to the authority of the tribunal would be to put yourself out of law. As to what is dearer to you than life, nothing can be so dear to a good citizen as the Republic. Loud acclamations hailed this rebuke. The president rang his bell and with warmth resumed.  Listen to what is to follow. In the meanwhile, be silent. Frantic acclamations were again raised. Dr. Manette sat down with his eyes looking around and his lips trembling, his daughter drew close to him. The craving man on a jury rubbed his hands together and restored the usual hand to his mouth. Defarge was produced when the court was quiet enough to admit of his being heard and rapidly expounded the story of the imprisonment and of his having been a mere boy in the doctor's service and of the release and of the state of the prisoner when released and delivered to him. This short examination followed for the court was quick with its work. You did good service at the taking of the best deal citizen? I believe so. Here an excited woman screeched from the crowd. You were one of the best patriots there. Why not say so? You were a canineer that day and you were among the first to enter the accursed fortress when it fell. Patriots, I speak the truth. It was the vengeance who amidst the warm commendations of the audience thus assisted the proceedings. The president rang his bell but the vengeance warming with encouragement shrieked, I defy that bell, wherein she was likewise much commended. Inform the tribunal of what you did that day within the best deal citizen. I knew, said Defarge, looking down at his wife who stood at the bottom of the steps on which he was raised, looking steadily up at him. I knew that this prisoner of whom I speak had been confined in a cell known as 105 North Tower. I knew it from himself. He knew himself by no other name than 105 North Tower when he made shoes under my care. As I served my gun that day, I resolved when the place shall fall to examine that cell. It falls. I mount to the cell with a fellow citizen who was one of the jury directed by a jailer. I examine it very closely. In a hole in the chimney where a stone has been worked out and replaced, I find a written paper. This is that written paper. I have made it my business to examine some specimens of the writing of Dr. Minette. This is the writing of Dr. Minette. I confide this paper in the writing of Dr. Minette to the hands of the president. Let it be read. In a dead silence and stillness, the prisoner under trial, looking lovingly at his wife, his wife only looking from him to look with solicitude at her father, Dr. Minette keeping his eyes fixed on the reader, Madam Defarge never taking hers from the prisoner, Defarge never taking his from his feasting wife, and all the other eyes there intent upon the doctor who saw none of them. The paper was read as follows. End of Chapter. Book III. CHAPTER X OF A TALE OF TWO CITIES by Charles Dickens. This Librebox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Richard Reimann, audibly speaking, dot com. THE SUBSTANCE OF THE SHADOW I, Alexandre Minette, unfortunate physician, native of Beauvais, and afterwards resident in Paris, write this melancholy paper in my doleful cell in the Bastille during the last month of the year 1767. I write it at stolen intervals under every difficulty. I design to secret it in the wall of the chimney where I have slowly and laboriously made a place of concealment for it. Some pitting hand may find it there when I and my sorrows are dust. These words are formed by the rusty iron point with which I write with difficulty in scrapings of soot and charcoal from the chimney mixed with blood in the last month of the tenth year of my captivity. Hope has quite departed from my breast. I know from terrible warnings I have noted in myself that my reason will not long remain unimpaired, but I solemnly declare that I am at this time in the possession of my right mind, that my memory is exact and circumstantial, and that I write the truth as I shall answer for these my last recorded words, whether they be ever read by men or not, at the eternal judgment seat. One cloudy moonlit night in the third week of December, I think the twenty-second of the month, in the year 1757, I was walking on a retired part of the quay by the Sain for the refreshment of the frosty air at an hour's distance from my place of residence in the street of the School of Medicine when a carriage came along behind me, driven very fast. As I stood aside to let that carriage pass, apprehensive that it might otherwise run me down, a head was put out at the window and a voice called to the driver to stop. The carriage stopped as soon as the driver could rain in his horses and the same voice called to me by name. I answered. The carriage was then so far in advance of me that two gentlemen had time to open the door and alight before I came up with it. I observed that they were both wrapped in cloaks and appeared to conceal themselves. As they stood side by side near the carriage door, I also observed that they both looked up about my own age or rather younger and that they were greatly alight in stature, manner, voice, and as far as I could see, face two. You are Dr. Manette, said one. I am. Dr. Manette formerly of Beauvais, said the other. The young physician, originally an expert surgeon, who within the last year or two has made a rising reputation in Paris. Gentlemen, I returned. I am that Dr. Manette of whom you speak so graciously. We have been to your residence, said the first, and not being so fortunate as to find you there and being informed that you were probably walking in this direction, we followed in the hope of overtaking you. Will you please to enter the carriage? The manner of both was imperious and they both moved as these words were spoken, so as to place me between themselves and the carriage door. They were armed. I was not. Gentlemen, said I. Pardon me, but I usually inquire who does me the honor to seek my assistance and what is the nature of the case to which I am summoned. The reply to this was made by him who had spoken second. Doctor, your clients are people of condition. As to the nature of the case, our confidence in your skill assures us that you will ascertain it for yourself better than we can describe it. Enough. Will you please to enter the carriage? I could do nothing but comply and I entered it in silence. They both entered after me, the last springing in after putting up the steps. The carriage turned about and drove on at its former speed. I repeat this conversation exactly as it occurred. I have no doubt that it is word for word the same. I describe everything exactly as it took place, constraining my mind not to wander from the task. Where I make the broken marks that follow here, I leave off for the time and put my paper in its hiding place. The carriage left the streets behind, passed the north barrier, and emerged upon the country road. At two-thirds of a league from the barrier, I did not estimate the distance at that time, but afterwards when I traversed it, it struck out of the main avenue and presently stopped at a solitary house. We all three alighted and walked by a damp, soft footpath in a garden where a neglected fountain had overflowed to the door of the house. It was not opened immediately in answer to the ringing of the bell, and one of my two conductors struck the man who opened it with his heavy riding glove across the face. There was nothing in this action to attract my particular attention, for I had seen common people struck more commonly than dogs. But the other of the two being angry likewise, struck the man in like manner with his arm, the look and bearing of the brothers were then so exactly alike that I then perceived them to be twin brothers. From the time of our alighting at the outer gate, which we found locked, and which one of the brothers had opened to admit us and had relocked, I had heard cries proceeding from an upper chamber. I was conducted to this chamber straight, the cries growing louder as we ascended the stairs, and I found a patient in a high fever of the brain lying on a bed. The patient was a woman of great beauty and young, assuredly not much past twenty. Her hair was torn and ragged, and her arms were bound to her sides with sashes and hackerchiefs. I noticed that these bonds were all portions of a gentleman's dress. On one of them, which was a fringe scarf for a dress of ceremony, I saw the armario bearings of a noble, and the letter E. I saw this within the first minute of my contemplation of the patient, for in her restless strivings, she had turned over on her face on the edge of the bed, had drawn the end of the scarf into her mouth, and was in danger of suffocation. My first act was to put out my hand to relieve her breathing, and in moving the scarf aside, the embroidery in the corner caught my sight. I turned her gently over, placed my hands upon her breast to calm her, and keep her down, and looked into her face. Her eyes were dilated and wild, and she constantly uttered piercing shrieks, and repeated the words, my husband, my father, and my brother, and then counted up to twelve and said, hush! For an instant and no more, she would pause to listen, and then the piercing shrieks would begin again, and she would repeat the cry, my husband, my father, and my brother, and would count up to twelve and say, hush! There was no variation in the order or the manner. There was no cessation, but the regular moments pause in the utterance of these sounds. How long, I asked, has this lasted? To distinguish the brothers, I will call them the elder and the younger. By the elder I mean him who exercised the most authority. It was the elder who replied, since about this hour last night, she has a husband, a father, and a brother? A brother. I do not address her brother. He answered with great contempt. No. She has some recent association with the number twelve. The younger brother impatiently rejoined, with twelve o'clock, with twelve o'clock. See, gentlemen, said I, still keeping my hands upon her breast. How useless I am as you have brought me. If I had known what I was coming to see, I could have come provided. As it is, time must be lost. There are no medicines to be obtained in this lonely place. The elder brother looked to the younger, who said haughtily, there is a case of medicines here, and brought it from a closet and put it on the table. I opened some of the bottles, smelt them, and put the stoppers to my lips. If I had wanted to use anything, save narcotic medicines that were poisons in themselves, I would not have administered any of those. Do you doubt them? Ask the younger brother. You seem assure I am going to use them, I replied, and said no more. I made the patient swallow with great difficulty, and after many efforts, the dose that I desired to give. As I intended to repeat it after a while, and as it was necessary to watch its influence, I then sat down by the side of the bed. There was a timid and suppressed woman in attendance, wife of the man downstairs, who had retreated into a corner. The house was damp and decayed, indifferently furnished, evidently recently occupied and temporarily used. Some thick old hangings had been nailed up before the windows to deton the sound of the shrieks. They continued to be uttered in their regular succession, with the cry, my husband, my father, and my brother, the counting up to twelve, and hush. The frenzy was so violent that I had not unfastened the bandages restraining the arms, but I had looked to them to see that they were not painful. The only spark of encouragement in the case was that my hand upon the sufferer's breast had this much soothing influence, that for minutes at a time it tranquilized the figure. It had no effect upon the cries, no pendulum could be more regular. For the reason that my hand had this effect, I assume, I had sat by the side of the bed for half an hour, with the two brothers looking on. Before the elder said, there is another patient. I was startled and asked, is it a pressing case? You had better see, he carelessly answered, and took up a light. The other patient lay in a back room across a second staircase, which was a species of loft over a stable. There was a low plastered ceiling to a part of it. The rest was open to the ridge of the tiled roof, and there were beams across. Hay and straw were stored in that portion of the place, faggots for firing, and a heap of apples in sand. I had to pass through that part to get at the other. My memory is circumstantial and unshaken. I try it with these details, and I see them all, in this my cell in the Bastille, near the close of the tenth year of my captivity, as I saw them all that night. On some hay on the ground, with a cushion thrown under his head, lay a handsome peasant boy, a boy of not more than 17 at the most. He lay on his back with his teeth set, his right hand clenched on his breast, and his glaring eyes looking straight upward. I could not see where his wound was, as I kneeled on one knee over him, but I could see that he was dying of a wound from a sharp point. I am a doctor, my poor fellow, said I. Let me examine it. I do not want it examined, he answered. Let it be. It was under his hand, and I sued him to let me move his hand away. The wound was a sword thrust, received from 20 to 24 hours before, but no skill could have saved him if it had been looked to without delay. He was then dying fast. As I turned my eyes to the elder brother, I saw him looking down at this handsome boy whose life was ebbing out, as if he were a wounded bird or hare or rabbit, not at all as if he were a fellow creature. How has this been done, mature, said I?  There was no touch of pity, sorrow, or kindred humanity in this answer. The speaker seemed to acknowledge that it was inconvenient to have that different order of creature dying there, and that it would have been better if he had died in the usual obscure routine of his vermin kind. He was quite incapable of any compassionate feeling about the boy or about his fate. The boy's eyes had slowly moved to him as he had spoken, and they now slowly move to me. Doctor, they are very proud these nobles, but we common dogs are proud too sometimes.  She, have you seen her, Doctor? The shrieks and the cries were audible there, though subdued by the distance. He referred to them as if she were lying in our presence. I said, I have seen her. She is my sister, Doctor. They have had their shameful rights, these nobles, in the modesty and virtue of our sisters many years, but we have had good girls among us. I know it and have heard my father say so. She was a good girl. She was betrothed to a good young man too, a tenet of his. We were all tenets of his, that man's who stands there. The other is his brother, the worst of a bad race. It was with the greatest difficulty that the boy gathered bodily force to speak, but his spirit spoke with a dreadful emphasis. We were so robbed by that man who stands there as all we common dogs are by those superior beings, taxed by him without mercy, obliged to work for him without pay, obliged to grind our corn at his mill, obliged to feed scores of his tame birds on our wretched crops and forbidden for our lives to keep a single tame bird of our own, pillaged and plundered to that degree that when we chanced to have a bit of meat, we ate it in fear with the door bar and the shutters closed that his people should not see it and take it from us. I say we were so robbed and hunted and were made so poor that our father told us it was a dreadful thing to bring a child into the world and that what we should most pray for was that our women might be barren and our miserable race die out. I had never before seen the sense of being oppressed, bursting forth like a fire. I had supposed that it must be latent in the people somewhere, but I had never seen it break out until I saw it in the dying boy. Never, the last doctor, my sister married. He was ailing at the time poor fellow and she married her lover that she might tend to comfort him in our cottage. Our dog hut, as that man would call it, she had not been married many weeks when that man's brother saw her and admired her and asked that man to lend her to him for what our husband's among us. He was willing enough, but my sister was good and virtuous and hated his brother with a hatred as strong as mine. What did the two then to persuade her husband to use his influence with her to make her willing? The boy's eyes which had been fixed on mine slowly turned to the looker on and I saw in the two faces that all he said was true. The two opposing kinds of pride confronting one another, I can see even in this Bastille, the gentlemen's all negligent indifference, the peasant's all trodden down sentiment and passionate revenge. You know, doctor, that it is among the rights of these nobles to harness us common dogs to carts and drive us. They so harnessed him and drove him. You know that it is among their rights to keep us in the ground all night, quieting the frogs in order that their nobles sleep may not be disturbed. They kept him out in the unwholesome mists at night and ordered him back into his harness in the day, but he was not persuaded. No. Taken out of harness one day at noon to feed if he could find food, he sobbed twelve times, once for every stroke of the bell and died on her bosom. Nothing human could have held life in the boy, but his determination to tell all his wrong. Nothing human could have held life in the boy, but his determination to tell all his wrong. He forced back the gathering shadows of death as he forced his clenched right hand to remain clenched and to cover his wound. Then, with that man's permission and even with his aid, his brother took her away in spite of what I know she must have told his brother. And what that is will not be long unknown to you, doctor, if it is now. His brother took her away for his pleasure and diversion for a little while. I saw her pass me on the road. When I took the tidings home, our father's heart burst. He never spoke one of the words that filled it. I took my young sister, of where I have another, to a place beyond the reach of this man, and where at least she will never be his vassal. Then I tracked the brother here, and last night climbed in, a common dog with a sword in hand. Where is the loft window? It was somewhere here. The room was darkening to his sight. The world was narrowing around him. I glanced about me and saw that the hay and straw were trampled over the floor, as if there had been a struggle. She heard me and ran in. I told her not to come near us till he was dead. He came in and first tossed me some pieces of money, then struck at me with a whip. But I, though a common dog, so struck at him as to make him draw. Let him break into as many pieces as he will, the sword that he stained with my common blood. He drew to defend himself, thrust at me with all his skill for his life. My glance had fallen, but a few moments before, on the fragments of a broken sword lying among the hay. That weapon was a gentleman's. In another place lay an old sword that seemed to have been a soldier's. Now lift me up, doctor, lift me up. Where is he? He is not here, I said, supporting the boy and thinking that he referred to the brother. He, proud as these nobles are, he is afraid to see me. Where is the man who was here? Turn my face to him. I did so raising the boy's head against my knee. But invested for the moment with extraordinary power, he raised himself completely, obliging me to rise too, for I could not have still supported him.  In the days when all these things are to be answered for, I summon you and yours to the last of your bad race to answer for them. I mark this cross of blood upon you as a sign that I do it. In the days when all these things are to be answered for, I summon your brother, the worst of the bad race, to answer for them separately. I mark this cross of blood upon him as a sign that I do it. Twice he put his hand to the wound in his breast and with his forefinger drew a cross in the air. He stood for an instant with the finger yet raised and as it dropped he dropped with it and I laid him down dead. When I returned to the bedside of the young woman, I found her raving in precisely the same order of continuity. I knew that this might last for many hours and that it would probably end in the silence of the grave. I repeated the medicines I had given her and I sat at the side of the bed until the night was far advanced. She never abated the piercing quality of her shrieks, never stumbled in the distinctness or the order of her words. They were always my husband, my father, and my brother. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Hush! This lasted twenty-six hours from the time when I first saw her. I had come and gone twice and was again sitting by her when she began to falter. I did what little could be done to assist that opportunity and by and by she sank into a lethargy and lay like the dead. It was as if the wind and rain had lulled at last after a long and fearful storm. I released her arms and called the woman to assist me to compose her figure in the dress she had torn. It was then that I knew her condition to be that of one in whom the first expectations of being a mother have arisen and it was then that I lost the little hope I had had of her. Is she dead? asked the Marquis, whom I will still describe as the elder brother coming booted into the room from his horse. Not dead, said I, but like to die. What strength there is in these common bodies, he said, looking down at her with some curiosity. There is prodigious strength, I answered him, in sorrow and despair. He first laughed at my words and then frowned at them. He moved a chair with his foot near to mine, ordered the woman away, and said in a subdued voice, Doctor, finding my brother in this difficulty with these Heinz, I recommended that your age should be invited. Your reputation is high, and as a young man with your fortune to make, you are probably mindful of your interest. The things that you see here are things to be seen and not spoken of. I listened to the patient's breathing and avoided answering. Do you honor me with your attention, Doctor? Monsieur, said I, in my profession the communications of patients are always received in confidence. I was guarded in my answer for I was troubled in my mind with what I had heard and seen. Her breathing was so difficult to trace that I carefully tried the pulse and the heart. There was life and no more. Looking round as I resumed my seat, I found both the brothers intent upon me. I write with so much difficulty, the cold is so severe, I am so fearful of being detected and consigned to an underground cell and total darkness that I must abridge this narrative. There is no confusion or failure in my memory. It can recall and could detail every word that was ever spoken between me and those brothers. She lingered for a week. Towards the last I could understand some few syllables that she said to me by placing my ear close to her lips. She asked me where she was and I told her who I was and I told her. It was in vain that I asked her for her family name.  I had no opportunity of asking her any question until I had told the brothers she was sinking fast and could not live another day. Until then, though no one was ever presented to her consciousness save the woman and myself, one or other of them had always jealously sat behind the curtain at the head of the bed when I was there. But when it came to that, they seemed careless what communication I might hold with her, as if the thought passed through my mind, I were dying too. I always observed that their pride bitterly resented the younger brothers, as I call him, having crossed swords with a peasant and that peasant a boy. The only consideration that appeared to affect the mind of either of them was the consideration that this was highly degrading to the family and was ridiculous. As often as I caught the younger brothers' eyes, their expression reminded me that he disliked me deeply for knowing what I knew from the boy. He was smoother and more polite to me than the elder, but I saw this. I also saw that I was an incumbrance in the mind of the elder, too. My patient died two hours before midnight. At a time by my watch, answering almost to the minute when I had first seen her, I was alone with her when her forlorn young head drooped gently on one side and all her earthly wrongs and sorrows ended. The brothers were waiting in a room downstairs, impatient to ride away. I had heard them alone at the bedside, striking their boots with their riding-whips and loitering up and down. At last she is dead, said the elder when I went in. She is dead, said I. I congratulate you, my brother, for his words as he turned round. He had before offered me money which I had postponed taking. He now gave me a rouleau of gold. I took it from his hand, but laid it on the table. I had considered the question and had resolved to accept nothing. Pray excuse me, said I. Under the circumstances, no. They exchanged looks, but bent their heads to me as I bent mine to them, and we parted without another word on either side. I am weary, weary, weary, worn down by misery. I cannot read what I have written with this gaunt hand. Early in the morning, the rouleau of gold was left at my door in a little box with my name on the outside. From the first I had anxiously considered what I ought to do. I decided that day to write privately to the minister, stating the nature of the two cases to which I had been summoned and the place to which I had gone, in effect, stating all the circumstances. I knew what court influence was and what the immunities of the nobles were, and I expected that the matter would never be heard of, but I wished to relieve my own mind. I had kept the matter a profound secret, even from my wife, and this too I resolved to state in my letter. I had no apprehension whatever of my real danger, but I was conscious that there might be danger for others if others were compromised by possessing the knowledge that I possessed. I was much engaged that day and could not complete my letter that night. I rose long before my usual time next morning to finish it. It was the last day of the year. The letter was lying before me, just completed, when I was told that a lady waited, who wished to see me. I am growing more and more unequal to the task I have set myself.  The lady was young, engaging, and handsome, but not marked for long life. She was in great agitation. She presented herself to me as the wife of the Marquis Saint-Evry Monde. I connected the title by which the boy had addressed the elder brother, with the initial letter embroidered on the scarf, and had no difficulty in arriving at the conclusion that I had seen that nobleman very lately. My memory is still accurate, but I cannot write the words of our conversation. I suspect that I am watched more closely than I was, and I know not at what times I may be watched. She had in part suspected, and in part discovered, the main facts of the cruel story of her husband's share in it and my being resorted to. She did not know that the girl was dead. Her hope had been, she said in great distress, to show her in secret a woman's sympathy. Her hope had been to avert the wrath of heaven from a house that had long been hateful to the suffering many. She had reasons for believing that there was a young sister living, and her greatest desire was to help that sister. I could tell her nothing, but that there was such a sister. Beyond that I knew nothing. Her inducement to come to me, relying on my confidence, had been the hope that I could tell her the name and place of abode.  These scraps of paper fail me. One was taken from me with a warning yesterday. I must finish my record today. She was a good, compassionate lady, and not happy in her marriage. How could she be? The brother distrusted and disliked her, and his influence was all opposed to her. She stood in dread of him, and in dread of her husband, too. When I handed her down to the door, there was a child, a pretty boy from two to three years old, in her carriage. For his sake, doctor, she said, pointing to him in tears, I would do all I can to make what poor a man's I can. He will never prosper in his inheritance otherwise. I have a presumptument that if no other innocent atonement is made for this, it will one day be required of him. What I have left to call my own is little beyond the worth of a few jewels. I will make it the first charge of his life to bestow, with the compassion and lamenting of his dead mother on this injured family, if the sister can be discovered. She kissed the boy and said caressing him, it is for thine own dear's sake, that will be faithful little Charles. The child answered her bravely, yes. I kissed her hand, and she took him in her arms, and went away caressing him. I never saw her more. As she had mentioned her husband's name in the faith that I knew it, I added no mention of it to my letter. I sealed my letter, and not trusting it out of my own hands, delivered it myself that day.  When my servant came into the room, where I sat with my wife, oh my wife, beloved of my heart, my fair young English wife, we saw the man who was supposed to be at the gate, standing silent behind him. An urgent case in the Rue Saint Angeray, he said, it would not detain me. He had a coach in waiting. It brought me here. It brought me to my grave. When I was clear of the house, a black muffler was drawn tightly over my mouth from behind, and my arms were pinioned. The two brothers crossed the road from a dark corner, and identified me with a single gesture. The marquee took from his pocket the letter I had written, showed it me, burnt it in the light of a lantern that was held, and extinguished the ashes with his foot. Not a word was spoken. I was brought here. I was brought to my living grave. If it had pleased God to put it in the hard heart of either of the brothers, in all these frightful years, to grant me any tidings of my dearest wife, so much as to let me know by a word, whether alive or dead, I might have thought that he had not quite abandoned them. But now I believe that the mark of the Red Cross is fatal to them, and that they have no part in his mercies. And them and their descendants, to the last of their race, I, Alexandre Manette, unhappy prisoner, do this last night of the year 1767, in my unbearable agony, denounced to the times when all these things shall be answered for. I denounced them to heaven and to earth. A terrible sound arose when the reading of this document was done. A sound of craving and eagerness that had nothing articulate in it but blood. The narrative called up the most eventful passions of the time, and there was not a head in the nation but must have dropped before it. Little need in presence of that tribunal and that auditory to show how the Defarges had not made the paper public with the other captured Bastille memorials born in procession, and it kept it biding their time. Little need to show that this detested family name had long been unathematized by San Antoine and was wrought into the fatal register. The man never trod ground whose virtues and services would have sustained him in that place that day against such denunciation. And all the worse for the doomed man that the denouncer was a well-known citizen, his own attached friend, the father of his wife. One of the