It  was  almost  morning,  when  Defarge's  wine-shop  parted
with  its  last  knot  of  customers,  and  Monsieur  Defai-ge  said
to  madame  his  wife,  in  husky  tones,  while  fastening  the  door :

"  At  last  it  is  come,  my  dear ! "


ALMOST  COME.  261

"  Eh  well ! "  returned  madame.     "  Almost.'"

Saint  Antoine  slept,  the  Defarges  slept:  even  The  Ven-
geance slept  with  her  starved  grocer,  and  the  drum  was  at
rest.  The  drum's  was  the  only  voice  in  Saint  Antoine  that
blood  and  hurry  had  not  changed.  The  Vengeance,  as
custodian  of  the  drum,  could  have  wakened  him  up  and  had
the  same  speech  out  of  him  as  before  the  Bastille  fell,  or  old
Foulon  w£is  seized ;  not  so  with  the  hoarse  tones  of  the  men
and  -women  in  Saint  Antoine's  bosom.
CHAPTER    XXiri.
FIRE  RISES.
There  was  a  change  on  the  village  where  the  fountain  fell,
and  where  the  mender  of  roads  went  forth  daily  to  hammer
out  of  the  stones  on  the  highway  such  morsels  of  bread  as
might  serve  for  patches  to  hold  his  poor  ignorant  soul  and
his  poor  reduced  body  together.  The  prison  on  the  crag
was  not  so  dominant  as  of  yore ;  there  were  soldiei-s  to  guard
it,  but  not  many;  there  were  ofBcers  to  guard  the  soldiers,
but  not  one  of  them  knew  what  his  men  would  do — beyond
this :  that  it  would  probably  not  be  what  he  was  ordered.
Far  and  wide  lay  a  mined  country,  yielding  nothing  but
desolation.  Every  green  leaf,  every  blade  of  grass  and  blade
of  grain,  was  as  shrivelled  and  poor  as  the  miserable  people.
Everything  was  bowed  down,  dejected,  oppressed,  and  broken.
