time. Little Lucie she taught, as regularly, as if they had all been
united in their English home. The slight devices with which she
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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 mourning 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 colour, 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, Lucie.”
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
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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-sawyer, 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 ten fingers before his
face to represent bars, peeped through them jocosely.
“But it’s not my business,” said he. And went on sawing 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! A child too! Your mother, is it not, my little citizeness?”
“Do I say yes, mamma?” whispered little Lucie, drawing close
to her.
“Yes, dearest.”
“Yes, citizen.”
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“Ah, But it’s not my business. My work is my business. See my
saw! I call it my Little Guillotine. La, la, la; La, la, la! And off his
head comes!”
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! Loo, loo, loo; Loo, loo, loo! And off her head comes! Now, a
child. Tickle, tickle; Pickle, pickle! And off its head comes. All the
family!”
Lucie 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. Thenceforth, to secure his good will,
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 in 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, Lucie 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.
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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 tricoloured ribbons;
also, with the standard inscription (tricoloured letters were the
favourite), Republic One and Indivisible. Liberty, Equality,
Fraternity, or Death!
The miserable shop of the wood-sawyer 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 his “Little
Sainte Guillotine”—for the great sharp female was by that time
popularly canonised. His shop was shut and he was not there,
which was a relief to Lucie, 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 which was the wood-
sawyer hand in hand with The Vengeance. There could not be
fewer than five hundred people, and they were dancing like five
thousand 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 in unison. Men and
women danced together, women danced together, men danced
together, as hazard had brought them together. At first, they were
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a mere storm of coarse red caps and coarse woollen rags; but, as
they filled the place, and stopped to dance about Lucie, some
ghastly apparition of a dance-figure gone raving mad arose 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,
began again, struck, clutched, and tore, and then reversed the
spin, and all spun round another way. Suddenly they stopped
again, paused, struck out the time afresh, formed into lines the
width of the public way, and, with their heads low down and their
hands high up, swooped screaming off. 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 Carmagnole. As it passed, leaving Lucie
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.
“O my father!” for he stood before her when he lifted up the
eyes she had momentarily darkened with her hand; “such a cruel,
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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 you. You may
kiss your hand towards the highest shelving roof.”
“I do so, father, and I send him my Soul with it!”
“You cannot see him, my poor dear?”
“No, father,” said Lucie, yearning and weeping as she kissed
her hand, “no.”
A footstep in the snow. Madame Defarge. “I salute you,
citizeness,” from the Doctor. “I salute you, citizen.” This in
passing. Nothing more. Madame Defarge gone, like a shadow over
the white road.
“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 Conciergerie; I have timely
information. You are not afraid?”
She could scarcely answer, “I trust in you.”
“Do so implicitly. Your suspense is nearly ended, my darling; he
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shall be restored to you within a few hours; I have encompassed
him with every protection. I must see Lorry.”
He stopped. There was a heavy lumbering of wheels within
hearing. They both knew too well what it meant. One. Two. Three.
Three tumbrils faring away with their dread loads over the
hushing snow.
“I must see Lorry,” 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 save for the owners,
he saved. No better man living to hold fast by what Tellson’s had
in keeping, and to hold his peace.
A murky red and yellow sky, and a rising mist from the Seine,
denoted the approach of darkness. It was almost dark when they
arrived at the Bank. The stately residence of Monseigneur was
altogether blighted and deserted. Above a heap of dust and ashes
in the court, ran the letters: National Property. Republic One and
Indivisible. Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death!
Who could that be with Mr. Lorry—the owner of the riding-coat
upon the chair—who must not be seen? From whom newly
arrived, did he come out, agitated and surprised, to take his
favourite 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:
“Removed to the Conciergerie, and summoned for tomorrow?”
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Chapter XXXVI
TRIUMPH
T he 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 gaolers of the
various prisons to their prisoners. The standard gaoler-joke was
“Come out and listen to the Evening Paper, you inside there!”
“Charles Evremonde, called Darnay!”
So at last began the Evening Paper 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 Evremonde, called Darnay, had reason to know
the usage; he had seen hundreds pass away so.
His bloated gaoler, 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 twenty-three names, but only twenty were responded to; for
one of the prisoners so summoned had died in gaol 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
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games of forfeits and a little concert, for that evening. They
crowded to the grates and shed tears there; but, twenty places in
the projected entertainments had to be refilled, and the time was,
at best, short to the lockup hour, when the common rooms and
corridors would be delivered over to the great dogs who kept
