and the people poured cheerfully out as he passed, and went
chatting home. At one of the theatre 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
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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 certain, 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 colour 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
blindness and errors, ended in the words, “I am the resurrection
and the life.”
Mr. Lorry was already out when he got back, and it was easy to
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surmise where the good old man was gone. Sydney Carton drank
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 astir and a-buzz, when the black sheep—
whom many fell away from in dread—pressed him into an obscure
corner among the crowd. Mr. Lorry was there, and Doctor
Manette was there. She was there, sitting beside her father.
When her husband was brought in, she turned a look upon him,
so sustaining, so encouraging, so full of admiring love, and pitying
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 Three of Saint Antoine. The whole jury, as a
jury of dogs empanelled to try the deer.
Every eye then turned to the five judges and the public
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prosecutor. No favourable 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 heads nodded at one another before bending
forward with a strained attention.
Charles Evremonde, 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 Evremonde, called Darnay, in
right of such proscription, 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 Saint Antoine.”
“Good.”
“Therese Defarge, his wife.”
“Good.”
“Alexandre Manette, physician.”
A great uproar took place in the court, and in the midst of it,
Doctor 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
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I denounce the husband of my child?”
“Citizen Manette, be tranquil. To fail in submission of 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.
“If the Republic should demand of you the sacrifice of your
child herself, you would have no duty but to sacrifice her. Listen to
what is to follow. In the meanwhile, be silent!”
Frantic acclamations were again raised. Doctor Manette sat
down, with his eyes looking around, and his lips trembling; his
daughter drew closer to him. The craving man on the 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 Bastille, 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
cannonier that day there, 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,
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shrieked, “I defy that bell!” wherein she was likewise much
commended.
“Inform the Tribunal of what you did that day. within the
Bastille, 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 One Hundred and Five, North Tower.
I knew it from himself. He knew himself by no other name than
One Hundred and Five, North Tower, when he made shoes under
my care. As I serve my gun that day, I resolve, when the place
shall fall, to examine that cell. It falls. I mount to the cell, with a
fellow-citizen who is one of the Jury, directed by a gaoler. 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. That is
that written paper. I have made it my business to examine some
specimens of the writing of Doctor Manette. This is the writing of
Doctor Manette. I confide this paper, in the writing of Doctor
Manette, to the hands of the President.”
“Let it be read.”
In the 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, Doctor Manette keeping his eyes
fixed on the reader, Madame 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.
Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics
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Chapter XL
THE SUBSTANCE OF THE SHADOW
“I Alexandre Manette, 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 secrete it in the wall of the
chimney, where I have slowly and laboriously made a place of
concealment for it. Some pitying 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 moonlight 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 Seine 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
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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 rein in his
horses, and the same voice called to me by my 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 of about my own age,
or rather younger, and that they were greatly alike, in stature,
manner, voice, and (as far as I could see) face too.
“‘You are Doctor Manette?’ said one.
“‘I am.’ “‘Doctor 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 Doctor 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 honour 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
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assures us that you will ascertain it for yourself better than we can
describe it. Enough. Will you please 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. When 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
