him down dead.
“When I returned to the bedside of the young woman, I found
her raving in precisely the same order and 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,
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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 and 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 hinds, I recommended that your aid
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 honour me with your attention, Doctor?’
“‘Monsieur,’ said I, ‘in my profession, the communications of
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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.
She faintly shook her head upon the pillow, and kept her secret, as
the boy had done.
“I had no opportunity of asking her any questions, 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 brother’s (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
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consideration that this was highly degrading to the family, and
was ridiculous. As often as I caught the younger brother’s 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 dropped gently
on one side, and all her earthly wrongs and sorrows ended.
“The brothers were waiting in a room down-stairs, 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,’ were 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
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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. It is so cold, so dark, my senses are so benumbed, and the
gloom upon me is so dreadful.
“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 St. Evremonde. 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
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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. Whereas, to this wretched hour I am ignorant of both.
“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 amends I can. He will never
prosper in his inheritance otherwise. I have a presentiment 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—it 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 sake.
Thou wilt be faithful, little Charles?’ The child answered her
bravely, ‘Yes!’ I kissed her hand, and she took him in her arms,
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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.
“That night, the last night of the year, towards nine o’clock, a
man in a black dress rang at my gate, demanded to see me, and
softly followed my servant, Ernest Defarge, a youth, up-stairs.
When my servant came into the room where I sat with my wife—O
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 St. Honore, 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 Marquis took from his pocket the letter
I had written, showed it to 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,
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unhappy prisoner, do this last night of the year 1767, in my
unbearable agony, denounce to the times when all these things
shall be answered for. I denounce 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
revengeful passions of the time, and there was not a head in the
nation but must have dropped before it.
Little need, in the presence of that tribunal and that auditory,
to show how the Defarges had not made the paper public, with the
other captured Bastille memorials borne in procession, and had
kept it, biding their time. Little need to show that this detested
family name had long been anathematised by Saint 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 frenzied aspirations of the populace was, for
imitations of the questionable public virtues of antiquity, and for
sacrifices and self-immolations on the people’s altar. Therefore
when the President said (else had his own head quivered on his
shoulders), that the good physician of the Republic would deserve
better still of the Republic by rooting out an obnoxious family of
Aristocrats, and would doubtless feel a sacred glow and joy in
making his daughter a widow and her child an orphan, there was
wild excitement, patriotic fervour, not a touch of human
sympathy.
“Much influence around him, has that Doctor?” murmured
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Madame Defarge, smiling to The Vengeance. “Save him now, my
Doctor, save him!”
At every juryman’s vote, there was a roar. Another and another.
Roar and roar.
Unanimously voted. At heart and by descent an Aristocrat, an
enemy of the Republic, a notorious oppressor of the People. Back
to the Conciergerie, and Death within four-and-twenty hours!
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ChapterXLI
DUSK
The wretched wife of the innocent man thus doomed to die.
fell under the sentence, as if she had been mortally
stricken. But, she uttered no sound; and so strong was the
