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Book the Second: The Golden Thread
Chapter III.
A Disappointment
Mr. Attorney-General had to inform the
jury, that the prisoner before them, though
young in years, was old in the treasonable
practices which claimed the forfeit of his
life.
That this correspondence with the public
enemy was not a correspondence of to-day,
or of yesterday, or even of last year, or
of the year before.
That, it was certain the prisoner had, for
longer than that, been in the habit of
passing and repassing between France and
England, on secret business of which he
could give no honest account.
That, if it were in the nature of
traitorous ways to thrive (which happily it
never was), the real wickedness and guilt
of his business might have remained
undiscovered.
That Providence, however, had put it into
the heart of a person who was beyond fear
and beyond reproach, to ferret out the
nature of the prisoner's schemes, and,
struck with horror, to disclose them to his
Majesty's Chief Secretary of State and most
honourable Privy Council.
That, this patriot would be produced before
them.
That, his position and attitude were, on
the whole, sublime.
That, he had been the prisoner's friend,
but, at once in an auspicious and an evil
hour detecting his infamy, had resolved to
immolate the traitor he could no longer
cherish in his ***, on the sacred altar
of his country.
That, if statues were decreed in Britain,
as in ancient Greece and Rome, to public
benefactors, this shining citizen would
assuredly have had one.
That, as they were not so decreed, he
probably would not have one.
That, Virtue, as had been observed by the
poets (in many passages which he well knew
the jury would have, word for word, at the
tips of their tongues; whereat the jury's
countenances displayed a guilty
consciousness that they knew nothing about
the passages), was in a manner contagious;
more especially the bright virtue known as
patriotism, or love of country.
That, the lofty example of this immaculate
and unimpeachable witness for the Crown, to
refer to whom however unworthily was an
honour, had communicated itself to the
prisoner's servant, and had engendered in
him a holy determination to examine his
master's table-drawers and pockets, and
secrete his papers.
That, he (Mr. Attorney-General) was
prepared to hear some disparagement
attempted of this admirable servant; but
that, in a general way, he preferred him to
his (Mr. Attorney-General's) brothers and
sisters, and honoured him more than his
(Mr. Attorney-General's) father and mother.
That, he called with confidence on the jury
to come and do likewise.
That, the evidence of these two witnesses,
coupled with the documents of their
discovering that would be produced, would
show the prisoner to have been furnished
with lists of his Majesty's forces, and of
their disposition and preparation, both by
sea and land, and would leave no doubt that
he had habitually conveyed such information
to a hostile power.
That, these lists could not be proved to be
in the prisoner's handwriting; but that it
was all the same; that, indeed, it was
rather the better for the prosecution, as
showing the prisoner to be artful in his
precautions.
That, the proof would go back five years,
and would show the prisoner already engaged
in these pernicious missions, within a few
weeks before the date of the very first
action fought between the British troops
and the Americans.
That, for these reasons, the jury, being a
loyal jury (as he knew they were), and
being a responsible jury (as _they_ knew
they were), must positively find the
prisoner Guilty, and make an end of him,
whether they liked it or not.
That, they never could lay their heads upon
their pillows; that, they never could
tolerate the idea of their wives laying
their heads upon their pillows; that, they
never could endure the notion of their
children laying their heads upon their
pillows; in short, that there never more
could be, for them or theirs, any laying of
heads upon pillows at all, unless the
prisoner's head was taken off.
That head Mr. Attorney-General concluded by
demanding of them, in the name of
everything he could think of with a round
turn in it, and on the faith of his solemn
asseveration that he already considered the
prisoner as good as dead and gone.
When the Attorney-General ceased, a buzz
arose in the court as if a cloud of great
blue-flies were swarming about the
prisoner, in anticipation of what he was
soon to become.
When toned down again, the unimpeachable
patriot appeared in the witness-box.
Mr. Solicitor-General then, following his
leader's lead, examined the patriot: John
Barsad, gentleman, by name.
The story of his pure soul was exactly what
Mr. Attorney-General had described it to
be--perhaps, if it had a fault, a little
too exactly.
Having released his noble *** of its
burden, he would have modestly withdrawn
himself, but that the wigged gentleman with
the papers before him, sitting not far from
Mr. Lorry, begged to ask him a few
questions.
The wigged gentleman sitting opposite,
still looking at the ceiling of the court.
Had he ever been a spy himself?
No, he scorned the base insinuation.
What did he live upon?
His property.
Where was his property?
He didn't precisely remember where it was.
What was it?
No business of anybody's.
Had he inherited it?
Yes, he had.
From whom?
Distant relation.
Very distant?
Rather.
Ever been in prison?
Certainly not.
Never in a debtors' prison?
Didn't see what that had to do with it.
Never in a debtors' prison?--Come, once
again.
Never?
Yes.
How many times?
Two or three times.
Not five or six?
Perhaps.
Of what profession?
Gentleman.
Ever been kicked?
Might have been.
Frequently?
No.
Ever kicked downstairs?
Decidedly not; once received a kick on the
top of a staircase, and fell downstairs of
his own accord.
Kicked on that occasion for cheating at
dice?
Something to that effect was said by the
intoxicated liar who committed the assault,
but it was not true.
Swear it was not true?
Positively.
Ever live by cheating at play?
Never.
Ever live by play?
Not more than other gentlemen do.
Ever borrow money of the prisoner?
Yes.
Ever pay him?
No.
Was not this intimacy with the prisoner, in
reality a very slight one, forced upon the
prisoner in coaches, inns, and packets?
No.
Sure he saw the prisoner with these lists?
Certain.
Knew no more about the lists?
No.
Had not procured them himself, for
instance?
No.
Expect to get anything by this evidence?
No.
Not in regular government pay and
employment, to lay traps?
Oh dear no.
Or to do anything?
Oh dear no.
Swear that?
Over and over again.
No motives but motives of sheer patriotism?
None whatever.
The virtuous servant, Roger Cly, swore his
way through the case at a great rate.
He had taken service with the prisoner, in
good faith and simplicity, four years ago.
He had asked the prisoner, aboard the
Calais packet, if he wanted a handy fellow,
and the prisoner had engaged him.
He had not asked the prisoner to take the
handy fellow as an act of charity--never
thought of such a thing.
He began to have suspicions of the
prisoner, and to keep an eye upon him, soon
afterwards.
In arranging his clothes, while travelling,
he had seen similar lists to these in the
prisoner's pockets, over and over again.
He had taken these lists from the drawer of
the prisoner's desk.
He had not put them there first.
He had seen the prisoner show these
identical lists to French gentlemen at
Calais, and similar lists to French
gentlemen, both at Calais and Boulogne.
He loved his country, and couldn't bear it,
and had given information.
He had never been suspected of stealing a
silver tea-pot; he had been maligned
respecting a mustard-pot, but it turned out
to be only a plated one.
He had known the last witness seven or
eight years; that was merely a coincidence.
He didn't call it a particularly curious
coincidence; most coincidences were
curious.
Neither did he call it a curious
coincidence that true patriotism was _his_
only motive too.
He was a true Briton, and hoped there were
many like him.
The blue-flies buzzed again, and Mr.
Attorney-General called Mr. Jarvis Lorry.
"Mr. Jarvis Lorry, are you a clerk in
Tellson's bank?"
"I am."
"On a certain Friday night in November one
thousand seven hundred and seventy-five,
did business occasion you to travel between
London and Dover by the mail?"
"It did."
"Were there any other passengers in the
mail?"
"Two."
"Did they alight on the road in the course
of the night?"
"They did."
"Mr. Lorry, look upon the prisoner.
Was he one of those two passengers?"
"I cannot undertake to say that he was."
"Does he resemble either of these two
passengers?"
"Both were so wrapped up, and the night was
so dark, and we were all so reserved, that
I cannot undertake to say even that."
"Mr. Lorry, look again upon the prisoner.
Supposing him wrapped up as those two
passengers were, is there anything in his
bulk and stature to render it unlikely that
he was one of them?"
"No."
"You will not swear, Mr. Lorry, that he was
not one of them?"
"No."
"So at least you say he may have been one
of them?"
"Yes. Except that I remember them both to
have been--like myself--timorous of
highwaymen, and the prisoner has not a
timorous air."
"Did you ever see a counterfeit of
timidity, Mr. Lorry?"
"I certainly have seen that."
"Mr. Lorry, look once more upon the
prisoner.
Have you seen him, to your certain
knowledge, before?"
"I have."
"When?"
"I was returning from France a few days
afterwards, and, at Calais, the prisoner
came on board the packet-ship in which I
returned, and made the voyage with me."
"At what hour did he come on board?"
"At a little after midnight."
"In the dead of the night.
Was he the only passenger who came on board
at that untimely hour?"
"He happened to be the only one."
"Never mind about 'happening,' Mr. Lorry.
He was the only passenger who came on board
in the dead of the night?"
"He was."
"Were you travelling alone, Mr. Lorry, or
with any companion?"
"With two companions.
A gentleman and lady.
They are here."
"They are here.
Had you any conversation with the
prisoner?"
"Hardly any.
The weather was stormy, and the passage
long and rough, and I lay on a sofa, almost
from shore to shore."
"Miss Manette!"
The young lady, to whom all eyes had been
turned before, and were now turned again,
stood up where she had sat.
Her father rose with her, and kept her hand
drawn through his arm.
"Miss Manette, look upon the prisoner."
To be confronted with such pity, and such
earnest youth and beauty, was far more
trying to the accused than to be confronted
with all the crowd.
Standing, as it were, apart with her on the
edge of his grave, not all the staring
curiosity that looked on, could, for the
moment, nerve him to remain quite still.
His hurried right hand parcelled out the
herbs before him into imaginary beds of
flowers in a garden; and his efforts to
control and steady his breathing shook the
lips from which the colour rushed to his
heart.
The buzz of the great flies was loud again.
"Miss Manette, have you seen the prisoner
before?"
"Yes, sir."
"Where?"
"On board of the packet-ship just now
referred to, sir, and on the same
occasion."
"You are the young lady just now referred
to?"
"O! most unhappily, I am!"
The plaintive tone of her compassion merged
into the less musical voice of the Judge,
as he said something fiercely: "Answer the
questions put to you, and make no remark
upon them."
"Miss Manette, had you any conversation
with the prisoner on that passage across
the Channel?"
"Yes, sir."
"Recall it."
In the midst of a profound stillness, she
faintly began: "When the gentleman came on
"Do you mean the prisoner?" inquired the
Judge, knitting his brows.
"Yes, my Lord."
"Then say the prisoner."
"When the prisoner came on board, he
noticed that my father," turning her eyes
lovingly to him as he stood beside her,
"was much fatigued and in a very weak state
of health.
My father was so reduced that I was afraid
to take him out of the air, and I had made
a bed for him on the deck near the cabin
steps, and I sat on the deck at his side to
take care of him.
There were no other passengers that night,
but we four.
The prisoner was so good as to beg
permission to advise me how I could shelter
my father from the wind and weather, better
than I had done.
I had not known how to do it well, not
understanding how the wind would set when
we were out of the harbour.
He did it for me.
He expressed great gentleness and kindness
for my father's state, and I am sure he
felt it.
That was the manner of our beginning to
speak together."
"Let me interrupt you for a moment.
Had he come on board alone?"
"No."
"How many were with him?"
"Two French gentlemen."
"Had they conferred together?"
"They had conferred together until the last
moment, when it was necessary for the
French gentlemen to be landed in their
boat."
"Had any papers been handed about among
them, similar to these lists?"
"Some papers had been handed about among
them, but I don't know what papers."
"Like these in shape and size?"
"Possibly, but indeed I don't know,
although they stood whispering very near to
me: because they stood at the top of the
cabin steps to have the light of the lamp
that was hanging there; it was a dull lamp,
and they spoke very low, and I did not hear
what they said, and saw only that they
looked at papers."
"Now, to the prisoner's conversation, Miss
Manette."
"The prisoner was as open in his confidence
with me--which arose out of my helpless
situation--as he was kind, and good, and
useful to my father.
I hope," bursting into tears, "I may not
repay him by doing him harm to-day."
Buzzing from the blue-flies.
"Miss Manette, if the prisoner does not
perfectly understand that you give the
evidence which it is your duty to give--
which you must give--and which you cannot
escape from giving--with great
unwillingness, he is the only person
present in that condition.
Please to go on."
"He told me that he was travelling on
business of a delicate and difficult
nature, which might get people into
trouble, and that he was therefore
travelling under an assumed name.
He said that this business had, within a
few days, taken him to France, and might,
at intervals, take him backwards and
forwards between France and England for a
long time to come."
"Did he say anything about America, Miss
Manette?
Be particular."
"He tried to explain to me how that quarrel
had arisen, and he said that, so far as he
could judge, it was a wrong and foolish one
on England's part.
He added, in a jesting way, that perhaps
George Washington might gain almost as
great a name in history as George the
Third.
But there was no harm in his way of saying
this: it was said laughingly, and to
beguile the time."
Any strongly marked expression of face on
the part of a chief actor in a scene of
great interest to whom many eyes are
directed, will be unconsciously imitated by
the spectators.
Her forehead was painfully anxious and
intent as she gave this evidence, and, in
the pauses when she stopped for the Judge
to write it down, watched its effect upon
the counsel for and against.
Among the lookers-on there was the same
expression in all quarters of the court;
insomuch, that a great majority of the
foreheads there, might have been mirrors
reflecting the witness, when the Judge
looked up from his notes to glare at that
tremendous heresy about George Washington.
Mr. Attorney-General now signified to my
Lord, that he deemed it necessary, as a
matter of precaution and form, to call the
young lady's father, Doctor Manette.
Who was called accordingly.
"Doctor Manette, look upon the prisoner.
Have you ever seen him before?"
"Once.
When he called at my lodgings in London.
Some three years, or three years and a half
ago."
"Can you identify him as your fellow-
passenger on board the packet, or speak to
his conversation with your daughter?"
"Sir, I can do neither."
"Is there any particular and special reason
for your being unable to do either?"
He answered, in a low voice, "There is."
"Has it been your misfortune to undergo a
long imprisonment, without trial, or even
accusation, in your native country, Doctor
He answered, in a tone that went to every
heart, "A long imprisonment."
"Were you newly released on the occasion in
question?"
"They tell me so."
"Have you no remembrance of the occasion?"
"None.
My mind is a blank, from some time--I
cannot even say what time--when I employed
myself, in my captivity, in making shoes,
to the time when I found myself living in
London with my dear daughter here.
She had become familiar to me, when a
gracious God restored my faculties; but, I
am quite unable even to say how she had
become familiar.
I have no remembrance of the process."
Mr. Attorney-General sat down, and the
father and daughter sat down together.
A singular circumstance then arose in the
case.
The object in hand being to show that the
prisoner went down, with some fellow-
plotter untracked, in the Dover mail on
that Friday night in November five years
ago, and got out of the mail in the night,
as a blind, at a place where he did not
remain, but from which he travelled back
some dozen miles or more, to a garrison and
dockyard, and there collected information;
a witness was called to identify him as
having been at the precise time required,
in the coffee-room of an hotel in that
garrison-and-dockyard town, waiting for
another person.
The prisoner's counsel was cross-examining
this witness with no result, except that he
had never seen the prisoner on any other
occasion, when the wigged gentleman who had
all this time been looking at the ceiling
of the court, wrote a word or two on a
little piece of paper, screwed it up, and
tossed it to him.
Opening this piece of paper in the next
pause, the counsel looked with great
attention and curiosity at the prisoner.
"You say again you are quite sure that it
was the prisoner?"
The witness was quite sure.
"Did you ever see anybody very like the
prisoner?"
Not so like (the witness said) as that he
could be mistaken.
"Look well upon that gentleman, my learned
friend there," pointing to him who had
tossed the paper over, "and then look well
upon the prisoner.
How say you?
Are they very like each other?"
Allowing for my learned friend's appearance
being careless and slovenly if not
debauched, they were sufficiently like each
other to surprise, not only the witness,
but everybody present, when they were thus
brought into comparison.
My Lord being prayed to bid my learned
friend lay aside his wig, and giving no
very gracious consent, the likeness became
much more remarkable.
My Lord inquired of Mr. Stryver (the
prisoner's counsel), whether they were next
to try Mr. Carton (name of my learned
friend) for treason?
But, Mr. Stryver replied to my Lord, no;
but he would ask the witness to tell him
whether what happened once, might happen
twice; whether he would have been so
confident if he had seen this illustration
of his rashness sooner, whether he would be
so confident, having seen it; and more.
The upshot of which, was, to smash this
witness like a crockery vessel, and shiver
his part of the case to useless lumber.
Mr. Cruncher had by this time taken quite a
lunch of rust off his fingers in his
following of the evidence.
He had now to attend while Mr. Stryver
fitted the prisoner's case on the jury,
like a compact suit of clothes; showing
them how the patriot, Barsad, was a hired
spy and traitor, an unblushing trafficker
in blood, and one of the greatest
scoundrels upon earth since accursed Judas-
-which he certainly did look rather like.
How the virtuous servant, Cly, was his
friend and partner, and was worthy to be;
how the watchful eyes of those forgers and
false swearers had rested on the prisoner
as a victim, because some family affairs in
France, he being of French extraction, did
require his making those passages across
the Channel--though what those affairs
were, a consideration for others who were
near and dear to him, forbade him, even for
his life, to disclose.
How the evidence that had been warped and
wrested from the young lady, whose anguish
in giving it they had witnessed, came to
nothing, involving the mere little innocent
gallantries and politenesses likely to pass
between any young gentleman and young lady
so thrown together;--with the exception of
that reference to George Washington, which
was altogether too extravagant and
impossible to be regarded in any other
light than as a monstrous joke.
How it would be a weakness in the
government to break down in this attempt to
practise for popularity on the lowest
national antipathies and fears, and
therefore Mr. Attorney-General had made the
most of it; how, nevertheless, it rested
upon nothing, save that vile and infamous
character of evidence too often disfiguring
such cases, and of which the State Trials
of this country were full.
But, there my Lord interposed (with as
grave a face as if it had not been true),
saying that he could not sit upon that
Bench and suffer those allusions.
Mr. Stryver then called his few witnesses,
and Mr. Cruncher had next to attend while
Mr. Attorney-General turned the whole suit
of clothes Mr. Stryver had fitted on the
jury, inside out; showing how Barsad and
Cly were even a hundred times better than
he had thought them, and the prisoner a
hundred times worse.
Lastly, came my Lord himself, turning the
suit of clothes, now inside out, now
outside in, but on the whole decidedly
trimming and shaping them into grave-
clothes for the prisoner.
And now, the jury turned to consider, and
the great flies swarmed again.
Mr. Carton, who had so long sat looking at
the ceiling of the court, changed neither
his place nor his attitude, even in this
excitement.
While his learned friend, Mr. Stryver,
massing his papers before him, whispered
with those who sat near, and from time to
time glanced anxiously at the jury; while
all the spectators moved more or less, and
grouped themselves anew; while even my Lord
himself arose from his seat, and slowly
paced up and down his platform, not
unattended by a suspicion in the minds of
the audience that his state was feverish;
this one man sat leaning back, with his
torn gown half off him, his untidy wig put
on just as it had happened to light on his
head after its removal, his hands in his
pockets, and his eyes on the ceiling as
they had been all day.
Something especially reckless in his
demeanour, not only gave him a disreputable
look, but so diminished the strong
resemblance he undoubtedly bore to the
prisoner (which his momentary earnestness,
when they were compared together, had
strengthened), that many of the lookers-on,
taking note of him now, said to one another
they would hardly have thought the two were
so alike.
Mr. Cruncher made the observation to his
next neighbour, and added, "I'd hold half a
guinea that _he_ don't get no law-work to
do.
Don't look like the sort of one to get any,
do he?"
Yet, this Mr. Carton took in more of the
details of the scene than he appeared to
take in; for now, when Miss Manette's head
dropped upon her father's breast, he was
the first to see it, and to say audibly:
"Officer! look to that young lady.
Help the gentleman to take her out.
Don't you see she will fall!"
There was much commiseration for her as she
was removed, and much sympathy with her
father.
It had evidently been a great distress to
him, to have the days of his imprisonment
recalled.
He had shown strong internal agitation when
he was questioned, and that pondering or
brooding look which made him old, had been
upon him, like a heavy cloud, ever since.
As he passed out, the jury, who had turned
back and paused a moment, spoke, through
their foreman.
They were not agreed, and wished to retire.
My Lord (perhaps with George Washington on
his mind) showed some surprise that they
were not agreed, but signified his pleasure
that they should retire under watch and
ward, and retired himself.
The trial had lasted all day, and the lamps
in the court were now being lighted.
It began to be rumoured that the jury would
be out a long while.
The spectators dropped off to get
refreshment, and the prisoner withdrew to
the back of the dock, and sat down.
Mr. Lorry, who had gone out when the young
lady and her father went out, now
reappeared, and beckoned to Jerry: who, in
the slackened interest, could easily get
near him.
"Jerry, if you wish to take something to
eat, you can.
But, keep in the way.
You will be sure to hear when the jury come
in.
Don't be a moment behind them, for I want
you to take the verdict back to the bank.
You are the quickest messenger I know, and
will get to Temple Bar long before I can."
Jerry had just enough forehead to knuckle,
and he knuckled it in acknowledgment of
this communication and a shilling.
Mr. Carton came up at the moment, and
touched Mr. Lorry on the arm.
"How is the young lady?"
"She is greatly distressed; but her father
is comforting her, and she feels the better
for being out of court."
"I'll tell the prisoner so.
It won't do for a respectable bank
gentleman like you, to be seen speaking to
him publicly, you know."
Mr. Lorry reddened as if he were conscious
of having debated the point in his mind,
and Mr. Carton made his way to the outside
of the bar.
The way out of court lay in that direction,
and Jerry followed him, all eyes, ears, and
spikes.
"Mr. Darnay!"
The prisoner came forward directly.
"You will naturally be anxious to hear of
the witness, Miss Manette.
She will do very well.
You have seen the worst of her agitation."
"I am deeply sorry to have been the cause
of it.
Could you tell her so for me, with my
fervent acknowledgments?"
"Yes, I could.
I will, if you ask it."
Mr. Carton's manner was so careless as to
be almost insolent.
He stood, half turned from the prisoner,
lounging with his elbow against the bar.
"I do ask it.
Accept my cordial thanks."
"What," said Carton, still only half turned
towards him, "do you expect, Mr. Darnay?"
"The worst."
"It's the wisest thing to expect, and the
likeliest.
But I think their withdrawing is in your
favour."
Loitering on the way out of court not being
allowed, Jerry heard no more: but left
them--so like each other in feature, so
unlike each other in manner--standing side
by side, both reflected in the glass above
them.
An hour and a half limped heavily away in
the thief-and-rascal crowded passages
below, even though assisted off with mutton
pies and ale.
The hoarse messenger, uncomfortably seated
on a form after taking that refection, had
dropped into a doze, when a loud murmur and
a rapid tide of people setting up the
stairs that led to the court, carried him
along with them.
"Jerry!
Jerry!"
Mr. Lorry was already calling at the door
when he got there.
"Here, sir!
It's a fight to get back again.
Here I am, sir!"
Mr. Lorry handed him a paper through the
throng.
"Quick!
Have you got it?"
"Yes, sir."
Hastily written on the paper was the word
"ACQUITTED."
"If you had sent the message, 'Recalled to
Life,' again," muttered Jerry, as he
turned, "I should have known what you
meant, this time."
He had no opportunity of saying, or so much
as thinking, anything else, until he was
clear of the Old Bailey; for, the crowd
came pouring out with a vehemence that
nearly took him off his legs, and a loud
buzz swept into the street as if the
baffled blue-flies were dispersing in
search of other carrion.