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Book the Third: The Track of a Storm
Chapter XIII.
Fifty-two
In the black prison of the Conciergerie,
the doomed of the day awaited their fate.
They were in number as the weeks of the
year.
Fifty-two were to roll that afternoon on
the life-tide of the city to the boundless
everlasting sea.
Before their cells were quit of them, new
occupants were appointed; before their
blood ran into the blood spilled yesterday,
the blood that was to mingle with theirs
to-morrow was already set apart.
Two score and twelve were told off.
From the farmer-general of seventy, whose
riches could not buy his life, to the
seamstress of twenty, whose poverty and
obscurity could not save her.
Physical diseases, engendered in the vices
and neglects of men, will seize on victims
of all degrees; and the frightful moral
disorder, born of unspeakable suffering,
intolerable oppression, and heartless
indifference, smote equally without
distinction.
Charles Darnay, alone in a cell, had
sustained himself with no flattering
delusion since he came to it from the
Tribunal.
In every line of the narrative he had
heard, he had heard his condemnation.
He had fully comprehended that no personal
influence could possibly save him, that he
was virtually sentenced by the millions,
and that units could avail him nothing.
Nevertheless, it was not easy, with the
face of his beloved wife fresh before him,
to compose his mind to what it must bear.
His hold on life was strong, and it was
very, very hard, to loosen; by gradual
efforts and degrees unclosed a little here,
it clenched the tighter there; and when he
brought his strength to bear on that hand
and it yielded, this was closed again.
There was a hurry, too, in all his
thoughts, a turbulent and heated working of
his heart, that contended against
resignation.
If, for a moment, he did feel resigned,
then his wife and child who had to live
after him, seemed to protest and to make it
a selfish thing.
But, all this was at first.
Before long, the consideration that there
was no disgrace in the fate he must meet,
and that numbers went the same road
wrongfully, and trod it firmly every day,
sprang up to stimulate him.
Next followed the thought that much of the
future peace of mind enjoyable by the dear
ones, depended on his quiet fortitude.
So, by degrees he calmed into the better
state, when he could raise his thoughts
much higher, and draw comfort down.
Before it had set in dark on the night of
his condemnation, he had travelled thus far
on his last way.
Being allowed to purchase the means of
writing, and a light, he sat down to write
until such time as the prison lamps should
be extinguished.
He wrote a long letter to Lucie, showing
her that he had known nothing of her
father's imprisonment, until he had heard
of it from herself, and that he had been as
ignorant as she of his father's and uncle's
responsibility for that misery, until the
paper had been read.
He had already explained to her that his
concealment from herself of the name he had
relinquished, was the one condition--fully
intelligible now--that her father had
attached to their betrothal, and was the
one promise he had still exacted on the
morning of their marriage.
He entreated her, for her father's sake,
never to seek to know whether her father
had become oblivious of the existence of
the paper, or had had it recalled to him
(for the moment, or for good), by the story
of the Tower, on that old Sunday under the
dear old plane-tree in the garden.
If he had preserved any definite
remembrance of it, there could be no doubt
that he had supposed it destroyed with the
Bastille, when he had found no mention of
it among the relics of prisoners which the
populace had discovered there, and which
had been described to all the world.
He besought her--though he added that he
knew it was needless--to console her
father, by impressing him through every
tender means she could think of, with the
truth that he had done nothing for which he
could justly reproach himself, but had
uniformly forgotten himself for their joint
sakes.
Next to her preservation of his own last
grateful love and blessing, and her
overcoming of her sorrow, to devote herself
to their dear child, he adjured her, as
they would meet in Heaven, to comfort her
father.
To her father himself, he wrote in the same
strain; but, he told her father that he
expressly confided his wife and child to
his care.
And he told him this, very strongly, with
the hope of rousing him from any
despondency or dangerous retrospect towards
which he foresaw he might be tending.
To Mr. Lorry, he commended them all, and
explained his worldly affairs.
That done, with many added sentences of
grateful friendship and warm attachment,
all was done.
He never thought of Carton.
His mind was so full of the others, that he
never once thought of him.
He had time to finish these letters before
the lights were put out.
When he lay down on his straw bed, he
thought he had done with this world.
But, it beckoned him back in his sleep, and
showed itself in shining forms.
Free and happy, back in the old house in
Soho (though it had nothing in it like the
real house), unaccountably released and
light of heart, he was with Lucie again,
and she told him it was all a dream, and he
had never gone away.
A pause of forgetfulness, and then he had
even suffered, and had come back to her,
dead and at peace, and yet there was no
difference in him.
Another pause of oblivion, and he awoke in
the sombre morning, unconscious where he
was or what had happened, until it flashed
upon his mind, "this is the day of my
death!"
Thus, had he come through the hours, to the
day when the fifty-two heads were to fall.
And now, while he was composed, and hoped
that he could meet the end with quiet
heroism, a new action began in his waking
thoughts, which was very difficult to
master.
He had never seen the instrument that was
to terminate his life.
How high it was from the ground, how many
steps it had, where he would be stood, how
he would be touched, whether the touching
hands would be dyed red, which way his face
would be turned, whether he would be the
first, or might be the last: these and many
similar questions, in nowise directed by
his will, obtruded themselves over and over
again, countless times.
Neither were they connected with fear: he
was conscious of no fear.
Rather, they originated in a strange
besetting desire to know what to do when
the time came; a desire gigantically
disproportionate to the few swift moments
to which it referred; a wondering that was
more like the wondering of some other
spirit within his, than his own.
The hours went on as he walked to and fro,
and the clocks struck the numbers he would
never hear again.
Nine gone for ever, ten gone for ever,
eleven gone for ever, twelve coming on to
pass away.
After a hard contest with that eccentric
action of thought which had last perplexed
him, he had got the better of it.
He walked up and down, softly repeating
their names to himself.
The worst of the strife was over.
He could walk up and down, free from
distracting fancies, praying for himself
and for them.
Twelve gone for ever.
He had been apprised that the final hour
was Three, and he knew he would be summoned
some time earlier, inasmuch as the tumbrils
jolted heavily and slowly through the
streets.
Therefore, he resolved to keep Two before
his mind, as the hour, and so to strengthen
himself in the interval that he might be
able, after that time, to strengthen
others.
Walking regularly to and fro with his arms
folded on his breast, a very different man
from the prisoner, who had walked to and
fro at La Force, he heard One struck away
from him, without surprise.
The hour had measured like most other
hours.
Devoutly thankful to Heaven for his
recovered self-possession, he thought,
"There is but another now," and turned to
walk again.
Footsteps in the stone passage outside the
door.
He stopped.
The key was put in the lock, and turned.
Before the door was opened, or as it
opened, a man said in a low voice, in
English: "He has never seen me here; I have
kept out of his way.
Go you in alone; I wait near.
Lose no time!"
The door was quickly opened and closed, and
there stood before him face to face, quiet,
intent upon him, with the light of a smile
on his features, and a cautionary finger on
his lip, Sydney Carton.
There was something so bright and
remarkable in his look, that, for the first
moment, the prisoner misdoubted him to be
an apparition of his own imagining.
But, he spoke, and it was his voice; he
took the prisoner's hand, and it was his
real grasp.
"Of all the people upon earth, you least
expected to see me?" he said.
"I could not believe it to be you.
I can scarcely believe it now.
You are not"--the apprehension came
suddenly into his mind--"a prisoner?"
"No. I am accidentally possessed of a power
over one of the keepers here, and in virtue
of it I stand before you.
I come from her--your wife, dear Darnay."
The prisoner wrung his hand.
"I bring you a request from her."
"What is it?"
"A most earnest, pressing, and emphatic
entreaty, addressed to you in the most
pathetic tones of the voice so dear to you,
that you well remember."
The prisoner turned his face partly aside.
"You have no time to ask me why I bring it,
or what it means; I have no time to tell
you.
You must comply with it--take off those
boots you wear, and draw on these of mine."
There was a chair against the wall of the
cell, behind the prisoner.
Carton, pressing forward, had already, with
the speed of lightning, got him down into
it, and stood over him, barefoot.
"Draw on these boots of mine.
Put your hands to them; put your will to
them.
Quick!"
"Carton, there is no escaping from this
place; it never can be done.
You will only die with me.
It is madness."
"It would be madness if I asked you to
escape; but do I?
When I ask you to pass out at that door,
tell me it is madness and remain here.
Change that cravat for this of mine, that
coat for this of mine.
While you do it, let me take this ribbon
from your hair, and shake out your hair
like this of mine!"
With wonderful quickness, and with a
strength both of will and action, that
appeared quite supernatural, he forced all
these changes upon him.
The prisoner was like a young child in his
hands.
"Carton!
Dear Carton!
It is madness.
It cannot be accomplished, it never can be
done, it has been attempted, and has always
failed.
I implore you not to add your death to the
bitterness of mine."
"Do I ask you, my dear Darnay, to pass the
door?
When I ask that, refuse.
There are pen and ink and paper on this
table.
Is your hand steady enough to write?"
"It was when you came in."
"Steady it again, and write what I shall
dictate.
Quick, friend, quick!"
Pressing his hand to his bewildered head,
Darnay sat down at the table.
Carton, with his right hand in his breast,
stood close beside him.
"Write exactly as I speak."
"To whom do I address it?"
"To no one."
Carton still had his hand in his breast.
"Do I date it?"
"No."
The prisoner looked up, at each question.
Carton, standing over him with his hand in
his breast, looked down.
"'If you remember,'" said Carton,
dictating, "'the words that passed between
us, long ago, you will readily comprehend
this when you see it.
You do remember them, I know.
It is not in your nature to forget them.'"
He was drawing his hand from his breast;
the prisoner chancing to look up in his
hurried wonder as he wrote, the hand
stopped, closing upon something.
"Have you written 'forget them'?"
Carton asked.
"I have.
Is that a weapon in your hand?"
"No; I am not armed."
"What is it in your hand?"
"You shall know directly.
Write on; there are but a few words more."
He dictated again.
"'I am thankful that the time has come,
when I can prove them.
That I do so is no subject for regret or
grief.'"
As he said these words with his eyes fixed
on the writer, his hand slowly and softly
moved down close to the writer's face.
The pen dropped from Darnay's fingers on
the table, and he looked about him
vacantly.
"What vapour is that?" he asked.
"Vapour?"
"Something that crossed me?"
"I am conscious of nothing; there can be
nothing here.
Take up the pen and finish.
Hurry, hurry!"
As if his memory were impaired, or his
faculties disordered, the prisoner made an
effort to rally his attention.
As he looked at Carton with clouded eyes
and with an altered manner of breathing,
Carton--his hand again in his breast--
looked steadily at him.
"Hurry, hurry!"
The prisoner bent over the paper, once
more.
"'If it had been otherwise;'" Carton's hand
was again watchfully and softly stealing
down; "'I never should have used the longer
opportunity.
If it had been otherwise;'" the hand was at
the prisoner's face; "'I should but have
had so much the more to answer for.
If it had been otherwise--'" Carton looked
at the pen and saw it was trailing off into
unintelligible signs.
Carton's hand moved back to his breast no
more.
The prisoner sprang up with a reproachful
look, but Carton's hand was close and firm
at his nostrils, and Carton's left arm
caught him round the waist.
For a few seconds he faintly struggled with
the man who had come to lay down his life
for him; but, within a minute or so, he was
stretched insensible on the ground.
Quickly, but with hands as true to the
purpose as his heart was, Carton dressed
himself in the clothes the prisoner had
laid aside, combed back his hair, and tied
it with the ribbon the prisoner had worn.
Then, he softly called, "Enter there!
Come in!" and the Spy presented himself.
"You see?" said Carton, looking up, as he
kneeled on one knee beside the insensible
figure, putting the paper in the breast:
"is your hazard very great?"
"Mr. Carton," the Spy answered, with a
timid snap of his fingers, "my hazard is
not _that_, in the thick of business here,
if you are true to the whole of your
bargain."
"Don't fear me.
I will be true to the death."
"You must be, Mr. Carton, if the tale of
fifty-two is to be right.
Being made right by you in that dress, I
shall have no fear."
"Have no fear!
I shall soon be out of the way of harming
you, and the rest will soon be far from
here, please God!
Now, get assistance and take me to the
coach."
"You?" said the Spy nervously.
"Him, man, with whom I have exchanged.
You go out at the gate by which you brought
me in?"
"Of course."
"I was weak and faint when you brought me
in, and I am fainter now you take me out.
The parting interview has overpowered me.
Such a thing has happened here, often, and
too often.
Your life is in your own hands.
Quick!
Call assistance!"
"You swear not to betray me?" said the
trembling Spy, as he paused for a last
moment.
"Man, man!" returned Carton, stamping his
foot; "have I sworn by no solemn vow
already, to go through with this, that you
waste the precious moments now?
Take him yourself to the courtyard you know
of, place him yourself in the carriage,
show him yourself to Mr. Lorry, tell him
yourself to give him no restorative but
air, and to remember my words of last
night, and his promise of last night, and
drive away!"
The Spy withdrew, and Carton seated himself
at the table, resting his forehead on his
hands.
The Spy returned immediately, with two men.
"How, then?" said one of them,
contemplating the fallen figure.
"So afflicted to find that his friend has
drawn a prize in the lottery of Sainte
"A good patriot," said the other, "could
hardly have been more afflicted if the
Aristocrat had drawn a blank."
They raised the unconscious figure, placed
it on a litter they had brought to the
door, and bent to carry it away.
"The time is short, Evremonde," said the
Spy, in a warning voice.
"I know it well," answered Carton.
"Be careful of my friend, I entreat you,
and leave me."
"Come, then, my children," said Barsad.
"Lift him, and come away!"
The door closed, and Carton was left alone.
Straining his powers of listening to the
utmost, he listened for any sound that
might denote suspicion or alarm.
There was none.
Keys turned, doors clashed, footsteps
passed along distant passages: no cry was
raised, or hurry made, that seemed unusual.
Breathing more freely in a little while, he
sat down at the table, and listened again
until the clock struck Two.
Sounds that he was not afraid of, for he
divined their meaning, then began to be
audible.
Several doors were opened in succession,
and finally his own.
A gaoler, with a list in his hand, looked
in, merely saying, "Follow me, Evremonde!"
and he followed into a large dark room, at
a distance.
It was a dark winter day, and what with the
shadows within, and what with the shadows
without, he could but dimly discern the
others who were brought there to have their
arms bound.
Some were standing; some seated.
Some were lamenting, and in restless
motion; but, these were few.
The great majority were silent and still,
looking fixedly at the ground.
As he stood by the wall in a dim corner,
while some of the fifty-two were brought in
after him, one man stopped in passing, to
embrace him, as having a knowledge of him.
It thrilled him with a great dread of
discovery; but the man went on.
A very few moments after that, a young
woman, with a slight girlish form, a sweet
spare face in which there was no vestige of
colour, and large widely opened patient
eyes, rose from the seat where he had
observed her sitting, and came to speak to
him.
"Citizen Evremonde," she said, touching him
with her cold hand.
"I am a poor little seamstress, who was
with you in La Force."
He murmured for answer: "True.
I forget what you were accused of?"
"Plots.
Though the just Heaven knows that I am
innocent of any.
Is it likely?
Who would think of plotting with a poor
little weak creature like me?"
The forlorn smile with which she said it,
so touched him, that tears started from his
eyes.
"I am not afraid to die, Citizen Evremonde,
but I have done nothing.
I am not unwilling to die, if the Republic
which is to do so much good to us poor,
will profit by my death; but I do not know
how that can be, Citizen Evremonde.
Such a poor weak little creature!"
As the last thing on earth that his heart
was to warm and soften to, it warmed and
softened to this pitiable girl.
"I heard you were released, Citizen
Evremonde.
I hoped it was true?"
"It was.
But, I was again taken and condemned."
"If I may ride with you, Citizen Evremonde,
will you let me hold your hand?
I am not afraid, but I am little and weak,
and it will give me more courage."
As the patient eyes were lifted to his
face, he saw a sudden doubt in them, and
then astonishment.
He pressed the work-worn, hunger-worn young
fingers, and touched his lips.
"Are you dying for him?" she whispered.
"And his wife and child.
Hush!
Yes."
"O you will let me hold your brave hand,
stranger?"
"Hush!
Yes, my poor sister; to the last."
The same shadows that are falling on the
prison, are falling, in that same hour of
the early afternoon, on the Barrier with
the crowd about it, when a coach going out
of Paris drives up to be examined.
"Who goes here?
Whom have we within?
Papers!"
The papers are handed out, and read.
"Alexandre Manette.
Physician.
French.
Which is he?"
This is he; this helpless, inarticulately
murmuring, wandering old man pointed out.
"Apparently the Citizen-Doctor is not in
his right mind?
The Revolution-fever will have been too
much for him?"
Greatly too much for him.
"Hah! Many suffer with it.
Lucie.
His daughter.
French.
Which is she?"
This is she.
"Apparently it must be.
Lucie, the wife of Evremonde; is it not?"
It is.
"Hah! Evremonde has an assignation
elsewhere.
Lucie, her child.
English.
This is she?"
She and no other.
"Kiss me, child of Evremonde.
Now, thou hast kissed a good Republican;
something new in thy family; remember it!
Sydney Carton.
Advocate.
English.
Which is he?"
He lies here, in this corner of the
carriage.
He, too, is pointed out.
"Apparently the English advocate is in a
swoon?"
It is hoped he will recover in the fresher
air.
It is represented that he is not in strong
health, and has separated sadly from a
friend who is under the displeasure of the
"Is that all?
It is not a great deal, that!
Many are under the displeasure of the
Republic, and must look out at the little
window.
Jarvis Lorry.
Banker.
English.
Which is he?"
"I am he.
Necessarily, being the last."
It is Jarvis Lorry who has replied to all
the previous questions.
It is Jarvis Lorry who has alighted and
stands with his hand on the coach door,
replying to a group of officials.
They leisurely walk round the carriage and
leisurely mount the box, to look at what
little luggage it carries on the roof; the
country-people hanging about, press nearer
to the coach doors and greedily stare in; a
little child, carried by its mother, has
its short arm held out for it, that it may
touch the wife of an aristocrat who has
gone to the Guillotine.
"Behold your papers, Jarvis Lorry,
countersigned."
"One can depart, citizen?"
"One can depart.
Forward, my postilions!
A good journey!"
"I salute you, citizens.--And the first
danger passed!"
These are again the words of Jarvis Lorry,
as he clasps his hands, and looks upward.
There is terror in the carriage, there is
weeping, there is the heavy breathing of
the insensible traveller.
"Are we not going too slowly?
Can they not be induced to go faster?" asks
Lucie, clinging to the old man.
"It would seem like flight, my darling.
I must not urge them too much; it would
rouse suspicion."
"Look back, look back, and see if we are
pursued!"
"The road is clear, my dearest.
So far, we are not pursued."
Houses in twos and threes pass by us,
solitary farms, ruinous buildings, dye-
works, tanneries, and the like, open
country, avenues of leafless trees.
The hard uneven pavement is under us, the
soft deep mud is on either side.
Sometimes, we strike into the skirting mud,
to avoid the stones that clatter us and
shake us; sometimes, we stick in ruts and
sloughs there.
The agony of our impatience is then so
great, that in our wild alarm and hurry we
are for getting out and running--hiding--
doing anything but stopping.
Out of the open country, in again among
ruinous buildings, solitary farms, dye-
works, tanneries, and the like, cottages in
twos and threes, avenues of leafless trees.
Have these men deceived us, and taken us
back by another road?
Is not this the same place twice over?
Thank Heaven, no.
A village.
Look back, look back, and see if we are
pursued!
Hush! the posting-house.
Leisurely, our four horses are taken out;
leisurely, the coach stands in the little
street, bereft of horses, and with no
likelihood upon it of ever moving again;
leisurely, the new horses come into visible
existence, one by one; leisurely, the new
postilions follow, sucking and plaiting the
lashes of their whips; leisurely, the old
postilions count their money, make wrong
additions, and arrive at dissatisfied
results.
All the time, our overfraught hearts are
beating at a rate that would far outstrip
the fastest gallop of the fastest horses
ever foaled.
At length the new postilions are in their
saddles, and the old are left behind.
We are through the village, up the hill,
and down the hill, and on the low watery
grounds.
Suddenly, the postilions exchange speech
with animated gesticulation, and the horses
are pulled up, almost on their haunches.
We are pursued?
"Ho! Within the carriage there.
Speak then!"
"What is it?" asks Mr. Lorry, looking out
at window.
"How many did they say?"
"I do not understand you."
"--At the last post.
How many to the Guillotine to-day?"
"Fifty-two."
"I said so!
A brave number!
My fellow-citizen here would have it forty-
two; ten more heads are worth having.
The Guillotine goes handsomely.
I love it.
Hi forward.
Whoop!"
The night comes on dark.
He moves more; he is beginning to revive,
and to speak intelligibly; he thinks they
are still together; he asks him, by his
name, what he has in his hand.
O pity us, kind Heaven, and help us!
Look out, look out, and see if we are
pursued.
The wind is rushing after us, and the
clouds are flying after us, and the moon is
plunging after us, and the whole wild night
is in pursuit of us; but, so far, we are
pursued by nothing else.