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Book the Third: The Track of a Storm
Chapter XI.
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 voice within her, representing that
it was she of all the world who must uphold
him in his misery and not augment it, that
it quickly raised her, even from that
shock.
The Judges having to take part in a public
demonstration out of doors, the Tribunal
adjourned.
The quick noise and movement of the court's
emptying itself by many passages had not
ceased, when Lucie stood stretching out her
arms towards her husband, with nothing in
her face but love and consolation.
"If I might touch him!
If I might embrace him once!
O, good citizens, if you would have so much
compassion for us!"
There was but a gaoler left, along with two
of the four men who had taken him last
night, and Barsad.
The people had all poured out to the show
in the streets.
Barsad proposed to the rest, "Let her
embrace him then; it is but a moment."
It was silently acquiesced in, and they
passed her over the seats in the hall to a
raised place, where he, by leaning over the
dock, could fold her in his arms.
"Farewell, dear darling of my soul.
My parting blessing on my love.
We shall meet again, where the weary are at
rest!"
They were her husband's words, as he held
her to his ***.
"I can bear it, dear Charles.
I am supported from above: don't suffer for
me.
A parting blessing for our child."
"I send it to her by you.
I kiss her by you.
I say farewell to her by you."
"My husband.
No! A moment!"
He was tearing himself apart from her.
"We shall not be separated long.
I feel that this will break my heart by-
and-bye; but I will do my duty while I can,
and when I leave her, God will raise up
friends for her, as He did for me."
Her father had followed her, and would have
fallen on his knees to both of them, but
that Darnay put out a hand and seized him,
crying:
"No, no!
What have you done, what have you done,
that you should kneel to us!
We know now, what a struggle you made of
old.
We know, now what you underwent when you
suspected my descent, and when you knew it.
We know now, the natural antipathy you
strove against, and conquered, for her dear
sake.
We thank you with all our hearts, and all
our love and duty.
Heaven be with you!"
Her father's only answer was to draw his
hands through his white hair, and wring
them with a shriek of anguish.
"It could not be otherwise," said the
prisoner.
"All things have worked together as they
have fallen out.
It was the always-vain endeavour to
discharge my poor mother's trust that first
brought my fatal presence near you.
Good could never come of such evil, a
happier end was not in nature to so unhappy
a beginning.
Be comforted, and forgive me.
Heaven bless you!"
As he was drawn away, his wife released
him, and stood looking after him with her
hands touching one another in the attitude
of prayer, and with a radiant look upon her
face, in which there was even a comforting
smile.
As he went out at the prisoners' door, she
turned, laid her head lovingly on her
father's breast, tried to speak to him, and
fell at his feet.
Then, issuing from the obscure corner from
which he had never moved, Sydney Carton
came and took her up.
Only her father and Mr. Lorry were with
her.
His arm trembled as it raised her, and
supported her head.
Yet, there was an air about him that was
not all of pity--that had a flush of pride
in it.
"Shall I take her to a coach?
I shall never feel her weight."
He carried her lightly to the door, and
laid her tenderly down in a coach.
Her father and their old friend got into
it, and he took his seat beside the driver.
When they arrived at the gateway where he
had paused in the dark not many hours
before, to picture to himself on which of
the rough stones of the street her feet had
trodden, he lifted her again, and carried
her up the staircase to their rooms.
There, he laid her down on a couch, where
her child and Miss Pross wept over her.
"Don't recall her to herself," he said,
softly, to the latter, "she is better so.
Don't revive her to consciousness, while
she only faints."
"Oh, Carton, Carton, dear Carton!" cried
little Lucie, springing up and throwing her
arms passionately round him, in a burst of
grief.
"Now that you have come, I think you will
do something to help mamma, something to
save papa!
O, look at her, dear Carton!
Can you, of all the people who love her,
bear to see her so?"
He bent over the child, and laid her
blooming cheek against his face.
He put her gently from him, and looked at
her unconscious mother.
"Before I go," he said, and paused--"I may
kiss her?"
It was remembered afterwards that when he
bent down and touched her face with his
lips, he murmured some words.
The child, who was nearest to him, told
them afterwards, and told her grandchildren
when she was a handsome old lady, that she
heard him say, "A life you love."
When he had gone out into the next room, he
turned suddenly on Mr. Lorry and her
father, who were following, and said to the
latter:
"You had great influence but yesterday,
Doctor Manette; let it at least be tried.
These judges, and all the men in power, are
very friendly to you, and very recognisant
of your services; are they not?"
"Nothing connected with Charles was
concealed from me.
I had the strongest assurances that I
should save him; and I did."
He returned the answer in great trouble,
and very slowly.
"Try them again.
The hours between this and to-morrow
afternoon are few and short, but try."
"I intend to try.
I will not rest a moment."
"That's well.
I have known such energy as yours do great
things before now--though never," he added,
with a smile and a sigh together, "such
great things as this.
But try!
Of little worth as life is when we misuse
it, it is worth that effort.
It would cost nothing to lay down if it
were not."
"I will go," said Doctor Manette, "to the
Prosecutor and the President straight, and
I will go to others whom it is better not
to name.
I will write too, and--But stay!
There is a Celebration in the streets, and
no one will be accessible until dark."
"That's true.
Well!
It is a forlorn hope at the best, and not
much the forlorner for being delayed till
dark.
I should like to know how you speed;
though, mind!
I expect nothing!
When are you likely to have seen these
dread powers, Doctor Manette?"
"Immediately after dark, I should hope.
Within an hour or two from this."
"It will be dark soon after four.
Let us stretch the hour or two.
If I go to Mr. Lorry's at nine, shall I
hear what you have done, either from our
friend or from yourself?"
"Yes."
"May you prosper!"
Mr. Lorry followed Sydney to the outer
door, and, touching him on the shoulder as
he was going away, caused him to turn.
"I have no hope," said Mr. Lorry, in a low
and sorrowful whisper.
"Nor have I."
"If any one of these men, or all of these
men, were disposed to spare him--which is a
large supposition; for what is his life, or
any man's to them!--I doubt if they durst
spare him after the demonstration in the
court."
"And so do I.
I heard the fall of the axe in that sound."
Mr. Lorry leaned his arm upon the door-
post, and bowed his face upon it.
"Don't despond," said Carton, very gently;
"don't grieve.
I encouraged Doctor Manette in this idea,
because I felt that it might one day be
consolatory to her.
Otherwise, she might think 'his life was
wantonly thrown away or wasted,' and that
might trouble her."
"Yes, yes, yes," returned Mr. Lorry, drying
his eyes, "you are right.
But he will perish; there is no real hope."
"Yes.
He will perish: there is no real hope,"
echoed Carton.
And walked with a settled step, down-
stairs.