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Book the Second: The Golden Thread
Chapter IV.
Congratulatory
From the dimly-lighted passages of the
court, the last sediment of the human stew
that had been boiling there all day, was
straining off, when Doctor Manette, Lucie
Manette, his daughter, Mr. Lorry, the
solicitor for the defence, and its counsel,
Mr. Stryver, stood gathered round Mr.
Charles Darnay--just released--
congratulating him on his escape from
death.
It would have been difficult by a far
brighter light, to recognise in Doctor
Manette, intellectual of face and upright
of bearing, the shoemaker of the garret in
Paris.
Yet, no one could have looked at him twice,
without looking again: even though the
opportunity of observation had not extended
to the mournful cadence of his low grave
voice, and to the abstraction that
overclouded him fitfully, without any
apparent reason.
While one external cause, and that a
reference to his long lingering agony,
would always--as on the trial--evoke this
condition from the depths of his soul, it
was also in its nature to arise of itself,
and to draw a gloom over him, as
incomprehensible to those unacquainted with
his story as if they had seen the shadow of
the actual Bastille thrown upon him by a
summer sun, when the substance was three
hundred miles away.
Only his daughter had the power of charming
this black brooding from his mind.
She was the golden thread that united him
to a Past beyond his misery, and to a
Present beyond his misery: and the sound of
her voice, the light of her face, the touch
of her hand, had a strong beneficial
influence with him almost always.
Not absolutely always, for she could recall
some occasions on which her power had
failed; but they were few and slight, and
she believed them over.
Mr. Darnay had kissed her hand fervently
and gratefully, and had turned to Mr.
Stryver, whom he warmly thanked.
Mr. Stryver, a man of little more than
thirty, but looking twenty years older than
he was, stout, loud, red, bluff, and free
from any drawback of delicacy, had a
pushing way of shouldering himself (morally
and physically) into companies and
conversations, that argued well for his
shouldering his way up in life.
He still had his wig and gown on, and he
said, squaring himself at his late client
to that degree that he squeezed the
innocent Mr. Lorry clean out of the group:
"I am glad to have brought you off with
honour, Mr. Darnay.
It was an infamous prosecution, grossly
infamous; but not the less likely to
succeed on that account."
"You have laid me under an obligation to
you for life--in two senses," said his late
client, taking his hand.
"I have done my best for you, Mr. Darnay;
and my best is as good as another man's, I
believe."
It clearly being incumbent on some one to
say, "Much better," Mr. Lorry said it;
perhaps not quite disinterestedly, but with
the interested object of squeezing himself
back again.
"You think so?" said Mr. Stryver.
"Well! you have been present all day, and
you ought to know.
You are a man of business, too."
"And as such," quoth Mr. Lorry, whom the
counsel learned in the law had now
shouldered back into the group, just as he
had previously shouldered him out of it--
"as such I will appeal to Doctor Manette,
to break up this conference and order us
all to our homes.
Miss Lucie looks ill, Mr. Darnay has had a
terrible day, we are worn out."
"Speak for yourself, Mr. Lorry," said
Stryver; "I have a night's work to do yet.
Speak for yourself."
"I speak for myself," answered Mr. Lorry,
"and for Mr. Darnay, and for Miss Lucie,
and--Miss Lucie, do you not think I may
speak for us all?"
He asked her the question pointedly, and
with a glance at her father.
His face had become frozen, as it were, in
a very curious look at Darnay: an intent
look, deepening into a frown of dislike and
distrust, not even unmixed with fear.
With this strange expression on him his
thoughts had wandered away.
"My father," said Lucie, softly laying her
hand on his.
He slowly shook the shadow off, and turned
to her.
"Shall we go home, my father?"
With a long breath, he answered "Yes."
The friends of the acquitted prisoner had
dispersed, under the impression--which he
himself had originated--that he would not
be released that night.
The lights were nearly all extinguished in
the passages, the iron gates were being
closed with a jar and a rattle, and the
dismal place was deserted until to-morrow
morning's interest of gallows, pillory,
whipping-post, and branding-iron, should
repeople it.
Walking between her father and Mr. Darnay,
Lucie Manette passed into the open air.
A hackney-coach was called, and the father
and daughter departed in it.
Mr. Stryver had left them in the passages,
to shoulder his way back to the robing-
room.
Another person, who had not joined the
group, or interchanged a word with any one
of them, but who had been leaning against
the wall where its shadow was darkest, had
silently strolled out after the rest, and
had looked on until the coach drove away.
He now stepped up to where Mr. Lorry and
Mr. Darnay stood upon the pavement.
"So, Mr. Lorry!
Men of business may speak to Mr. Darnay
now?"
Nobody had made any acknowledgment of Mr.
Carton's part in the day's proceedings;
nobody had known of it.
He was unrobed, and was none the better for
it in appearance.
"If you knew what a conflict goes on in the
business mind, when the business mind is
divided between good-natured impulse and
business appearances, you would be amused,
Mr. Darnay."
Mr. Lorry reddened, and said, warmly, "You
have mentioned that before, sir.
We men of business, who serve a House, are
not our own masters.
We have to think of the House more than
ourselves."
"_I_ know, _I_ know," rejoined Mr. Carton,
carelessly.
"Don't be nettled, Mr. Lorry.
You are as good as another, I have no
doubt: better, I dare say."
"And indeed, sir," pursued Mr. Lorry, not
minding him, "I really don't know what you
have to do with the matter.
If you'll excuse me, as very much your
elder, for saying so, I really don't know
that it is your business."
"Business!
Bless you, _I_ have no business," said Mr.
Carton.
"It is a pity you have not, sir."
"I think so, too."
"If you had," pursued Mr. Lorry, "perhaps
you would attend to it."
"Lord love you, no!--I shouldn't," said Mr.
Carton.
"Well, sir!" cried Mr. Lorry, thoroughly
heated by his indifference, "business is a
very good thing, and a very respectable
thing.
And, sir, if business imposes its
restraints and its silences and
impediments, Mr. Darnay as a young
gentleman of generosity knows how to make
allowance for that circumstance.
Mr. Darnay, good night, God bless you, sir!
I hope you have been this day preserved for
a prosperous and happy life.--Chair there!"
Perhaps a little angry with himself, as
well as with the barrister, Mr. Lorry
bustled into the chair, and was carried off
to Tellson's.
Carton, who smelt of port wine, and did not
appear to be quite sober, laughed then, and
turned to Darnay:
"This is a strange chance that throws you
and me together.
This must be a strange night to you,
standing alone here with your counterpart
on these street stones?"
"I hardly seem yet," returned Charles
Darnay, "to belong to this world again."
"I don't wonder at it; it's not so long
since you were pretty far advanced on your
way to another.
You speak faintly."
"I begin to think I _am_ faint."
"Then why the devil don't you dine?
I dined, myself, while those numskulls were
deliberating which world you should belong
to--this, or some other.
Let me show you the nearest tavern to dine
well at."
Drawing his arm through his own, he took
him down Ludgate-hill to Fleet-street, and
so, up a covered way, into a tavern.
Here, they were shown into a little room,
where Charles Darnay was soon recruiting
his strength with a good plain dinner and
good wine: while Carton sat opposite to him
at the same table, with his separate bottle
of port before him, and his fully half-
insolent manner upon him.
"Do you feel, yet, that you belong to this
terrestrial scheme again, Mr. Darnay?"
"I am frightfully confused regarding time
and place; but I am so far mended as to
feel that."
"It must be an immense satisfaction!"
He said it bitterly, and filled up his
glass again: which was a large one.
"As to me, the greatest desire I have, is
to forget that I belong to it.
It has no good in it for me--except wine
like this--nor I for it.
So we are not much alike in that
particular.
Indeed, I begin to think we are not much
alike in any particular, you and I."
Confused by the emotion of the day, and
feeling his being there with this Double of
coarse deportment, to be like a dream,
Charles Darnay was at a loss how to answer;
finally, answered not at all.
"Now your dinner is done," Carton presently
said, "why don't you call a health, Mr.
Darnay; why don't you give your toast?"
"What health?
What toast?"
"Why, it's on the tip of your tongue.
It ought to be, it must be, I'll swear it's
there."
"Miss Manette, then!"
"Miss Manette, then!"
Looking his companion full in the face
while he drank the toast, Carton flung his
glass over his shoulder against the wall,
where it shivered to pieces; then, rang the
bell, and ordered in another.
"That's a fair young lady to hand to a
coach in the dark, Mr. Darnay!" he said,
filling his new goblet.
A slight frown and a laconic "Yes," were
the answer.
"That's a fair young lady to be pitied by
and wept for by!
How does it feel?
Is it worth being tried for one's life, to
be the object of such sympathy and
compassion, Mr. Darnay?"
Again Darnay answered not a word.
"She was mightily pleased to have your
message, when I gave it her.
Not that she showed she was pleased, but I
suppose she was."
The allusion served as a timely reminder to
Darnay that this disagreeable companion
had, of his own free will, assisted him in
the strait of the day.
He turned the dialogue to that point, and
thanked him for it.
"I neither want any thanks, nor merit any,"
was the careless rejoinder.
"It was nothing to do, in the first place;
and I don't know why I did it, in the
second.
Mr. Darnay, let me ask you a question."
"Willingly, and a small return for your
good offices."
"Do you think I particularly like you?"
"Really, Mr. Carton," returned the other,
oddly disconcerted, "I have not asked
myself the question."
"But ask yourself the question now."
"You have acted as if you do; but I don't
think you do."
"_I_ don't think I do," said Carton.
"I begin to have a very good opinion of
your understanding."
"Nevertheless," pursued Darnay, rising to
ring the bell, "there is nothing in that, I
hope, to prevent my calling the reckoning,
and our parting without ill-blood on either
side."
Carton rejoining, "Nothing in life!"
Darnay rang.
"Do you call the whole reckoning?" said
Carton.
On his answering in the affirmative, "Then
bring me another pint of this same wine,
drawer, and come and wake me at ten."
The bill being paid, Charles Darnay rose
and wished him good night.
Without returning the wish, Carton rose
too, with something of a threat of defiance
in his manner, and said, "A last word, Mr.
Darnay: you think I am drunk?"
"I think you have been drinking, Mr.
Carton."
You know I have been drinking."
"Since I must say so, I know it."
"Then you shall likewise know why.
I am a disappointed drudge, sir.
I care for no man on earth, and no man on
earth cares for me."
"Much to be regretted.
You might have used your talents better."
"May be so, Mr. Darnay; may be not.
Don't let your sober face elate you,
however; you don't know what it may come
to.
Good night!"
When he was left alone, this strange being
took up a candle, went to a glass that hung
against the wall, and surveyed himself
minutely in it.
"Do you particularly like the man?" he
muttered, at his own image; "why should you
particularly like a man who resembles you?
There is nothing in you to like; you know
that.
Ah, confound you!
What a change you have made in yourself!
A good reason for taking to a man, that he
shows you what you have fallen away from,
and what you might have been!
Change places with him, and would you have
been looked at by those blue eyes as he
was, and commiserated by that agitated face
as he was?
Come on, and have it out in plain words!
You hate the fellow."
He resorted to his pint of wine for
consolation, drank it all in a few minutes,
and fell asleep on his arms, with his hair
straggling over the table, and a long
winding-sheet in the candle dripping down
upon him.