‘It will be much the same to your knowledge, miss, I should think,’ retorted Jerry, ‘whether they drink your health or the Old Un’s.’
‘Who’s he?’ said Miss Pross.
Mr Cruncher, with some diffidence, explained himself as meaning ‘Old Nick’s’.
‘Ha!’ said Miss Pross, ‘it doesn’t need an interpreter to explain the meaning of these creatures. They have but one, and its Midnight Murder, and Mischief.’
‘Hush, dear! Pray, pray, be cautious!’ cried Lucie.
‘Yes, yes, yes, I’ll be cautious,’ said Miss Pross; ‘but I may say among ourselves, that I do hope there will be no oniony and tobaccoey smotherings in the form of embracings going on in the streets. Now, Ladybird, never you stir from that fire till I come back! Take care of the dear husband you have recovered, and don’t move your pretty head from his shoulder as you have it now, till you see me again! May I ask a question, Doctor Manette, before I go?’
‘I think you may take that liberty,’ the Doctor answered, smiling.
‘For gracious’ sake, don’t talk about Liberty; we have quite enough of that,’ said Miss Pross.
‘Hush, dear! Again?’ Lucie remonstrated.
‘Well, my sweet,’ said Miss Pross, nodding her head emphatically, ‘the short and the long of it is, that I am a subject of His Most Gracious Majesty King George the Third;’ Miss Pross curtseyed at the name; ‘and as such, my maxim is, Confound their politics, Frustrate their knavish tricks, On him our hopes we fix, God save the King!’
Mr Cruncher, in an access of loyalty, growlingly repeated the words after Miss Pross, like somebody at church.
‘I am glad you have so much of the Englishman in you, though I wish you had never taken that cold in your voice,’ said Miss Pross, approvingly. ‘But the question, Doctor Manette. Is there’ - it was the good creature’s way to affect to make light of anything that was a great anxiety with them all, and to come at it in this chance manner – ‘is there any prospect yet, of our getting out of this place?’
‘I fear not yet. It would be dangerous for Charles yet.’
‘Heigh-ho-hum!’ said Miss Pross, cheerfully repressing a sigh as she glanced at her darling’s golden hair in the light of the fire, ‘then we must have patience and wait: that’s all. We must hold up our heads and fight low, as my brother Solomon used to say. Now, Mr Cruncher! – Don’t you move, Ladybird!’
They went out, leaving Lucie, and her husband, her father, and the child, by a bright fire. Mr Lorry was expected back presently from the Banking House. Miss Pross had lighted the lamp, but had put it aside in a corner, that they might enjoy the firelight undisturbed. Little Lucie sat by her grandfather with her hands clasped through his arm; and he, in a tone not rising much above a whisper, began to tell her a story of a great and powerful Fairy who had opened a prison-wall and let out a captive who had once done the Fairy a service. All was subdued and quiet, and Lucie was more at ease than she had been.
‘What is that!’ she cried, all at once.
‘My dear!’ said her father, stopping in his story, and laying his hand on hers, ‘command yourself. What a disordered state you are in! The least thing – nothing – startles you. You, your father’s daughter?’
‘I thought, my father,’ said Lucie, excusing herself, with a pale face and in a faltering voice, ‘that I heard strange feet upon the stairs.’
‘My love, the staircase is as still as Death.’
As he said the word, a blow was struck upon the door.
‘O father, father. What can this be! Hide Charles. Save him!’
‘My child,’ said the Doctor, rising and laying his hand upon her shoulder, ‘I have saved him. What weakness is this, my dear! Let me go to the door.’
He took the lamp in his hand, crossed the two intervening outer rooms, and opened it. A rude clattering of feet over the floors, and four rough men in red caps, armed with sabres and pistols, entered the room.
‘The Citizen Evrémonde, called Darnay,’ said the first.
‘Who seeks him?’ answered Darnay.
‘I seek him. We seek him. I know you, Evrémonde; I saw you before the Tribunal to-day. You are again the prisoner of the Republic. ’
The four surrounded him, where he stood with his wife and child clinging to him.
‘Tell me how and why am I again a prisoner?’
‘It is enough that you return straight to the Conciergerie, and will know to-morrow. You are summoned for to-morrow.’
Dr Manette, whom this visitation had so turned into stone, that he stood with the lamp in his hand, as if he were a statue made to hold it, moved after these words were spoken, put the lamp down, and confronting the speaker, and taking him, not ungently, by the loose front of his red woollen shirt, said:
‘You know him, you have said. Do you know me?’
‘Yes, I know you, Citizen Doctor.’
‘We all know you, Citizen Doctor,’ said the other three.
He looked abstractedly from one to another, and said, in a lower voice, after a pause:
‘Will you answer his question to me? How does this happen?’
‘Citizen Doctor,’ said the first, reluctantly; ‘he has been denounced to the Section of Saint Antoine. This citizen,’ pointing out the second who had entered, ‘is from Saint Antoine.’
The citizen here indicated nodded his head, and added:
‘He is accused by Saint Antoine.’
‘Of what?’ asked the Doctor.
‘Citizen Doctor,’ said the first, with his former reluctance, ‘ask no more. If the Republic demands sacrifices from you, without doubt you as a good patriot will be happy to make them. The Republic goes before all. The People is supreme. Evrémonde, we are pressed.’
‘One word,’ the Doctor entreated. ‘Will you tell me who denounced him?’
‘It is against rule,’ answered the first; ‘but you can ask Him of Saint Antoine here.’
The Doctor turned his eyes upon that man. Who moved uneasily on his feet, pulled his beard a little, and at length said:
‘Well! Truly it is against rule. But he is denounced – and gravely – by the Citizen and Citizeness Defarge. And by one other.’
‘What other?’
‘Do you ask, Citizen Doctor?’
‘Yes!’
‘Then,’ said he of Saint Antoine, with a strange look, ‘you will be answered to-morrow. Now, I am dumb!’
[END OF INSTALMENT 24]
CHAPTER 8
A Hand at Cards
Happily unconscious of the new calamity at home, Miss Pross threaded her way along the narrow streets and crossed the river by the bridge of the Pont-Neuf, reckoning in her mind the number of indispensable purchases she had to make. Mr Cruncher, with the basket, walked at her side. They both looked to the right and to the left into most of the shops they passed, had a wary eye for all gregarious assemblages of people, and turned out of their road to avoid any very excited group of talkers. It was a raw evening, and the misty river, blurred to the eye with blazing lights and to the ear with harsh noises, showed where the barges were stationed in which the smiths worked, making guns for the Army of the Republic. Woe to the man who played tricks with that Army, or got undeserved promotion in it! Better for him that his beard had never grown, for the National Razor shaved him close.
Having purchased a few small articles of grocery, and a measure of oil for the lamp, Miss Pross bethought herself of the wine they wanted. After peeping into several wine-shops, she stopped at the sign of The Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, not far from the National Palace, once (and twice) the Tuileries, where the aspect of things rather took her fancy. It had a quieter look than any other place of the same description they had passed, and, though red with patriotic caps, was not so red as the rest. Sounding Mr Cruncher and finding him of her opinion, Miss Pross resorted to the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, attended by her cavalier.
Slightly observant of the smoky lights; of the people, pipe in mouth, pla
ying with limp cards and yellow dominoes; of the one bare-breasted, bare-armed, soot-begrimed workman reading a journal aloud, and of the others listening to him; of the weapons worn, or laid aside to be resumed; of the two or three customers fallen forward asleep, who in the popular, high-shouldered shaggy black spencer looked, in that attitude, like slumbering bears or dogs; the two outlandish customers approached the counter, and showed what they wanted.
As their wine was measuring out, a man parted from another man in a corner, and rose to depart. In going, he had to face Miss Pross. No sooner did he face her, than Miss Pross uttered a scream, and clapped her hands.
In a moment, the whole company were on their feet. That somebody was assassinated by somebody vindicating a difference of opinion, was the likeliest occurrence. Everybody looked to see somebody fall, but only saw a man and woman standing staring at each other; the man with all the outward aspect of a Frenchman and a thorough Republican; the woman, evidently English.
What was said in this disappointing anti-climax, by the disciples of the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, except that it was something very voluble and loud, would have been as so much Hebrew or Chaldean to Miss Pross and her protector, though they had been all ears. But, they had no ears for anything in their surprise. For, it must be recorded, that not only was Miss Pross lost in amazement and agitation; but, Mr Cruncher – though it seemed on his own separate and individual account – was in a state of the greatest wonder.
‘What is the matter?’ said the man who had caused Miss Pross to scream; speaking in a vexed, abrupt voice (though in a low tone), and in English.
‘Oh, Solomon, dear Solomon!’ cried Miss Pross, clapping her hands again. ‘After not setting eyes upon you or hearing of you for so long a time, do I find you here!’
‘Don’t call me Solomon. Do you want to be the death of me?’ asked the man, in a furtive, frightened way.
‘Brother, brother!’ cried Miss Pross, bursting into tears. ‘Have I ever been so hard with you that you ask me such a cruel question!’
‘Then hold your meddlesome tongue,’ said Solomon, ‘and come out, if you want to speak to me. Pay for your wine, and come out. Who’s this man?’
Miss Pross, shaking her loving and dejected head at her by no means affectionate brother, said, through her tears, ‘Mr Cruncher.’
‘Let him come out too,’ said Solomon. ‘Does he think me a ghost?’
Apparently, Mr Cruncher did, to judge from his looks. He said not a word, however, and Miss Pross, exploring the depths of her reticule through her tears with great difficulty, paid for the wine. As she did so, Solomon turned to the followers of the Good Republican Brutus of Antiquity, and offered a few words of explanation in the French language, which caused them all to relapse into their former places and pursuits.
‘Now,’ said Solomon, stopping at the dark street corner, ‘what do you want?’
‘How dreadfully unkind in a brother nothing has ever turned my love away from!’ cried Miss Pross, ‘to give me such a greeting, and show me no affection.’
‘There. Con-found it! There,’ said Solomon, making a dab at Miss Pross’s lips with his own. ‘Now are you content?’
Miss Pross only shook her head and wept in silence.
‘If you expect me to be surprised,’ said her brother Solomon, ‘I am not surprised; I knew you were here; I know of most people who are here. If you really don’t want to endanger my existence - which I half believe you do – go your ways as soon as possible, and let me go mine. I am busy. I am an official.’
‘My English brother Solomon,’ mourned Miss Pross, casting up her tear-fraught eyes, ‘that had the makings in him of one of the best and greatest of men in his native country, an official among foreigners, and such foreigners! I would almost sooner have seen the dear boy lying in his—’
‘I said so!’ cried her brother, interrupting. ‘I knew it! You want to be the death of me. I shall be rendered Suspected, by my own sister. Just as I am getting on!’
‘The gracious and merciful Heavens forbid!’ cried Miss Pross. ‘Far rather would I never see you again, dear Solomon, though I have ever loved you truly, and ever shall. Say but one affectionate word to me, and tell me there is nothing angry or estranged between us, and I will detain you no longer.’
Good Miss Pross! As if the estrangement between them had come of any culpability of hers. As if Mr Lorry had not known it for a fact, years ago, in the quiet corner in Soho, that this precious brother had spent her money and left her!
He was saying the affectionate word, however, with a far more grudging condescension and patronage than he could have shown if their relative merits and positions had been reversed (which is invariably the case, all the world over), when Mr Cruncher, touching him on the shoulder, hoarsely and unexpectedly interposed with the following singular question:
‘I say! Might I ask the favour? As to whether your name is John Solomon, or Solomon John?’
The official turned towards him with sudden distrust. He had not previously uttered a word.
‘Come!’ said Mr Cruncher. ‘Speak out, you know.’ (Which, by the way, was more than he could do himself.) ‘John Solomon, or Solomon John? She calls you Solomon, and she must know, being your sister. And I know you’re John, you know. Which of the two goes first? And regarding that name of Pross, likewise. That warn’t your name over the water.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I don’t know all I mean, for I can’t call to mind what your name was, over the water.’
‘No!’ sneered Solomon.
‘No. But I’ll swear it was a name of two syllables.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Yes. T’other one’s was one syllable. I know you. You was a spy-witness at the Bailey. What in the name of the Father of Lies, own father to yourself was you called at that time?’
‘Barsad,’ said another voice, striking in.
‘That’s the name for a thousand pound!’ cried Jerry.
The speaker who struck in, was Sydney Carton. He had his hands behind him under the skirts of his riding-coat, and he stood at Mr Cruncher’s elbow as negligently as he might have stood at the Old Bailey itself.
‘Don’t be alarmed, my dear Miss Pross. I arrived at Mr Lorry’s, to his surprise, yesterday evening; we agreed that I would not present myself elsewhere until all was well, or unless I could be useful; I present myself here, to beg a little talk with your brother. I wish you had a better employed brother than Mr Barsad. I wish for your sake Mr Barsad was not a Sheep of the Prisons.’
Sheep was the cant word of the time for a spy, under the gaolers. The spy, who was pale, turned paler, and asked him how he dared—
‘I’ll tell you,’ said Sydney. ‘I lighted on you, Mr Barsad, coming out of the prison of the Conciergerie while I was contemplating the walls, an hour or more ago. You have a face to be remembered, and I remember faces well. Made curious by seeing you in that connexion, and having a reason, to which you are no stranger, for associating you with the misfortunes of a friend now very unfortunate, I walked in your direction. I walked into the wine-shop here, close after you, and sat near you. I had no difficulty in deducing from your unreserved conversation, and the rumour openly going about among your admirers, the nature of your calling. And gradually, what I had done at random, seemed to shape itself into a purpose, Mr Barsad.’
‘What purpose?’ the spy asked.
‘It would be troublesome, and might be dangerous, to explain in the street. Could you favour me, in confidence, with some minutes of your company – at the office of Tellson’s Bank, for instance? ’
‘Under a threat?’
‘Oh! Did I say that!’
‘Then why should I go there?’
‘Really, Mr Barsad, I can’t say, if you can’t.’
‘Do you mean that you won’t say, sir?’ the spy irresolutely asked.
‘You apprehend me very clearly, Mr Barsad. I won’t.’
Carton’s negligent reckle
ssness of manner came powerfully in aid of his quickness and skill, in such a business as he had in his secret mind, and with such a man as he had to do with. His practised eye saw it, and made the most of it.
‘Now, I told you so,’ said the spy, casting a reproachful look at his sister; ‘if any trouble comes of this, it’s your doing.’
‘Come, come, Mr Barsad!’ exclaimed Sydney. ‘Don’t be ungrateful. But for my great respect for your sister, I might not have led up so pleasantly to a little proposal that I wish to make for our mutual satisfaction. Do you go with me to the Bank?’
‘I’ll hear what you have got to say. Yes, I’ll go with you.’
‘I propose that we first conduct your sister safely to the corner of her own street. Let me take your arm, Miss Pross. This is not a good city, at this time, for you to be out in, unprotected; and as your escort knows Mr Barsad, I will invite him to Mr Lorry’s with us. Are we ready? Come then!’
Miss Pross recalled soon afterwards, and to the end of her life remembered, that as she pressed her hands on Sydney’s arm and looked up in his face, imploring him to do no hurt to Solomon, there was a braced purpose in the arm and a kind of inspiration in the eyes, which not only contradicted his light manner, but changed and raised the man. She was too much occupied then, with fears for the brother who so little deserved her affection, and with Sydney’s friendly reassurances, adequately to heed what she observed.
They left her at the corner of the street, and Carton led the way to Mr Lorry’s, which was within a few minutes’ walk. John Barsad, or Solomon Pross, walked at his side.
Mr Lorry had just finished his dinner, and was sitting before a cheery little log or two of fire – perhaps looking into their blaze for the picture of that younger elderly gentleman from Tellson’s, who had looked into the red coals at the Royal George at Dover, now a good many years ago. He turned his head as they entered, and showed the surprise with which he saw a stranger.
‘Miss Pross’s brother, sir,’ said Sydney. ‘Mr Barsad.’
‘Barsad?’ repeated the old gentleman, ‘Barsad? I have an association with the name – and with the face.’
A Tale of Two Cities and Great Expectations (Oprah's Book Club) Page 33
