The Best of the Bureau/The_Best_of_the_Bureau_Bureau_Development_Inc._1992.iso/dp/0069/00697.txt

Text File | 1992-08-14 | 13KB | 281 lines

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$Title{(A) Tale Of Two Cities
Chapter XV}
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$Author{Dickens, Charles}
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Title:       (A) Tale Of Two Cities
Book:        Book The Third: The Track of a Storm
Author:      Dickens, Charles

Chapter XV

The Footsteps Die Out For Ever

     Along the Paris streets, the death-carts rumble, hollow and harsh.  Six
tumbrils carry the day's wine to La Guillotine.  All the devouring and
insatiate Monsters imagined since imagination could record itself, are fused
in the one realisation, Guillotine.  And yet there is not in France, with its
rich variety of soil and climate, a blade, a leaf, a root, a sprig, a
peppercorn, which will grow to maturity under conditions more certain than
those that have produced this horror.  Crush humanity out of shape once more,
under similar hammers, and it will twist itself into the same tortured forms.
Sow the same seed of rapacious licence and oppression over again, and it will
surely yield the same fruit according to its kind.

     Six tumbrils roll along the streets.  Change these back again to what
they were, thou powerful enchanter, Time, and they shall be seen to be the
carriages of absolute monarchs, the equipages of feudal nobles, the toilettes
of flaring Jezebels, the churches that are not my father's house but dens of
thieves, the huts of millions of starving peasants!  No; the great magician
who majestically works out the appointed order of the Creator, never reverses
his transformations.  "If thou be changed into this shape by the will of
God," say the seers to the enchanted, in the wise Arabian stories, "then
remain so!  But, if thou wear this form through mere passing conjuration,
then resume thy former aspect!"  Changeless and hopeless, the tumbrils roll
along.

     As the sombre wheels of the six carts go round, they seem to plough up a
long crooked furrow among the populace in the streets.  Ridges of faces are
thrown to this side and to that, and the ploughs go steadily onward.  So used
are the regular inhabitants of the houses to the spectacle, that in many
windows there are no people, and in some the occupation of the hands is not
so much as suspended, while the eyes survey the faces in the tumbrils.  Here
and there, the inmate has visitors to see the sight; then he points his
finger, with something of the complacency of a curator or authorised
exponent, to this cart and to this, and seems to tell who sat here yesterday,
and who there the day before.

     Of the riders in the tumbrils, some observe these things, and all things
on their last roadside, with an impassive stare; others, with a lingering
interest in the ways of life and men.  Some, seated with drooping heads, are
sunk in silent despair; again, there are some so heedful of their looks that
they cast upon the multitude such glances as they have seen in theatres, and
in pictures.  Several close their eyes, and think, or try to get their
straying thoughts together.  Only one, and he a miserable creature, of a
crazed aspect, is so shattered and made drunk by horror, that he sings, and
tries to dance.  Not one of the whole number appeals by look or gesture, to
the pity of the people.

     There is a guard of sundry horsemen riding abreast of the tumbrils, and
faces are often turned up to some of them, and they are asked some question.
It would seem to be always the same question, for, it is always followed by a
press of people towards the third cart.  The horsemen abreast of that cart,
frequently point out one man in it with their swords.  The leading curiosity
is, to know which is he; he stands at the back of the tumbril with his head
bent down, to converse with a mere girl who sits on the side of the cart, and
holds his hand.  He has no curiosity or care for the scene about him, and
always speaks to the girl.  Here and there in the long street of St. Honore,
cries are raised against him.  If they move him at all, it is only to a quiet
smile, as he shakes his hair a little more loosely about his face.  He cannot
easily touch his face, his arms being bound.

     On the steps of a church, awaiting the coming-up of the tumbrils, stands
the Spy and prison-sheep.  He looks into the first of them: not there.  He
looks into the second: not there.  He already asks himself, "Has he
sacrificed me?" when his face clears, as he looks into the third.

     "Which is Evremonde?" says a man behind him.

     "That.  At the back there."

     "With his hand in the girl's?"

     "Yes."

     The man cries, "Down, Evremonde!  To the Guillotine all aristocrats!
Down, Evremonde!"

     "Hush, hush!" the Spy entreats him, timidly.

     "And why not, citizen?"

     "He is going to pay the forfeit: it will be paid in five minutes more.
Let him be at peace."

     But the man continuing to exclaim, "Down, Evremonde!" the face of
Evremonde is for a moment turned towards him.  Evremonde then sees the Spy,
and looks attentively at him, and goes his way.

     The clocks are on the stroke of three, and the furrow ploughed among the
populace is turning round, to come on into the place of execution, and end.
The ridges thrown to this side and to that, now crumble in and close behind
the last plough as it passes on, for all are following to the Guillotine.  In
front of it, seated in chairs, as in a garden of public diversion, are a
number of women, busily knitting.  On one of the foremost chairs, stands The
Vengeance, looking about for her friend.

     "Therese!" she cries, in her shrill tones.  "Who has seen her?  Therese
Defarge!"

     "She never missed before," says a knitting-woman of the sisterhood.

     "No; nor will she miss now," cries The Vengeance, petulantly.
"Therese!"

     "Louder," the woman recommends.

     Ay!  Louder, Vengeance, much louder, and still she will scarcely hear
thee.  Louder yet, Vengeance, with a little oath or so added, and yet it will
hardly bring her.  Send other women up and down to seek her, lingering
somewhere; and yet, although the messengers have done dread deeds, it is
questionable whether of their own wills they will go far enough to find her!

     "Bad Fortune!" cries The Vengeance, stamping her foot in the chair, "and
here are the tumbrils!  And Evremonde will be despatched in a wink, and she
not here!  See her knitting in my hand, and her empty chair ready for her.  I
cry with vexation and disappointment!"

     As The Vengeance descends from her elevation to do it, the tumbrils
begin to discharge their loads.  The ministers of Sainte Guillotine are
robed and ready.  Crash! - A head is held up, and the knitting-women who
scarcely lifted their eyes to look at it a moment ago when it could think and
speak, count One.

     The second tumbril empties and moves on; the third comes up.  Crash! -
And the knitting-women, never faltering or pausing in their work, count Two.

     The supposed Evremonde descends, and the seamstress is lifted out next
after him.  He has not relinquished her patient hand in getting out, but
still holds it as he promised.  He gently places her with her back to the
crashing engine that constantly whirrs up and falls, and she looks into his
face and thanks him.

     "But for you, dear stranger, I should not be so composed, for I am
naturally a poor little thing, faint of heart; nor should I have been able to
raise my thoughts to Him who was put to death, that we might have hope and
comfort here to-day.  I think you were sent to me by Heaven."

     "Or you to me," says Sydney Carton.  "Keep your eyes upon me, dear
child, and mind no other object."

     "I mind nothing while I hold your hand.  I shall mind nothing when I let
it go, if they are rapid."

     "They will be rapid.  Fear not!"

     The two stand in the fast-thinning throng of victims, but they speak as
if th